Page 65 of A Prudent Engagement

“Nonsense,” Charlotte replied. “I shall be here when you return. I know you well enough to understand that you do not wish to have company while you walk to the inn. You wish to think for ten minutes by yourself.”

“But your carriage! Everything is prepared for the journey.”

“I am the wife of a gentleman with substantial property now,” Charlotte replied in a high manner that usually would have made Elizabeth laugh, “and not simply the wife of a mere country parson. Besides”—she smiled slyly at Elizabeth—“should your engagement to Mr. Darcy be broken, Lady Catherine will wish to have the earliest intelligence upon the matter. I assure you that my husband would think it was very wise of me to remain for longer so that I might gain it.”

“Oh God. It cannot—” Elizabeth’s head was swimming and her knees weak. She put an arm on Charlotte to support herself as she could scarcely stand. But then the thought that she must see Mr. Darcy took her, and she tried to hurry off, but her feet seemed not to quite work, and her face felt like a mask, and the whole world seemed as though it was not quite real, with nothing quite right.

Her heart raced.

Jane stared at Elizabeth. The blood had drained from her face. Jane looked suddenly as fragile as Elizabeth felt.

Darcy—she had to see Mr. Darcy.

Elizabeth managed to stumble away, but it seemed as though she must think about each step she took rather than them happening by nature and habit as they ought.

As Elizabeth reached the gate, she heard Charlotte say to her sister, “Jane, I have never, never been ashamed to have you as a friend before now. You meddle in a matter that you do not understand.”

The road to Meryton was too long, far too long, yet too short. There was not enough time to prepare herself. She must find the words.

Words had caused this. Words could surely fix it.

What had Jane said to him?

She should have questioned her sister upon the particulars. Demanded the exact words, the exact expressions, and the exact way that Darcy’s face had looked.

He must be in such pain. He believed in her goodness; his affection for her had been so strong. And now he had heard that she disliked him. That she had only agreed to marry him for his fortune.

And that was not true. Not quite true.

It was nearly the hottest point in the day. A bright yellow sun beat down on Elizabeth’s head and blinded her when she turned towards Meryton. Sweat poured down her back.

Elizabeth started to half run.

And then she reached the town. Too quickly for her mind to have settled.

She forced herself to walk at the proper pace for a gentlewoman as she passed through the familiar two- and three-storey timber-framed buildings, whose white plaster gleamed in the sunlight, in sharp contrast to the brown and black of the wood.

Repair it. She could repair it.

Darcy was always so kind, so clever and intelligent. He would understand her—he must. She had to hope for that.

He deserves to know.

That was what made Elizabeth’s gut ache.

Perhaps he would, finally, see her with true eyes unclouded by the haze of his infatuation.

And in the reverse of how Elizabeth had come to see him as the best gentleman of her acquaintance after she had begun to know him truly, he now must see her as the worthless, mercenary, anxious, dishonest, and prejudiced fool that she truly was.

Elizabeth’s vision was quite odd.

She was nearly hit by a carriage that she had not seen at all as she crossed the street to the entrance of the Meryton Arms.

The coachman shouted at her angrily, and Elizabeth half waved her hand in apology and hurried into the inn.

The dimness of the light was a sharp contrast.

She was of course recognised by the publican, who came up to her himself with bowing graciousness. “Miss Bennet, to what do we owe the pleasure?”