Page 22 of The Work of a Moment

“It was then I was decided that, despite the friendliness he had exhibited towards my sister, his feelings were not genuine.” Elizabeth hesitated. Already she had insulted Mr Darcy and overstepped in speaking to Colonel Fitzwilliam about his own rumoured alliance with Miss de Bourgh. Dare she mention the romantic intentions Miss Bingley had implied in her letter?

No, she would not, not when Mr Darcy stood before her, already wounded by his own misdirected affections and her unjust accusations. Yet even as shame flooded through her, Elizabeth could not stop herself from alluding to his friend’s fickleness. “Had Mr Bingley’s interest in Jane been earnest, he should have returned to Netherfield. When he did not, we were left to suppose that his affections might lie elsewhere.”

Mr Darcy’s response neither confirmed nor denied her suggestion. “Bingley alone must take responsibility for his lack of conviction. Like any man,” he said, his voice rough, “he is the author of his own mistakes.”

Before she could reply, Mr Darcy had stepped across the room and retrieved his hat. He turned to her, his face pale and his eyes strained.

“You have long desired my absence. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”

CHAPTER 18

Thwarted and Remorseful

Darcy walked as far as the lane before his steps faltered and he felt himself reeling. Had Elizabeth heard what he had said of his feelings? Of his love? Had she understood his purpose? Surely not! He was there to make an offer of marriage and had had no chance to form the words! She had dismissed his half-made declaration only to question Bingley’s character, and by connexion, his own.

My ‘imprudent affections’.

Bewildered, his eyes stinging with an emotion he did not recognise, Darcy ran a hand through his hair.

She was too overwrought over Bingley to hear me out. I should be grateful, I suppose, that she did not fully comprehend my sentiments. He had never seen such fire in her eyes, such mercurial expression in a lady. Such passion. Even in her anger, she was like no one else.

He took a breath, and another, as his own anger turned to something closer to despair. If he had the courage—or the foolish impulse—there was time, within the span of their visits to the neighbourhood, to speak again and make plain his intentions. Not that she cared to hear them, he thought morosely, kicking at a rock. Suddenly desperate for the seclusion of his rooms and a stiffening drink of the brandy Fitzwilliam had left there, he straightened his shoulders and moved with determination towards Rosings. A public lane was no place to act as a mooncalf.

After slipping in through a servants’ door, he took a back staircase to his chamber, waving away his man’s attentions after he had assisted with Darcy’s boots and jacket. He removed his waistcoat and tossed it on the bed before tearing at his neckcloth then throwing it aside once he had it undone. He shook his head, ran his hands through his hair and over his face, tried to sit, then stood and stared out the south-facing window from which he could see the parsonage’s chimneys. He could not see the house, but he knew it was there. Knew Elizabeth was there. Perhaps her anger had abated and she now felt some share of his mortification.

If she does, the depths of our mutual regret are nothing to the shallowness of Bingley’s.

How can the man be so imprudent? To express his concern, no matter how earnest, so intimately to a maid, newly arrived and unknown to the other servants, where anyone in the house could see—and at least one had? Elizabeth was perceptive and intelligent and had misread the situation. What would a housemaid or footman have made of it?

Feckless idiot! Oh, how well Elizabeth understood Bingley, even if she had misunderstood his actions towards Nora. Bingley, through his failure to control his sister, had ruined his prospects with the lady he professed to love, by blackening his reputation with her sister! How Darcy admired Elizabeth’s actions. In separating Miss Bennet from a man she thought to be a rake—charming but unserious in his attentions at best, dangerous to her sister’s reputation at worst—she had done with Miss Bennet what he had nearly failed to accomplish with Georgiana.

Lord, but he admired Elizabeth’s strength and passionate defence of her sister. Miss Bennet was a fortunate woman to have such a protector. Darcy had not thought to enquire about the lady’s well-being. He had been too shocked by Elizabeth’s dismissal of his avowal of affections and her accusations—mostly unfounded—against Bingley.

Bingley has a new angel, but what of Miss Bennet? If she is ignorant of the charge made against him, is there a chance she still pines for him?

Miss Bennet might not believe it, but she had made a fortunate escape. In that, at least, he and Elizabeth were in agreement.

Elizabeth sank back into the chair she had abandoned upon Mr Darcy’s departure. Her mind swam as she tried to understand what she had done. Mr Bingley was no rake—she had wrongly assailed his character—in her mind and to his friend! The shame she felt upon realising her own mistaken impressions of an innocent conversation—one Mr Bingley had naturally wished to have in private—turned to guilt and then to what she saw as a larger truth.

Had I not seen Mr Bingley with the maid, Jane’s heart still would have been wounded. He still would have abandoned her.

Of equal astonishment was that Mr Darcy, a man so incapable of reading her feelings or properly expressing his own, recognised Jane’s worth and suitability! He thought her a good match for Mr Bingley, meaning he had not intended his friend would marry Miss Darcy.

Indeed, it was as Elizabeth had suspected. Mr Bingley’s purported interest in Miss Darcy was a lie, a cruel machination by Miss Bingley to ensure Jane would believe her hopes were in vain.

Spiteful, duplicitous thing—and a terribly false friend to dear Jane. How she would have suffered with such a bitter sister!

It mattered little now whether there had been true affection on either side. Jane was happy, her letters betraying no residual feelings for Mr Bingley, no regret over him. Nor did he regret Jane, apparently. He had not returned to Hertfordshire to call at Longbourn or ask for her direction in town.

Unlike Mr Darcy, who sought me out here to ensure my welfare and to tell me he loved me.

Elizabeth rose from the chair and stepped towards the windows, leaning her forehead against the glass as if to cool the fevered emotions that continued churning within her. There was too much to think on. Recalling Mr Darcy’s impulsive appearance and wild declaration of affection overwhelmed her. All the confusion she had felt over his contradictory character! It seemed she was unable to judge any man correctly—or to refrain from speaking harshly to one who confessed deep affection for her.

Elizabeth had never truly argued with a man, not even with her father. If she had not been preoccupied with the issue of Mr Bingley, she could have listened to Mr Darcy, not shown him anger and disgust.

He stares not to find fault but because he admires me! He tells me he loves me, and I impugn his character.

Wretched as she felt, Elizabeth had little time to consider her behaviour, for she soon heard the clatter of carriage wheels on the road. Mr Collins, Charlotte, and Maria were returning. Her cousin would plague her with admonishments, Charlotte would fret over her health, and Maria would wish to enumerate all the dishes that had been served.