Page 34 of Moments of Truth

Elizabeth opened her mouth, but faltered.

In truth, she had not. She had stormed and accused, but never demanded explanation.

Her words, she now recalled with discomfort, had been too much the child of passion—sharp, ungoverned, and unworthy of the calm dignity Jane would have urged upon her. The memory made her colour with shame.

“No…” she admitted at last, her voice low and uncertain.

“You see, my dear,” Charlotte said kindly, “Mr. Darcy is not as you have painted him. One must not form opinions too swiftly, nor with scant evidence. Tell me honestly—how often have you spoken with him? How many true conversations have you shared?”

“Not that often,” Elizabeth confessed, her voice tinged with reluctant candour, as though the admission were a surrender.

She felt again her father’s amused prophecy that her wit, delightful as it was, might one day lead her into errors of judgment; never had she felt the truth of it so keenly as now.

“Do you think such a brief acquaintance is enough to know someone truly?” Charlotte asked, her voice calm, yet touched with the authority of one who had long observed society’s follies.

“Would it be fair, Lizzy, if another judged you without the least attempt at understanding you properly? What makes you so certain that Mr. Darcy is not the man I believe him to be? What if your impression of him is mistaken?”

“And what if the person I have come to know is the real Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth countered quickly.

Her tone had the ring of self-defence, though her heart trembled even as she spoke.

What if she had, indeed, misread him? The mere thought struck her with unease.

“What if the man you think you have met is only a facade, a carefully crafted pretence? Perhaps the Darcy I have seen is true.” She could not relinquish her judgment so easily; yet if she were wrong, what a cruel, unfeeling creature she herself must appear to be.

“How long do you think a person can pretend for?” Charlotte asked softly, her gaze steady, as if she wished to lead her friend into reflection rather than victory.

Elizabeth hesitated. She did not know how to answer. The question unsettled her; for if Charlotte spoke the truth, then her own observations might have been but fragments, distorted by prejudice.

Seeing the confusion that clouded Elizabeth’s face, Charlotte smiled gently.

“What I mean is—no man or woman can dissemble forever. Sooner or later, the moment comes when a mask will slip, when the truth is laid bare, and character stands revealed. I should think you of all people, Lizzy, who pride yourself on seeing through pretence, might acknowledge that.”

Elizabeth mused silently over what Charlotte had said, remembering her father’s teasing words—that she delighted too much in exposing absurdities, even at the risk of mistaking sincerity for folly.

“I take it you spoke with sharpness, and dismissed him—refused his proclamation of love outright?”

“Y–yes,” Elizabeth admitted, colouring. “Please, Charlotte, you must not speak of this to my mother.”

Charlotte gave her a reassuring smile. “Of course not, my dear friend. Your secret is safe with me. Yet I hope you have considered carefully the consequences of your words—not only for him, but for yourself.”

“No… I did not,” Elizabeth whispered, her voice thick with shame.

“Pity, Lizzy.” Charlotte shook her head slowly, not in censure, but with the sorrow of one who perceived more clearly than her friend could allow herself to see.

“Hmmm?” Elizabeth was startled by her friend’s gentle reproach.

“You must understand, Lizzy,” Charlotte continued thoughtfully, “Mr. Darcy is not a man to trifle with affection. He has never sought the notice of women, nor courted their favour lightly. If he has declared himself to you, it is not from vanity or idleness. He does nothing without deep reflection. That, at least, I am persuaded of. Therefore, that he should at last set aside his reserve and speak to you with earnestness of love—Miss Bennet, it is no slight testimony. It is proof of a feeling both deliberate and sincere.”

The indifferent mask on Elizabeth’s face melted at those words.

She remembered his expression, the steady fire in his eyes when Darcy spoke of love.

For the first time, she wondered whether what she had mistaken for arrogance was, in truth, a heart’s desperate effort to speak plainly where words failed him.

Shame stole over her. Without knowing, she had wounded him deeply: the first by avarice, herself by disdain. The recollection of his retreating figure, heavy with hurt, returned vividly, and she pressed a hand to her brow as if to banish the vision.

Charlotte observed the change, noting the flicker of remorse that softened Lizzy’s features.

She inwardly nodded; her suspicion was confirmed.

Elizabeth had judged rashly, seen only a fragment of Mr. Darcy, and condemned the whole.

But Charlotte, with her habitual prudence, refrained from pressing the point.

Her creed, formed long ago, was that one could guide a friend only so far—the rest must come from within.

Elizabeth was silent, unable to refute what had been said.

“You should always seek answers, Lizzy,” Charlotte advised kindly, “and only when you possess them may you justly form an opinion. To condemn without proof is neither fair nor wise.”

Elizabeth looked up quickly at her dearest friend, her eyes betraying the sting of recognition.

She had heard Charlotte say something similar before, when they once discussed Mr. Collins—that hasty judgments, whether for or against, often led to regret.

How strange that she could remember that counsel now, when it was almost too late.

“When Mr. Darcy spoke of his feelings, what was your very first reaction?” Charlotte asked gently. “Not what you said, Lizzy, but what you felt.”

“How did I feel?” Elizabeth repeated, almost incredulous. “Angry, of course! Because of him, Jane is unhappy—she is not at home, and I have never seen my sister so sad, so silent, so… unloved. Worse, she does not even confide in me her pain.” Her voice trembled as she finished.

“Yes, I know. But aside from that—what else did you feel?” Charlotte pressed, her smile warm, her tone tender as if coaxing a secret from a child.

“I do not understand what you mean,” Elizabeth replied honestly, her brow knit in perplexity.

“Think, Lizzy. Think more deeply. Why are you still so angry? Does not the very persistence of the feeling tell you something?”

Elizabeth fell silent. Charlotte’s words pierced her.

Why indeed was she so unable to let the matter rest?

Why had her mind returned, again and again, to the scene of his declaration, to the look in his eyes, to the sound of his voice?

Anger alone could not explain the unease that haunted her since last night.

If her opinion of him were truly settled, why did her heart refuse to be quiet?

“You do not know?” Charlotte asked softly, surprised.

“No.” Elizabeth shook her head, the confession slipping out with unaccustomed humility. It was not her way to admit ignorance, yet for once, she could not disguise it.

“My dear Lizzy, you are in love, my dear,” Charlotte said at last, her smile touched with the quiet triumph of one who had long observed more than she was given credit for. She waited for her friend to react, her knowing gaze softened by affection.

Elizabeth’s countenance betrayed shock; she stared at Charlotte in disbelief, as if the words had been in jest, yet their gravity could not be mistaken. She could not, would not, accept the notion that she had allowed herself to fall for Mr. Darcy within the span of mere hours.

She was left speechless, her thoughts in tumult. “In love with Mr. Darcy?” The incredulous words burst forth unbidden, louder than she had intended, edged with doubt, yet betraying also a thread of alarm.

“You disagree?” Charlotte’s smile lingered, and she inclined her head slowly, as though humouring a child reluctant to confess the truth of what she felt.

“Of course I disagree! I have never harboured such a feeling towards Mr. Darcy, and I am certain I never shall. The very idea is absurd.” Elizabeth’s tone carried the fervour of self- conviction, though her own heart trembled at its vehemence. “This gentleman is responsible for—”

“Your sister’s pain and disappointment?” Charlotte interposed gently.

“Yes, yes, I know. You have reminded me of it often. And still, it convinces me of your feelings, Lizzy. For if you were indifferent, would his fault strike you so keenly? Think of it—what was your impression of him before you learned of this supposed interference between Mr. Bingley and Jane?”

Elizabeth coloured faintly. “I had believed him arrogant and proud… but I will own, in moments, his company was a delight, if I am honest.”

“Just a delight?” Charlotte arched her brow, half-smiling.

“Lizzy, have you forgotten the many times you have asked me, and even my poor Mr. Collins, about Mr. Darcy? Questions that came upon you out of nowhere, as if you could not let him slip from your thoughts. Remember your first visit to Rosings, when he and Colonel Fitzwilliam had newly arrived? You spoke of nothing but Mr. Darcy upon your return—so much so, you nearly talked my ears away.” She gave a soft chuckle, the sound mingling amusement with sympathy.

Elizabeth stared at her friend in disbelief, as recollections she would rather not summon rose before her mind’s eye.

“Listen to me, Lizzy,” Charlotte continued, her voice deepening into earnestness.

“Granted, you are angry—angry with reason—at what you believe Mr. Darcy has done to Jane. No one could blame you. But I think what cuts deepest is not Jane’s sorrow—it is the bitter disillusion of finding that the man you had begun, against your will, to esteem could err so grievously. That, I fear, is the true sting.”

Elizabeth turned away, unable to answer.

“Tell me this,” Charlotte pressed more gently, “how did you first meet? By your own account, you thought him pompous, distant, disagreeable. Yet here you are—repeatedly in his company, conversing with him more often than you ever chose to with another gentleman. You did not dismiss him, Lizzy—you entertained him. Is that not a singular difference since this man crossed your path? And now—though all the world would excuse your rejection—you reproach yourself. Why, if not because you care?”

Elizabeth’s silence deepened, but her pulse betrayed her, quickening with the memory of his eyes fixed upon her, of words spoken with a fervour she could not banish.

“The answer, my dear, is not far to seek,” Charlotte said softly. “Believe me or not, a part of you loves Mr. Darcy.”

Those words struck Elizabeth like a blow. She had prepared to refute them with indignation, yet the more she listened, the more her defence crumbled. Charlotte had posed her questions so artfully, as if each were a mirror to Elizabeth’s own heart.

Elizabeth’s gaze drifted, unfocused, as a single thought echoed within: Have I truly been struck by Cupid’s arrow—and for Mr. Darcy? “Impossible,” she whispered, but the word lacked conviction.

“Arguing will not change the truth. It is what it is.” Charlotte’s tone held no malice, only calm certainty.

“Think of this: he may soon depart for Pemberley. Better to search your heart now, before it is too late.”

Elizabeth’s lips parted, then closed again. She could not speak. Denial felt safer than acknowledgment.

“Oh, Elizabeth,” Charlotte said suddenly, as if struck by a recollection.

“Yes?”

“Ask yourself this: if you had not learned of his supposed hand in separating Jane and Mr. Bingley, would your answer to his declaration have been different? What would you have said then?” Charlotte’s eyes softened, her voice lowering almost to a whisper. “Think of it.”

Elizabeth could not reply at once. She had told herself again and again that she felt nothing for him—but her memory betrayed her.

She recalled the startling leap of her heart when he had spoken, the sincerity in his countenance, the solemnity of his voice.

Such a reaction was not born of indifference.

Charlotte, serene and composed, waited with the patience of a true confidante. Theirs was a friendship long tried—hours of counsel shared, secrets confided, wounds soothed.

“At any rate, that is enough for today,” Charlotte concluded gently.

“A walk will do you better than argument. And rest assured, not a syllable shall escape me. Your rejection will remain known only to us—and I daresay Mr. Darcy himself would prefer it so.” She rose from the bed and moved toward the door, her smile lingering.

“Thank you, my dear, good friend,” Elizabeth murmured as the door closed softly.

The last thing she beheld was Charlotte’s quiet, knowing smile, a smile that left Elizabeth both comforted and disquieted, as though her dearest friend had seen into the secret places of her heart more clearly than she herself dared to look.