Chapter 12

Twelve

The weeks which Darcy had spent in Kent had made an appreciable difference in the country, with every day adding to the verdure of the trees. As tranquil as it was owing to the pleasantness of the morning, Darcy wished he could say the same of his present state of mind. Pacing in the grove, and upon looking up and espying the source of his apprehensions, he hurried directly to her.

"Miss Elizabeth," he began and then, remembering himself, he bowed. "I have been walking here in the lanes ... hoping for the chance to speak with you in privacy. I am so sorry," he declared, his eyes fixed on hers, heavy with contrition.

"Sir, is this about what happened or rather almost happened, between us yesterday? You need not apologize."

"Well, there is that—that and so much more. I remember?—"

Elizabeth's eyes opened wide.

"Everything! I remember everything. Pray allow me to apologize for all that I have put you through during this time in Kent—all that you were forced to endure. Would that I could make amends." He took a deep breath as the magnitude of his words took hold. He could see the relief laced with confusion in her eyes.

"Sir, I am pleased beyond measure that your memory has returned—your memory of me. I assure you I do not hold any ill will toward you. Again, you owe me no apology."

Darcy's heart clenched at her calm, forgiving tone. She seemed sincere—too sincere, perhaps. He could not fathom how she could forgive him so easily after all that had transpired. He could not bear the thought that she had acted toward him as she did all those weeks out of pity. He dared not voice it aloud. Instead, he said, "That is no doubt a credit to your generous spirit. But I know it could not have been easy for you."

"You give me too much credit, sir."

"I think not." Being forced to endure the company of someone mere hours after his failed proposal—someone she no doubt abhorred—could not have been a pleasant thing. Darcy continued, "Miss Elizabeth, I know you received my letter. My cousin mentioned giving it to you. By now you know my reasons for comporting myself as I did that evening. I know not what more to say. While I am aware of your sacrifice of late, no doubt you did not intend to spend your time in Kent attending me. I assure you, just as I did in the letter, I do not intend to repeat those sentiments you found so objectionable that evening at the parsonage."

In saying that, he was referring to the part of his letter that read: "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 last night 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."

Part of him hoped, rather than expected, that she would say her feelings had changed. But why would they have? One's suffering from selective amnesia, with the unconscious design of blotting out the memories of her, no less, was hardly the foundation for falling in love.

Surely my bout with amnesia is not sufficient cause for her to change her ill opinion of me.

"Miss Elizabeth, I spoke with my relations before coming to find you. All that remains is to inform you of my plans. I am taking my leave of Kent as soon as I return to the manor house. Surely you must know that had it not been for the riding accident, I would have left this part of the country long ago—business affairs and the like.

"I could not in good conscience leave without seeking you out to tell you goodbye."

Elizabeth could scarcely believe what she was hearing. He is leaving Kent! Her heart slammed against her chest, though she managed to keep her composure. She wanted to say something. She wanted to espouse sentiments to the effect that there remained so much that needed to be said on both their parts, but the words caught in her throat. How could she, when his mind was so clearly made up? She could not very well tell him that her guilt over his malady was the impetus for her willingness to stay close to his side. Would he not equate my guilt with pity? The thought of him believing such a thing was unconscionable. For a proud man like Mr. Darcy, surely it would not do to be pitied. Although she had suffered no such thoughts when they were together, she knew her reasoning would seem insufficient at this point.

True, I felt a good measure of compassion for him. How could I not? But not pity—never pity. Pity a man blessed with all the advantages the heavens might bestow? She would have had to be a fool to pity such a man.

Yet, guilt—how could he ever know the depth of guilt I carry? Such thoughts as these threatened to overwhelm her resolve. For the first time, she doubted whether she could ever fully forgive herself, regardless of what the future entailed.

She recalled his mentioning that his good opinion, once lost, was lost forever. She had indeed lost his good opinion that evening at the parsonage house when she spurned his proposal, in such a manner that nothing between them since had the power to overcome the loss of his esteem.

Her throat tightened. Though he had spoken calmly, even rationally, she sensed a finality in his tone that made her heart ache. Mr. Darcy was not an impetuous man, even if there had been a time when she had supposed him to be behaving rather rashly in offering her his hand in marriage, expecting she would rejoice at the prospect.

Still, she could not help but wonder, What if... But no, it was too late for "what ifs." Too much had passed between them, and she doubted that anything she might say would change his mind. Yet, even as she struggled to accept this truth, a part of her longed to reach out, to ask him to stay—not out of guilt, but because something deeper had stirred within her.

Mr. Darcy's expression shifted, and for a moment, she thought she saw the same uncertainty mirrored in his eyes. But then it was gone, replaced by the determined expression that had been there before. He was resolved to leave.

Perhaps it is for the best, she thought, even as her heart whispered otherwise.

His deep, melodious voice broke the silence. "Goodbye, Miss Elizabeth."

Her heart sank, though she nodded in reply, managing a composed, "Goodbye, Mr. Darcy."

But as he turned to go, a part of her wondered whether this was truly the end. Whether they would ever meet again. She felt a flicker of something—regret, or perhaps longing—that stirred within her. But she tamped it down.

Alas, he was leaving, giving her no sign if the two of them would ever see each other again.

No, I have no right to ask Mr. Darcy to stay. I can only bid him adieu and watch him go.

Darcy sat alone in the carriage on his way to London. The colonel was to take his leave of Kent the following day. Darcy was grateful for the reprieve, though the solitude offered little comfort. He had yet to reconcile himself to what had unfolded over the past weeks. Even his physician's counsel had not eased the weight of it all, nor persuaded him that there was no other way. Too many questions still lingered—questions without answers.

After a brief stay in town, Darcy planned to journey to Derbyshire with his sister, Georgiana. The thought of returning to Pemberley offered a glimmer of solace; it had always been his refuge, the one place where peace and control reigned. Yet now, even Pemberley felt distant, as though the recent events would follow him, casting a shadow over his every move. His thoughts kept drifting back to the parsonage, to that fateful evening when everything he thought he knew unraveled.

If only I had done things differently, he mused bitterly. But no amount of reflection could change the past, no regret could undo what had been said. Her words still echoed in his mind, each one cutting deeper with every recollection.

I had not known you a month before I felt you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.

How could he have been so blind? So sure of himself? The disdain in her voice, the cold finality of her rejection, had shattered the certainty with which he had approached her. He had never expected to be refused, much less with such conviction.

She truly hated me then, he thought, and for good reason. His heart clenched with the sharp realization that it would take time—a long time—before he could fully move past the pain. There was no telling when, or even if, he could ever face Elizabeth again without the sting of that night returning to haunt him.

And yet... somewhere beneath that pain, beneath the bitterness, was the quiet hope of making amends. It was not redemption he sought, but perhaps, in time, a chance to become the kind of man she might have respected—someone who was not ruled by pride, but by understanding and compassion. He could not change what had passed between them, but he could change himself.

That was his only path forward now. He had to let go of the past, no matter how raw the wound remained. Something about Elizabeth's unwavering resolve and unyielding honesty on that fateful night consumed him, guiding him toward a version of himself that he had not yet become.

That I might one day become someone worthy of pleasing a woman like Miss Elizabeth Bennet.