Page 38 of Moments of Truth

Against her will, she owned herself a little swayed in that moment.

Had she not just then been armed with Colonel Fitzwilliam’s unguarded disclosure—that Darcy had indeed interfered between Jane and Bingley—her reply might, perhaps, have been less severe.

Colonel Fitzwilliam had spoken without malice, yet his frankness had altered the course of an evening, and perhaps of two lives.

Elizabeth resolved that, should she see him again, she would thank him—if not for his tale, then for the lesson it had borne: that truth, even when it wounds, may sometimes open the only path to wisdom.

“I wonder what Mr. Darcy thinks of me,” she murmured aloud, scarcely hearing her own voice until the words startled her.

In sudden vexation she shook her head. “Why should I care what he thinks?” For never before had she troubled herself with the opinion of men whom she disdained.

She had dismissed many a would-be suitor without a pang; yet here she was, restless and unsettled, as though Mr. Darcy’s judgment of her were of consequence.

Unable to quiet her mind, she summoned the whole train of her acquaintance with him.

She remembered their first meeting at the Meryton assembly.

How stiffly he had stood among the crowd, as if every gesture of sociability were a burden!

His tall figure, immoveable as a pillar, had seemed to declare him above the petty commerce of smiles and civilities.

She had thought him awkward, and in some measure, she had been amused by his discomfort.

Unlike so many young ladies, she had felt no impulse to flutter after his fortune, but rather a sharp curiosity: what sort of gentleman disdains the charms that make other men pliant?

In truth, she had admired his restraint when other women endeavoured to catch his eye. That he should resist such open blandishments appeared, for a fleeting instant, almost noble.

But her opinion suffered a blow the instant he spoke.

She had overheard those fatal words— “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me”—and her temper had never wholly forgiven him.

How lofty he had seemed, speaking as though from a dais, reducing all the women present to trifles for his palate, dismissing her as if she were no more than a dish ill-prepared!

That slight had imprinted itself so firmly upon her imagination that every subsequent act of his became, to her mind, but confirmation of that first offence.

The mind, once determined, is an artful painter: it selects, it colours, it distorts—until the picture suits its prejudice too well to be denied.

She recalled, too, how little attention he had bestowed upon her family when first received at Longbourn.

His eyes had wandered over her mother’s eager conversation with scarcely concealed impatience.

True, her mother’s manners might then have been less than guarded, the effect of wine and excitement being not to her advantage; yet even so, Elizabeth’s pride had been wounded.

His aloof civility had seemed but another proof of contempt.

“Surely I cannot have been wrong about him,” she murmured, yet even as she said it, her heart faltered.

Scenes played again in her mind. The second occasion—Jane’s illness at Netherfield.

Elizabeth had walked through mud and mire to attend her sister, only to encounter Darcy once more.

She had found him there as she expected: cold, reserved, his countenance betraying no interest in the society about him.

How strange it had always seemed to her that a man so stiff and joyless should be the intimate friend of Mr. Bingley, whose very nature was sunshine.

Darcy’s stillness had not seemed dignity to her then, but disdain; she had imagined him regarding every laugh, every friendly effort, as the antics of puppets set to amuse his hauteur.

Even so, there had been moments—brief, almost imperceptible—when she had caught his gaze lingering, not with contempt, but with something she could not define. Yet she had brushed the notion aside, unwilling to surrender her opinion of him.

Then Wickham had entered her life, with his handsome face and candid air.

Ah, how simple it had been to believe him!

His manners bespoke honesty; his smiles invited trust; his tale, with all its artless detail, seemed too sorrowful to be feigned.

She had pitied him, and admiration had followed naturally upon pity.

For so amiable a gentleman to accuse Darcy with such vehemence, to paint him as a betrayer of trust—what choice had she but to believe?

The villainy ascribed to Darcy tallied so neatly with her own impressions that she welcomed it as truth confirmed.

“Pride goes before a fall,” she whispered, recalling the old adage. “And I was content to see him fall, and to feel superior for it.”

But as the recollection deepened, so too did her unease. Had she not been too eager—too gratified—to accept Wickham’s accusations? Was it not convenient to her resentment to have them so powerfully supported?

Her steps slowed, her head bent in troubled thought. What if my judgment, so long my boast, has failed me here? What if I have wronged a man whose affection, however unwelcome, was at least sincere?

As her reflections deepened, the sharp edge of guilt that had earlier pierced Elizabeth’s conscience seemed to dull and recede.

Perhaps, after all, she had judged rightly.

Mr. Wickham’s tale had so coloured her understanding, so convinced her of the justice of her own suspicions, that she had almost ceased to pity Mr. Darcy’s retreat from Hunsford the day before.

His departure, once imprinted upon her mind with painful vividness, now appeared less a wound she had inflicted, than a consequence he had deserved.

Yet even as she persuaded herself thus, Elizabeth found her thoughts restless, refusing the composure she strove to summon.

With a sudden force, memory thrust before her that scene again—his voice, low and trembling with passion, his eyes fixed earnestly upon hers, the declaration so astonishing that her very heart had leapt in fright and wonder.

There had been no artifice in that look, no dissembling in those words.

In that instant, she had seen in him a truth too plain to be denied—the honesty of a heart that, however proud, was wholly given to her.

No! Elizabeth cried inwardly, shaking off the dangerous softness that threatened her guard.

She could not allow her defences to fall.

She had heard enough tales of women undone by misplaced affection, ensnared by men whose charm concealed a selfish nature.

She would not join their number; her judgment, once clear, must not falter now.

Whatever spell Mr. Darcy had woven, she was determined to resist it.

Her steps, meanwhile, had brought her through one of the iron gates that led into the broader grounds.

The crunch of gravel beneath her feet and the whisper of leaves above offered momentary refuge from the tumult of her mind.

Here, in the open park with its tender green of spring, Elizabeth hoped that air and solitude might restore her composure.

Kent’s fields, ripened into full verdure by five weeks of advancing season, seemed almost a balm to her weary spirit.

But as she neared the park’s entrance, her courage faltered.

A tremor seized her at the thought of encountering him once more—an anticipation at once dreadful and strangely magnetic.

The very idea made her hesitate, as if the mere possibility of his presence unsettled all her resolutions.

Why should her heart betray her thus? Why must it throb with equal parts apprehension and expectancy at the sound of his name?

Her fears proved only too well-founded. Advancing along the grove, she discerned the tall, unmistakable figure of Mr. Darcy. At the sight, she turned at once, her first instinct to flee; yet his voice rang out, eager, commanding: “Miss Bennet!”

Twice he called, and twice her step faltered until, unable to persist in flight, she turned reluctantly to face him. Her heart clenched with the effort, for his sudden appearance seemed not accident but fate—an uncanny destiny intent on thwarting her every attempt at escape.

He came forward with deliberate step, shoulders squared, bearing himself not as a chance walker but as one resolved upon his purpose.

Elizabeth could not mistake the intention in his approach.

These were no idle crossings of path, no coincidences born of village chance.

They were the acts of a man determined to be heard, to be understood, perhaps even absolved.

Under the shadow of ancient oaks, he halted a respectful distance from her.

For a moment silence hung heavy between them, before he cleared his throat with visible effort.

His words, when they came, were grave but courteous: “Good morning, Miss Bennet. I have been in the grove some time, in hope of meeting you.”

“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth replied evenly, though her mind reeled. She could not forget yesterday—his sudden visit as Charlotte and Maria departed—the words, the emotions, the shock. His appearance now could signify only one thing: he had come to explain, or to apologise. Perhaps both.

He advanced a step, produced a folded letter from within his coat, and, bowing slightly, said with studied formality: “Would you do me the honour of reading this, Miss Bennet?”

Elizabeth inclined her head and accepted the paper. Her voice was calm, though her fingers trembled as they touched his: “Of course.”