Page 5 of Moments of Truth
Her eyes met his with a steady brightness. “Not unwelcome, sir,” she said, “though I own I often prefer the hedgerows to conversation.”
Fitzwilliam laughed outright, but Darcy coloured faintly, uncertain whether to take her words in jest or earnest. He walked on beside them, his silence betraying more than his speech could manage.
Where Colonel Fitzwilliam spoke freely—of the regiment, of music, of the latest gossip from London—Darcy answered sparingly, his pauses weighted, his gaze too often straying toward Elizabeth as though unwilling to look, yet unable to resist. Elizabeth noticed; she could not help but notice. To her, his reserve was a puzzle: an odd mixture of restraint and attention, as if every word risked betraying more than he intended.
At one point Fitzwilliam strode ahead to examine a fallen branch, leaving them briefly side by side. The stillness pressed upon them, broken only by the soft crunch of gravel beneath their feet.
“You are very fond of walking,” Darcy ventured, the simplicity of the remark concealing the tumult it cost him.
“It is my favourite occupation,” Elizabeth replied lightly. “The air here is fresher than Lady Catherine’s drawing-room.”
Darcy’s lips curved in what might almost have been a smile. “That is not difficult.”
Elizabeth laughed, surprised by his dry candour, and the sound caught at his heart with painful sweetness. But before he could hazard another word, Fitzwilliam returned with some trifling discovery, and the spell was broken.
Since the cousins’ arrival at Rosings, Elizabeth still brought a book on her solitary walks, though the pages went increasingly unread. More often she found herself retracing her steps in thought rather than in prose, reflecting on the strange interruptions her peaceful habit had suffered. Her favourite occupation now was not reading, but attempting to unravel the enigma of Mr. Darcy—his behaviour at once cold and attentive, proud yet oddly deferential. With each step she took, her thoughts alternated between confusion and annoyance toward this man who seemed to have inserted himself into her life without her consent. She had never invited his company, and yet he was there—hovering at the edge of her solitude, turning it into something unsettled, half unwelcome, half strangely alive.
But despite his cousin’s tact and his own halting attempts, Mr. Darcy failed to understand this. Where Elizabeth perceived intrusion, he imagined only a fragile nearness that could not yet bear the weight of words.
***
Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair, his expression both amused and earnest as he regarded his cousin, Mr. Darcy. They had been at Rosings for nearly three weeks now. Though Darcy had been his usual reserved self in Lady Catherine’sgrand company, Fitzwilliam had not missed the subtle change in his demeanour whenever Miss Elizabeth Bennet was present. Darcy, for all his carefully schooled composure, was a man deeply stirred beneath the surface, and Fitzwilliam—accustomed to reading the moods of soldiers as well as kinsmen—saw plainly that his cousin was fighting a private battle.
“You know, Darcy,” Fitzwilliam began casually, his eyes twinkling with the spark of one who has solved a puzzle, “it would do you no harm to speak plainly with her. You have always prided yourself on your honesty and integrity. And yet, here you are, holding back from the one person whose opinion should matter most.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened as he stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back. He did not respond immediately, but Fitzwilliam could sense the tension in his cousin’s posture. The firelight threw long shadows across the library floor; Darcy stood among them like a man caught between concealment and confession.
“I do not think you realize, Fitzwilliam, how complicated the situation is,” Darcy finally replied, his voice low. “There are many things at play—her family, her connections. My standing… it is not so simple as just expressing one’s feelings.”
Fitzwilliam shook his head, leaning forward. “It is exactly that simple. You are overcomplicating it, as you always do. Miss Bennet is not a woman to be easily swayed by wealth or title. I clearly understood that while talking to her. You also know this. But she values sincerity and respect above all else. Do you think her opinion of you will improve if you say nothing and leave for London without so much as a word?”
Darcy turned sharply to face him, his expression hard. “And if she rejects me?”
Fitzwilliam smiled softly. “Great heavens, Darcy, you speak as though rejection were a mortal wound. Be it so! At least then you will know. Allow me to assure you—I have seen the way she looks at you. She is not indifferent, and the longer you wait, the more you risk her believing you think her nothing more than an idle amusement.”
Darcy’s shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of Fitzwilliam’s words settling in. The colonel was right, of course. He always had been able to cut through the fog of Darcy’s self-imposed reservations. Darcy glanced out the window. He knew he could not remain silent much longer—not when their time at Rosings was coming to an end. The thought of departing without a word struck him with a sudden, cold clarity: he might lose her forever.
“You leave me no choice, do you, Fitzwilliam?” Darcy said quietly, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“None at all,” Fitzwilliam replied, rising from his chair with a satisfied nod. “You may be a Darcy, but you are still only human.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam stood up from his chair in the Rosings library, walked over to his cousin, and gave him a reassuring manly pat on the shoulder before leaving the room.
Mr. Darcy’s typically composed and orderly mind was now in complete disarray as he thought about Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s face: her lively eyes shining with intelligence, her smile breaking through the stuffy atmosphere of his aunt’s estate.
Surely, he whispered to himself, the words no more than a puff of air amidst the silence,a gentleman of my standing, offering a hand, should not meet resistance. An unfamiliar warmth spread in his heart at the mere thought of her – that delightful presence who had unwittingly ensnared him with herwit and candour. He had observed her closely, how her laughter seemed to fill the room, how she moved with an effortless grace that belied her provincial upbringing, her modest and becoming taste in attire.
They shared a love for the same sonnets, a penchant for long walks in solitude, and an undeniable connection that sparked whenever their eyes met across the room.
Miss Bennet is sensible and accomplished, he reasoned, his voice gaining conviction.Her teasing manner, which I once found irksome, now strikes me as charming evidence of her intellect and spirit. He considered her family then, acknowledging the disparity in their social stations. Yet Mr. Darcy could not concede that such differences should impede a union that promised mutual happiness.The Bennets could not but regard my proposal as advantageous, he concluded, his confidence bolstered by visions of their gratitude and approval.I shall go to Hunsford to propose to her first thing in the morning.
***
It was a day unlike the others when Mr. Darcy unexpectedly called at Hunsford Parsonage, finding Elizabeth alone, writing a letter to Jane. Mrs. Collins and Maria had gone to the village on some errands, leaving the house unusually quiet. The silence was so complete that even the scratch of her pen seemed loud, and Elizabeth had been enjoying the rare calm as though it were a luxury. As she reflected on the peacefulness of her morning, the sudden sound of the doorbell startled her. She had not heard a carriage approach and immediately assumed it might be Lady Catherine, arriving unannounced, as was her habit. Withthis in mind, Elizabeth hastily put away her half-finished letter, hoping to avoid intrusive questions. Her pulse quickened as she prepared herself for a tiresome interview. But as the door opened, it was not Lady Catherine who entered the room—it was Mr. Darcy, and he was alone.
Darcy halted upon seeing her, as if caught unprepared, equally astonished to find her alone. His usual composure faltered for the briefest instant, his eyes widening before he mastered his features once more. For a moment, they both stood in silence, the air charged with something unspoken.
“Miss Bennet,” he said at last, bowing more stiffly than was his habit. “I… I beg your pardon. I understood the ladies were at home.”
