Page 42 of Moments of Truth

“Even so, you think too much of your own turmoil and too little of hers. Was it easy, do you suppose, for Miss Bennet to accompany the Collinses this evening, after reading your explanatory letter? Was it nothing for her to look at you, uncertain whether you would meet her eyes?”

“A kind gesture, perhaps—but one that was useless to anyone, Cousin.”

“You are ever too quick to dismiss what does not accord with your notions,” the Colonel observed, his voice edged with irony. “You do not make enough effort to improve your own situation.”

“I did listen to you,” Darcy retorted with impatience. “I followed you into my aunt’s parlour to endure Mr. Collins’s farewell address. At least he had the decency not to launch into a longer sermon.”

“You are mistaken again, Darcy. If only you had truly listened, we would have gone to Hunsford at noon, like gentlemen, to bid farewell. Then you might have seen for yourself what impression your letter had wrought—if any at all. You might have spoken to Miss Bennet, away from Aunt Catherine’s scrutiny.

But no—you never look beyond the boundaries of your own opinion.

” The Colonel shook his head reproachfully.

“A meeting at Hunsford would have changed nothing. Nothing has changed here either. I cannot believe Miss Bennet wishes ever to see me again.”

“I told you before—you leap to conclusions as though they were certainties. Recall what you did: you sat impatiently, barely glancing at her before hurrying away, in danger of appearing downright uncivil.”

“I received an answer from her,” Darcy muttered irritably. “What more could I expect?”

“Well, perhaps this,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, loosening a button on his tunic, raising his hand, and producing a folded letter from his breast pocket.

Darcy reached for it at once, but his cousin drew it back with a shake of his head.

“I ought not even give this to you, for you scarcely deserve it. Yet here it is. Miss Bennet wrote this letter this morning, before her walk in the park. Afterwards, she hesitated to send it. But Mrs. Collins, proving herself the wiser friend, corrected your mistake. Seeing that you contrived to avoid Miss Bennet, she entrusted the letter to me, in case it might reach your hands.”

“Miss Bennet hoped to speak with me?” Darcy asked, visibly astonished.

“Yes—so it seems. But you contrived to avoid her. I declare, Cousin, no one can fathom you anymore. Take your letter, though by rights it ought to be withheld from so obstinate a man.”

Darcy accepted it with his right hand, a faint flush of shame rising over his cheekbones. He unfolded the parchment with studied care, though his fingers trembled slightly. His heart beat quick, as though every line might lift or sink him forever.

Colonel Fitzwilliam crossed his arms, watching in silence, his boot tapping against the floorboards in impatient rhythm.

As Darcy read further, his brow contracted, his eyes darkened with concern, and once—just once—his lips parted as though a sigh had escaped him. His heart lurched at the thought of Elizabeth—Miss Bennet—feeling neglected, or wounded by his manner.

“Oh, what a fool I have been,” he murmured hoarsely.

The Colonel raised an eyebrow at this admission but forbore to speak.

Elizabeth’s words, clear and candid, detailed her confusion, her wounded pride, and yet—something gentler too, a tone that spoke of possibility.

Darcy read them twice over, scarcely trusting the evidence of his senses.

When at last he folded the letter and laid it upon the polished mahogany of his desk, he pinched the bridge of his nose and bowed his head, his whole frame speaking the weight of regret and longing.

“I must make this right,” he muttered, scarcely above a whisper. “I owe Miss Bennet—not merely an explanation, but an apology, a confession, and my utmost candour.”

“But it is already evening,” his cousin reminded him, more softly now. “And we leave for London at first light. Do not forget, Darcy.”

“I know, I know,” Darcy replied, running a hand across his temple. “You are forever right, and I forever stubborn. Yet—I think I have found a way.”

***

At Hunsford, after dinner, Mr. Collins excused himself, declaring with solemnity that he must retire to his study to prepare the sermon for Sunday.

He disliked leaving such sacred duties until the last moment, preferring to be well-prepared in advance.

Without a written discourse before him, Mr. Collins would most certainly weary his parishioners with endless and unnecessary orations, losing himself in digressions no soul wished to hear.

Thus, he filled page upon page with his ponderings, only to strike out much when transcribing them anew.

As soon as he withdrew, Elizabeth turned to Mrs. Collins with an eagerness she could no longer contain.

She begged her friend for a private conversation, which Charlotte readily granted, though not before sending Maria to her chamber for her accustomed hour of evening reading.

At Lucas Lodge, Sir William had always valued this custom, believing it sound both for the cultivation of the mind and for ensuring a tranquil rest. Charlotte, unwilling to discourage what was so proper, continued the habit in her household.

Once Maria’s light steps had faded upstairs, Elizabeth released the tension she had borne since their recent call at Rosings. Her voice betrayed both reproach and hurt as she exclaimed:

“Charlotte, why did you take my letter and deliver it to Colonel Fitzwilliam? I left it here, for it no longer bore meaning after receiving Mr. Darcy’s note. How could you act so without asking me first?”

“If I had asked you, Lizzy, would you have consented?” Charlotte returned, calm as ever.

“Of course not,” Elizabeth admitted.

“Well then, my dear friend, the reason is plain.”

“All right, but—”

“Problems, Lizzy, only find their solutions if addressed in time. Had you kept silent, the breach would have widened beyond remedy. You would not be able to communicate with Mr. Darcy again before his departure.”

“But you saw! He would not even look at me. He scarcely acknowledged my presence.”

“You have said yourself that Mr. Darcy is a proud man. Would you expect one whose heart is wounded by what he considers an unjust rejection to speak readily with the lady who gave the wound?”

“Not at all, Charlotte. Precisely—he should—”

“He needed your response. And before Lady Catherine, he could not possibly speak without creating new troubles, perhaps even worse ones.”

“And since he and the Colonel are leaving in the morning—”

“There remained few alternatives, Lizzy. Believe me, in this instance, I acted for the best.”

“That is your talent, Charlotte—always thinking of everything.”

“It is not talent, my dear, but experience. I am six years your elder,” Charlotte said with thoughtful gravity, before chuckling lightly with Elizabeth in the same instant.

“Very well—experience then. And what does your vast experience tell you?”

But Charlotte had no time to answer. Nancy appeared at the door, executed an awkward curtsy, and announced, “Madam, a boy from Rosings waits with a message for Miss Bennet. Shall I ask him to stay?”

Charlotte extended her hand, accepted the note, and presented it to Elizabeth. “Here you are, Lizzy. Let us see whether my experience has worked in your favour.”

Elizabeth’s hand trembled as she received it, her heart beating with a swiftness that recalled a racehorse at full gallop.

“Ask the boy to wait, Nancy. We may send him back with a reply.”

The maid departed, and Elizabeth broke the seal, glancing at her friend in astonishment.

“Read it, Lizzy. I shall fetch paper, quill, and ink.”

Elizabeth unfolded the message. At once she recognised Mr. Darcy’s hand, precise and elegant, and began to read.

Rosings

Friday, April 10, 1812, Evening

Dear Miss Bennet,

I hope this note finds you well. Upon reflection, and after reading your kind letter, I perceive how grievously remiss I have been. I have caused you needless distress. Believe me, I regret it most sincerely.

Plainly, I ought to have spoken openly and candidly, rather than permitting my pride and reserve to cloud every effort at communication. I entreat you to believe that it was never my intention to wound or to confuse.

I leave for London on the morrow; but I shall seek, at the earliest moment, an opportunity to make amends. Until then, accept my heartfelt regret, and believe that I long to speak with you properly, as I should have done from the first.

Yours most sincerely,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

The note was brief, yet its words transformed everything.

Only the day before, Elizabeth had marvelled that Mr. Darcy could humble himself enough to avow his love.

And now, confronted with the tender remorse of his apology, she felt her own regret pierce deeper.

He had put aside his pride for her sake; what folly it had been not to give him a chance.

It seemed beyond question that he truly cared, since he was willing to sacrifice his vanity, risk his dignity, and seek reconciliation where another man might have retreated into silence.

Elizabeth’s thoughts flew back to Charlotte, whose decision now appeared both wise and provident. Both she and Darcy had written almost at the same hour, each groping toward the other through the barrier of wounded pride.

Her emotions rose tumultuously as she considered how to reply. She had not imagined, minutes earlier, that she would face such a decision before the night was out.

Charlotte soon returned with the writing materials. Elizabeth silently handed her Darcy’s note. Charlotte read it, sighed deeply, and pushed the fresh paper toward her. “Write, Lizzy. It must be short, it must be guarded—but for heaven’s sake, write something!”

Elizabeth sighed in response and then carefully dipped the quill pen into the inkwell and wrote quickly and effortlessly as if someone else was dictating the words to her.

Hunsford, Friday Evening

Dear Mr. Darcy,

I thank you for your unexpected note. Your words and your sincerity are gratefully received. Much remains unsaid between us, yet I trust that time will grant us another opportunity. I look forward to speaking with you properly when Providence shall bring our paths together again.

Safe travels,

Elizabeth Bennet

She reread the note, shaking her head in dissatisfaction, for there was so much more that might have been written, though the moment was not yet ripe for so full a disclosure.

At the very least, she hoped that by leaving open the possibility of further discourse, they might one day resolve their misunderstandings, soften their resentments, and discover some path to reconciliation.

Only a few minutes earlier—before the message had arrived from Rosings—she had believed she might not see Mr. Darcy again for a very long time, if ever.

Now, with her pen having traced but a few hurried lines, a faint glimmer of hope stirred amidst her doubts.

Elizabeth sealed her reply in haste, scarcely able to believe she had written so little.

Yet brevity seemed her only safety; anything longer might have betrayed too much of her heart, and she trembled at the thought of her secret feelings laid bare before him.

Handing the folded note to Nancy, she whispered, “Pray give this at once to the boy, and bid him deliver it directly. Wait—he has travelled at this late hour, and it would be unkind to send him away unrewarded. Take a sixpence for him.” The maid curtsied, clutching the message as though it were a treasure, and hurried out of the parlour.

Elizabeth’s eyes followed her until the door closed, her breath caught between relief and dread, her hands trembling in her lap.

As the sound of Nancy’s steps faded into the passage, Elizabeth pressed her palms together and lifted her gaze to the fire, half-hoping, half-doubting that her words might be received with gentleness.

Would Mr. Darcy discern the sincerity hidden within those restrained lines?

Or would he take them as cold civility, a mere courtesy born of obligation?

A pang of fear seized her—what if he thought her indifferent, or worse, disdainful still?

She longed for him to perceive in her note the quiet wish for reconciliation, the tacit confession that her judgments had been hasty, and that her heart, though guarded, was not insensible to his regard.

Charlotte, seated beside her with watchful calm, leaned close and said softly, “Do not distress yourself, Lizzy. Whatever words you chose, Mr. Darcy will perceive the spirit in which they were written. A man of his character cannot mistake an honest intention, once it is placed before him.”

Elizabeth turned her face slightly, meeting her friend’s steady gaze with a wavering smile, but her uneasiness was not wholly quieted.

If only he might forgive my rashness , she thought, and believe me capable of better sense .

That he condescended to write again, after so decisive a refusal, is proof of his forbearance.

Surely he deserves from me every effort at candour and humility.

And yet—have I not already sunk too low in his opinion to be redeemed?

When at last she rose and went to the window, she spied the boy crossing the lane with nimble steps, her letter clutched carefully at his side.

Her heart beat painfully fast, as though each stride carried away a piece of her fate.

Would Mr. Darcy open her lines tonight, before sleep claimed him, and before his journey began?

Would he discern them as she intended—a token of regret, a plea for patience, a faint but genuine wish for future understanding?

Or would the moment pass, her words lost to indifference, the chance gone forever?

In that instant, Elizabeth felt all her hopes bound up in a single slip of paper, and with it, the fragile possibility of restoring herself in the eyes of the man she had so unjustly misjudged.