“Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice steady despite the emotions swelling in his chest, “is my concern, madam.”
Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed, her lips pursed in disapproval. She crossed the room, the rustle of her silk gown filling the tense silence. “Darcy, I must remind you that your actions reflect upon our entire family, and it is our duty to ensure that no scandal befalls us. Your concern must not exceed that obligation.”
Darcy felt the weight of his family’s expectations bearing down on him. But as he thought of Elizabeth’s sparkling eyes and quick wit, something inside him rebelled against those very expectations.
“Be that as it may, Aunt,” he replied, “my happiness cannot be sacrificed to reputation alone. Should Miss Bennet ever engage my affections, I shall not dismiss them lightly.”
“Your heart may deceive you, Nephew,” Lady Catherine warned, her expression stern. “So, I must inform you that Miss Elizabeth Bennet is engaged to Mr. Collins, a man more suited to her social standing.”
Darcy’s heart plummeted like a stone into the depths of despair. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak.
“Engaged?” he finally managed to say, more steadily than he felt.
“Yes, engaged,” Lady Catherine confirmed, the satisfaction evident in her tone. “So you see, Mr. Darcy, pursuing Miss Bennet would not only be unwise but also futile. You must let her go.”
As he stood there, reeling from this revelation, Darcy wrestled with disbelief and anger, yet even as the shock took hold, something in him resisted immediate surrender to it.
“Thank you for informing me, Aunt,” he said at last, his voice cold and resolute. “I shall take your words into consideration. It would be well if you were equally disposed to consider mine. I shall dine in my room; I would not wish to intrude upon Vicar Wickham’s appetite. Good evening, Aunt.”
And with that, Darcy strode from the room, his mind already fixed upon one necessity: he must learn the truth for himself, and without delay.
***
Darcy did not linger after Lady Catherine’s declaration, for the idea she had advanced admitted neither patience nor delay, and though his outward composure remained intact, there was within him a disturbance too urgent to be quieted by reflection alone. That Elizabeth Bennet—whose discernment he had come to value, and whose spirit he had learned to admire even against his inclination—might have accepted Mr. Collins struck at once against both his understanding and his pride; yet, asserted as fact, it could not be dismissed without proof.
He quitted Rosings with little ceremony, taking up his hat and passing through the hall without summoning assistance, for the habit of command yielded, in that moment, to something far more immediate. The rain, which had gathered unseen and broken suddenly into violence, descended now in a hard, unrelenting torrent, beating upon the gravel with a force that rendered every step uncertain and every shelter desirable; yet he crossed the threshold without pause, as though insensible alike to inconvenience and exposure, and gave himself up to the storm with a determination which admitted neither delay nor reconsideration.
The evening air, heavy and wind-driven, seemed to close upon him as he advanced, the rain striking against his face and coat with a persistence that might have checked a less resolute mind, yet could not divert him from a purpose already formed. His thoughts, no less agitated than the sky above him, movedin rapid and opposing currents—now rejecting the report as impossible, now admitting it with a reluctance bordering upon dread—never resting long enough upon either conclusion to afford him ease, while the violence of the weather, instead of dispersing his reflections, appeared only to give them sharper urgency.
There was, in his manner, a haste wholly foreign to his usual command of himself, for though his step remained firm, it was quicker than his habit allowed, and bore the unmistakable impression of a mind pressed beyond its ordinary restraint. The rain, driven at intervals with greater force, clung to him without his notice, as though the external discomfort were too slight to compete with that inward disturbance which no effort of reason could immediately subdue, and which, once admitted, demanded resolution rather than endurance.
The road to the inn was neither long nor difficult, yet it seemed to him extended beyond its natural measure, for his mind would admit no diversion, returning always to the same intolerable question. If the report were false, it must be exposed without delay; if true, it must be borne—but not without resistance, nor without understanding how such a conclusion had been reached.
By the time he arrived, the urgency which had driven him forward had resolved into something more controlled, though not less intense, and he entered with a steadiness that concealed, rather than diminished, the force of his purpose. He inquired directly for Mr. Bennet, and was conducted without delay to a private room, where that gentleman received him with a composure that seemed proof against interruption.
“Mr. Darcy,” he said, rising with polite attention, though not without a shade of curiosity in his expression, “this visit, Ithink, must be attributed to something more pressing than mere civility, for you do not appear a man easily governed by sudden impulse, nor one to venture abroad in such weather without sufficient cause.”
“I must beg a few moments of your time, Mr. Bennet, upon a matter which cannot, I fear, be delayed,” Darcy replied, declining to sit, for he stood before him drenched from head to foot, his coat heavy with water, and the rain still falling from the brim of the hat he held in his hand, and speaking with a directness which, though perfectly civil, was wholly without ornament. “The question I have to ask concerns your daughter, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and I would not willingly proceed upon uncertainty where the truth may be obtained.”
The older gentleman regarded him with increased interest, and, resuming his seat, allowed a brief pause to follow, his eye resting upon his visitor with a composure not wholly unmixed with amusement, as though the condition in which he appeared rendered all explanation unnecessary.
“I have been informed,” Darcy continued, after a brief pause, during which he seemed to measure how far he might trust himself to speak without restraint, “that Miss Bennet is engaged to Mr. Collins, and that the matter is already settled. I must therefore request, sir, that you confirm or deny this report without reserve, for I cannot remain satisfied with conjecture where such a claim has been so confidently asserted.”
A slight pause followed, during which Mr. Bennet’s brows rose with deliberate slowness, and his expression, though composed, admitted a trace of amusement which he made no effort to conceal.
“Engaged?” he repeated, as though the word required examination before it could be accepted. “To Mr. Collins? Mydear sir, you present me with intelligence of which I had not the smallest suspicion, and I cannot but admire the expedition with which my daughter is supposed to have arranged her future without troubling herself with either my knowledge or consent.”
Darcy did not relax, though his attention sharpened visibly.
“The information was given to me by Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” he said, with measured restraint, “and delivered with such assurance that I could not, in prudence, disregard it without immediate inquiry.”
“That, I think, was wisely done,” returned Mr. Bennet, leaning back with a composure now more evidently touched with satisfaction, “for I can assure you, upon my word, that no such engagement exists, nor has any such understanding been formed between my daughter and Mr. Collins, either by inclination or arrangement.”
For a moment, Darcy remained entirely still, his hand, which had rested upon the back of a chair, tightening almost imperceptibly before relaxing again, as though the answer, though simple, required time to be fully received; then, by degrees, the tension which had governed his whole manner gave way. The severity of his expression softened; his breath, unconsciously restrained, was released; and though he turned slightly aside, the change was too marked to escape observation.
“Then it is not true,” Mr. Darcy said at last, more quietly than before, yet with a steadiness that had been absent from his earlier tone.
“It is not true, sir,” Mr. Bennet replied, watching him now with open attention, and not without a degree of inward satisfaction which he did not trouble himself to disguise. “And I may add, for your further comfort, that my daughter is not atpresent disposed of in any direction whatsoever, nor, I believe, under any immediate danger of being so.”
