Page 16 of Moments of Truth
“As a woman, you know, I could be able to help.” Miss de Bourgh had quietly muttered those words to herself, but Mr. Darcy had heard her. He immediately turned to her and looked at her in surprise, but it only lasted a few seconds before his brows furrowed.
Her offer, whispered in earnest, stung him—both for its futility and for the pity it implied. He had not come here to be counselled, least of all by one who could never fathom the depth of his present misery.
“Cousin Fitzwilliam would not die if he learned to keep matters to himself.” Mr. Darcy’s tone was sharper than he intended, the edge of his unrest cutting even those nearest to him.
“He has no choice. If he tries to hide something, I shall force it out of him,” Miss de Bourgh replied quickly. “I knew something was wrong the moment you did not come down for dinner—it is not at all like you.” She spoke in haste, fearful that Darcy might believe Colonel Fitzwilliam had betrayed his confidence.
“I know…” Mr. Darcy shook his head helplessly. When at last he turned to his cousin, he found her gazing at him with an expression of mingled surprise and curiosity.
“Why do you look at me so?” Mr. Darcy asked.
“I have not seen you in such a state before,” Miss de Bourgh explained softly. “You most certainly care for her deeply, if it has rendered you into such disorder.” A fleeting smile touched her lips, but it vanished almost at once. Darcy saw the change and felt a pang of guilt.
They had once been close, but his aunt’s schemes to bind them together had driven him to distance himself. He had meant no unkindness, but avoidance had slowly turned them into strangers.
“Did you avoid seeking my counsel because of my mother?” Her question startled him; his body stiffened at once. A wave of guilt swept through him, for he understood her meaning only too well.
“To hurt the women I care for seems to be my curse…” Darcy murmured, his eyes lifting to the night sky.
Silence followed, until at last he spoke again.
“What do you think of Miss Bennet? Was I wrong?”
The impropriety of the question struck him at once. How strange, to confide in Anne about another woman, when she herself was the object of his aunt’s designs.
Yet she met his gaze without flinching.
“I can see you struggle to speak with me,” she said gently. “But remember—my mother’s wishes are hers alone, not mine. You never asked what I thought, nor gave me leave to speak. That was your error.” Her voice trembled, her eyes glistening.
Her words pierced him. He realised how thoughtless his silence had been, and the sting of conscience followed fast.
“I must apologise.” Darcy turned to her with sincerity.
Seeing her usually stoic cousin thus humbled, Miss de Bourgh smiled faintly.
“Pray, what in my apology provokes your laughter?”
“It is not your apology; it is my curiosity—what exactly has Miss Bennet done to make you so docile?” she teased.
“That is the very question I ask myself, with no answer.” Darcy sighed.
“I suspect you have never felt anything like this for any woman?”
“Never,” he said firmly.
“Then it explains why you feel it so powerfully.”
On impulse he asked, “Have you ever felt so?” but regretted it at once.
She caught his awkwardness and laughed, though the laugh dissolved into a cough.
“Are you unwell?” Darcy asked, instantly concerned. “It is not good for your health to be abroad at this hour.”
But she raised a hand in protest. “There is no need to worry—I am quite well.”
“Quite well? If my aunt discovers you out here, she will have both our heads.”
“I like being outside. I rarely am permitted it at all.” She lifted her gaze toward the heavens.
