Page 21 of Moments of Truth
“If it be witchcraft, Miss Bennet, it is one that enslaves me willingly.” He smiled. He dared smile when he said that.
Her eyes narrowed, and in that instant, she could almost have thrust him out the nearest window. “What do you mean, sir?” she demanded, her voice low and menacing.
“I do not know when it began, nor how, but I am drawn to you irresistibly. Your words echo in my mind long after you depart, your presence unsettles and yet completes me. If such longing be love—then yes, Miss Bennet, I am in love with you. I ardently love you, and I can no longer conceal it.”
It seemed that time stopped. Elizabeth could not believe her ears. Never would she have thought that Mr. Darcy’s indifference to her had been to mask his feelings for her. She stood there dazed.
“Say something—it would be… an opportunity for you, Miss Bennet.” Mr. Darcy’s voice interrupted her thoughts with the worst he could say at that very moment.
It was the moment when everything that could go wrong went wrong. He was sarcastic. By Jove, he was sarcastic. Elizabeth was shocked and silent, but remembering what the man in front of her had done to her sister, what should have come as a pleasant surprise to her had instead infuriated her. She was still upset about his dismissive and arrogant comment at the Meryton ball, where he had deemed her merely “tolerable” and not worth dancing with. Also, Wickham’s story of how Darcy had wronged him further fuelled her belief that Darcy was unjust and egoistic. But Elizabeth resented him most for his role in separating her sister Jane from Mr. Bingley, seeing it as an act of pride and utter interference. These feelings combined created a strong dislike and mistrust toward him.
Elizabeth had never felt that much anger before in her life. All she remembered summoned her a plethora of hurtful words that, no matter how much she tried to rein herself in, she just could not. Elizabeth was like a dam that had burst open. Her chest heaved with the intensity of her emotions, her usually calm demeanour shattered by the sheer force of her anger. Her trembling yet resolute voice filled the space between them, cutting through the air like a sharp blade.
“Mr. Darcy.” The urge to escape was strong, yet she curbed it, compelled by civility to remain. “Do you truly expect me to be flattered by such a declaration? You speak as if affection for me were a calamity you must endure, and yet you would have me grateful for the honour.”
His restraint gave way; he leaned forward, eager to frame an explanation. “You mistake me. I would not insult you—”
“Insult me?” she began, her eyes blazing with fury. “Indeed, sir, you could not have contrived a surer way to insult me, had you studied for it. To tell me that you love me, while at thesame breath dwelling on how unsuitable I am—do you call that gallantry? Do you call that tenderness?”
The silence that followed was excruciating. He opened his mouth once, then closed it, as though every justification had deserted him. To Elizabeth, his stillness was no less an admission than speech: he had wounded her, and he knew it.
“And even had you spoken differently, do you think I could forget what you have done? You—yes, you—were the cause of my sister’s misery. You severed her happiness with Mr. Bingley because our family did not meet your standards. What arrogance gives you the right to trifle with her heart?”
Mr. Darcy looked at her in shock, barely understanding her storm of words and her grudge against him.
Elizabeth took a step closer, her voice rising with each word. “And what of Mr. Wickham? Do not think I am ignorant of his story! You denied him justice, cast him aside, and left him to languish while you prospered. And yet you dare to speak of love, as though wealth and power could excuse every act of selfishness?”
He recoiled as if struck, colour draining from his face, his composure shattered. For the first time she saw not the proud master of Pemberley, but a man utterly at a loss, his defences crumbling beneath the weight of her words.
“You have shown no true regard for others—only vanity, only selfish disdain. You believe yourself superior to all around you, but in truth, Mr. Darcy, you are the cause of pain wherever you tread!”Seeing Mr. Darcy’s blank look, Elizabeth immediately regretted her impetuous reply, which was full of reproaches, but just, she thought. Anyway, Elizabeth was too angry to apologize or soften her accusations.
Darcy’s face had gone white. “So this is the answer I must accept. I would at least have known why I am rejected with such violence.”
Elizabeth drew herself up, trembling but resolute. “Because I cannot accept the hand of a man who believes he lowers himself by offering it. You wished for honesty, sir—you shall have it. I could never thank you for a proposal that offends while it professes to flatter. That is your answer.”
For a heartbeat, he stood motionless. All the eloquence he had gathered, all the tenderness he had meant to unfold, now lay in ruins.
Mr. Darcy visibly struggled to command his composure, his face pale, his mind in evident turmoil. He could scarcely comprehend the vehemence of her reproaches, and yet, in her every word, he discerned a truth unfavourable to himself. At last, bowing with grave stiffness, he said only, “Then I have been mistaken. I beg your pardon. Goodbye, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth remained rooted to the spot, watching as he withdrew with hurried steps, his figure soon lost beyond the door. Her chest heaved with indignation, mingled with a shock she could not wholly suppress. She had spoken with a violence of feeling she had never before experienced, and though every charge seemed just to her understanding, the sight of his silent departure left her strangely unsettled.
It was not the behaviour she had expected from the man she thought she knew. Where was the haughty arrogance, the disdainful retort? This was the same Mr. Darcy in form, in stature, in countenance—yet in his manner of retreat, there had been something different, something she could not immediately define.
As she stood alone in the silence he left behind, a faint unease crept upon her anger.Had she been mistaken in part? Had her words exceeded justice?She could not answer; she could only feel the tumult of her spirit, which would not be quieted.
TWO
When Mr. Darcy’s figure disappeared from view through the window, Elizabeth finally turned and made her way up the stairs to her room. She paused once at the landing, her hand upon the baluster, as though even the wood beneath her fingers could still tremble from what had just passed. Resolute in her wish for solitude, she told the maid in a voice more intent than usual that she had already eaten and desired no dinner. Climbing the stairs was effortless, yet when she opened the door to her chamber, weakness overtook her limbs. Her knees buckled beneath her, and she sank into a nearby chair, her hands covering her face as she trembled with emotion. Tears, hot and relentless, sprang forth like a flood long withheld, coursing down her cheeks without restraint, as if her body must yield to the tempest that her spirit could no longer contain.
Even though she had felt somewhat regretful of her actions, which confused her, her anger had not subsided in the slightest.Why should I feel so wretched?she thought, pressing her palms against her eyes. The vision of Jane’s pale face rose before her, the tender smile that had masked so much suffering. Remembering how deeply her sister had been hurt, Elizabeth felt a fleeting sting of guilt for the violence of her words to Mr. Darcy. Her father’s voice echoed in memory—half in jest, half in wisdom—“Lizzy, you are too quick with your tongue, my girl; your wit will one day outstrip your judgment.”She bit her lip and willed herself to erase the tremor of remorse. She convinced herself she had been right, and Mr. Darcy was in the wrong. Very wrong. Surely his silence and hasty departure were the marks of a man crushed by shame when confronted with unvarnished truth.
Despite her efforts to suppress all softer feeling, Elizabeth was restless. She thought she should not have spoken quite so much, no matter how provoked she had been. A torrent of unspent words still seethed within her, like sparks smouldering in a fire that refused to die. She had not expected the encounter to end so abruptly; the unfinished edge of it left her raw and unsettled. What was she to do with the anger that still consumed her?
She rose at last, her movements unsteady, as though each step betrayed the tumult of her mind. Pouring herself a glass of water, she let the coolness steady her hand before setting it aside untouched. Then she crossed to her bed and sat in the slowly gathering dark. The room seemed vast and strange in its quiet, and she felt herself no more than a fragile vessel—a small boat in a churning sea, tossed and turned by monstrous waves, adrift in an endless expanse of sorrow.
In the chamber’s solitude, amid the tear-streaked disarray, Elizabeth’s mind reeled.How could Mr. Darcy—so composed, so forbidding—possibly have harboured such ardent feelings for her?The very sound of his voice, grave yet faltering, lingered in her ear as though the walls had preserved it. His declaration still hung in the air, reverberating in the fraught space between astonishment and disbelief. He, who had so callously undermined Jane’s happiness, now sought her hand with the same conviction? The impact of his proposal was profound, shaking the very foundation of her understanding.
Her heart warred with itself, torn between the flattery of being desired and the insult of his conduct. Jane’s gentle counsel whispered in her memory:“Do not be too hasty in judging, Lizzy; the world is never so simple.”Could she forgive the man who had coldly plotted against Jane’s union, who had spoken of Mr. Wickham with a harshness that betrayed partiality? Hispride was insufferable, his confessions appalling, and yet—how dangerous the admission—his love had, for a fleeting moment, stirred her, awakened something within she dared not name.
