Elizabeth’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She was standing in a grove with a woman who had apparently masterminded a lifelong, clinical deception purely to avoid bookkeeping.
Miss de Bourgh did not give her time to recover. She stepped closer, her eyes locking onto Elizabeth’s.
“We have very little time before Mrs Jenkinson manages to escape the mulch conversation,” Miss de Bourgh stated briskly. “So, I shall be brief. I know everything.”
Elizabeth felt the blood drain from her face. “Everything?”
“I know that my cousin Fitzwilliam cornered you in the parsonage.” Miss de Bourgh listed on her gloved fingers. “I know that he delivered a proposal of such staggering ineptitude that it defies human comprehension. I know that you rejected him with a ferocity that has left him emotionally incapacitated.”
Elizabeth took a step back, her heart hammering.How could she possibly know?Mr Darcy would never have spoken of such a humiliation.
“And,” Miss de Bourgh continued, delivering the final, fatal blow, “I know about the horrific mistake of the misdelivered letter. The one residing in your possession.”
Elizabeth gasped, her hand flying to her throat. “He... he told you? Mr Darcy told you he gave me a letter?”
“He did not tell me. He screamed it at the ceiling of his bedchamber while having a total collapse,” Miss de Bourgh corrected. “I was eavesdropping. It is a favourite pastime of mine. When one is universally presumed to be frail and dying, people say the most fascinating things without care.”
The grove seemed to spin around Elizabeth. The secret was out. The master of Pemberley had not just humiliated himself in front of her; he had shouted it from the rafters to his entire family.
“I am... I am mortified on his behalf,” Elizabeth whispered, with a sudden protective urge towards the man she had sworn to hate.
“Do not be.” Miss de Bourgh waved a dismissive hand. “It is the best thing that has ever happened to him. Fitzwilliam has spent the last twenty-eight years behaving like a marble statue. It is immensely refreshing to see him shatter. It proves he is human, no better than the rest of us, and not just a collection of expensive waistcoats and strict opinions.”
Elizabeth stared at this startling ally. Anne de Bourgh was not the pathetic, sickly creature she had appeared. She was clever, observant, and unsentimental.
“You are agreeing with my right to be furious with him?” Elizabeth tested the waters.
“Of course I am.” Miss de Bourgh validated Elizabeth’s right to be furious with her cousin without hesitation. “He is an idiot. He insulted your family, he insulted your connections, and he proposed as if he were handing down a prison sentence. You were justified in flaying him alive.”
Elizabeth had spent months battling Mr Darcy’s arrogance, and to hear his own cousin agree with her assessment was intoxicating.
“However,” Miss de Bourgh continued, her tone shifting from vindictive amusement to piercing sincerity. She stepped closer again, forcing Elizabeth to hold her gaze. “I must also confirm something else. That raw emotion poured into that accidental letter? The crossed-out words? The metaphors about wardens and prisons?”
Elizabeth swallowed hard. “Yes?”
“That is the truest reflection of Darcy’s heart.” Miss de Bourgh’s voice turned gentle. “He did not draft that for an audience. He wrote it in the dead of night, in a state of unvarnished despair. He loves you, Miss Elizabeth. He loves you to the point of madness. And a love like that, from a man like him, is not something you encounter twice in a lifetime.”
The words made Elizabeth flinch. The memory of the jagged handwriting flashed in her mind.I cannot sleep. I cannot eat.
Miss de Bourgh reached out and briefly touched Elizabeth’s arm. “I urge you to speak with him earnestly. Do not let him flee to London believing you think him a monster. He is a fool, yes. But he is a fool who loves you.”
The sympathy in Elizabeth’s chest flared, bright and hot. She wanted to believe it. She wanted to believe that the proud man who had slighted her at Meryton was capable of such affection.
But then, the shadow of her sister fell across her heart, the lingering resentment coming back to life. She stiffened, pulling her arm away from Miss de Bourgh’s touch. She raised her chin, her eyes flashing with the fury she reserved solely for those she loved.
“I appreciate your candour, Miss de Bourgh.” Elizabeth refused to yield. “And I accept that his confession is genuine. I accept that his feelings for me are real.”
“But?” Miss de Bourgh prompted, sensing the impending storm.
“But I cannot forgive his interference in Jane’s happiness.” Elizabeth’s voice trembled with righteous anger. “It does not matter if he loves me to the point of madness. It does not excuse what he did to my sister. He separated her from Mr Bingley. He judged her, found her wanting, and convinced his friend to abandon her. Mr Darcy broke my sister’s heart through his presumptuous, high-handed meddling.”
Elizabeth paced a short distance away, then turned to face Miss de Bourgh, her arms crossed over her chest. “How can I possibly speak earnestly to a man who uses his power and influence to destroy the happiness of the person I love most in the world? He is a hypocrite! He begs for my compassion while showing none to Jane!”
Miss de Bourgh did not flinch, nor did she defend her cousin’s actions. Instead, she stood still, watching Elizabeth’s fiery display with detached appreciation.
When Elizabeth finally paused for breath, her chest heaving with indignation, Miss de Bourgh spoke. “I agree with you.”
Elizabeth blinked, thrown off balance. “You do?”
