Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fourteen

Following a wordless instinct that demanded he avoid that which was painful, and living with his blind desperation to be away , Darcy grabbed his horse and rode directly south.

How could she not love him if he loved her?

Why, why, why?

Her words echoed in his head: I didn't choose this .

She didn't want him. She never had wanted him. She said that she wished she had never married him.

This was the sole point around which his thoughts revolved for the first fifteen miles of his ride. But after he'd had to bring the horse back to a canter, down from its earlier gallop, his mind started working around the question in more detail.

It was not, strictly, true, he noted to himself that she had to marry him.

She said that it was to avoid the rumors and damage that would be done to her sisters when it spread around the town that she had been kissed by him. That was a thing that was to her benefit.

Pedantry and lawyering.

The only reason she faced that choice, to either marry a man she disliked or leave the reputation of herself and her sisters in tatters was because he'd pressed his kiss upon her.

She'd said it had been a mistake to marry him.

After everything, after the way he thought… he thought she took pleasure with him as much as he did with her. They… she had been his wife. They had lived together, they had met his relations, she had become Georgiana's friend. Mrs. Reynolds liked and respected her.

They had joined together in bed nearly every night.

And after all that.

All that.

After all that she still said it had been a mistake to have married him.

Because he showed no consideration for the feelings of anyone.

He had again and again shown her consideration. He had allowed her to dress as she wished. He had not forced his way into her bed last night when she said she was ill.

Ha!

Why didn't she think about that ?

But why should she ever let him into her bed? He had never asked her to be allowed.

Darcy started to cry.

There was a small forest wilderness nearby, and Darcy stopped there, pacing back and forth for several minutes in the cold until he recovered himself enough to proceed along the familiar road without making a spectacle of himself.

What was he to do now?

Obviously, he could not touch Elizabeth if she did not want him.

She did not want him.

And the next point followed from that.

He could not bear to stay at Pemberley at present. Watching her, seeing her. Seeing her being happy, smiling at Georgiana and everyone else, perhaps even smiling at him once the argument was a fading memory — all that, and not being able to touch her.

Where would he go instead?

The road was set before him. He already was upon it.

London.

He would go to London. Colonel Fitzwilliam was there, Bingley was there, and there always were matters of business to be attended to in the capital.

Darcy rode onwards down the road, and when he saw an inn, he went in, and took private rooms upstairs for himself, and gave coin for his horse to be cared for.

He could not eat, so he refused the offer of food, but he asked for writing supplies to be sent up, along with a cup of tea.

When everything was set out on the stable wooden desk in the room, he sat down.

Dipped the quill in the ink. He lifted the pen, holding it at an angle so that the ink would not drip while he decided where to start.

Dear Elizabeth,

Was she "Dear Elizabeth"?

Yes, she was very dear to him.

Darcy replaced the quill in the inkpot and stood and paced around. What did she need to know?

First, not only Elizabeth, but the whole house needed to know that he was going to London.

That could be the first line.

But what were the matters that he needed to settle with Elizabeth? What did he wish her to know ?

He could not defend himself with regard to how he had kissed her. But he must apologize, even though that would do her no good.

Mr. Bingley. And Miss Bennet.

That… Elizabeth's words suggested a deep confidence that Miss Bennet loved his friend, and that she was heartbroken to have lost him — and lost him with no explanation.

This had been his doing, and his mistake.

He could explain how the mistake had happened, so that she would understand, and so that she could tell her sister how it had happened.

And lastly, he needed to explain everything about Wickham, not only to justify himself, but to ensure that Elizabeth would know what sort of man he was, in detail, and be able to communicate that to her sisters still in Longbourn.

Darcy sat down again.

The first matter it is incumbent upon me to speak of is my behavior in the library on the night of Bingley's ball at Netherfield. I now see that my kissing you at that time, and in that way was in fact reprehensible, and perhaps unforgivable.

My chief excuse is that I honestly believed you wished me to kiss you, that you were in that room to offer me an opportunity to do so, and that you had lifted your face up and looked at me in that manner that I can recall as a perfect image even now, to entice me to kiss you.

I see now that this was all an illusion.

Or if it was in some way true, it was as you said, unconsciously done. I believe you that it was not your intent. I saw what I wished to see in your face, and then I acted in an undisciplined and dishonorable manner.

I have never had any great experience with the fair sex. I always believed — this is something that was taught to me by my father — that every woman who was not my superior in rank and fortune was desperate to convince me to marry her for the sake of improving her position in life. I learned to think of myself chiefly in the nature of a treasure chest whose lock was constantly being tried. This led me to avoid female company, and when in company with women, to be cautious in my dealings.

Furthermore, I have always been a man who took religious and social duties seriously, and these principles forbade me from treating with women under terms of close intimacy without the promise of marriage.

Perhaps this is a partial cause of my inability to understand your motivations and the meaning of your expressions. While my explanation may help you to understand, it does not in any way excuse my behavior. That was wrong, and that was dishonorable, and I will do as much as I can to make recompense to you — even though the situation is such that it is impossible for me to return to you your ability to choose, and I regret that more than anything.

No — I regret equally that I never asked you to marry me. I simply assumed.

The second matter with which you confronted me this morning was the subject of your sister and my friend, Mr. Bingley. It seems that you have learned that I was instrumental in the separation of those parties, and the breaking of an attachment which had seemed to have a fair promise of marriage.

I did this, and since I must trust your superior knowledge of your sister, it seems that I have caused harm to both parties by doing so.

It had only come to my attention during the night of the ball that it was widely expected for the two of them to make a match. I spent an hour after our dance observing your sister and Mr. Bingley closely. Your sister appeared to me to be reserved in his company, and to not smile more frequently at him than at others. It became my firm belief on the basis of this observation that she was wholly indifferent to him. On this basis, and on the conviction that your sister would not be in a position to refuse the offer merely due to indifference, I decided then that I would counsel Mr. Bingley to depart for London for the sake of breaking the connection the next day. I also decided that I would absent myself as well, because I believed that I had become too influenced by you for my own peace of mind.

I say this to defend myself against the charge of having dealt this damage to your sister out of spite and anger. The damage was done to her, and done by me, but my motivation was an interest in the wellbeing of my friend, and not an intention to harm your sister.

As you know my intent to absent myself from the neighborhood was overthrown by our conversation in the library, and the significant consequences which flowed from it.

When I spoke to Bingley the next day about Miss Bennet, I was angry, and I was full of a conviction that the members of your family could be relied upon to take any action which would improve their situation. I spoke more harshly and passionately than I would have otherwise to Bingley. However, in truth, I believe that my high emotions at the time did more damage than good to my cause. The central point which convinced him was solely the belief in your sister's indifference.

Bingley has always been a diffident man, with little trust in his own powers, who preferred to adopt the judgement of others to that of himself, at least when he believed those others to have a sound judgement. It was only when I calmed from my first anger and was able to explain the reasons for my belief in Miss Bennet's indifference with reference to the details I had memorized while closely observing the couple the previous night that he was convinced to retreat to London.

After he had finished writing the part of the letter which pertained to Mr. Bingley and Miss Bennet, Darcy rose from the seat. He shook out his wrist. It hurt from the cramped and tight grip he had held the pen with.

The story of Mr. Wickham and Georgiana's elopement was easier by far to write. As Elizabeth already knew that Georgiana had attempted to elope with Mr. Wickham, there was no reason for him to hold back any details, as he believed that the truth of the matter would encourage her to both continue to look favorably upon his sister, and for her to drop from her mind any notion that Wickham might be worthy for Georgiana.

Darcy penned the tale of the young man's relation to his family, and when he finished writing it out, Darcy added to the letter:

I hardly need to add that what I have written about Mr. Wickham's failings is to a great extent irrelevant. He was a penniless man who attached himself to a great heiress merely fifteen years of age, and with whom there had been a relationship of close trust to the family that has been completely ended.

Furthermore, rather than applying in any way to the girl's guardians for the opportunity to court her, and to see if the attachment with this heiress barely out of her school room remained after an appropriate period of time, he conspired with her paid companion to convince the girl to elope, removing herself from the protection of her family and friends, and eloping to Scotland, unprotected — the question of whether such a man is sincere in his attachment hardly need arise in the mind of the guardian before he determines to end the scheme, and separate the young couple forthwith.

If you think I must defend my actions in that respect further, I believe we have simply so different a notion of what the duty of a guardian is towards one who is not yet of age, and in their protection, as to concern me greatly given the chance that fate may yet require us to raise children in partnership at a future time.

Darcy looked at that line.

Frowned.

He did not want to suggest anything about their marital congress.

He could not go to her again while she disliked the prospect. Forcing a woman, even his wife… forcing her… or even having her whilst she merely tolerated him out of duty.

I don't want that. That isn't what I want. I need her to desire me, to lust for me as I lust for her. I need her to look forward with pleasure towards my touch.

And yet… and yet … his body longed for her again.

It was unfair.

He had held himself to an honorable and pure course of life until he married. And now, after finally marrying, finally knowing that pleasure, he might never be able to allow himself to have it again.

You will do what is right .

A voice suspiciously like his father's sounded in his mind.

Yes.

He would do what was right.

And it was not right to force himself into the bed of even his wedded wife. This opinion made him eccentric and many of his friends would judge him a fool for saying that. His uncle certainly would.

No… his uncle would say that continuing the Darcy line was of greater importance than respecting maidenly primness. This was a matter of principle. He had always lived his life according to his own principles, and that was something which would not ever change. He had made vows before God and man, and what was more, before his own conscience and honor.

No matter how unpleasant, how empty, and how… vain. No matter how vain, both in the sense of vanity, and the sense of pointlessness. He would keep his vows.

Elizabeth despised him.

And… Jove. By Jove, he had been such a damned fool.

Darcy could not think of himself except with the greatest sense of condemnation.

He had not known what he was about, and he had thus stumbled into consequences that were irretrievable, and that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

This was a suitable fate for a man who could not control his physical passions with his will and intellect.

Darcy looked down at the letter he'd written.

He crossed out the last part of the letter from If you think I must defend my actions …

The entire passage was wholly uncharitable. He scratched at it until he believed it to be unreadable. Or at least not likely to be read without great effort, and if Elizabeth should take that effort, she would know full well that this was a sentiment he refused to own.

He stared down at the page.

The last line still uncrossed said: the question of whether he is sincere in his attachment hardly needs to arise in the mind of the guardian before he decides to end the scheme and separate the young couple forthwith.

Elizabeth's father had insulted her in a vile way when she'd come home.

Poor Elizabeth! He saw it in his mind's eye — Elizabeth and the father who she adored, and who she expected to protect her — and then he told her that she had been at fault, and he fully misunderstood what her behavior had been.

No.

He couldn't think about Elizabeth with real kindness yet. It was too painful. She had refused him. She despised him.

He wrote beneath the scratched out section:

A guardian ought to be motivated by sincere concern for the well-being of his charge. I believe you understand as well as I do that a father, or another relative standing in that place, should act in a way that shows his love and affection and which pursues the best interest of their charge, without regard for any other concern. Leaving aside all considerations of my reputation, wealth, social standing and expectation, given what I know of Mr. Wickham's character, I cannot believe that it would have been conducive to Georgiana's future happiness to permit any ongoing connection or conversation between the two of them.

If I have been mistaken in this, it was well meant, and a man must live according to the best of his talents, and the Almighty will judge him in accordance to how hard he has tried to turn his talents to profit, and not in accordance to whether he found success in the effort.

This is the true end of my dealings with Mr. Wickham.

I will only add,

God Bless you.

Fitzwilliam Darcy

He let out a deep breath.

Then Darcy sealed the paper with dripping red wax and his ring.

He addressed it to Elizabeth Darcy.

And then he stared at the name again for a long time. Odd, to see his own name after hers.

That piercing pain again started to overwhelm him.

Darcy quickly penned another note that was to be seen by everyone in the house in which he wrote that unavoidable business required him to go to London.

That was also quickly closed and sealed and addressed to Elizabeth as well.

Then a note to Mrs. Reynolds specifying a few matters and telling her to view Mrs. Darcy as fully empowered to make any decision touching on the household. He wondered why he added that.

But it had been Mrs. Reynolds telling him about the portrait that precipitated the events of the day, and she might have learned somehow that they had quarreled afterwards.

That time seemed strangely distant. A long time ago.

Terribly, terribly long ago.

Another note to his steward, this one took substantially longer to write, as there were important matters of business that he was neglecting for the sake of his wholly fictitious business in London — or rather his very real business of not being tormented by the daily sight of Elizabeth, when she did not want him to touch her.

Darcy leaned his head against the chair. His hand ached from too much writing.

It was almost dark now, and his body ached.

He'd ridden out without his carriage.

One more quick note to the stables telling them to send it up to the next post station south of the inn he currently sat in, with the coachman and postillions. It would be there for him the next morning when he woke, and he'd take rooms there for the night.

Darcy stood up and shook himself out.

He rang for the servant, gave the letters over, paid for the work, and then returned to his horse, and set off slowly south down the road .