Page 7 of Moments of Truth
Unaware of her connection to the tale, Fitzwilliam answered easily: “The lady’s family connections were not thought suitable. Darcy believed it his duty to spare his friend—Mr. Bingley, I think—from inevitable unhappiness. The attachment was strong on his friend’s side, and Darcy persuaded him to leave before matters went too far.”
Elizabeth stopped short upon the path, her breath catching. In that instant, her worst suspicion was confirmed: Darcy had been the architect of Jane’s unhappiness. The colonel spoke on kindly, never imagining the wound he had inflicted, but Elizabeth scarcely heard him.
Every word struck deeper, turning Darcy’s supposed loyalty into arrogance, his “concern” into cold calculation. The revelation stung all the more because it came so innocently delivered, with no malice, no secrecy—only the careless betrayalof a cousin who admired him too much to see the cruelty in his actions.
When at last they parted, Fitzwilliam reminded her with cheerful courtesy of their dinner engagement at Rosings that evening. He departed with the satisfaction of one who had acquitted himself well.
Elizabeth, however, could think only that with such friends to speak on his behalf, Mr. Darcy scarcely required enemies. Her return to Hunsford was made with swift, purposeful steps, the soft crunch of gravel underfoot keeping time with her indignation. No charm of the park could soothe her spirit. Darcy’s proud, unyielding face rose again and again before her mind’s eye, each recollection sharpening her anger until it burned away the tranquillity of the spring day.
***
Mr. Darcy stood alone in the large library of Rosings, waiting for his cousin Fitzwilliam to return from his walk in the park. The late afternoon light fell in long, burnished shafts across the carpet, glancing off the gilded frames of portraits and the leather bindings on the shelves. Yet for all the splendour around him, his eyes scarcely registered it. His mind was elsewhere—held fast by the image of a young lady whose wit and vivacity outshone even the most exquisite works of art.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he murmured, the name lingering on his lips with a reverence he had seldom afforded anyone. She had become an enigma, stirring within him an admixture of admiration and perturbation he could neither quell nor wholly comprehend. He recalled the gentle curve of her smile, how itinvited him into a world of playful discourse, and the quick spark in her eyes when she challenged him—a challenge that beckoned him toward a future he had not anticipated.
He was a man of high standing, accustomed to deference, wealth, and consequence. Yet he found himself disarmed in her presence, drawn as if by some irresistible force. Her elegance, the simplicity of her taste, the grace with which she moved—all suggested not only refinement but a kinship of spirit. Their affections overlapped in the most telling ways: the tranquil beauty of the countryside, the stirring notes of the pianoforte, the literature that spoke more to the soul than to fashion. So entwined did these threads of compatibility appear that he could not fathom how their union would be anything but felicitous.
Surely the Bennet family would esteem the match, he reasoned,buoyed by the prospect of securing so agreeable a connection. A man of my means…The thought soothed and yet disturbed him, for the opinions of others—his sister, Lady Catherine, his Fitzwilliam relations—rose before him like sombre spectres at the edge of his joy. Duty, tradition, and rank pressed hard against the dictates of his heart. Yet love, he began to conclude, was a force to be reckoned with, capable of defying even the strictest boundaries of society.The Bennets will likely be gratified to accept a wealthy son-in-law, he told himself, though the words sounded hollow when set against the tumult of his feelings.
At that moment, Colonel Fitzwilliam strolled in from the terrace doors, the cool air of the park still clinging to his coat. He paused, taking in Darcy’s rigid stance by the hearth, his cousin’s profile outlined against the glow of firelight. Darcy’s posture revealed the storm within, though his face betrayed little.
“Darcy,” Fitzwilliam called lightly, his tone tinged with humour. “Still brooding, I see. It is becoming quite the habit with you.”
Darcy started, his reverie broken, and managed a faint smile though no reply.
Fitzwilliam came closer, his soldier’s tread deliberate, and clapped a hand warmly on Darcy’s shoulder. “I shall not beat about the bush. You have been acting strangely ever since we came to Rosings. It does not take a genius to see—you are in love with Miss Bennet.”
Darcy’s expression hardened at the bluntness, but he did not deny it. The tightening of his jaw, the flicker in his eyes, told his cousin all he needed.
Seeing the unspoken conflict, Fitzwilliam softened his tone. “I know what holds you back—her connections, her family. But think of it, Darcy. She has stirred feelings in you that no other woman has ever touched. Miss Bennet is intelligent, spirited, kind. Would you truly let something as trifling as society’s prejudice stand between you and your own happiness?”
Darcy turned away, his gaze fixed upon the window where the lawns of Rosings stretched into twilight. “You make it sound so simple,” he said quietly. “But I am torn. She is so unequal in fortune and rank. You know as well as I what is expected.”
“Expected?” Fitzwilliam countered with a half-laugh. “Expected by whom? The world brims with expectations, but none matter more than your own. Ask yourself, cousin—do you wish to spend your days wondering what might have been? You are not one to shrink from desire when once it seizes you. Why falter now?” His voice lowered to an urgent whisper. “You will have the chance tonight at dinner. Speak to her. It would havebeen best if you had spoken this morning. If you let this slip, Darcy, you will repent it all your days.”
Darcy remained silent for a long while, his heart at war with his pride. The weight of family, the fear of refusal, the dread of humiliation—all crowded in. Yet beneath it burned an affection he could no longer deny. His cousin’s words struck true, cutting away his excuses. With a curt nod, Darcy squared his shoulders, drawing his coat into order as though preparing for battle.
“Tonight,” he whispered, almost to himself, his eyes dark with resolution. “Tonight, I will speak to her.”
***
As the day waned, Mr. Darcy felt the weight of his decision pressing upon him, urging him to act before hesitation conquered him once more. He anxiously awaited the arrival of Lady Catherine’s carriage from Hunsford, bringing with it the Collinses, Mrs. Collins’ sister, and Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Yet when he saw that Elizabeth had not accompanied them to Rosings, his carefully formed plan seemed suddenly imperilled. A chill struck him—what if this chance had slipped away forever? Determined not to yield to disappointment, he approached Mrs. Collins with grave politeness, befitting his station.
“Mrs. Collins,” he began, his voice more earnest than formal, “may I inquire about Miss Bennet? Her absence this evening has been most keenly felt.”
Mrs. Collins, whose countenance betrayed a trace of embarrassment, hesitated before replying. “Oh, Mr. Darcy, it is most unfortunate. Elizabeth is indisposed and has taken to her bed. She would not wish to concern anyone, but I fear she is quite unwell. She should be fine with some much-needed rest.”
The words pierced him. Darcy’s usually impassive features softened with an expression of genuine concern, a testament to the depth of his feelings for the absent Miss Bennet. Society might expect him to mask every sentiment, yet in that moment, the veil of indifference slipped, revealing the man beneath.
“Pray convey my sincerest wishes for her swift recovery,” he said quietly, his tone carrying an earnestness that surprised even himself.
“Of course, Mr. Darcy.” Mrs. Collins inclined her head, her eyes reflecting a mixture of gratitude and curiosity at the gentleman’s unusual warmth.
Darcy bowed and withdrew, but his mind was already set. He rejoined Colonel Fitzwilliam and Cousin Anne, who were engaged in lively conversation, yet his thoughts were far from their cheerful banter. Elizabeth’s absence weighed upon him like a storm cloud. If she could not come to Rosings, then he must go to her. The time for hesitation had passed.
A horse was brought at his request, and in another moment he mounted, the cool air sharp against his brow as he urged the animal into a steady gallop. Along the ride he rehearsed the words he had longed to speak: a declaration meant to bind his life to hers. Each sentence, ordered and re-ordered in his mind, was to form a proposal at once ardent and dignified, a testament to the sincerity of his affection.
But how fragile those rehearsed lines became once he imagined her answering gaze. Every sentence he had crafted dissolved into one overwhelming truth: he loved her, and there was no armour strong enough to hide it.
