Chapter 8

E lizabeth found herself standing still in the doorway, clutching the letter she had just received tightly in her hand, her gaze fixed on Mr Darcy as he mounted his horse and rode away without once looking back. Tears welled up in her eyes watching him depart. The colonel turned his head several times as they receded into the distance, but Elizabeth could not clearly see his expression through her misty eyes.

She could not understand why she had felt such pain at seeing Mr Darcy departing forever from her life. A day ago, refusing him had seemed the right thing to do, the only possible answer. At the same time, her tone and words had only matched the horrible declaration that was more about him disdaining her family than about love. She had felt angry but at peace with what she had done. Yet today, in the morning mist, watching him leave, she had the feeling that her soul had broken in two, one part forever departing with him.

Making a considerable effort to prevent the tears from dripping down her face, Elizabeth composed herself just as Charlotte approached, her curiosity piqued by the unexpected visitors.

Desperate to find a reason to leave the house, Elizabeth waved the letter at her friend and said, “It is from Mrs Barstow. She has invited me to call on her.” Then she quickly pushed the missive into her pocket.

“Mrs Barstow?” Charlotte asked, her surprise evident. Fortunately, anything connected to Rosings held significance, so Charlotte promptly ordered Elizabeth’s pelisse and bonnet, leading her to the gate. Yet her disappointment at not being included in the invitation was palpable.

Elizabeth ran all the way to Rosings—it was the only way to temper her overwhelming despair. She was unsure whether Mrs Barstow was still in Kent, but it scarcely mattered, for she had no intention of entering the house. Instead, she sat on a bench and read the letter Mr Darcy had penned, wiping away her tears in a desperate attempt to see his writing.

Every word cut a road of fire in her soul, leaving unspeakable pain behind. And still, she did not understand why she was experiencing such turmoil.

She folded the paper and pushed it back into her pocket, preparing to return to the Parsonage, when a voice called down to her from one of the upstairs windows. Looking up, she espied Mrs Barstow gesturing for her to enter. At last, the door opened, and a maid appeared, instructed to escort Elizabeth to her mistress.

As she climbed the stairs, Elizabeth wondered where Lady Catherine might be, but she did not care, relieved she should not have to return to the Parsonage. All she wanted was to sit by a fire and finally think about the turmoil that had engulfed her life ever since Mr Darcy had proposed marriage.

But truth be told, it all began when she discovered Mr Darcy’s involvement in Jane’s misery, and when her meagre inclination for the gentleman vanished into thin air.

Upon entering the warm and cosy room, Elizabeth heard Mrs Barstow murmur, “Come in quickly, my dear. You are safe now!”

Even though her heart was pained, Elizabeth managed to smile and ask, “Was I in any danger, then?”

“Yes, from Lady Catherine!” Mrs Barstow replied with visible relief at Elizabeth’s smile, despite her red eyes.

They settled on a sofa, and Elizabeth’s tears began to flow freely, her composure crumbling, leaving Mrs Barstow bewildered and curious at the same time.

She had suspected that her nephew had not asked for Miss Bennet’s hand and regarded his hasty departure with regret. Yet, the situation seemed to be different and much more complicated. The letter Miss Bennet had been reading was certainly from him, and all became hazy.

“What has happened?” Mrs Barstow asked. Yet Elizabeth remained silent, incapable of speech. “He asked you to be his wife, did he not?”

Elizabeth merely nodded, and she took the letter out of her pocket .

“You said no! My God, you said no!” Mrs Barstow continued to speak, seeing that the young lady could still not utter a word. She had guessed the story, but her confusion only grew with every word. “He asked you, and you said no…what happened?”

Elizabeth handed her the letter, but Mrs Barstow said with tenderness, “I shall not read this letter, my dear. I wish to know what transpired between you from you . He finally asked you to be his wife, and you said no!”

“Are you surprised that a woman said no to the great Fitzwilliam Darcy?” Elizabeth replied, her voice tinged with a hint of sarcasm.

“No, absolutely not, my dear. I understood some time ago what kind of woman you were. Ironically, he chose the right woman to be his wife, the only lady who could say no to his proposal…but please believe he is not as you imagine him to be.”

“He has a strong team to defend him,” she said, wiping her tears with something that looked like anger.

“No, you are wrong. I am not defending him, but I am indeed surprised that you refused him…though not for the reason you imagine.”

“Then why?” Elizabeth asked.

“Because you are so right together!”

Shocked, she looked at Mrs Barstow. “That is what you think?”

“I am more interested in what you think, Miss Bennet.”

“I do not know what to think any longer. I was so sure about my feelings. It was not a proposal, it was not about love but a veritable battle,” Elizabeth whispered. “Is he quite out of his senses?” she asked, her gaze fixed upon Mrs Barstow.

“No, my dear, he is not mad, merely hopelessly ensnared by love. At times, the two manifest in similar ways. But please recount the entire tale from the beginning. I must know everything that transpired so we may seek a solution together.”

“Am I in search of a solution?” Elizabeth questioned, observing the lady before her.

“That, my dear, is a choice for you to make. Perhaps you need some time to reflect and understand?”

“No, a night of sleepless torment and a two-page letter have illuminated the truth in my heart—I am in love!”

Tears coursed down her cheeks, resembling the glistening droplets of water on a marble statue.

“Oh, heavens! Why must you, young people, make everything so difficult? We should have rejoiced over your engagement, not shed tears in my apartment.”

“No, yesterday it was impossible for me to say yes.”

“Because of what the colonel told you?”

“It was not even necessary to remember the colonel’s indiscretion. Mr Darcy began his declaration of love by recounting his inner struggle to forget me, ultimately losing the battle, and surrendering to his emotions.”

“Oh!” Mrs Barstow exclaimed. If it had not ended so sadly, she would have made terrible fun of such a pointless, even damaging honesty. “What did he say to you?”

“He emphasised my inferiority due to my family—he considered it an obstacle which had always opposed his feelings for me. No matter what you say, that is not a declaration of love.”

“Indeed, it is not. I find myself quite shocked by what he said.”

“You are no longer defending his actions, then?”

“I pity him and am mortified by his clumsy and pointless honesty.”

“You need not feel sorry for him. In truth, he disclosed those things not out of weakness but due to his overbearing conceit. And there is no cause for you to feel ashamed, for his unvarnished truth-telling was ultimately good. Consider the consequences if we had wed and he continued to harbour such disdain for my family. It would have been too late for me to escape, for I could not endure a man who despises my family and views my sweet and honest sister as nothing but a fortune-seeking maiden.”

“You are utterly correct. He was dreadful, and I can find no justification for his conduct.”

“He lost the battle in his mind—torn between his duty and his affection for me. I bear responsibility for his internal conflict,” Elizabeth said forcefully, once again feeling the indignation that had engulfed her the previous day.

“You are right to be outraged. Your rejection of his proposal was warranted, even though it has become painful for you. He did not confide in anyone, not even Richard or me.”

“What counsel would you have given him? To conceal his aversion for my family?”

“By no means! I would have leased that house in Hertfordshire and kept him close to you for several months. Allowed him to acquaint himself with your family in their natural setting and court you in the traditional manner. Do you believe his family is any better? Or ours? Consider Lady Catherine, with her haughtiness and narrow-mindedness, raising her daughter as though she were a lifeless doll. I could also continue with the shortcomings I have observed at Pemberley. I could tell you a great deal about his grandfather…but for now we have other matters to resolve. You said you love him.”

“Oh.” Elizabeth sighed, feeling a deep ache in her soul. “Yes, I love him, flaws and all.”

“That is genuine love. I reproach myself for leaving you and Fitzwilliam to resolve your issues alone.”

“I could not have suspected that I loved him. For the past two weeks, he has appeared like a man of sixty, taking aimless walks for digestion and lapsing into silence during conversations. He asked ridiculous questions unrelated to us, remained mute for long periods, and seemed to scrutinise me while likely despising his weakness. Is what he wrote about Mr Wickham…and Miss Darcy true?”

“At least you may be certain he does not dissemble. A man incapable of concealing the abhorrent truths he disclosed to you is unlikely to lie to others. Yes, Wickham is the vilest of scoundrels. He sought to seduce Georgiana for her fortune.”

“I am profoundly sorry—for everything. For Miss Darcy and for believing Mr Wickham’s falsehoods about Mr Darcy. But you must believe me when I say Mr Darcy is mistaken about my family.”

“I have faith that he is.”

“Well, I must be honest too. He is also correct. And if our future had unfolded as you described, I would have urged him to be patient and lenient towards my mother and my younger sisters. And as for Jane…I do not know how to make you understand. Jane is to me what Lady Anne was to you—the embodiment of benevolence and kindness. My mother is responsible for the image Mr Darcy formed of Jane, but I refrained from telling him, for it would have meant disparaging Mama, and I have no wish to do so.”

“I see. And I believe you. And besides, I am confident that the father who raised you to be such an admirable young lady is a remarkable man himself.”

“He is. And you cannot begin to imagine how Mr Darcy and Papa resemble each other.”

“You did not know you loved him?”

“No! As I told you, he was so different from the man I knew. I preferred the acerbic aristocrat who, on the night we met, proclaimed that I was not attractive enough to tempt him.”

Mrs Barstow hid her face in her hands, unable to bear more of this tale, which should have culminated in happiness. “I am departing for London tomorrow morning,” she said. “And you must come to town as soon as possible. Miss Bennet, you have to see him.”

“I cannot face him. I am not without guilt.”

“You?”

“Yes, me! I said the most dreadful things a lady could utter to a gentleman. I told him he could not have made the offer of his hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept. You should have witnessed his astonishment. He regarded me with a blend of incredulity and mortification. And I did not stop there. I recounted my initial impression of him when we first met—his manners had convinced me of his arrogance, conceit, and disdain for the feelings of others. I had not known him a month before I concluded that he was the last man in the world whom I could ever be induced to marry—”

“Enough! I comprehend,” Mrs Barstow interjected. “You were correct in saying that this proposal resembled a battle. Now, we must depart for London. You must meet and try to mend this situation.”

“But why? Do you imagine I could face him, or that he wishes to see me?”

“Miss Bennet,” the older lady began, taking her hand. “You do not see the whole situation. First, tell me, what would you say to him if he were to appear here?”

“The same as you suggested—that he come to Netherfield for a few months to better acquaint himself with me…with us.”

“Because you want to be sure about your feelings?”

“I am certain of my love,” she murmured. “But I would never marry a man who disdains my family. My answer would remain no if he failed to accept my family.”

“Such honesty becomes you.”

“But he would never journey to Hertfordshire now…never!”

“You might be correct, but not for the reasons you presume. Fitzwilliam departed so wounded that he may have acted recklessly. A certain lady has been chasing him—and when I say chasing, I do not exaggerate. She seeks his fortune, and he is ignorant of her true intentions. He believes she loves him.”

“But he saw my dear sister Jane in that role. How ironic!”

“Yes, indeed, it is ironic. But you must understand that Lady Amelia possesses other methods of persuasion.”

Elizabeth gazed at her, perplexed, but the deep blush that crept across her cheeks indicated that she had understood Mrs Barstow’s implication.

“I-I can do nothing in that regard,” she murmured, and Mrs Barstow smiled.

“Naturally not, my dear. However, you must be back in his life and endeavour to conquer him with your means of persuasion.”

“Do you believe they hold any sway against…the other lady?”

“Yes, unquestionably. Fitzwilliam loves you.”

“Then why seek another lady?”

“Because it is a simpler path to recovery than solitude and suffering. I do not want us to travel together—do you have a carriage coming for you? Do you have somewhere to stay for a longer period in London?”

Elizabeth nodded and told her about the Gardiners, who would send a carriage for her.

“That is perfect. Will you come to London and let me prepare you to meet Fitzwilliam?”

Elizabeth reflected for a long time. She wanted to meet him again, but his letter had destroyed any dream regarding him, and Mrs Barstow’s story about that lady had made it even more difficult.

“I do want to,” she finally said. “If I am to believe Papa, love is a pursuit , not just a fall .”