Page 18 of Moments of Truth
Taking a deep breath, Mr. Darcy turned away from the manor and looked at the night sky. His mind began to narrate his first encounter with Miss Bennet. As he thought about the day of the ball, he remembered his first opinion of her. He remembered how her beauty had not immediately swayed him; instead, he had developed a slight interest in her. She had not come across as the typical woman. She did not throw herself at him but carried herself with respect and elegance that did not seem forced or learned but was her person.
These details had intrigued him despite his outer appearance of indifference. Although he did not walk up to Miss Bennet during the ball or pay her any noticeable attention that she would have noticed, he watched and studied her throughout the ball.
The next time he saw her was when she came over to the manor Mr. Bingley and his sister had moved into to check on her sister. Her mannerisms and brilliance had not failed to snare his attention. He found that, unlike other women, he rather enjoyed her company. Her replies bore the freshness of unstudied wit, at once playful and keen, such as he had never before encountered in society. Her responses were fast, unhurried, and quirky. It was both humorous and mentally stimulating for him.
He remembered he found her presence both refreshing and different from what he was used to. Being around a woman who was not scheming ways to appear more attractive was nice. He could remember when he thought, for the first time, how nice it was not to have his guard up against the seduction of a woman. Miss Bennet had been completely different from what he was used to. Remembering his cousin’s words, Mr. Darcy began thinking about how his words and mannerisms could have easily been misconstrued as arrogance and pride. For each speech and behaviour Darcy could think of, he mentally noted why he had done and said what he did.
Mr. Darcy remained outside alone. He reflected on the first time he met Miss Bennet and how their last meeting had ended. Memories of accusations against him flooded his mind as Darcy slowly turned, and his head almost slipped from the palm of his left hand.
The dream ebbed away slowly, like a tide withdrawing from the shore. The garden path where he had walked, Anne’s palecountenance bathed in moonlight, her quiet words that pierced his defences—all wavered and dissolved until nothing remained but a hush more desolate than before. His head had sunk heavily into his hand, the weight of his grief pulling him downward, and there he had slumbered without knowing it. For a time he lingered between the two worlds, half-dreaming still, reluctant to leave that imagined comfort, unwilling to admit it had been no more than the play of an overwrought mind. When at last his senses cleared, he lifted his head and found himself alone, the candle guttering low, the sheets of paper before him still unsullied by ink. The silence of the room pressed upon him, yet not all was lost: though it had been but a dream, its counsel rang true. It reminded him, with a force no waking friend could equal, that Elizabeth’s accusations must be met soberly, one by one, with candour and humility—and that no defence but honesty would ever prevail.
SEVEN
Mr. Darcy grabbed the sheet of paper containing all the accusations laid against him by Miss Bennet. He read through it meticulously before grabbing the quill pen. For a moment, Mr. Darcy thought he had his cousin Fitzwilliam to thank.
There were several things to address in his letter to Miss Bennet; however, the two pertinent ones had to be the issue of Mr. Wickham, which had so easily painted him as a villain without adequate proof, save for the account of the man masquerading as the victim, and his reasoning for suggesting Mr. Bingley stop his arrangement towards the eldest of the Bennet sisters.
On the topic of Mr. Wickham, Mr. Darcy found himself unable to quell his anger. It was anger directed at both Mr. Wickham for being so vile as to paint him, an innocent man, as despicable and evil and the other being Miss Bennet herself for being gullible enough to believe his accusations without investigating their authenticity.
He could see how treacherous Mr. Wickham was despite the help he and his father had given him. Mr. Darcy was furious to discover that such a man was slandering him. If Miss Bennet could feel so strongly about him due to a few lies he had told her within minutes of meeting her, he wondered what others who might have been so unfortunate to come across Mr. Wickham would think about him.
Initially, Mr. Darcy found it hard to tame his thoughts, but as soon as he began to explain himself, the words and expressions came quickly.
Miss Bennet,
I hope this letter meets you well. I write to you not to pester you on the issue that was last night’s confession of love to you. Your reaction, which, for lack of better words, could be said to be nothing less than disgust, still haunts me. However, I do not want to dwell on such a matter. Forgive me, but such an episode cannot be easily forgotten. Would you not agree?
My writing to you, however, is not with the intention of sowing, no matter how small, a seed of love, however, I must confess that if such should happen as a byproduct of what I write in this letter to you, then it would most certainly gladden me.
I would not write such a letter after the embarrassment I felt last night; however, on recounting the ordeal, I discovered that two significant accusations were laid against me as you so brutally rejected my confession of love.
As Mr. Darcy’s quill moved nonstop, emotions he had long since buried began to unearth themselves. He was furious. He had tried his best not to dwell on such memories and the emotions they elicited, despite the lies Mr. Wickham had spread about him.
This time, however, was different. He could not overlook Mr. Wickham’s lies especially when it had everything to do with Miss Bennet. A lie so baseless and farfrom the truth had caused theone woman he had ever loved to view him with so much venom. He could not overlook that.
With such righteous indignation, I write to you to defend myself and inform you of a truth, hoping that the lies and deception that so easily clouded your judgment may be removed. Without adequate information, I cannot have you believe the stain on my character is the truth of who I am and what I have done.
Two accusations were made against me yesterday by you, and I feel it is unfair not to explain myself and clear the injustice that has been laid against me.
Mr. Darcy paused, pondering how to write in a way that conveyed just enough about himself without appearing arrogant or lecturing. He avoided any unclear wording that would make him seem defensive at all costs. His thoughts flowed naturally onto the paper, his handwriting neat and graceful yet unpretentious.
In the silence of his room, punctuated only by the gentle scratching of quill on paper, Darcy penned thoughtfully and efficiently a few pages more and added a neutral closure that he wished could have been different:
I shall endure the consequences of your decision. God bless you.
Fitzwilliam Darcy
After finishing his letter, Mr. Darcy sat back in his chair and looked over it once more. He needed to be certain that he had expressed himself with clarity and justice. After meticulously reviewing his words three times, he folded the letter at last, satisfied—if not entirely at peace—with its contents.
At that very moment, a wave of weariness overcame him. Mr. Darcy was not only tired—he felt spent in mind and body, as though the act of writing had drained what strength remained. Just as he was about to surrender to sleep, a sharp knock sounded at his door.
“Hmm?” Darcy started upright, both startled and slightly vexed at the intrusion.
Before he could respond, the door opened, and to his dismay it was his cousin.
“Have you been able to vent all your feelings, Cousin?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked with a knowing smile. His eyes fell at once upon the folded sheets upon the table, and he immediately surmised what Darcy had done.
Darcy said nothing. He merely fixed his cousin with a look of cold impatience.
