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Elizabeth stared at the letter. She was insensible to the sputtering of the fire, or the chill night air.
A wave of emotion swept over her the chief of which was self-reproach. Why had she not taken the letter from him that spring day that now seemed so distant?
And today, after he had followed her, on the same path where he had first tried to give her the letter. He must have intended once again to attempt to give it to her, and she had rebuffed him before he’d had the chance. How could she be so blind? She could not see what was plainly before her—she who prided herself on her discernment!
But her anger at herself soon gave way to indignation. Mr. Darcy’s style was not penitent but haughty. It was all pride
and insolence. It must be false! It must be!
No, in her heart Elizabeth knew that it was not false, for there was nothing false about Mr. Darcy. Her mind cast itself back upon her interactions with Wickham, and she realized that she had been misled—no, that was untrue, she had permitted herself to be misled—by a man whose artifice was as practiced and polished as only one who had long experience a deception could achieve.
How despicable she had been! How she had allowed her pride—she who believed herself to be a person of discernment! —to lead her into error and prejudice and cause her to take the side of a knave who ought to have been transparent in his designs to anyone with the least pretense to fairness.
All night, as Elizabeth lay in her bed, she struggled to make sense of her actions, and those of Mr. Darcy, going back and forth between self-recrimination and anger at him for his interference with Jane.
Eventually, she wore herself down sufficiently that the certain knowledge of her own shortcomings took precedence over her disapproval of Mr. Darcy’s behavior towards her sister.
Her anxiety on Jane’s behalf began to grow. For Jane had been fortunate enough to receive a second chance with Mr. Bingley, and Elizabeth did not know if Jane was strong enough to deal with a second rejection.
The man behind the first disappointment was still in the picture, and still able to influence his friend in matters of the heart.
It was too late for her to repair her relationship with Mr. Darcy, especially after today when she had again behaved so coldly towards him. She would not blame him for hating her.
But she had to stop him from ruining Jane’s chance at happiness. She had to do that.
She would have to face up to Mr. Darcy, for good or ill. She would admit to her error in the hope that it would move him to consider whether he was not also in error concerning Jane’s affection for his friend.
He would doubt her motives. He would be disagreeable. He would be as implacable in his family pride as she had been in her own pride of discernment.
But she had to face him for Jane’s sake. She had no choice in the matter.
Tomorrow, she would confront Mr. Darcy.
Chapter 13, Christmas Day
Rosings Park, 1812
“Merry Christmas, Lizzy!”
Elizabeth looked up as Jane scampered into the room and dove under the covers, pulling the blankets up around her neck.
“It’s frightfully chilly,” Jane said. “The servants slept late I’m afraid, and the fires haven’t been burning for long.”
“Merry Christmas, Jane,” Elizabeth said.
“What a glum face you have for Christmas morning,” said Jane with concern. “Whatever is the matter?”
Elizabeth looked at her sister, who’d snuggled up against her. She wondered how she could possibly explain the contents of Mr. Darcy’s letter? She held it in her hand and had held it all night.
There’s nothing to be done. It was beyond her power to explain. She would have to let Jane read it for herself.
“Last night I received a strange Christmas gift,” Elizabeth said removing her hand from underneath the bedclothes and holding up Mr. Darcy’s letter. “The letter is from Mr. Darcy.”
“Did Mr. Darcy give it to you?” Jane asked. “I remember you saying he tried to give you a letter once before, in the past, here at Rosings, and you refused it.”
“No, Darcy did not give it to me,” Elizabeth said, and then reconsidered her answer. “At least I do not think it came from him, although he was its author. Kitty told me of it last night. She said that Anne told her to tell me to look for a gift on my dressing table.”
“That is strange indeed,” said Jane. “Have you read it—of course you have, that was a foolish question. Well, what does it say?”
