Page 12 of Moments of Truth
Despite his wishes, he could not delay his departure to London any longer, for he was to travel with Colonel Fitzwilliam. Now, however, he found himself in agony. Her memory consumed him, lingering for days. He could see her face in every corner and feel her presence in the very air. His love and longing for her had become a part of him, so much so that he wouldsometimes imagine the scent of her near him. Each morning he awoke with the hope of encountering her in the park, wandering in hopes of an accidental meeting. And when at last he did see her walking towards him up the lane, his heart had leapt with joy.
“What are you doing here?” Colonel Fitzwilliam’s voice startled Mr. Darcy, who put his cup of tea down and turned wearily to his cousin.
“I just want to be alone,” Darcy said.
“Why? What has happened?” Fitzwilliam asked, placing his arm on Darcy’s shoulder.
“I beg you—let me be.” Darcy wanted nothing else but solitude. So much had happened in so short a time that he could not yet bring order to it.
“I have always heeded your wishes, Darcy,” his cousin said, “yet in this I cannot. It is better to endure hardship with a friend than to tastepleasurealone.”
Darcy’s lips curved despite himself. It was a clumsy jest, but kindly meant, and he appreciated the effort.
“Where did you hear that?” he asked.
“It matters little. Tell me—did something happen to Miss Bennet?”
Is it written on my face?Darcy wondered. His cousin seemed to take his silence for assent.
“You left the parlour almost the instant the Collinses mentioned her indisposition. You grew restless, then lost your appetite, and before long you had quitted the house. It is nomystery where you went. I presume it was to Hunsford to see Miss Bennet. Am I right?”
Darcy allowed a half smile. “You would not be wrong to assume so.”
“Then pray, what has put you into this foul humour?”
Darcy considered evasion, but he could not bring himself to deceive his cousin. There was a long hesitation; plainly he would rather bury the memory than speak it aloud.
“I know something is amiss,” Fitzwilliam pressed. “Why deny it, Darcy?”
“Must I speak?” Darcy said at last. “Listen—I have never lied to you, nor would I begin now. But I confess I am not in the mood to recount my ordeal, unless you have suddenly acquired the ability to understand the mind of a woman. Good night.”
He turned to go.
“How am I to know, unless you tell me??” Fitzwilliam followed.
“I beg of you, Cousin, I desire to be left alone. If you do not pester me on this issue, I promise you—no, I swear to you—that I shall not take offence. I will remember only that I begged you to let me be. I will not take it for a want of love.”
Darcy’s voice carried such exasperation that Fitzwilliam halted. He saw it was no mere petulance; Darcy truly needed solitude.
“I must apologise then,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said slowly. Never had he seen his cousin in such a state. “Yet I cannot let you wallow. Unburden yourself. I promise it will do you good.”
He caught up to Darcy, laying his hand again on his shoulder. The gesture, though simple, left Darcy at once irritated and strangely comforted.
“Tell me, what troubles you so that it keeps you wakeful at this hour?” Fitzwilliam said, guiding him back into his chamber.
Darcy sank onto the bench. At length he began to recount the day’s events, though haltingly at first. All the while he studied his cousin’s countenance, fearful of mockery. But none came. Instead of ridicule, he saw only grave attention.
“I fear you will mock me eventually,” Darcy said, “but this matter clings to me and will not release me. The shame of Miss Bennet’s words still haunts me. Had it been mere refusal, I could rally my courage and bear it. Any man can bear to be denied. But what I long to know is why she should think so ill of me. Where has she received such notions? Tell me, Cousin—am I truly so repulsive in behaviour and character?”
His eyes, fixed upon the distance, turned at last toward Fitzwilliam with a wry, searching look.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, however, sat in stunned silence, scarcely able to reconcile what he had just heard. His initial surprise arose from the simple fact that never—in his wildest imagination—would he have supposed that the matter tormenting his cousin could be love.Had love always been such a cruel and torturous ordeal?the Colonel mused half-bitterly to himself.
“What are your thoughts, Cousin? Pray, do tell me, and put me out of this torture.” Mr. Darcy’s eyes turned to him, earnest, searching—as if the answer might be wrested from another man’s breast.
In truth, Colonel Fitzwilliam was beginning to regret his persistence. How was he—a man who had never truly fallen inlove—to presume to instruct his stoic cousin in its mysteries? Darcy’s own words returned to haunt him:“I beg of you, Cousin, I desire to be left alone. If you do not pester me on this issue, I promise you—no, I swear to you—that I shall not take offence…”
“Truly, there is no remedy for regret,” the colonel murmured—half jest, half lament.
