Page 32 of Moments of Truth

When Mr. Darcy’s figure disappeared from view through the window, Elizabeth finally turned and made her way up the stairs to her room.

She paused once at the landing, her hand upon the baluster, as though even the wood beneath her fingers could still tremble from what had just passed.

Resolute in her wish for solitude, she told the maid in a voice more intent than usual that she had already eaten and desired no dinner.

Climbing the stairs was effortless, yet when she opened the door to her chamber, weakness overtook her limbs.

Her knees buckled beneath her, and she sank into a nearby chair, her hands covering her face as she trembled with emotion.

Tears, hot and relentless, sprang forth like a flood long withheld, coursing down her cheeks without restraint, as if her body must yield to the tempest that her spirit could no longer contain.

Even though she had felt somewhat regretful of her actions, which confused her, her anger had not subsided in the slightest. Why should I feel so wretched?

she thought, pressing her palms against her eyes.

The vision of Jane’s pale face rose before her, the tender smile that had masked so much suffering.

Remembering how deeply her sister had been hurt, Elizabeth felt a fleeting sting of guilt for the violence of her words to Mr. Darcy.

Her father’s voice echoed in memory—half in jest, half in wisdom —“Lizzy, you are too quick with your tongue, my girl; your wit will one day outstrip your judgment.” She bit her lip and willed herself to erase the tremor of remorse.

She convinced herself she had been right, and Mr. Darcy was in the wrong.

Very wrong. Surely his silence and hasty departure were the marks of a man crushed by shame when confronted with unvarnished truth.

She rose at last, her movements unsteady, as though each step betrayed the tumult of her mind.

Pouring herself a glass of water, she let the coolness steady her hand before setting it aside untouched.

Then she crossed to her bed and sat in the slowly gathering dark.

The room seemed vast and strange in its quiet, and she felt herself no more than a fragile vessel—a small boat in a churning sea, tossed and turned by monstrous waves, adrift in an endless expanse of sorrow.

In the chamber’s solitude, amid the tear-streaked disarray, Elizabeth’s mind reeled.

How could Mr. Darcy—so composed, so forbidding—possibly have harboured such ardent feelings for her?

The very sound of his voice, grave yet faltering, lingered in her ear as though the walls had preserved it.

His declaration still hung in the air, reverberating in the fraught space between astonishment and disbelief.

He, who had so callously undermined Jane’s happiness, now sought her hand with the same conviction?

The impact of his proposal was profound, shaking the very foundation of her understanding.

Her heart warred with itself, torn between the flattery of being desired and the insult of his conduct.

Jane’s gentle counsel whispered in her memory: “Do not be too hasty in judging, Lizzy; the world is never so simple.” Could she forgive the man who had coldly plotted against Jane’s union, who had spoken of Mr. Wickham with a harshness that betrayed partiality?

His pride was insufferable, his confessions appalling, and yet—how dangerous the admission—his love had, for a fleeting moment, stirred her, awakened something within she dared not name.

Her thoughts whirled on, a wild storm of contradictions, until the distant rumble of carriage wheels intruded upon her reverie.

Lady Catherine’s conveyance, no doubt—the Collinses returning from Rosings.

The idea of facing Charlotte now, with the tokens of her distress so plain upon her face, filled Elizabeth with dismay.

How easily her friend’s discerning eye would read the truth!

Elizabeth struggled to rise, feeling the weight of her self-reflection press down upon her like armour too heavy to bear.

Deciding at last to feign sleep, she hoped that by closing her eyes she might still the storm within and—if fortune were kind—drift into forgetfulness.

***

Dawn’s tender light crept through the curtains, spilling like pale gold across Elizabeth’s restless features as her eyes fluttered open.

Rest had not come easy; her mind had been a tangle of silken threads, tightening with every effort to loosen them.

The previous day’s astounding events clung to her, like a storm-cloud that refused to pass, heavy and insistent.

She lay there for a moment, her gaze fixed upon the plastered ceiling, as if it might unfold the secret of her feelings or give shape to the confusion of her heart.

Her mother’s voice seemed to echo faintly in memory —“Lizzy, you must never dismiss a suitor too hastily; a young lady ought to be attentive, patient, and allow herself time to know a gentleman’s character.

It will not do to be sharp, nor to judge at once, for an opportunity once lost may never return.

” And Jane’s gentler counsel, urging calm when passion was most alive, followed close behind.

But calm had abandoned her in the evening just past, and the residue of its absence still weighed upon her chest.

The parsonage stirred about her; the familiar sounds of the morning routine—pots clattering faintly in the kitchen, a door closing, the muffled tone of Mr. Collins rehearsing a phrase of gratitude aloud—were distant, unreal, set against the tumult of her own thoughts.

She rose at last, washed her face, and dressed with habitual care, yet her hands moved without their usual lightness, as though each ribbon and fastening were performed by rote.

Descending the narrow stairs, she heard the cheerful voices of Mr. and Mrs. Collins.

Her heart gave a small throb of gratitude that Charlotte, with the intuition of friendship, had not pressed her the previous evening.

Elizabeth had feigned illness to avoid Lady Catherine’s company, but her cousin’s discerning eyes had read the truth of her agitation and mercifully respected her silence.

“Good morning, Lizzy. Wait. What is wrong with you?” Charlotte asked, her tone gentle, though her eyes betrayed concern.

“Good morning, Cousin. Nothing, why do you ask?” Elizabeth returned quickly, unwilling to meet her gaze.

“Really?” Charlotte persisted softly, observing the faint redness in her cheeks, the stiffness of her expression, the absence of her customary smile which, like a sunbeam, usually brightened every room she entered.

“I am fine, Charlotte, really,” Elizabeth replied again, her voice firmer than she felt.

“You forgot to smile, Lizzy,” Charlotte said at last, half in reproof, half in tender pity; yet she pressed no further. She knew her friend well enough to wait until confidence was freely offered, not compelled.

Mr. Collins, entering at that moment with his usual solemn bustle, looked directly at Elizabeth. “Good morning. Why is your mood sour, Cousin?”

“Sour? I am perfectly fine, Mr. Collins,” Elizabeth answered with a strained smile.

“You do not look—” he began, but Charlotte’s discreet gesture silenced him.

“Let her be. She looks fine to me,” Charlotte said with a smile which seemed to carry more knowledge than her words disclosed.

Then, as if by design, Charlotte added: “Mr. Darcy asked after you. Was he here, by any chance?”

“Yes, he was,” Elizabeth admitted, startled into brevity.

“So? What did he say? He seemed very concerned at the manor—he rose almost at once when I mentioned you had taken ill,” Charlotte continued, her tone playfully light, though her glance was intent.

Elizabeth’s colour rose, though she quickly controlled it. If Charlotte was correct, then perhaps she had spoken with more harshness than was strictly warranted. Yet pride braced her spirit: “He should not have taken the trouble,” she said with studied indifference.

Mr. Collins glanced between them in perplexity, uncertain whether sympathy or admonition was required.

“Do not trouble yourself, Cousin,” he said at last. “He was not aware how ill you were—was he?”

“Let us not dwell on it now. Breakfast is ready,” Charlotte interposed, cutting short her husband’s speculation. “Nancy, pray ask my sister Maria to join us.”

The meal passed in a haze. To Elizabeth, Mr. Collins’s praises of Lady Catherine served almost as a litany in place of grace, while she herself sat with downcast eyes, smiling faintly, nodding politely, but hearing little.

Every word seemed muffled by the echo of another voice—Darcy’s—confessing love with a passion that bewildered even as it offended.

That memory pressed on her heart like a weight she could neither lift nor bear in silence.

At last, determined to seek relief in solitude, Elizabeth excused herself with quiet civility. She resolved to walk in the park, hoping that fresh air might restore composure. Retrieving her book, she had just reached her chamber door when a gentle knock startled her.

“Lizzy?” Charlotte’s voice came softly from the threshold. “You made me worry, my dear. Are you fine?”

“Come in, Charlotte.” The familiar voice of her friend, steady and kind, carried something of home and steadied Elizabeth’s spirits in spite of herself.

“How are you feeling?” Charlotte asked softly.

“I am feeling much better, thank you,” Elizabeth replied.

“Of course you are. I know you are,” Charlotte said with a faint smile.

Elizabeth paused, perplexed by the quiet assurance of her friend’s tone, and wondered what hidden meaning Charlotte attached to those words.