Page 2 of The Power of Refusal
W hen she travelled to Kent in the year twelve, Elizabeth had, at first, expected a rather boring month visiting her dear friend, Charlotte Lucas, now Mrs Collins, at Hunsford. At the much-vaunted parsonage, Elizabeth was compelled to praise the small rooms, and to ignore the overpowering scent of Mr Collins’s pomade and poor hygiene. Poor Charlotte.
Elizabeth knew not how Charlotte tolerated Mr Collins as her mate. The ticking of the clock on the mantle marked the monotony of life as Mrs Collins. That they later produced one child was a testament to Charlotte’s dedication to securing her position. From Charlotte’s strained voice and dull eyes, no inclination on her part caused her to bed that man. Charlotte yet claimed she did not regret her choice. Elizabeth was certain she would rather die a spinster than share her life and, Lord save poor Charlotte, her bed with such a specimen.
Mr Collins instructed Charlotte in every particular, based on the directions from his revered patroness. Nothing escaped Lady Catherine’s supervision. She examined all and advised the Collinses to do it differently. When the grand lady found fault with the arrangement of the furniture, Mr Collins reprimanded Charlotte for her failure to foresee the proper arrangements. When her Ladyship decreed that Mrs Collins’s joints of meat were too large for her family, the entire meal was given over to Mr Collins taking poor Charlotte to task for overspending.
Charlotte, who made her pence stretch until worn thin was now told to take smaller portions that her master might feast. Elizabeth calculated what amount of laudanum might find its way into that man’s tea that Charlotte might have a moment’s peace.
At the long, tedious Sunday services, the air thick with the smell of wet wool and the pews hard beneath her, Elizabeth allowed the droning of Mr Collins’s voice to lull her into a stupor and amused herself by counting the days and then the hours until she could depart for London. But when Charlotte froze next to her, Elizabeth shook herself out of her reverie and
realised that Mr Collins’s words were a direct address to her friend:
“The husband indeed is and, by order of birth, God’s design, and scriptural language, should be superior to the obedient woman. A good wife ought to call her husband ‘Lord’ as Sarah did for Abraham. It is the biblical truth that God designed woman as ‘the weaker vessel.’ Yet ‘she must not be despised’ for her assigned weakness and is to be valued for her usefulness to the man’s ’comfort. Woman is both impious toward divine authority and foolishly proud if she refuses to obey. Obedience is her chief advantage if she properly manages it. She should be meek and obedient to her husband, as the Ordinance of God demands.”
With great effort, Elizabeth refrained from quitting the church in haste. Poor, poor Charlotte, to be chastised before the entire parish, to be tied irrevocably to such a creature! Not once had Elizabeth entertained the possibility that she erred in refusing Mr Collins. Now, she wondered whether any proposal of marriage ought to be considered. The idea of a future as an obedient weaker vessel, valued only for her usefulness to some man’s comfort, chafed painfully. If Charlotte deigned to call Mr Collins “lord,” Elizabeth would not be accountable for her actions.
Elizabeth’s peaceful visit to Hunsford was unexpectedly swamped with invitations to Rosings, Lady Catherine’s palatial monstrosity. The opulence was almost comical, though it was not the grandeur that truly astonished Elizabeth, but the unexpected arrival of two gentlemen: Lady Catherine’s nephews.
The Honourable Richard Fitzwilliam burst into the parlour like a breath of fresh air. A military man with charm to spare, he could carry on a conversation with a mule and probably extract a laugh. His booming voice filled the room, a welcome respite from Lady Catherine’s incessant inquisitions. Elizabeth would have been quite easy with him had it not been for his companion.
Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Their history was brief but fraught. Unbidden, the memory of their first meeting surfaced. At an assembly in Meryton, Charles Bingley suggesting he dance with Elizabeth, and Mr Darcy uttering a dismissive “Not handsome enough to tempt me.” She’d feigned indifference, but the cold assessment had burrowed deep, festering like a splinter she could not quite remove, tainting every subsequent interaction with the man.
Now, faced with Mr Darcy’s unexpected presence at Rosings, Elizabeth felt that old wound throb anew. She recounted her grievances. His treatment of Wickham, the new member of the regiment stationed in Meryton, who was blessed with the happy manners Mr Darcy lacked. He painted Darcy as the most miserly villain in Derbyshire, and Elizabeth championed his tale. Mr Darcy’s superior mien, his proud, austere bearing, his failure to dance—all were black marks against the man who found her “not handsome enough.”
Then whilst walking with his Colonel Fitzwilliam, she learnt of Darcy’s involvement in Bingley’s abandonment of Elizabeth’s dearest sister, Jane. Nothing could have blackened the man’s name more thoroughly.
That evening, she begged off another stultifying dinner at Rosings, claiming a headache. As she reread Jane’s miserable letters in the flickering candlelight, Mr Darcy appeared at the parsonage with an astounding declaration of ardent love and admiration. Elizabeth reacted viscerally. Her heart pounded in her chest, her hands gripping the back of a nearby chair for support. His words upended her world. He loved her?
But Mr Darcy did not stop with his avowal of love. No, he followed that assertion with a recitation of his sense of her inferiority, of its being a degradation, of the family obstacles that judgement had always opposed to inclination. He paced as he spoke, looming above her, his boots echoing on the wooden floorboards. He dwelt on these sentiments with a warmth that belied his statement of affection and did nothing to recommend his suit.
Elizabeth lost all compassion in anger. “Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr Wickham.” The angry words spilt from her lips. Had a woman ever uttered more foolish words, let alone a woman responding to a declaration of love?
After her brutal rejection, Mr Darcy did not berate her, did not lose his temper. “Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time,” said he as he departed. Left to review the scene, she sat down and cried for half an hour.
As she walked the grounds of Rosings the next morning, try as she might, the memories refused to release their grip on her mind. The way he carried himself with such quiet dignity—all haunted her. A more perceptive woman might wonder why thoughts of him occupied so much of her mind if she despised him.
That morning, he found her in the grove. His hands trembling, his face a mask of stoic indifference, he presented her with a letter. In those carefully penned pages, he had addressed every accusation she had made, rationally and with facts she could not dispute. Painfully, she learnt from Mr Darcy’s letter how very little she had allowed herself to know of the man.
Mr Wickham was a knave and a wastrel. In a cruel, nay, barbarous attempt at revenge, he had attempted to entrap Mr Darcy’s young sister with false words of love, all to secure her dowry. She believed his lies because it comforted her to hate the man who had declared her “not tempting enough.” Did Elizabeth apply her vaunted intellect to the matter? Of course not. In retrospect, the inconsistencies were glaring. These were the sort of mental gymnastics she would disdain in another. Foolish girl.
Mr Darcy’s letter shook Elizabeth’s confidence. His remarks on the behaviour of her younger sisters and parents were not kind, but they were correct. His view of Jane’s reticence, she could not protest. Even Charlotte had commented that Jane ought to encourage Bingley more. Elizabeth gradually realised that all her judgements of Mr Darcy had been wrong. She had been very, very wrong. And she ought to own it.
She slept ill; she wept copiously. The following morning, she escaped the wearisome parsonage by walking out, but the weight of exhaustion bore down upon her. Mr Darcy was to depart Rosings, and she would never see him again.
But there, on the road from Rosings, stood Mr Darcy, dressed for travel. Elizabeth halted in her tracks. She considered avoiding him, but her troubled heart compelled her to approach.
She stood before him, unable to meet his eyes. “Mr Darcy, I beg your forgiveness for believing Mr Wickham’s lies.”
“No, Miss Bennet, you are not to blame,” Mr Darcy replied gently. “Wickham has deceived many people. I should have been more forthcoming about his true character. I allowed my pride to prevent me from defending myself against his slander.”
Still, he blamed himself. He did not lower himself to relish tarnishing a man who was beneath him.
“I appreciate your kindness, Mr Darcy, but I cannot deny my fault in this matter. I have been too quick to judge and too slow to understand.”
“You have always been honest in your opinions, Miss Bennet,” Mr Darcy said with a fleeting smile. “It is a quality I respect in you. Perhaps I have been too reserved, too guarded with my own feelings. I am now certain you did not even know I admired you before I spoke.”
Elizabeth shook her head. A flicker of hope rose at his words, but the memory of her own harsh judgement quickly extinguished it. “In truth, I did not. But that does not excuse my behaviour, Mr Darcy. I am grateful for your generosity, but I fear I am undeserving of it. I cannot forgive myself for the way I have behaved.”
“Miss Bennet, please allow me the greater share of fault,” Mr Darcy said, his voice filled with concern. “I am determined to become a better man, a man worthy of your respect.”
She gave no answer, her breath catching in her throat.
He continued, “I may have been mistaken regarding your sister. I shall rectify that on my return to London.”
Tears welled up in Elizabeth’s eyes. “Thank you, Mr Darcy. I know now you did not intend to hurt Jane. I too shall take a lesson from this. I must take my leave now. I cannot think you would wish to be seen in such company as mine.”
“Miss Bennet, you must not—”
“ I am so sorry, Mr Darcy. Goodbye.”
As he mounted his horse, Mr Darcy added softly, “Farewell, Miss Bennet.”
The sound of hoofbeats faded as Elizabeth watched him ride away, her heart heavy with regret. Tears welled in her eyes, but she dared not hope. No man would forgive her bitter, cruel refusal.
She turned back toward the parsonage, certain that Mr Darcy would soon forget her.
She learnt, to her great misery, the cost of her unguarded tongue. It was not a sudden epiphany, but rather a gradual awakening, like the slow burn of dawn chasing away the shadows of night. He was, in truth, exactly the man who, in disposition and talents, would most suit her. For one brief moment, his heart had been hers, and of that heart, she might have been mistress!
He was a good, honourable man. She had misjudged his reserved manner, seeing pride where there was only caution. His offer, she now realised, had been more than generous. He had been willing to brave society’s censure, to accept her family’s improprieties. She had refused him without truly knowing him.
Memories shifted. His awkwardness in company became a sign of sincerity. Those moments when his guard dropped, he revealed a warmth she had wilfully denied. His reserve was not pride, but a shield for a deeply feeling heart.
Elizabeth was moved by the depth of Mr Darcy’s love for her. The loss she felt was not just who he was, but what they might have been together. Indeed, Elizabeth gradually suspected that she loved Mr Darcy.
She shut the enormity of it all away in a corner of her mind, only to be considered alone, in the dark of night, when her silent sobs would draw no remark. Come morning, she plastered on a smile for the benefit of her family and friends. The knowledge of what she had lost—of the future she had carelessly discarded—was an ever-present reminder of the consequences of allowing prejudice to blind one to the truth.