Page 13 of Moments of Truth
“What did you say?” Darcy asked, his brow furrowing; he had not caught the words.
Colonel Fitzwilliam looked guilty. Listening to Darcy, he realized he was the sole cause of what had happened. If he had kept quiet and not said anything to Miss Bennet, the matter might have taken a different route. Unfortunately, it was too late to regret anything.
“It pains me,” Fitzwilliam said at last, “to know that I am responsible for what so beseeches you this late at night. For hours you have brooded over a matter that I, with my careless tongue, have worsened.” He could not bring himself to meet his cousin’s eyes.
“Pray, do tell me what you mean?” Mr. Darcy was confused by his cousin’s words.
With visible unease, Colonel Fitzwilliam began to recount his park conversation with Miss Bennet. “The young lady already possessed a decidedly negative disposition toward you. I could tell her opinion was fixed—and unjust. My intentions were pure, even noble. But alas, words once spoken cannot be taken back.” His face betrayed guilt and deep regret.
Mr. Darcy remained silent as he stared at his cousin. It was not clear what his thoughts were.
The silence grew intolerable for the colonel. He turned, hoping to read something—anger, reproach, even forgiveness—in Darcy’s features, but found nothing. He had no choice but to wait.
At last Darcy spoke. “In your bid to defend me, you revealed—unwittingly—the matter concerning Miss Bennet’s sister. That confession explains much of her bitterness, though not all. Her words tonight went far beyond what you mentioned. Though spoken in my defence, your unguarded candour has done nothing but confirm her worst prejudices. Still, I cannot blame you wholly; her dislike was already firmly rooted. She thought me arrogant long before you attempted to shield me.”
Though Darcy’s tone strove for understanding, a trace of annoyance escaped despite him.
When he uttered the word “defence,” his voice tightened, his countenance altering in a way Fitzwilliam could not mistake.
There was nothing the colonel could do but pretend not to notice. Yet inwardly he was almost relieved to discover that he was not the sole cause of Elizabeth Bennet’s disdain. Darcy himself had furnished abundant fuel for her dislike. That thought, though hardly comforting, was easier to bear than the full weight of guilt.
Darcy, however, had marked the fleeting sigh of relief on his cousin’s face. Brief though it was, it stung. For it told him plainly that his cousin knew he had worsened matters, though not created them.
“Tell me, Cousin,” Darcy pressed, “what are your thoughts on the matter? You demanded to know, and now I demand it of you. What do I do?”
The question startled Colonel Fitzwilliam. Was Darcy sincere, or was he only mocking the futility of advice in so hopeless a case? He could not tell.
Sitting across from him, Fitzwilliam studied his cousin. Never before had he known Darcy to request counsel so plainly, nor to reveal himself so nakedly. The longer he looked, the more evident it became that Darcy was in earnest.
“Tell me, Darcy—how sure are you of your feelings for Miss Bennet?” he asked slowly. He had no notion where else to begin.
Fitzwilliam knew his cousin’s nature: unyielding, difficult to move by persuasion alone. The surest way to guide him was not to command but to ask, to let Darcy reach the conclusion himself. Fitzwilliam was a man of action; Darcy, a man of thought—and in matters of the heart, that meant thought could easily become torment.
The question, simple though it sounded, hung heavily in the air. Darcy remained silent for some moments, his lips pressed tight as though he feared to speak lest he reveal more than he intended.
Another wry smile appeared at the corner of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s lips. His cousin was clearly at war with his own mind, turning circles of thought until the simplest truths seemed impenetrable.
“Tell me how you feel when you think of Miss Elizabeth.” The colonel’s voice was low, almost coaxing.
“I have never been thus about any woman before. There have been temptations—passing fancies and designs of others disguised as love—but never has anything taken hold of me as this has.” Mr. Darcy’s shoulders sank with defeat. It was, to thecolonel, almost a comical sight. He could not recall a moment when his cousin had looked so utterly disarmed.
“How exactly do you feel?” Colonel Fitzwilliam pressed.
“She fills every corner of my thoughts. She haunts both my mind and my vision—”
“Vision?” the colonel interjected, his tone half-curious, half-teasing. “Pray, do tell me how she haunts you so.”
Darcy sighed, as though dragging the words from the depths of himself.
“I see her everywhere. Even worse, Cousin, at times I fancy I can smell her scent in the air. I have become so enraptured that she is everywhere and in everything. For lack of better words, tell me—how else am I to describe this force that has seized me, making me a prisoner of my own thoughts? Tell me, what exactly is wrong with me?” Mr. Darcy rose suddenly and began pacing the room.
Watching him, Colonel Fitzwilliam smiled—a mixture of pity and fond ridicule. His cousin was complicating what was plain. He was too proud, too cautious, even now, to name love as love.
“Why do you tangle the simplest of matters? You have already laid bare your heart to Miss Bennet. Her refusal springs not from ignorance of your feelings, but from prejudice against your character. Is it not clear what the next step must be?”
Darcy halted, incredulous. “And what would that be? Put me out of my misery and tell me what I must do. I swear the rejection itself does not weigh so heavily as it might appear. What torments me is that Miss Bennet thinks me to be a man I am not. If she refuses me because her heart cannot return myaffection, then so be it. But if she refuses me on a false opinion of my character—that I cannot bear.”
“Then the course is plain,” the colonel replied steadily. “You must correct her mistaken impressions. If her judgment rests on falsehoods or half-truths, then you must answer them point by point.”
