But the laughter evaporated as quickly as it came, leaving behind a complicated knot in her chest.
She had read the letter three times, deciphering the aggressively scored-out words. She had absorbed the revelations regarding Mr Wickham, omitting the delicate secret involving Mr Darcy’s younger sister from her general assessment, storing it away in a vault of sympathy.
She had fully accepted his innocence regarding Mr Wickham. The charming, amiable militia officer who had so effortlessly won the favour of Meryton was a scoundrel of the highest order. Mr Darcy had not ruined him; he had merely refused to be bled dry by a profligate rogue. Elizabeth felt a flush of shame at her own blindness. She, who prided herself on her penetration, had been duped by a handsome face and a tragic story.
But then, there was Jane.
The injury done to Jane remained a burning ember in her heart, refusing to be extinguished by Darcy’s confessions of love. He lovedher, yes. He was apparently dismantled by his affection for her, but he had still separated her sister from the man she loved, acting as judge and jury over Jane’s gentle heart. He had meddled. He had been arrogant enough to believe he knew best.
“How can a man be so intelligent, so deeply feeling, and so utterly stupid all at once?” Elizabeth asked the empty chamber, throwing her hands into the air.
A knock came upon the door.
“Lizzy?” The sensible voice of Charlotte Collins drifted through the door. “Are you well? You have been pacing a trench into the floorboards for an hour. We can hear you from the parlour downstairs. Mr Collins is beginning to worry that your slipper will appear through the ceiling.”
“Come in, Charlotte,” Elizabeth called out, rapidly smoothing her hair and moving to unlock the door.
Charlotte entered the room. She wore her usual expression of calm competence, being a woman who could successfully manage a vicar, a poultry yard, and a formidable patroness. She took one look at Elizabeth, whose eyes were wild and whose cheeks were flushed, and assessed the situation instantly.
“You look as though you have been struck by lightning,” she observed. “Has Lady Catherine demanded you recite a sermon from memory? Or did the chimney sweep drop soot on your best pelisse?”
“Neither.” Elizabeth pointed a trembling finger at the bed. “It is far worse.”
Charlotte eyed the crumpled paper on the bed. “A letter? From Jane? Is someone ill?”
“No. Not from Jane.” Elizabeth took a deep breath as though she were about to confess a murder. “From Mr Darcy.”
Charlotte stopped in her tracks, her eyebrows climbing to her hairline. “Mr Darcy wrote to you? Hand-delivered to the parsonage?”
“Hand-delivered in the grove. With a bow. And silence.” Elizabeth walked over to the bed and picked up the paper as if it were poisonous. “Charlotte... he proposed to me last night.”
Charlotte Collins, a woman with an imperturbable calm nature, swayed on her feet. She sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. “He proposed? Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of Pemberley, nephew to an earl, proposed to you?”
“Yes. And I refused him. Loudly. And angrily.”
Charlotte closed her eyes, looking as though she were internally calculating the exact financial loss to the penny. “Lizzy. Ten thousand a year.”
“Charlotte, please. He told me he was proposing against his better judgment, his family’s expectations, and his own common sense. He essentially told me that loving me was a severe character flaw that he could no longer suppress.”
“A little rude, perhaps, but still. Ten. Thousand. A. Year.”
“I told him he was the last man in the world I could ever be prevailed upon to marry. I accused him of ruining Jane’s happiness and destroying Mr Wickham.” Elizabeth held up the letter. “And this morning, I am certain he intended to hand me a formal rebuttal. Instead, he handed me... this.”
Elizabeth read the contents of the letter to her friend, carefully omitting everything involving Mr Darcy’s younger sister at Ramsgate. She started with the first line.
Charlotte blinked.
“He wrote‘You have ruined my peace’?” Charlotte asked, her voice hushed with awe.
“There is more.”
Elizabeth kept reading. As her eyes tracked down the page, Charlotte’s expression transitioned rapidly. It began withgrowing shock, gave way to disbelief, and then, as Elizabeth reached the bottom of the page, Charlotte’s face settled into calculating pragmatism.
Elizabeth lowered the letter.
“Well,” Charlotte said mildly. “He certainly uses a great deal of ink.”
“Charlotte! He is a lunatic! He has lost his mind!”
