Page 33 of Moments of Truth
Darcy accepted it with his right hand, a faint flush of shame rising over his cheekbones. He unfolded the parchment with studied care, though his fingers trembled slightly. His heart beat quick, as though every line might lift or sink him forever.
Colonel Fitzwilliam crossed his arms, watching in silence, his boot tapping against the floorboards in impatient rhythm.
As Darcy read further, his brow contracted, his eyes darkened with concern, and once—just once—his lips parted as though a sigh had escaped him. His heart lurched at the thought of Elizabeth—Miss Bennet—feeling neglected, or wounded by his manner.
“Oh, what a fool I have been,” he murmured hoarsely.
The Colonel raised an eyebrow at this admission but forbore to speak.
Elizabeth’s words, clear and candid, detailed her confusion, her wounded pride, and yet—something gentler too, a tone that spoke of possibility. Darcy read them twice over, scarcelytrusting the evidence of his senses. When at last he folded the letter and laid it upon the polished mahogany of his desk, he pinched the bridge of his nose and bowed his head, his whole frame speaking the weight of regret and longing.
“I must make this right,” he muttered, scarcely above a whisper. “I owe Miss Bennet—not merely an explanation, but an apology, a confession, and my utmost candour.”
“But it is already evening,” his cousin reminded him, more softly now. “And we leave for London at first light. Do not forget, Darcy.”
“I know, I know,” Darcy replied, running a hand across his temple. “You are forever right, and I forever stubborn. Yet—I think I have found a way.”
***
At Hunsford, after dinner, Mr. Collins excused himself, declaring with solemnity that he must retire to his study to prepare the sermon for Sunday. He disliked leaving such sacred duties until the last moment, preferring to be well-prepared in advance. Without a written discourse before him, Mr. Collins would most certainly weary his parishioners with endless and unnecessary orations, losing himself in digressions no soul wished to hear. Thus, he filled page upon page with his ponderings, only to strike out much when transcribing them anew.
As soon as he withdrew, Elizabeth turned to Mrs. Collins with an eagerness she could no longer contain. She begged her friend for a private conversation, which Charlotte readily granted, though not before sending Maria to her chamber forher accustomed hour of evening reading. At Lucas Lodge, Sir William had always valued this custom, believing it sound both for the cultivation of the mind and for ensuring a tranquil rest. Charlotte, unwilling to discourage what was so proper, continued the habit in her household.
Once Maria’s light steps had faded upstairs, Elizabeth released the tension she had borne since their recent call at Rosings. Her voice betrayed both reproach and hurt as she exclaimed:
“Charlotte, why did you take my letter and deliver it to Colonel Fitzwilliam? I left it here, for it no longer bore meaning after receiving Mr. Darcy’s note. How could you act so without asking me first?”
“If I had asked you, Lizzy, would you have consented?” Charlotte returned, calm as ever.
“Of course not,” Elizabeth admitted.
“Well then, my dear friend, the reason is plain.”
“All right, but—”
“Problems, Lizzy, only find their solutions if addressed in time. Had you kept silent, the breach would have widened beyond remedy. You would not be able to communicate with Mr. Darcy again before his departure.”
“But you saw! He would not even look at me. He scarcely acknowledged my presence.”
“You have said yourself that Mr. Darcy is a proud man. Would you expect one whose heart is wounded by what he considers an unjust rejection to speak readily with the lady who gave the wound?”
“Not at all, Charlotte. Precisely—he should—”
“He needed your response. And before Lady Catherine, he could not possibly speak without creating new troubles, perhaps even worse ones.”
“And since he and the Colonel are leaving in the morning—”
“There remained few alternatives, Lizzy. Believe me, in this instance, I acted for the best.”
“That is your talent, Charlotte—always thinking of everything.”
“It is not talent, my dear, but experience. I am six years your elder,” Charlotte said with thoughtful gravity, before chuckling lightly with Elizabeth in the same instant.
“Very well—experience then. And what does your vast experience tell you?”
But Charlotte had no time to answer. Nancy appeared at the door, executed an awkward curtsy, and announced, “Madam, a boy from Rosings waits with a message for Miss Bennet. Shall I ask him to stay?”
Charlotte extended her hand, accepted the note, and presented it to Elizabeth. “Here you are, Lizzy. Let us see whether my experience has worked in your favour.”
