Page 3 of The Power of Refusal

A fter Mr Darcy departed, Elizabeth became more aware of Charlotte’s constant effort toward ensuring the good opinion of Lady Catherine, her husband’s tranquillity in his position hung upon their keeping the mistress of Rosings happy. The atmosphere shifted. Invitations to tea ceased after Elizabeth had claimed illness and failed to attend dinner that fateful evening.

Mr Collins regarded Elizabeth with a haughty, angry expression from that day forward.

“Some people are above their company, are they not?” he opined when Elizabeth, distraught and exhausted, returned from the grove after her last encounter with Mr Darcy. Her emotions were in a tangle, her patience at an end. She knew not why her cousin had reverted to nastiness directed at her, and she cared not. She excused herself and returned to her guest chamber. Later that afternoon, Charlotte appeared with a tea tray. Then proceeded with the oddest exchange she had ever had with her.

“I suppose you are still feeling poorly, although you walked out for over two hours?” Charlotte said, placing a tray with tea and toast before her.

“I have a megrim still. I had hoped taking the air would be of benefit, but I am still quite unwell.” Her words were truthful, although they omitted a vast amount.

Charlotte sniffed. Sniffed! “Lady Catherine was quite seriously displeased when you did not attend dinner last night.”

“I am terribly sorry. I would have been very poor company had I attended,” Elizabeth said.

Charlotte looked at her with raised brows. “Tilly mentioned you had company last night,” she said with a pointed look.

Elizabeth had worried the servant who opened the door for Mr Darcy might report on her visitor. “Yes, Mr Darcy stopped by to determine whether I was well,” she prevaricated.

“Did you argue about the state ofyour health?” Charlotte said. Elizabeth’s stomach lurched. How much had the silly girl heard?

“We disagreed, which we have often done,” she said.

Charlotte glared at Elizabeth. “I know not what you are hiding, Eliza, but you are doing so at my peril. I have noted Mr Darcy’s obvious interest in you, as has Lady Catherine. You well know she intends him to marry Miss de Bourgh. Encouraging his attention to you, whatever its nature, has upset her. I shall not lose the peace of my home over your flirtation.”

Encouraging? How could Charlotte think such a thing? Elizabeth began to speak, to deny.

To say what? That she had argued with the man after he proposed marriage? Surely that would displease Lady Catherine even more.

“I shall not see Mr Darcy again. I am sorry to have upset Lady Catherine and you,” Elizabeth said. Both statements were true but left out an entire novel’s worth of information.

Elizabeth departed Hunsford three awkward days later. Lady Catherine’s earlier admonition she ought to extend her visit had vanished. Elizabeth said farewell to Charlotte, whose warm friendship had cooled forever.

∞∞∞

Months later, Elizabeth had long since ceased rereading the letter Darcy had handed her. The paper had thinned, the texture worn and delicate, the ink worn off in places. The very words faded and blurred, especially in the spots where her tears had soaked into the sheet. She could recall passages by heart. The significance of his meaning etched into her very soul.

Most painful were the accurate depictions of her family. “That total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father.” From that day forward, Elizabeth saw her family with fresh eyes. Her mother’s obvious machinations in pushing Jane towards Mr Bingley were crass and an embarrassment. She no longer saw her father’s “jests” directed towards his wife as anything but abject cruelty. As for her siblings, well, that was a longer tale, the details too painful to dwell on.

Darcy’s letter confessed, “I must have been in an error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter probable. If it be so, if I have been misled by such error to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable.” The words were a balm to her wounded pride. His admission of his error was a testament to his character.

Reasonable resentment. That was the last vestige of dignity Elizabeth had to cling to.