My response was one of disgust and anger—not merely at the act itself, but at the betrayal of the trust we had shared. Perhaps I reacted more harshly than necessary; but understand that at the time, the fear of association with scandal and gossip of such nature overwhelmed me. In my youthful pride, I feared damage to my own reputation. Furthermore, his behavior had grown intolerable in many other ways, and this was but the final confirmation of his lack of moral principle. I ended our friendship abruptly—perhapscruelly—but it was never from malicious intent, only from hurt and confusion.
I acknowledge that my reaction to Wickham was harsh—perhaps cruel—but I behaved so out of hurt. The trust of a lifelong friendship was shattered in a single moment, and I responded in the shock of youthful pride and wounded sensibilities.
When my father passed away, I was very emotionally distraught. His death occurred quite suddenly, in the middle of the summer, and it was necessary for the funeral to proceed immediately. There were many sensitive negotiations occurring at the time, and the attorneys insisted the will be read immediately. Upon seeing that my father had left Wickham the living at Kympton but only on the condition of ordination, I felt relief and sorrow for my old friend. Knowing that he had not even begun the process to be ordained—and therefore ineligible for my father’s bequest—I nevertheless sent him the sum of three thousand pounds in lieu of the living. My uncle, the attorneys, and my cousin all argued against this generosity, but I wished to do one last thing for my former friend.
Imagine my horror when, only a few years later, I discovered Georgiana and Wickham in an improper embrace at Ramsgate. Knowing intimately his depravity, dishonesty, and selfish disregard for virtue, as well as his hatred towards myself, I acted swiftly to separate them. My harsh treatment of him then was not out of mere prejudice, but out of sheer terror and protectiveness towards my sister. I saw Georgiana behaving in a way that threatened her future, and my sole desire was her safety.
I could not allow her to be the victim of revenge towards myself, for why else would a man with desires such as his wish to align himself with my young sister?
Now, to the second charge. You asked if my disdain for men who are attracted to other men was sincerely held, or merely the result of overwrought emotion. The truth, Miss Elizabeth, is that I have always considered such acts sinful, aligning myself with scriptural teachings and the expectations of society. I equally disdain infidelity, dishonesty, and wantonness in any relationship, whether between men and women, or otherwise.
However, my cousin Richard recently challenged my viewpoint. He rightly pointed out the hypocrisy in my sometimes selective condemnation of moral failings. He made me see that I have often judged harshly, without considering the essential quality of a person’s character. As Richard explained from his own experiences on the battlefield, character—honor, loyalty, integrity—is the true measure of a person’s worth, far more important than who a man chooses to love.
Character matters most. I judged Wickham harshly for his sin, but I was hypocritical in failing to equally condemn sins more socially acceptable, though equally abhorrent.
It grieves me deeply, Miss Bennet, to recognize that my harshness, my authoritative tone, and my demand that you avoid Wickham without explanation made you fear that I might seek to control you. It was never my intention to cause you anxiety or to raise concerns that I might ever separate you from your family. Your accusation regarding this has opened my eyes to a painful truth: my actions, however well-meant, could have harmed you irreparably. I apologize sincerely and promise to strive earnestly to correct this failing in myself.
If you will allow me, I would like to explain one thing further: I have long held responsibility for many people—servants, tenants, and my younger sister—without having to consider another person as a true partner. It is a new and humbling realization for me, and one I am committed to learning. I desire deeply to have a true equal in marriage, someone whose wisdom I can trust, whose judgment I can value, and whose heart I can cherish. I desire that person to be you, Elizabeth, if you could possibly forgive my faults and offer me another chance.
I love you. My heart is yours, entirely and without reservation. Yet I recognize that trust cannot be commanded; it must be earned. I hope that you can learn to trust me as I have learned to trust your judgment and your good character. I pray you will allow me the opportunity to prove that your trust in me is not misplaced.
I have always borne responsibility alone. To have a partner—to have you—is an honor and a responsibility I am unaccustomed to, but one I deeply desire. I acted wrongly in demanding your obedience rather than seeking your counsel. For this, I humbly ask your forgiveness. I promise to strive always for openness, mutual respect, and trust.
Tonight at the ball, if you are able to forgive me and give me hope, I beg that you would grant me the honor of the supper dance, in addition to our first set. If you remain uncertain, I will understand if only the first set remains mine. And should you wish to sever our understanding completely, I ask you to remove me from both dances, and I promise never to trouble you again.
I remain, with deepest sincerity and hope,
Your devoted servant,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Elizabeth sat in stunned silence long after she finished reading the letter, the paper trembling slightly in her fingers.
She had expected pride. She had expected excuses—justifications for his harshness, perhaps even condemnation for her assumptions.
But she had not anticipated humility. She had not anticipated a genuine reflection on his own actions and the admittance of fault where it was due.
Her eyes traced the elegant lines of his handwriting again and again, lingering over particular phrases that struck deep into her heart.
I acknowledge that my response to Wickham was harsh—perhaps cruel—but I acted from hurt and betrayal. The trust of a lifelong friendship was shattered in a single moment, and I responded in the shock of youthful pride and wounded sensibilities.
Her heart softened at the raw honesty of his confession. The depth of his anguish—his fear that others might see him differently, unfairly linked to a scandal not his own—had never occurred to her. She had never considered the vulnerability beneath his proud exterior.
She reread his description of Wickham at university—his womanizing, drinking, gambling, and deceit. Elizabeth flushed with shame at her own naïveté. She had been so quick to believe Wickham's charming manner, so eager to cast Darcy in the roleof the villain. Her own pride had blinded her as thoroughly as Darcy’s had blinded him.
Character matters most,he had written.I judged Wickham harshly for his sin, but I was hypocritical in failing to equally condemn sins more socially acceptable, though equally grievous.
Elizabeth's breath caught at this admission. For Darcy, of all men, to openly admit such hypocrisy—it was more than she had thought him capable of.
Yet, it was his words about partnership and equality that moved her most deeply.
I have always borne responsibility alone. To have a partner—to have you—is an honor and a responsibility I am unaccustomed to, but one I deeply desire. I acted wrongly in demanding your obedience rather than seeking your counsel. For this, I humbly ask your forgiveness. I promise to strive always for openness, mutual respect, and trust.
Tears blurred her vision as she read these words again. He understood. He understood her fears, her doubts, her need to be more than merely an ornament or possession. He respected her judgment—trusted her, valued her. It was everything she had hoped for, everything she had feared he might never offer.
Yet her gaze returned to the line about removing his name from her dance card if she wished to end all connection. It was such a stark, aching image. To erase him from her life entirely… Her chest tightened at the thought.
Could she trust him completely, with everything—even the secret she carried about her father? Could she trust him never to forbid her from seeing her family?
