Page 19 of Moments of Truth
Choosing to ignore it, Fitzwilliam strolled over to the table and stretched out his hand, only for Darcy to snatch the letter away with swift decisiveness.
“What?” the colonel teased.
“Why are you here?” Darcy demanded curtly.
“I came to check on you, Cousin. It is already morning,” Fitzwilliam replied with a shrug.
“Huh?” Only then did Darcy glance toward the window. The pale light of dawn had crept into the room, banishing the shadows. A strange sense of relief stole over him—as if with the rising sun, his own spirit were unburdened at last.
“Forgive me—I must go,” Darcy muttered, rising in haste. Without another word, he strode past his cousin and left the room.
Watching him disappear down the corridor, Colonel Fitzwilliam allowed himself a faint smile.
“Good luck, Cousin,” he murmured.
***
An hour and a half later, Elizabeth Bennet strolled along the edge of the park, lost in her own thoughts, the crisp morning air soft against her cheek. She scarcely noticed the glistening dew upon the hedgerows, nor the faint perfume of early blossoms; her mind was too full. She did not know that, from the nearby shaded grove, Mr. Darcy was already watching, every sense alert, his heart suspended between hope and dread.
How many times had he paced that shaded grove, shaping in silence the words he longed to speak? Now, seeing her approach, he felt his pulse quicken, the hours of waiting turning into a single desperate moment. When Elizabeth at last caught sight of him, her step faltered. She instinctively turned as though to retreat, but the sight of her withdrawal struck Darcy like a wound. With eagerness in his stride, he called her name, his voice carrying across the stillness of the park.
His familiar voice stopped her in her tracks. Despite feeling uneasy, she slowly returned to the gate, her breath catching as she realized it was indeed Mr. Darcy.
They reached the gate simultaneously. He removed his hat at once, his expression carefully composed, though his eyes betrayed the storm beneath. His lips parted as though to speak,then closed again, as if words were too frail to bear the weight of what pressed on his heart.
Without the usual exchange of pleasantries, he extended a folded letter toward her. His hand trembled slightly, though he held it with solemn purpose. Elizabeth hesitated, but courtesy—and something unacknowledged within her—compelled her to take it. Her fingers brushed his as she did, and both felt the faint shock of the touch.
Darcy drew a breath and spoke at last. His tone was calm, studiously calm, though beneath it rang an intensity that belied the surface.
“I have been waiting in the grove for some time, hoping for the chance to meet you again. This letter contains what I could not say yesterday. Would you do me the honour of reading it, Miss Bennet?”
Elizabeth inclined her head, her eyes lowered to the letter, though her hand tightened upon it as if the paper were far heavier than its weight.
“Thank you, Miss Bennet.”
For an instant Darcy considered remaining, watching her unfold the seal, witnessing the first flicker of comprehension upon her features. Yet the thought was too fearful—too intimate. His courage, already strained to breaking, could not endure her eyes upon him while she read.
So he bowed—slowly, gravely—and replaced his hat. “I ask nothing more than that you read it with fairness,” he added, his voice low but steady.
Elizabeth looked up, surprise mingling with curiosity. Her lips parted as if to speak, but Darcy forestalled it with another bow, and turned.
“You vanish like a spectre, sir,” she murmured half to herself, though whether he heard or not she could not tell.
Darcy did not wait for her reply. Each step back into the grove felt both a relief and a torment—relief, for having at last placed the truth in her hands; torment, for leaving her without defence of his heart in person. The shadows received him once more, until he disappeared entirely from her sight.
Elizabeth remained by the gate, clutching the letter as if it might vanish with him, her mind reeling with a mixture of curiosity, dread, and reluctant concern.
Anyway, Mr. Darcy returned to Rosings with a countenance outwardly stern, yet within all was unrest. He walked with long strides, his thoughts consumed with one fragile hope: that her wit, her fairness, her very spirit of justice, might weigh his words rightly. He loved her still—ardently, irrevocably—and prayed that, through this letter, she might come to see not only the truth of his actions, but the truth of his heart.
PART II
Grey Day with Lizzy
ONE
Elizabeth stood under the twilight sun as Nancy, the Hunsford maid, gathered the washed clothes from the rope behind the cottage. She guessed it had been half an hour since Mr. and Mrs. Collins had left for Rosings to see Lady Catherine. The evening light was gentle, filtering through the budding branches, casting a golden grace even upon the plainest hedgerow. Elizabeth breathed it in as though it were liberty itself, a reprieve from both Lady Catherine’s grandeur and her cousin’s incessant praises.
“I wonder how things are going over there,” Elizabeth mused inwardly, picturing Charlotte’s patient smile enduring Lady Catherine’s dictates about the proper placement of knives at table or the arrangement of the flower-beds.
