Chapter 36

D arcy did not feel as if he had been kicked in his stomach by a horse, rather that he had been run over by a stampede of them. He was reeling. How could he have been so wrong and so blind?

He made it half way across the park when he felt his legs were about to give out so he leant against a tree for support. Any attempt at rational thought was futile at that moment, so he pushed the rejection from his mind and concentrated on walking the rest of the way to the manor house so he could reach his bedchamber.

He managed to enter the house unseen by anyone except the butler, to whom he handed his outerwear as if in a daze. Darcy made his way to his bedchamber and threw the door open, surprising Carstens who was busy hanging some freshly laundered breeches. The valet did not miss the look of anguish on his master's countenance. The only time he had seen Mr. Darcy look this way was after the death of his father.

"Mr. Darcy, you do not look well," Carstens stated. "Should I summon a physician, or do you require some wine?"

"A doctor cannot heal what ails me," Darcy grunted. "Leave me and inform my aunt, cousin, and sister I am unavailable until further notice. You may go now. When I need your services, I will ring."

The valet bowed and left the suite via the servants' door. He sought out the butler and requested he convey his master's message.

In his bedchamber, Darcy's jacket, waistcoat, and cravat lay strewn between the floor and his bed where he had discarded them. He was tempted to use the decanter of cognac in his sitting room to drown his sorrows, but he knew he needed his wits about him if he was to understand what had gone so wrong.

His first emotion as he began to review the disastrous meeting with his Elizabeth…no she would never be his Elizabeth—Miss Bennet, was anger. How dare she reject a Darcy of Pemberley? Did she not realise how much of a sought-after matrimonial prize he was? As he had those thoughts, the voice which had told him to apologise right after his unwarranted slight at the assembly in November broke through the haze of his anger.

‘ You fool, if the family was only seeking pecuniary advantage in marriage, and they are as poor as you think, then regardless of her dislike of you, why did Miss Elizabeth refuse you? Did you ever do what Richard advised you to do and discover for yourself the Bennets' position? Are you so deaf you heard not what she said about Longbourn not being entailed, that her mother is the second Mrs. Bennet, and her having two brothers? ' Darcy heard the voice in his head. Even had he wanted to, it seemed the voice of his conscience could no longer be ignored. ‘ What self-respecting woman would accept, arguably, the worst proposal of marriage ever made? How did you think she would react to calling her sisters fortune hunters? Name one occasion in your short acquaintanceship with the Bennets when they appeared to be mercenary. Do you think you know better than Richard and his parents, all who know the Bennets far more intimately than you, and have accepted them without reservation? Also, you who abhor deception must be blind if you have not been able to see Richard and his fiancée are in love and their union has nothing to do with connections or wealth! Your parents, who wanted no more than for you to find a love match, would be disgusted by your behaviour, not to mention your improper pride, arrogance, and how high in the instep you have become. As if that were not enough, you have broken your word to your mother, over, and over, and over again.

‘Only a man blinded by his own pride would not have been able to see the difference in the way Miss Elizabeth behaves around you and the way she does with everyone else. Do you not see she avoids you as much as she can while still being polite? ' Now that the voice of his conscience had begun to assert itself, it was like a torrent that would not cease.

Rather than a cursory examination of himself like he had made after the setdown he had received at the hands of his aunt and uncle—which seemed like a light scolding compared to the one Miss Elizabeth gave him—Darcy owned it was time for him to take a serious and in depth look at his character and behaviour.

The more he thought of his words and actions in relation to Miss Elizabeth and her family, the more shame he felt. He knew it was far too late for him to win the hand of the woman he loved, but Darcy was aware he had to begin with an apology. Acknowledging he often said the wrong thing when speaking, he decided he needed to write her a letter. Rather than write when there was still residual anger at being thusly rejected, he resolved to wait and write later when he could think straight and would not write the wrong thing steeped in bitterness and anger.

~~~~~~~/~~~~~~~

By the time Mary, Maria, and Mrs. Jones returned from Rosings Park with the Collinses after dinner, Elizabeth, although still feeling residual anger at Mr. Darcy and his disgusting words, had recovered her equanimity so those returning to the parsonage found her seated in the sitting room.

Mary suspected there was a connection between Mr. Darcy's disappearance right after she had related Lizzy would not be with them earlier that day, Lizzy's sudden claim of a megrim—something Mary knew her sister had never suffered from before—and Mr. Darcy's keeping to his chambers for the rest of the day. Knowing how obstinate Lizzy could be if someone tried to force a confidence, Mary would not push her sister, but rather wait until Lizzy decided to share what was troubling her.

"Lizzy you look much better," Mary stated.

"I do feel much recovered," Elizabeth averred.

"That makes me very pleased," Charlotte added. "You are normally the one who is never afflicted by illness, so it concerned me greatly when you told us how you felt."

"It is a relief I do not need to write to your parents to report you are not well, Cousin Elizabeth," Collins said. Before he launched into a long diatribe about health, his wife rested her hand on one of his arms.

"Thank you for your concern, Charlotte and Mr. Collins," Elizabeth responded. Collins left the sitting room and headed for his study.

"Mr. Darcy was not feeling well either," Maria remarked. "He left the drawing room just after we arrived and we did not see him again before we departed the manor house."

Elizabeth fought to school her features. As she had replayed the proposal and subsequent angry words she and Mr. Darcy had traded, she could not regret her refusal. However, the intemperate and vitriolic nature of said rejection was not something of which she could feel proud. She admitted she had said whatever she could to wound the man as much as possible and with what Maria had just reported, it seemed she had hit the mark.

"Just before we left, Richard shared he had checked on his cousin to assuage Anna's worry. He said Mr. Darcy did not seem sick, but he told him that he would be leaving early for Town on the morrow," Mary reported.

"I hope I will be able to farewell Anna and Charity before they depart," Elizabeth noted with genuine regret. She had come to like both younger girls quite a lot.

"They are not leaving with Mr. Darcy," Mary replied. "As Richard is Anna's second guardian and Charity's brother-in-law, they will remain at Rosings Park as planned and then travel with us into Hertfordshire where Mr. Darcy, who is standing up for Richard, will take them with him after the wedding."

She was happy Mr. Darcy would be leaving so she would not have to see him again so soon after their words had been exchanged. Elizabeth fervently hoped they would be able to meet as indifferent acquaintances at the double wedding.

~~~~~~~/~~~~~~~

Darcy discarded close to twenty drafts of the letter before he was sanguine with what he wanted to write. Well after midnight, once he was happy with the wording, using four syllable words as needed, he wrote the final version of his letter, allowed it to dry, folded it, and sealed it. On the outside he simply wrote ‘ To: Miss Elizabeth Bennet .'

He was certain his decision to depart, even before Easter was the correct one. He had much soul searching to do, and he needed solitude for that. He would make for first Darcy House, and then Pemberley, where he would remain until he had to travel into Hertfordshire to do his duty to Richard and stand up for him. Darcy had already decided he would arrive after the pre-wedding ball so as not to inflict his company on Miss Elizabeth more than was absolutely necessary.

Darcy would see her, at least he hoped he would, briefly in the morning before the departure so he could put his letter into her hands. He would depart Kent directly after. There was no guarantee she would accept the missive from him, and if she did, there was no further assurance she would read it. All Darcy knew was he needed to make the attempt to deliver it to her, even for his own peace of mind that he had finally apologised as he should have months ago .

Sleep never came to him. At first light, rather than ring for Carstens, Darcy dressed casually, and then struck out across the park towards the groves. He arrived at the point the three paths through the groves converged and paced back and forth as he waited to see if Miss Elizabeth would appear.

Elizabeth had managed to sleep, although not as much as was her wont. She had heard and reheard the words she had hurled at Mr. Darcy many times before she succumbed to a restless sleep. No matter how many times she went over the interaction in her head, her opinion of her bad manners at the way she spoke to Mr. Darcy never improved.

Even though she had slept for less than four hours, Elizabeth was up with the dawn. She washed her face, dressed, donned her half boots, and made her way downstairs. Her nose told her the cook-housekeeper had baked items ready. The older lady smiled at her and handed her a cloth with a warm muffin and roll within. As she was positive she would not see Mr. Darcy who could have already departed, Elizabeth took her favourite path through the groves which led to the glade.

She froze when she reached the confluence of the three paths. There, pacing back and forth, was none other than Mr. Darcy. She turned slowly, and was about to head back when she stepped on a dried twig which made a rather loud cracking sound.

"Miss Elizabeth," Darcy called out.

After berating herself most of the night for her rudeness, Elizabeth felt she had no choice but to face the man, so she turned towards where he was now standing still. Seeing John and Brian were about to intercept Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth shook her head to tell them all was well.

She had to admit he cut a handsome figure. He was in breaches and a white shirt with an unbuttoned greatcoat, but no hat, waistcoat, jacket, or cravat. The latter being absent allowed her to see his strong neck and a little dark hair on his chest. She was fascinated by his unruly curls on his head, especially one curling down over his forehead, clearly visible without a beaver in place.

The woman Darcy now knew saw him as a man she could never be prevailed upon to marry looked more enticing than ever to him. He kept his mask in place and extracted the missive from the pocket of his greatcoat. "Will you do me the honour of reading this letter?" Darcy requested and thrust it into her hand. He stepped back, bowed, and then was off towards the manor house.

Elizabeth knew it was improper for her to receive a letter from a man to whom she had no connection, and was not engaged to, but he was gone before she could utter a word. She debated tearing the pages into hundreds of pieces and allowing the breeze to have them, but her innate curiosity won out. She found a flattened rock in the sun, sat down, and broke the seal. He had a firm, masculine, well-formed script.

5 April 1811

Miss Elizabeth Bennet,

Be not alarmed, Madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments or renewal of those offers which were yester-morning so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself by dwelling on wishes which for the happiness of both cannot be too soon forgotten, and the effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion, should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your sense of justice.

Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had attempted to detach my cousin, Richard, from your sister, and the other, that I had not behaved as a gentleman after I made an extremely insulting statement regarding your person at the assembly in Meryton. You asserted the same regarding my behaviour during the remainder of my time in your neighbourhood as well.

In hindsight, I clearly understand my proposal, even had you been disposed to like me, which I now know you never did, would have been enough for any lady of integrity to refuse me. I will explain myself in the following paragraphs. I acknowledge that I was blinded by my own selfish desires.

Allow me to address the two main offences you enumerated separately. I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw Richard preferred your younger sister to any other young woman. But it was not until the evening of the dance at Netherfield Park that I had any apprehension of the seriousness of his attachment. I have always felt Richard to be more of a brother than a cousin, and I was concerned that Miss Mary only saw societal and pecuniary advantages in attaching herself, and your family, to him.

I freely admit my initial supposition was wholly erroneous and if I had allowed myself to see it, I would have noted the mutual affection between them. I will own the wilful blindness that stopped me seeing that which was before my eyes. I think my own skewed values held me back from acknowledging that which I did not desire to see. To justify my beliefs, I convinced myself Miss Mary was indifferent to Richard. As I had never seen him in love before, I was also slow to recognise his deep and genuine feelings for your sister.

As much as I tried to find fault with your family, I could not. Your mother, your father, yourself, and your sisters always behaved with propriety. I suppose if your family's behaviour had not been impeccable, it would have bolstered the picture I was painting for myself.

My attempt to separate them, which as you know was forcefully rebuffed by Lord and Lady Matlock, was misguided, officious, and pretentious. I had no right to substitute my own flawed judgements for those of my cousin's. When I have an opportunity before their wedding, I will make my amends in person to Miss Mary and Richard and apologise profusely for my attempted interference.

With respect to that other, more weighty accusation of not behaving in a gentlemanlike fashion at and after the assembly, as much as I would like to refute your assertions, I cannot. As an explanation, my mood was foul that night. It was caused by what had occurred at Ramsgate of which I am cognisant you are aware, so I do not need to list the reasons here. The truth was I blamed myself and my anger was directed inward. That, however, does not excuse my extreme rudeness in saying the words meant to cause Bingley to cease importuning me to dance, which as soon as I looked at you, I knew were not true.

As you, Richard, my aunt, and my uncle have all correctly indicated, I exacerbated my error by allowing my improper pride to stop me delivering the apology, I knew you were due, as soon as the words had crossed my lips. Even when your father used some of my insulting words in speaking with me, rather than beg his pardon I walked away in a snit.

I may not be worthy of your forgiveness, nevertheless, I do ask it. From the time I first looked at you I knew you were and are in fact the handsomest woman of my acquaintance. Richard set me straight about why you and all the young ladies chose to sit out some sets, so for my nonsensical remark about giving you consequence, I beg you to pardon me.

I think my character changed after losing first my mother when I was a lad of twelve and then my father more recently. I am finally willing to admit to myself that I have not been acting in a manner of which my parents would have been proud. In fact, they would have been vastly disappointed. They never spoilt me or taught me to think meanly of those whose situations in life were below my own. That, I am loathe to admit, was all my own doing. My parents would have been especially chagrined at the way I related to you and your family. They were excellent people .

Earlier in my missive, I referred to wilful blindness. That can be applied to the wrongheaded ideas I formulated about your family's estate and wealth, not that knowing what I know now excuses my abhorrent behaviour, it does not. I believed what Bingley related to me, which was based on rumour and inuendo. Even when Richard told me I needed to discover the facts, which he asserted were far different than what I believed, I stubbornly clung to my beliefs.

Until you mentioned them yesterday, I had not an inkling you have brothers. I was also unaware that Mrs. Bennet is your father's second wife, not that it excuses the ungenerous words I spoke of her. Had I been inclined to do so; it would have been very easy to discover those facts. I suppose it was what I used to justify my pride and prejudices so I was not disposed to discover the truth.

My final apology (for now) is for my words accusing your sisters, and by extension, your family, of being fortune hunters. I was far too jaded by my experiences with London society, so I ignored that which was staring me in the face. Never did you or any member of your family display any mercenary tendencies, nevertheless I unjustly imputed them to your sisters.

This, madam, is my attempt to begin to right some of the wrongs I have caused. I can only pray you accept this as sincere and not an attempt to cause you to change your implacable refusal of my horrendous proposal. I do love you, but an insult laced diatribe is not the way to express it.

There are two main reasons I have decided to depart later today. The primary one is the last thing I desire is to make you uncomfortable with my presence at Rosings Park. The second one, which in the longer term is far more important, is to seek the solitude of first Darcy House, and then afterward I will make for Pemberley, to address in a comprehensive manner, first your reproofs, and then the reproofs of others, who like you, I highly esteem.

Even though I have lost you as my future wife (I never had your regard to begin with) I must improve my character in a meaningful way.

You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you yester-morning; but I was not then master enough of my emotions. I knew myself well enough that I had to move past my pique and not address you in anger. Also, the truth is I was worried I would not express myself as I should, had I attempted to do so verbally, hence the letter.

I shall endeavour to find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the morning. I will only add, God bless you and your family.

FAD

Elizabeth read the long letter twice more before she stood to make for the parsonage. She decided if she had only met the Mr. Darcy who wrote this letter, they could have been friends.