Page 66 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“Wickham?” I had not thought of him for weeks, other than worrying about his proximity to Lydia while she visited Brighton.
“You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns!”
“I have not the slightest interest in Mr. Wickham. Or his concerns.”
Mr. Darcy’s lips sneered, the next moment he was puzzled, then he was angry again. His hand grabbed the mantelpiece, and ornaments rattled. “Then what? Why, with so little regret, am I rejected?”
There it was. His privilege, bare and obvious. To think that, once, I had almost been fooled. Hot anger climbed in my chest.
“Shall I remind you of the language of your declaration? We stand in your aunt’s estate financed by the misery of slaves, and you dare to disdain my relations? Pemberley itself has benefited from this moral corruption, and you declare me a disgrace? A degradation?”
“So you wish I flattered you? Concealed my struggles? But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.”
“How strange, when you are so skilled at concealment. Have you not egregiously misled and betrayed me all these weeks?” He had the temerity to appear confused, and my anger erupted. “Do you thinkanyconsideration would tempt me to accept the man who has ruined, perhaps forever, the happiness—indeed, the very life—of a most beloved sister?”
Realization dawned over his face, but he said nothing.
“Can you deny you have done it?” I repeated.
At last, he answered, “I have no wish to deny that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister.”
“Your vanity astounds me. Did you think I would not discover the truth? Did you imagine the Darcy name would overwhelm my senses, or purge my love for my family? But I can guess the answer. The wealthy believe their money buys anything. You satisfy every selfish whim with your purse. Why not a wyfe?”
“And this is your criticism! With no knowledge of my family, or of my work—indeed, in ignorance of every aspect of my life—you condemn me as self-indulgent and decadent. But perhaps, if I had hidden the vile history of my fortune, you would have been comforted. Even though I have worked tirelessly to level that moral balance.” He stepped closer, rigid with anger. “To think I admired—” He recoiled as if struck, although I stood unmoving, then his posture became entreating and his voice desperate. “Iadmireyour insistence on truth.Yougave me the courage to challenge the dark pall of Pemberley.”
His intensity penetrated my anger. “What dark pall?”
He fell utterly still, his lips a fraction apart.
A breath passed, and another, and my fury broke free. “Silence, again. Your scruple for truth is most one-sided. Scrutinize yourself, for your disdain isilluminating.” My voice rang out. “What deficiencies condemn my sister and me? Lack of wealth? Insufficient influence? Those are superficial, egotistical concerns. They are beneath consideration for a gentleman, and they are inconsequential to me. As areyou. Indeed, immediately upon our acquaintance, your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish entitlement proved you were the last man in the world whom I would ever marry!”
There were inches between us. I stepped back, my shoulders rising and falling as if I had run a mile.
Mr. Darcy paled like death. My heart pounded my ribs.
When he spoke, his voice was cracked and pitted—brittle iron hammered flat. “You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings. Forgive me for having taken up your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”
He snapped a bow and left.
26
RESPECT
Charlotte returned,and I stammered an explanation of my sudden decision to leave. Then I retired to rest, pleading exhaustion. That was true—I had not slept the night before. I collapsed on the bed and woke to a brightening window.
The narrow guest bed was cozy with layers of wool and cotton. Birds chirped outside. Yesterday’s disconnected scraps of ideas returned, but coherent. What had felt desperate, now seemed possible. Maybe it was the birdsong and a rising sun.
I organized my things to depart, ate a bite of breakfast, then stepped outside for one last walk to fit the final pieces, hopping familiar logs and dodging rough spots while I thought.
When I saw Mr. Darcy approaching, I stopped to see what he would do. That part of yesterday seemed remote and fanciful.
He held out a letter. My fingers took it.
Precisely, he said, “I have been walking for some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honor of reading this letter?” With a slight bow, he strode off and was soon out of sight.
Apprehensive but curious, I examined the envelope. The Darcy seal, pressed into burgundy wax, was elaborate. I pressed my thumbs to shatter it thoroughly, then opened the envelope.
There were two sheets of paper written in a close hand. I forded a few yardsof wilderness to reach a groomed lane where I could read while my feet wandered.
