Page 33 of Moments of Truth

“Surprised? Do not be. If you did not wish to accompany us, all you had to do was say so. You did not have to create such elaborate drama, did you?” Charlotte smiled as she seated herself gently beside Elizabeth on the bed.

Elizabeth remained silent.

That silence, Charlotte read with a practised eye; she had long since learned that Elizabeth’s silence spoke as loudly as other people’s exclamations.

“I take it things did not go well between you and Mr. Darcy when he came over to see you earlier?” Charlotte carefully probed, her tone softened with caution. She feared to overstep, for she knew well how little Elizabeth tolerated intrusion upon her private battles of the heart.

“How did you know? Did Mr. Darcy say anything on his return?” Elizabeth nearly stammered.

“He did not have to. Your face says it all. I could tell something was troubling you, but I was unsure. I guessed it must concern Mr. Darcy,” Charlotte replied, her eyes dwelling on Elizabeth’s countenance with gentle persistence.

Elizabeth remained silent still. Her pride urged her to conceal all, but another inward voice, quieter and far more persuasive, longed to unburden itself.

Did she wish for Charlotte’s judgment, or her compassion?

The memory of Darcy’s earnest, trembling voice haunted her even now, and the remembrance of the pain in his eyes at parting stirred a needle of remorse within her, faint but sharp.

Charlotte, perceiving that Elizabeth would not yet speak, rose and laid her hands briefly upon her friend’s shoulders. It was a touch more eloquent than words, a silent assurance that she would not force what Elizabeth would not give.

“Have a wonderful day, my dear,” she said kindly, and walked towards the door.

Elizabeth’s face betrayed a mixture of emotions as she watched Charlotte depart. Consumed by thoughts of Mr. Darcy, torn between anger and unease, she could bear her solitude no longer. “Wait…” she called after Charlotte as her friend’s hand touched the door.

“Yes?” Charlotte turned with the same small, steady smile.

“Could you spare a few minutes? I want to talk to you about a matter that troubles me.” Elizabeth’s voice softened into a pleading tone.

“Alright, my dear.” Charlotte closed the door behind her and returned to her seat. Her composure carried the patience of a friend who knew there was a confidence to be won, but would not hasten it. “What troubles you so much?” she asked gently.

Elizabeth did not look at her, but stared at a small painting on the opposite wall. “Mr. Darcy was here last evening, as you know,” she began slowly. “He had come to check on my health…”

Charlotte, listening with grave attention, remained silent. She did not interrupt, nor did her expression betray curiosity. She simply sat, the very image of patience.

“I told him I was much better, and that he need not have taken the trouble. Yet his next words surprised me beyond measure.” Elizabeth’s hands shook slightly; she did not seem aware, though Charlotte observed it with quiet concern.

“Mr. Darcy declared his love for me,” Elizabeth whispered, scarcely believing the words even now, “and said he could no longer keep it to himself. Imagine—it ended with a proposal of marriage.”

“And you said?”

“I declined. I nearly snapped at him. How dare he?”

“You were a bigger fool than I thought.”

“I was furious. This man, who caused my sister so much pain and suffering, had the audacity to profess his love to me instead of begging pardon.” Elizabeth clasped her hands tightly, as though the pressure might still her storming heart.

Charlotte, who had listened so long in unbroken calm, now betrayed surprise. “How so?” she asked cautiously, for Elizabeth’s accusation was weighty.

“Jane had fallen in love with a friend of Mr. Darcy’s, Mr. Bingley—”

“Mr. Bingley? Oh, of course I know of him. A most amiable gentleman: courteous, kind, good-humoured, all affability and light,” Charlotte said, her eyes fixed as though recalling his very presence. After a moment, her expression sobered.

“For a moment, I forgot you knew Mr. Bingley,” Elizabeth said with a faint, bitter smile.

“Of course. He visited us whenever he was in the neighbourhood. A friendly soul indeed,” Charlotte replied. “But what has Mr. Darcy to do with your sister?”

“Colonel Fitzwilliam informed me—unaware that the lady in question was Jane—that Mr. Darcy had passionately persuaded Mr. Bingley not to pursue the matter. My sister’s hopes were severed by his interference.” Elizabeth’s tone trembled with anger and pain, though she strove for composure.

“Strange—” Charlotte murmured, raising a brow in surprise, though her voice retained its evenness.

“How so?” Elizabeth asked, her eyes narrowing.

“It is very unlikely for Mr. Darcy to do such a thing. He is not the type, if you ask me. Forgive me, Elizabeth—your sister is lovely, I am sure—but Mr. Darcy must have had his reasons for opposing their union. He never acts without what he believes to be a just cause,” Charlotte said, her brow touched with hesitation, as though weighing her loyalty to Lizzy against the plain evidence of her own observations.

“You see… in my opinion, Mr. Darcy has always shown care for those within his circle. Do not let his stoic outward manner deceive you. He does not, in any way, allow harm to befall those whom he values.”

“My sister never meant Mr. Bingley any harm,” Elizabeth interjected quickly, her voice sharpened with the instinctive ardour of a defender, the same protective fire Charlotte had once admired when Lizzy stood up to the Meryton gossips on Jane’s behalf.

“Of course—I never doubted it, Lizzy.” Charlotte lifted her hands in protest, her tone placatory, as if to soothe a wounded pride. “I only wish to make clear that I do not question your sister’s worth. I am merely saying that Mr. Darcy would not act from malice. He must have had his reasons.”

“What reasons could a selfish, arrogant, and conceited man possibly have?” Elizabeth’s voice was scarcely above a whisper, yet its sharpness betrayed how deeply she clung to the charge.

She recalled her mother’s oft-repeated caution—that a suitor’s manner must be studied with patience before judgment was passed—but her own temper could never brook such forbearance.

“Selfish? Arrogant? Conceited? Those are not words I should employ of Mr. Darcy,” Charlotte answered with a small smile, a smile both indulgent and steady, betraying neither offence nor surprise.

She had long suspected Elizabeth to harbour such opinions.

Indeed, many did likewise—some even in harsher tones—but Charlotte had lived long enough to distrust the clamour of general prejudice.

“Unsurprisingly, you would think that way,” Elizabeth returned.

“It is the common judgment of those who know him little, or have never been favoured with his personal attention.” Her words were half-defiance, half-defence of her own prejudice, though she hardly acknowledged it; Jane’s gentle voice seemed to rise faintly in memory —“We must be slow, Lizzy, in believing ill of others” —yet she pressed it down, unwilling to yield her indignation.

“If so many think alike, does that not argue some truth in their words?” Elizabeth demanded, her eyes flashing in that very manner Mr. Bennet once jested of—too quick in her conclusions, too confident in the brilliance of her wit to doubt herself in the moment.

“Truth? Words?” Charlotte repeated slowly, musing.

Then, with gentle firmness, she added: “What you call truth, I call prejudice. What you call words, I call accusations. Listen, Lizzy. Few people truly know Mr. Darcy. Many assume he is proud, pompous, unfeeling—but the truth may lie far from that. He cares for those about him; he places others before himself, even to his own discomfort. He has done so repeatedly, though he never proclaims it. His silence can be mistaken for hauteur, his reserve for disdain. Yet it is only his nature: he does not speak unless he has something certain to say. And when he does speak, his very confidence unsettles others, so that they brand him arrogant. He is not. To me, he is one of the truest, most honourable gentlemen I have ever known. I once told you, Lizzy, that a steady, respectable man is often more deserving of regard than one full of gallantry—and Mr. Darcy, whatever else may be said of him, is nothing if not steady.”

Elizabeth listened in silence. At first, she thought Charlotte only wished to soften her anger, to defend a man who had so wounded her pride, but as her friend spoke, Elizabeth perceived no artifice.

Charlotte delivered her words with the unvarnished plainness of a woman who had observed much and asked little for herself.

They reminded Elizabeth of a walk they once shared near Lucas Lodge, when Charlotte had remarked that happiness in marriage was as much about good sense as it was about ardour; Charlotte’s judgments, though practical, were rarely careless, and never founded on vanity.

The sincerity touched Elizabeth more keenly than flattery ever could.

Elizabeth began to question her resolve.

Might her opinions indeed have been formed too hastily?

Charlotte had known Mr. Darcy longer, had seen him in ordinary hours, when pretence was unnecessary.

And Charlotte was no flatterer—she sought not to please, but to speak her truth.

The thought unsettled Elizabeth; for it was far easier to cling to resentment than to admit the possibility of injustice in her own judgment, and she had never been fond of confessing herself in the wrong.

As if reading her mind, Charlotte placed a hand gently upon her shoulder. “Have you confronted him directly on the matter of your sister and Mr. Bingley?”

“Of course I did.”

“Did you ask him why he persuaded Mr. Bingley to withdraw? Did you require of him his reasons?”