Page 35 of Moments of Truth

Elizabeth remained alone in her chamber, abandoned to the restless company of her thoughts.

Her mind was in disarray, more so than when Charlotte had first entered.

She had detained her friend earlier, hoping Charlotte might soothe her conscience, might confirm that she had acted with justice and propriety in her refusal.

Yet all was reversed. Charlotte’s words had left her not comforted but unsettled, for they pressed with inconvenient weight upon her heart.

She felt wretched. Never had she imagined that Mr. Darcy’s reserve might conceal not pride but pain—the silent weight of duty, the grief of losing both parents too soon, the solitary burden of protecting his sister, and perhaps the restless conflict between his hopes and his fears.

And now—if Charlotte spoke truly—Elizabeth herself had added to those trials, striking him in the tenderest point of all.

The image of Mr. Darcy’s countenance, as he quitted her presence only hours ago—grave, chastened, yet with a look of deep injury—rose vividly before her, refusing to be banished.

“I probably owe him an apology,” she whispered, startled that such words had escaped her lips.

She sank upon the edge of the bed, her gaze fixed on the small painting above the mantelpiece, yet her mind attended not to its subject.

Every phrase Charlotte had spoken returned to her, circling round and round, demanding examination.

Is it true? Could I have been so mistaken in him?

Restlessly, she rose and crossed to the window.

The late light slanted across the fields, yet her eyes were heavy, as if the world itself pressed upon them.

Her father had often teased her for being too swift in judgment, too ready to trust her first impression; Jane too had gently urged caution, reminding her that goodness is not always quick to display itself.

And now those voices echoed in her memory, condemning her rashness more keenly than if they had spoken in person.

“But what of Jane—and Mr. Bingley?” Elizabeth murmured, her voice breaking the stillness.

“What possible reason could justify tearing them asunder?” Her thoughts leapt in quick succession, restless as her pacing feet.

And Wickham—yes, what of him? What excuse can absolve Darcy of such cruelty as to cheat an old friend, to reward trust with injustice?

The arguments she had long nurtured returned with force, as though she repeated them in a debate, not with Charlotte, but with her own heart.

“Surely these two incidents are proof enough. What else remains to be seen?” Yet even as she spoke, doubt crept in—doubt born of Charlotte’s plain sincerity and the memory of Darcy’s wounded eyes.

Elizabeth paused, suddenly aware she was no longer only thinking but speaking aloud, her voice betraying agitation.

To steady herself, she opened the drawer of her small cupboard and drew forth a white envelope.

It was Jane’s letter—her sister’s gentle, beloved hand, which had always seemed the very pattern of constancy.

She unfolded the sheet with trembling fingers, her eyes moving hastily past the affectionate opening, seeking only the lines that most concerned her heart.

Elizabeth, I know you will be concerned for me and my spirits. Pray, set your heart at ease, my dearest sister. Though my recent behaviour may have caused you uneasiness, believe me when I say that I am well enough.

I am still waiting for some word—or sight—of Mr. Bingley.

Society may perhaps consider me a foolish girl, too easily wounded by love; yet I cannot rest until I learn why he has withdrawn.

Have I given offence? Have I proved less pleasing to him than before?

Or uttered some word that chilled his regard?

Such questions haunt me day by day, and unless I may have them answered, I fear I shall carry them with me always.

Three weeks have passed, and still he has not appeared.

I begin to suspect that he does not wish to be found.

I cannot help but believe his sister has had some share in this change.

She never looked upon me with favour, and Miss Bingley (for she will always remain distant, despite my endeavours to be friendly) has kept me at arm’s length, as though my sincerity were of no value.

I do not doubt Mr. Bingley’s affection; but I dread that her voice has weighed heavily with him.

If his heart is altered, then so be it—I only wish he would tell me plainly, rather than leave me to suffer in uncertainty.

Forgive me, Lizzy. I know I must have caused you, and indeed all at Longbourn, much concern.

Yet I beg you to believe I am stronger than I appear.

All I desire now is truth, however painful.

You, more than anyone, will understand this longing for plain dealing.

Take care of yourself, dear Elizabeth—and do, for my sake, try to keep from trouble.

With all my love,

Jane

Tears welled and rolled unheeded down Elizabeth’s cheeks as she read Jane’s letter.

How was she to tell her beloved sister that it had been Mr. Darcy himself who persuaded Mr. Bingley against their union?

The knowledge pressed upon her with cruel weight.

It tore at her heart to imagine Jane suffering in silence, gentle and uncomplaining as she always was, while Elizabeth, who prided herself on discernment, had no power to relieve her.

Wait—wait— in a sudden moment of clarity, it dawned upon Elizabeth.

Charlotte had been right. She had been so wholly consumed by anger towards Mr. Darcy that she had never once attempted to understand his motives.

Had not her father often teased her for forming her judgments too swiftly, with more wit than patience?

Now, recalling Charlotte’s gentle counsel, Elizabeth recognised the painful truth: she had ruined all chance of civility by meeting his declaration with temper rather than composure, with accusation rather than inquiry.

Her anger had already softened while listening to Charlotte speak of him with compassion; yet Jane’s letter renewed her turmoil. Her heart seemed torn between justice for her sister and the dawning suspicion that she herself had judged too rashly.

Whatever Mrs. Collins’s sentiments might be, they did not erase the fact: Darcy had interfered.

Nothing he could say—or so Elizabeth still told herself—would ever justify his part in separating Jane and Bingley.

And yet… Charlotte’s words lingered. Could it be that prejudice had so coloured her judgment, she no longer distinguished justice from resentment?

But surely, such reflections do not mean I love him, Elizabeth reasoned desperately.

And yet she could not help admitting—if only to herself—that her first dislike had long since softened.

The disclosure from Colonel Fitzwilliam had sharpened her condemnation anew; yet before that, had not her feelings toward him undergone a subtle change?

She remembered their first meeting at the assembly, his disdainful slight; their second, scarcely more encouraging.

But at the third… something altered. Though he had at first acted as if she were invisible, there came a time when his manner betrayed attention, even regard.

He had spoken with courtesy, even delicacy, when courtesy had not been demanded.

He had listened to her with that grave intensity which both daunted and intrigued her.

Her father’s voice rose in memory — “Lizzy, you will never be easy unless you are offering battle; your delight is to match every man in wit until he yields.” Yet Mr. Darcy had not yielded; rather, he had engaged her mind as few ever had.

His words—measured, clear, never trifling—had a peculiar power over her.

She realised now, with mingled pride and alarm, that only her father had ever drawn her into such exhilarating play of thought.

With other men, she had heard the same rehearsed compliments, the same dull attempts at gallantry.

She could detect their designs before they uttered them.

Darcy alone had seemed to seek her for herself—for her opinion, her understanding.

Without knowing it, her heart had begun to bend toward him, even while her tongue still resisted him.

Charlotte’s parting words rang still in her ears: “ Ask yourself, Lizzy—if you had not learned of his interference with Jane, would you have answered him differently?”

What would I have done? Elizabeth’s heart trembled as she recalled the scene—how often had she already replayed it in her mind?

His voice, low but fervent, seemed to echo in the quiet room: “I do not know when or how it happened, Miss Bennet, but I am drawn to you. I have fought the attraction again and again, but it conquers me at last. Against my will, I think of you constantly; your words linger long after you are gone. Tell me—what spell have you cast, that I cannot cease to long for your presence? Call it what you will, I know only this: I love you, ardently, hopelessly, beyond restraint.”

Those words, once rejected with anger, were now branded upon her heart. She could not banish them.

Have I been blind all along? Charlotte discerned in a moment what I will not own even to myself. Am I indeed… in love with Mr. Darcy?

Elizabeth recoiled from the thought. No—I do not wish to love such a man! Yet her resolve faltered. The morning’s revelations pressed heavily upon her. In truth, she could not say when it began, nor how; only that Charlotte’s gentle persistence had pierced her denial.