Page 4 of The Power of Refusal

“H ad you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.” Darcy would swear he heard those words each morning as soon as he opened his eyes. They echoed in his mind and haunted him, a damning reminder of his failings.

The admonition that he “behave as a gentleman” had been a constant refrain in his upbringing. He must be a gentleman of honour. He must comprehend that his worth stemmed not from his wealth, his connections, or his birth, but from himself. Since his parents’ deaths, it had been years since anyone had had the temerity to chastise him for ungentlemanly conduct. Not until an entrancing twenty-year-old beauty crushed him entirely with that phrase.

She was correct.

He had erred. Egregiously.

The truth of her words stung like a slap. The realisation settled like lead in his gut. Reviewing his actions with a new perspective brought excruciating pain. He recalled his unpardonable behaviour with abhorrence. The clarity was blinding and made his stomach churn.

“ Every savage can dance .” The memory of that remark was repellent. Sir William Lucas, a jovial, kindly gentleman without a shade of savagery in his character, never deserved such cutting words. He had mocked a decent, albeit self-important, fellow for the terrible sin of being the foremost gentleman in a provincial town. How had he thought it amusing, nay, necessary to exercise his tongue by insulting a gentleman who merely wished to bring his community together happily? Did not a true gentleman treat his lessers as kindly as his betters? It was sheer arrogance that motivated his superior attitude on that occasion. Arrogance likely also caused the cascade of ill feelings he engendered in Elizabeth and most of the town. His cursed pomposity, disdain, and pride inexorably led to her humbling rejection.

Worse, he was forced to recall his tacit endorsement of Caroline Bingley’s degrading comments about the Bennet family. She spoke ill of them at every opportunity. Perhaps she sensed Miss Elizabeth posed a threat to her ambitions to be mistress of his estate. When he declared his admiration for Miss Elizabeth’s fine eyes, it had only intensified Miss Bingley’s ire at Miss Elizabeth’s very existence. He should have put a stop to it then and there. Instead, he had remained silent, a passive observer. No, that was but an excuse. In fact, his silence encouraged her venom.

Worst of all was his unfathomably rude remark about Miss Elizabeth. “ She a beauty! I should as soon call her mother a wit .” His stomach churned recalling it. He had been well and truly caught by Elizabeth that first evening at the assembly. His words to Bingley were motivated by the urge to deny his attraction. In truth, he had long considered her as one of the handsomest women of his acquaintance. Yet he never, not once, gave any indication to Elizabeth that he found her so. How had he arrogantly assumed she would leap at the opportunity to marry a man who had done nothing but treat her with disdain? Folly. Utter folly.

For some weeks after the evening when he had spoken a singularly ill-conceived proposal, Darcy’s pride drove him to question her sense. He was in demand by the matchmaking matrons of the ton! Any of their daughters would leap at the chance to be his wife. Soon, however, that became another indictment. What sort of young lady would agree to wed a man who had never shown her any genuine affection? A few guarded conversations, one set of dances, and silent walks by her side when she likely wished for solitude gave no hint of his ardent admiration. What kind of fool thought a lady of Miss Elizabeth’s character would bind herself to him for his wealth alone? The answer was clear: He was that fool.

When Elizabeth’s sweet and arch manners drew him in, he told himself that her inferior connections prevented any danger of his becoming entangled. He could only laugh at that pompous fool. Darcy had not merely given thought to the degradation such an alliance would cause but articulated it in the course of what was meant to be a marriage proposal. Bile burnt in his throat at the recollection of his unutterable stupidity. He knew not where or when his former gentlemanly demeanour was replaced with a pretentious, self-satisfied condescension reminiscent of Lady Catherine.

As for Elizabeth’s words about her sister, had he indeed ruined the happiness of her beloved sister? In his damned letter, he asserted that the eldest Miss Bennet’s heart was not easily touched. How could he be certain of Miss Bennet’s feelings for Mr Bingley when, before his insulting “proposal” unleashed her restraint, he knew nothing of Miss Elizabeth’s feelings? He owed Bingley the information, despite his reservations. What an ass he had been.

Thus, he brought upon himself the second most unpleasant interview of that month.

He gathered his resolve, clenched his jaw, squared his shoulders. How bad could it be?

Bingley was a fair-minded man. He had always deferred to Darcy’s superior worldliness and understanding of life. His friend would agree he acted only on the best of intentions.

With a fair knowledge of Bingley’s habits, encountering him at his club in the early afternoon was a safe venture. The room was warm and inviting, the scent of tobacco and leather hanging in the air. Bingley was, as ever, welcoming and amiable as he greeted Darcy with a firm handshake. Bingley's usual happy disposition had not fully returned to him. This Bingley was uncharacteristically glum. His eyes lacked their usual sparkle, and his shoulders slumped.

“Are you well, Bingley?” Darcy asked, attempting to remedy that accusation of “selfish disdain for the feelings of others” that now haunted him. The words tasted false on his tongue. Had concern for his friend not been a familiar inquiry?

“Well enough,” Bingley said with a hint of a shrug. “I cannot say I have regained the sunny outlook I held before November the twenty-seventh,” he added flatly.

Darcy could not miss the significance of the date. He had agreed with Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst to depart Netherfield then. They closed the house and did all in their power to separate Bingley from Miss Bennet. Darcy considered how best to raise the subject in response to this.

His palms were dampening. He shook himself. This was Bingley. He would see the logic in Darcy’s actions.

“Whilst I visited my aunt in Kent, her parson’s cousin was visiting her friend, Charlotte Lucas as was,” he started. Bingley lifted an eyebrow in question. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” Darcy clarified.

“Oh, yes, of course. Surprising a pleasant lady like Miss Lucas would join herself with that odd fellow,” Bingley mused, his tone distant, distracted.

“Indeed. I suppose she was looking towards a future of spinsterhood before that. Mr Collins will inherit Longbourn.” Anyone could see the practicality of such a match, though tolerating Mr Collins was more than he could imagine. But it was a prudent match for Miss Lucas, one such as he might once have approved. That thought made his innards lurch.

“And Miss Elizabeth, she is well? And all her family? Are they still at Longbourn?” Bingley leant forward in his seat; his hands clasped together.

“She is, and as far as I know, her family is as well. We had a… discussion, however. I know how you dislike an argument and wanted to silence ours, but we deferred this one until you were out of the county,” Darcy jested half-heartedly. The memory of Bingley’s discomfort when he and Elizabeth had crossed verbal swords at Netherfield made him wince.

“I thank you for that.” Bingley said dryly.

“I believe there may have been some mistake, Bingley. Miss Elizabeth was insistent that her sister, Miss Jane Bennet, held affection for you. She took me to task for ‘ruining her happiness’ or some such. Whilst I cannot say it makes the connection any more desirable,” Darcy began, but halted as he heard himself disparage the family of the woman he loved.

Bingley’s face reddened as Darcy spoke. His hand clenched his glass, his knuckles turning white. His lips grew pale as he stared intently at Darcy. Emotion lit his eyes.

“Do you say Miss Elizabeth told you her sister was not indifferent to me? She did not accept my attentions in obedience to her mother’s demands?” Bingley’s voice was tight, controlled.

“Well, we did not go into detail. I cannot say what Miss Bennet’s feelings may or may not be.” Darcy did not care for the way this conversation was going.

“Did Miss Elizabeth say her sister cared for me?” Bingley’s words were clipped.

"Not in so many words. She spoke of disappointed hopes, and misery of the acutest kind. She did not speak of love, per se. More of her sister’s unhappiness.” Darcy was halting, uncertain.

“Miss Bennet was unhappy? Did Miss Elizabeth say why?” Bingley was now impatient, his voice harsh.

“Well, she implied it was because you left Netherfield. Some were saying she was jilted.

Miss Elizabeth said her sister was upset, but I cannot say it was because of you so much as because her expectations were disappointed,” Darcy hedged. True, Elizabeth had not said outright, “My sister loves Bingley.” No lady would be so forthright. His cheeks burnt with shame.

“You and my blasted sisters told me when you arrived in London that Miss Bennet cared nothing for me. You were utterly certain her heart was untouched. And now you prevaricate. A lady’s heart is broken, but you cannot say it was because she cared for me? Do you think me balmy? I saw the lady’s affection, but you claimed it was mere avarice.” Bingley’s voice rose with each word.

“Now, Bingley, we were endeavouring to protect you. There was nothing overt. Miss Bennet was never open about her feelings. It might have been her desire for an advantageous marriage,” Darcy babbled. The more he thought on it, the clearer it became he had been an absolute boor to insert himself into Bingley’s affair of the heart.

Bingley glared at Darcy. The longer he was silent, looking as if he would happily draw Darcy’s cork, the more Darcy reconsidered his words, and his actions. The tension in the room was thick. Red-faced, eyes flashing, Bingley stood, looming over Darcy. Darcy braced himself for the onslaught, his hands clenched at his sides.

Bingley erupted, his voice loud and angry. “You. You claim the godlike ability to determine the feelings of a lady you have not spoken twelve words to in your entire history?” The intensity of his anger made Darcy flinch. “You believe you have a better gauge of the lady’s heart than does her own sister? Or the man who cares for her?” Bingley’s words were sharp, each one a dagger aimed at Darcy’s heart.

“Your sisters, are concerned that such a match would bring with it heavy financial obligations and no significant improvement in your status,” Darcy said. His voice was steady, but his hands shook slightly. He clasped them below the table.

“Damn my status. Who are you to decide where my happiness lies?” Bingley’s voice rose to a shout, the sound of it echoing in the room. “You have overstepped, Mr Darcy. You have taken it upon yourself to operate me with puppet strings. You did so without regard to the lives you harmed.”

“I did not mean…” Darcy began. His voice faltered. His throat was tight, the words stuck in his throat.

“You, who insist that disguise is your abhorrence,” Bingley scoffed. “You lied . You were adamant Miss Bennet cared not a whit for me and was merely accepting my attention to please her mother. You did not know that did you? You—in league with my sisters—told me a Banbury tale to suit yourselves, with utter disregard for my feelings and those of an innocent lady.” Bingley’s words were a torrent. The truth of them made Darcy’s stomach churn. He, Fitzwilliam Darcy, was a fraud. A manipulator.

Darcy swallowed hard. In truth, he had been the principal, though not the only means of dividing them. Bingley’s standing with the people of Meryton must now be somewhat tarnished. His actions appeared capricious and unreliable. Darcy could not deny Bingley himself had every marker of one suffering misery of the acutest kind. What Darcy had done was wrong. Very, very wrong.

Before Darcy could form words of apology, Bingley stopped him. He raised his hand in a gesture demanding silence.

“There is nothing you can say which will remedy this. You are no friend to me. Even hearing from her own sister that Miss Bennet has affection for me does not stop you from exercising your superior judgement about her and my life. If you wish to ruin lives for sport, you may do so to someone else. I am exceedingly angry.” Bingley’s voice was cold, the finality of his words like a door slamming shut.

This never-before-seen enraged Charles Bingley silenced Darcy. He thought about his words. He had again taken an attitude of superiority. Who was he to lecture Bingley as if he were a child?

"At least you might tell me whether Miss Bennet is at Longbourn,” Bingley demanded.

“I understand she is in London, staying with her relatives in Cheapside for the nonce,” Darcy said.

“You learnt this from Miss Elizabeth? Did she provide you with their direction?”

“In part from Miss Bennet, however, I heard from Miss Bingley some weeks ago that Miss Jane Bennet called on her. Surely, she has the direction,” Darcy said. He forced his voice to remain even, despite his tense throat.

Bingley turned abruptly, nearly toppling the table. The glasses rattled on the surface. His face was red, his eyes blazing with fury.

“Some weeks ago. Weeks! I did not think it could be worse, yet it is. I will go to my sister and extract the information from her. You have been conspiring with her to run my life for me, withholding this knowledge, determining who I may and may not care for. I will not have it. Our friendship—or whatever it was—is over. I take no leave of you, Mr Darcy.”

With that, Bingley stormed out of the club, his footsteps ringing on the polished floor.

Darcy heard nothing further from him from that day forward.