Page 16 of Until My Last Breath

What a fool he had been.

And her enquires about Wickham. She had asked about that scoundrel already, at the ball, but Darcy had been too proud to explain himself to her.

If he had answered her questions and behaved like a proper gentleman, none of this would be happening now.

Fool. Fool!No wonder she could think him capable of abandoning her and taking a mistress, quite a common thing among his peers.

But he was not like that; he could never give his body to a relationship while his mind and heart were still engaged to someone else.

It was too late to regret it now. If Elizabeth could not be his wife, at least she should know the truth about him. It was a matter of honour to present her with the facts as they truly were.

Darcy finished the letter, put down his quill and stretched his painful fingers. Then, melting some wax, he sealed it.

He rubbed his head again. A growing headache had been afflicting him since he sat down to write many hours ago.

Weary and defeated, Darcy washed his face in the water left there from the day before and dressed himself in some fresh clothes. He could not face Wilfred and present a plausible excuse for his dreadful appearance.

The clock on the mantel was showing almost six; the sun was about to rise.

Despite the early hour, Darcy planned to leave the house by the same way he had entered it the night before — the servants’ stairs — thus avoiding any possible contact with Richard or his aunt.

Taking another deep breath and arming himself for the task ahead, he left his room.

On his way down, he met one of the upstairs maids and greeted her with a small nod. Downstairs, he could hear the sound of the servants in the kitchen and smelled the delicious aroma of fresh bread and cooked apples with cinnamon. But he could not allow himself the pleasure — not until his letter was delivered. Coming back to his senses, he forced his tired body to walk in the opposite direction, reaching, at last, the back entrance of the house.

The early spring breeze was cold, but not unpleasant. He closed his eyes, allowing himself a brief moment of contemplation before heading to the path where he usually met Elizabeth on her walks.

On his way, he pondered about the small chance of actually finding Elizabeth after what happened the night before. He knew that if she was as distressed as him, she would not be able to keep herself indoors.

Despite his despondence, he continued walking; after all, this might easily be his last chance to make amends.

As he progressed along the path, he noticed with great sadness that the same daffodils, which had marked one of the most important days of his life — the day he had decided to ask Elizabeth to marry him — were now withering into an unappealing hue of brown.

If this was not enough to make him believe that it was the end, waiting in the same place for more than half an hour with no sign of her certainly was.

Darcy’s hopes of delivering his letter and letting her know the truth suddenly vanished. Perhaps it was that painful thought; or perhaps it was the fact that he had been awake for more than twenty-four hours. At this point it did not matter; his spirit was finally broken.

In this nauseated state, he could not restrain himself anymore and surrendered to despair.

Collapsing on the floor close to one of the big oak trees, from which the place was famous for, Darcy threw his hat on the ground, leant back on the rough surface of the trunk and shut his eyes, squeezing his head in auseless attempt to lessen the excruciating pain engulfing his body and soul.

~ ♥ ~

Elizabeth knelt at his side, calling his name and timidly touching his shoulder. But Mr Darcy did not respond. She called for him again and, this time, he moved his head towards her. He tried to open his eyes, but the pain caused by the light was unbearable and he moaned.

His reaction panicked her. Without any further consideration, Elizabeth removed her bonnet and gloves, held his head with both of her hands and carefully examined it.

“Mr Darcy,” she called him again.

Darcy struggled to understand what was happening. Perhaps he had finally fallen asleep for he was dreaming about Elizabeth. He could hear his name being called by her sweet voice and could feel the warmth of her soft hands on his face.

The recollection of all the events of the previous night — their strife, their angry exchange of words and accusations, her rejection, his pain, his letter — rushed into Darcy’s mind and he opened his eyes.

Her honey-coloured eyes were there, just in front of him, looking at him intensely, worrying for him. He could even feel her warm breath caressing his face.

Darcy thought better than to allow himself to hope for anything beyond her Christian duty to someone in his present situation, as a wave of shame came over him. Gathering the little strength that was left in his tired body, he forced himself to stand, trying to maintain his last bit of pride.

She helped him up. “Mr Darcy, are you hurt?”

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