Mr. Darcy's Diary

April

I dined with Colonel Fitzwilliam at my club today. We have decided that we will travel to Rosings together.

My cousin and I had an enjoyable journey into Kent, and after generalities the conversation turned to marriage again.

‘I am of an age now when I feel I should be settled, and yet marriage is a dangerous venture,’ he said. ‘It is so easy to make a false step and then be forced to live with it.’

‘It is,’ I agreed, thinking of Bingley. ‘I have recently saved one of my friends from just such a false step.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. He took a house in the country, where he met a young lady of low connections. He was much taken with her, but fortunately business compelled him to return to London for a time. Perceiving his danger, his sisters and I followed him to London and persuaded him to remain.’

‘Then you have saved him from a most imprudent marriage.’

‘I have.’

‘He will thank you for it when it has done. It is not pleasant to wake from a dream and find oneself trapped in a nightmare.’

I am heartened by his opinion. I respect his judgement, and it is reassuring to know that he feels as I do on the matter.

We arrived at Rosings this afternoon, and the beauty of the park struck me anew. It is not as fine as Pemberley, but it looks very well in the spring. We passed Mr Collins on our way to the house, and I believe he had been looking for us. He bowed as we passed, and then hurried off in the direction of the parsonage to share the news with its inmates. I found myself wondering if Elizabeth was within doors, and how she would feel at the news of our arrival.

Mr Collins called this morning to pay his respects. He found me with Colonel Fitzwilliam. My aunt was taking a drive with my cousin, Anne.

‘Mr Darcy, it is an honour to meet you again. I had the good fortune to make your acquaintance in Hertfordshire, when I was staying with my fair cousins. I was not married then, as my dear Charlotte had not yet consented to be my wife. From the first moment I saw her I knew she would not disgrace the parsonage at Hunsford, and would delight my esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who has the honour and distinction of being your most revered aunt, with her humility and sympathy. Indeed, Lady Catherine herself was kind enough to say –’

‘Are you returning to the parsonage?’ I asked, cutting short his effusions.

He paused momentarily, then said, ‘Indeed I am.’

‘It is a fine morning. We will walk with you. What do you say?’ I asked Colonel Fitzwilliam.

‘By all means.’

We set out. Mr Collins recounted the beauties of the park to us, interspersed with expressions of humble gratitude for our condescension in visiting his poor home. I found my mind wandering. Would Elizabeth have changed since the autumn? Would she be surprised to see me? No. She knew of my visit. Would she be pleased or otherwise? Pleased, of course. To reacquaint herself with a man of my standing must be desirable for her.

Our arrival was announced by the door-bell, and shortly afterwards we entered the room. I paid my compliments to Mrs Collins, and she bade me welcome. Elizabeth dropped a curtsy.

She is much as she ever was, but the pleasure I experienced on seeing her took me by surprise. I thought I had conquered my feelings for her, and of course, I have.

It was just that the first instant of seeing her took me aback.

‘The house is to your liking, I hope?’ I asked Mrs Collins.

‘Yes, indeed it is,’ she said.

‘I am glad. My aunt has made some improvements of late, I know. And the garden? Do you like the aspect?’

‘It is very pleasant.’

‘Good.’

I would have said more, but I found my attention straying to Elizabeth. She was conversing with Colonel Fitzwilliam in her usual free and easy manner. I could not decide whether I liked it or not. She was at liberty to talk to my cousin, of course, and to charm him if she would, but I felt dissatisfied to see how much he enjoyed her company, and even worse, to see how much she enjoyed his. At length I realized I was lost in my thoughts, and I made an effort to be civil.

‘Your family are well, I hope, Miss Bennet?’ I asked.

‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied. She paused, then said,‘My sister Jane has been in town these three months. Have you never happened to see her?’

I was disconcerted, but I replied calmly enough.

‘No, I have not been so fortunate.’

I relapsed into silence, dissatisfied with the turn the conversation had taken, and soon afterwards my cousin and I took our leave.

I had seen nothing of Elizabeth since my visit to the parsonage, but I saw her this morning at church. She was looking very well. The early sun had put colour in her cheeks, and brightened her eyes.

After the service, Lady Catherine stopped to speak to the Collinses. Mr Collins beamed as she walked towards him.

‘Your sermon was too long,’ said Lady Catherine.

‘Twenty minutes is ample time in which to instruct your flock.’

‘Yes, Lady Catherine, I ...’

‘You made no mention of sobriety. You should have done. There has been too much drunkenness of late. It is a rector’s business to tend to the body of his parishioners as well as their souls.’

‘Of course, Lady –’

‘There were too many hymns. I do not like to have above three hymns in an Easter service. I am very musical and singing is my joy, but three hymns are enough.’

She began to walk to the carriage, and Mr Collins followed her.

‘Yes, Lady Catherine, I –’

‘One of the pews has woodworm. I noticed it as I walked past. You will see to it.’

‘At once, Lady – ’ he said.

‘And you will come to dinner with us tonight. Mrs Collins will come with you, as will Miss Lucas and Miss Elizabeth Bennet. We will make up a card-table.’

‘So good – ’ he said, bowing and rubbing his hands together.

‘I will send the carriage for you.’

I followed her into the carriage and the footman closed the door.

I found myself looking forward to Elizabeth’s arrival at Rosings, but quickly crushed the feeling.

Her party arrived punctually, and because I knew the danger of speaking to her, I passed the time in conversation with my aunt. We talked of our various relations, but I could not help my eyes straying to Elizabeth. Her conversation was of a more lively kind. She was speaking to Colonel Fitzwilliam, and as I saw the animation of her features, I found it hard to take my eyes away.

My aunt, too, kept looking towards them, until at last she said: ‘What is it you are talking of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.’

Colonel Fitzwilliam replied that they were speaking of music. My aunt joined in the conversation, praising Georgiana’s abilities on the pianoforte, then mortifying me by inviting Elizabeth to practise on the pianoforte in Mrs Jenkinson’s room. To invite a guest to play on the pianoforte in the companion’s room? I had not thought my aunt could be so ill-bred.

Elizabeth looked surprised, but said nothing, only her smile showing what she thought.

When coffee was over, Elizabeth began to play, and remembering the pleasure I had had in her playing before, I walked over to her side. Her eyes were brightened by the music, and I placed myself in a position from which I could see the play of emotion over her countenance.

She noticed. At the first pause in the music she turned to me with a smile and said: ‘You mean to frighten me, Mr Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear me. But I will not be alarmed, though your sister does play so well.

There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me.’

‘I shall not say you are mistaken,’ I replied, ‘because you could not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are not your own.’

Where this speech came from I do not know. I am not used to making playful exchanges, but there is something in Elizabeth’s character which lightens mine.

Elizabeth laughed heartily, and I smiled, knowing that we were both enjoying the exchange. So well was I enjoying it that I forgot my caution and gave myself over to an appreciation of the moment.

‘Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of me,’ she said to Colonel Fitzwilliam. Turning to me, she said:

‘It is very ungenerous of you to mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire – and, give me leave to say, very impolitic too – for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such things may come out, as will shock your relations to hear.’

I smiled. ‘I am not afraid of you.’

Her eyes brightened at my remark.

Colonel Fitzwilliam begged to be told how I behave amongst strangers.

‘You shall hear all then,’ said Elizabeth. ‘But prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball – and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four dances!’

In her eyes, my refusal to dance became ridiculous, and I saw it so myself, for the first time. To stride about in all my pride, instead of enjoying myself as any wellregulated man would have done. Absurd! I would not ordinarily have tolerated any such teasing, and yet there was something in her manner that removed any sting, and instead made it a cause for laughter.

It was at this moment I realized there had been little laughter in my life of late. I had taken on the responsibilities of a man when my father died, and had prided myself on discharging them well, as my father would have done. I had tended my estate, looked to the welfare of my tenants, provided for my sister’s health, happiness and education, seen to the livings in my patronage and discharged my business faithfully. Until meeting Elizabeth that had been enough, but now I saw how dull my life had been. It had been too ordered. Too wellregulated. Only now did I begin to see it, and to feel it, for the feelings inside me were wholly different from any I had known. When I laughed, my disposition lightened.

‘I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party,’ I pointed out, catching her tone.

‘True: and nobody can ever be introduced in a ballroom.’

‘Perhaps I should have judged better, had I sought an introduction, but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.’

She teased me, wondering how it was that a man of sense and education could not do so, and Colonel Fitzwilliam joined her, saying I would not give myself the trouble.

‘I certainly have not the talent which some people possess, of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done,’ I agreed.

‘My fingers do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do, but then I had always supposed it to be my own fault – because I would not take the trouble of practising.’

I smiled.

‘You are perfectly right.’

At this moment, Lady Catherine interrupted us.

‘What are you talking about, Darcy?’

‘Of music,’ I said.

Lady Catherine joined us at the pianoforte.

‘Miss Bennet would not play amiss, if she practised more, and could have the advantage of a London master,’ declared my aunt. ‘She has a very good notion of fingering, though her taste is not equal to Anne’s. Anne would have been a delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn.’

I scarcely heard her. I was watching Elizabeth. She bore with my aunt’s comments with remarkable civility, and at the request of Colonel Fitzwilliam and myself, she remained at the instrument until the carriage was ready to take the party home.

I thought I had rid myself of my admiration for her. I thought I had forgotten her. But I was wrong.

I was taking a walk round the grounds this morning when my steps led me unconsciously to the parsonage.

Finding myself outside I could not, in all politeness, pass by, and I called in to pay my respects. To my horror, I found Elizabeth there alone. She seemed as surprised as I was, but she was not, I think, displeased. Why should she be? It must be satisfying for her to think that she has captivated me. She bid me take a seat, and I had no choice but to sit down.

‘I am sorry for this intrusion,’ I said, feeling the awkwardness of the situation, and wanting to make sure she knew it had not been by design. ‘I understood all the ladies to be within.’

‘Mrs Collins and Maria have gone on business to the village,’ she replied.

‘Ah.’

‘Lady Catherine is well?’ she said at last.

‘Yes, I thank you. She is.’

Silence fell.

‘And Miss de Bourgh? She, too, is well?’

‘Yes, I thank you. She is.’

‘And Colonel Fitzwilliam?’ she asked.

‘Yes, he too is well.’

Another silence fell.

‘How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr Darcy!’ she began at last. ‘It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr Bingley to see you all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day before. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London?’

‘Perfectly so, I thank you.’

‘I think I have understood that Mr Bingley has not much idea of ever returning to Netherfield again?’

‘I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend very little of his time there in future. He has many friends, and he is at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually increasing.’

‘If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for the neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we might possibly get a settled family there. But perhaps Mr Bingley did not take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as for his own, and we must expect him to keep it or quit it on the same principle.’

I did not like the subject, but replied evenly enough.

‘I should not be surprised if he were to give it up, as soon as any eligible purchase offers.’

I should have left the parsonage then. I knew it. And yet I could not tear myself away. There was something about the shape of her face that invited my eye to follow it, and something about the way her hair fell that made me want to touch it.

She said nothing, and once more there was silence.

I could not say what was in my mind, and yet I found I could not leave.

‘This seems a very comfortable house,’ I said.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘It must be agreeable for Mrs Collins to be settled within so easy a distance of her own family and friends.’

‘An easy distance do you call it?’ she asked in surprise.

‘It is nearly fifty miles.’

‘And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day’s journey.’

‘I should never have considered the distance as one of the advantages of the match,’ cried Elizabeth.

‘It is a proof of your own attachment for Hertfordshire. Anything beyond the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far,’ I said.

‘I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her family.’

Ah. She knew the evils of her relations and would not be sorry to escape them. When she married, she would leave them behind.

‘But I am persuaded my friend would not call herself near her family under less than half the present distance,’ she continued.

‘You cannot have a right to such very strong local attachments,’ I said, pulling my chair forward a little as I spoke, for I felt an overwhelming urge to be near her.

‘You cannot have always been at Longbourn.’

She looked surprised, and I was halted. I had almost been carried away by admiration and tempted into saying that she could have no objection to living at Pemberley, but I had gone too quickly and I was thankful for it. Her look of surprise saved me from committing myself to a course of action I would surely regret. I drew my chair back, and picking up a newspaper, I glanced over it.

‘Are you pleased with Kent?’ I asked, with enough coolness to depress any hope she might have been entertaining from my ill-judged manner.

‘It is very pleasant,’ she said, looking at me in perplexity.

I embarked on a discussion of its attractions, until we were saved from the need of further conversation by the return of Mrs Collins and Maria. They were surprised to see me there, but explaining my mistake I stayed only a few minutes longer and then returned to Rosings.

Elizabeth has bewitched me. I am in far more danger here than I ever was in Hertfordshire. There, I had her family constantly before me, reminding me how impossible a match between us would be. Here, I have only her.

Her liveliness, her gaiety, her good humour, all tempt me to abandon self-restraint and declare myself; but I must not do it. I do not only have myself to consider. I have my sister.

To expose Georgiana to the vulgarity of Mrs Bennet would be an act of cruelty no brotherly devotion could allow. And to present to Georgiana, as sisters, Mary, Kitty and Lydia Bennet would be repulsive. To have her influenced by them, to force her into company with them – for it could not be otherwise if I were to make Elizabeth my wife – would be unforgivable. Worse still, she might be forced to hear of George Wickham, who is a favourite of the younger girls. No. I cannot do it. I will not do it.

I must beware, then, lest I let slip a word in Elizabeth’s company. I must not let her know how I feel. She suspects my partiality I am sure. Indeed, by her lively nature she has encouraged it, and no doubt she is waiting for me to speak. If she married me she would be lifted out of her sphere and elevated to mine. She would be joined in matrimony to a man of superior character and understanding, and she would be the mistress of Pemberley. A man of my character and reputation, wealth and position would tempt any woman. But it must never be.

I do not know what has come over me. I should be avoiding Elizabeth, but every day when Colonel Fitzwilliam goes to the parsonage, I go with him. I cannot deny myself the pleasure of looking at her. Her face is not beautiful but it haunts me.

I have had enough resolution to say nothing, for fear of saying too much, but my silence has begun to be noticed.

‘Why are you silent when we go to the parsonage?’ asked Colonel Fitzwilliam as we returned home today. ‘It is not like you, Darcy.’

‘I have nothing to say.’

‘Come now! I have seen you talk to bishops and ploughmen. You can always think of something to say to them, however much you protest you find it difficult to converse with strangers. And yet when you go to the parsonage, you do not open your mouth. It is most uncivil of you. The least you could do is ask after Mrs Collins’s chickens, and ask Mr Collins how his sermons are coming along, and if you cannot think of anything to say to the young ladies, you can always fall back on the weather.’

‘I will endeavour to do better next time.’

But as I said it, I realized I must not go to the parsonage again. If I talk to Elizabeth, there is no telling where it will lead. She looks at me archly sometimes, and I am sure she is expecting me to declare myself.

Would a marriage between us really be so impossible?

I ask myself, but even as I wonder, an image of her family rises up before me, and I know it would. And so I am determined to remain silent, for if I give in to a moment of weakness, I will regret it for the rest of my life.

I have remained true to my resolve not to visit the parsonage, but my good intentions have been thwarted by my tendency to walk in the park, and three times now I have come upon Elizabeth. The first time was by chance; the second and third times, I seemed to find myself there whether I would or not. From doing nothing more than doffing my hat and asking after her health on the first occasion, I have come to say more, and this morning I betrayed my thoughts to an alarming degree.

‘You are enjoying your stay at Hunsford, I hope?’ I asked her when I met her.

It was an innocent question.

‘Yes, I am, thank you.’

‘You find Mr and Mrs Collins in good health?’

‘I do.’

‘And happy, I trust?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Rosings is a fine house.’

‘It is, though it is difficult to find my way about. I have become lost on one or two occasions. When I tried to find the library, I walked into the parlour instead.’

‘It is not to be expected that you would find your way round it all at once. Next time you visit Kent you will have a better opportunity to become acquainted with it.’

She looked astonished at this, and I berated myself inwardly. I had almost betrayed my feelings, which in that incautious sentence had suggested the idea that the next time she visited Kent she would be staying at Rosings, and how could she do that unless she was my wife? But indeed, it grows harder and harder to be circumspect. I ought to leave at once, and put myself out of harm’s way.

But if I do, it will arouse comment, so I must endure a little while longer. Colonel Fitzwilliam and I will be leaving soon, and then I will be safe.

I am in torment. After all my promises to myself. After all my resolutions, this – this! – is the result.

I cannot believe the events of the last few hours. If only I could put them down to a fever of the brain, but there is no doubt they happened. I have offered my hand to Elizabeth Bennet.

I should not have gone to see her. I had no need to do it, merely because she did not join us for tea. She had a headache. What lady does not suffer from headaches?

At first I drank my tea with my aunt, my cousins and Mr and Mrs Collins, but all the time my thoughts were on Elizabeth. Was she suffering? Was she really ill? Could I do anything to help her?

At last I could contain myself no longer. Whilst the others talked of the parish, I declared I needed some fresh air and expressed my intention of taking a walk. I scarce know whether I meant to visit the parsonage or not when I left Rosings. My heart drove me on but my reason urged me back, and all the while my feet carried on walking until at last I found myself outside the parsonage door.

On enquiring if Miss Bennet was in I was shown into the parlour, where she looked up in surprise as she saw me enter. I was surprised myself.

I began rationally enough. I asked after her health, and she replied that she was not too poorly. I sat down. I stood up. I walked about the room. At last I could contain it no longer.

‘In vain have I struggled. ’ The words were out before I could stop them. ‘It will not do,’ I went on. ‘My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.’

There. It was out. The secret I had carried so long had found voice, and pushed its way into the light of day.

She stared, she coloured, and was silent. How could she not be? There was nothing for her to say. She had only to listen to my declaration and then accept me.

Knowing that I had fallen beneath her spell, she knew full well that the door of Pemberley would be open to her, and the world of society would be hers.

‘I do not pretend to be ignorant of the low nature of your connections, of their inferiority and lack of worth,’

I said, scarcely believing that I had allowed my love for her to overcome such natural feelings, but driven onwards by emotions that were impossible to control.

‘Having spent many weeks in Hertfordshire, it would be folly to pretend that it would not be a degradation to ally myself to such a family, and only the force of my passion has allowed me to put such feelings aside.’

As I spoke, a picture of the Bennets rose before my eyes, and I found that I was not so much speaking to Elizabeth as to myself, thinking aloud all the thoughts that had plagued me over the last few weeks and months.

‘Your mother, with her vulgarity and prattling tongue; your father with his wilful refusal to curb the wild excesses of your younger sisters. To be joined to such girls!’ I said, as I recalled Mary Bennet singing at the assembly. ‘The best of them a dull, plodding girl with neither taste nor sense, and the worst of them silly, spoilt and selfish, finding nothing better to do with their time than to run after officers,’ I continued, as I remembered Lydia and Kitty at the Netherfield ball. ‘One uncle an attorney and another living in Cheapside,’ I went on, my feelings pouring forth with a torrent. ‘I have felt all the impossibility of such a match these many weeks. My reason revolts against it, nay, my very nature revolts against it. I know that I am lowering myself in making such an offer.

I am wounding both family connections and family pride. That I should entertain such feelings for someone so far beneath me is a weakness I despise, and yet I cannot conquer my feelings. I took myself to London and immersed myself in both business and pleasure, but none of it would remove the memory of you from my mind,’ I said, turning to look at her and letting my eyes linger on her face. ‘My attachment has outlived all my reasoned arguments, it has outlived a lengthy separation, which, instead of curing it, has only made it stronger, and it has resisted my determination to root it out. No matter what my more rational feelings, it will not be denied. It is so strong that I am prepared to overlook the faults of your family, the lowness of your connections and the pain I know I must inflict on my friends and family, by asking you to marry me. I only hope my struggles will now be rewarded,’ I said. ‘Relieve me from my apprehension. Still my anxieties. Tell me, Elizabeth, that you will be my wife.’

My speech had been impassioned. I had done what I had never done for any other human being; I had bared my soul. I had shown her all my fears and anxieties, my arguments and wrestling, and now I waited for her answer. It could not be long in coming. She had been waiting for my declaration; expecting it; I was sure of it.

She could not be unaware of my attraction, and any woman would be elated to have won the hand of Fitzwilliam Darcy. It only remained for her to say the word that would unite us and the thing would be done.

And yet, to my amazement, the smile I had expected to see on her face did not appear. She did not say: ‘You do me too much honour, Mr Darcy. I am flattered, nay gratified by your professions, and I am grateful to you for your condescension. My relatives’ situation in life, their follies and vices, cannot be expected to bring you pleasure, and I am sensible of the honour you do me in overlooking their inadequacies in order to ask me to be your wife. It is therefore with a humble sense of obligation that I accept your hand.’

She did not even say a simple ‘Yes.’

Instead, the colour rose to her cheeks, and in the most indignant voice possible she said: ‘In cases such as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot. I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly.

I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgement of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation.’

I looked at her in astonishment. She had refused me!

Never once had I imagined she might do so. Not once in all those nights when I had lain awake, telling myself how impossible such a union would be, had I pictured this outcome.

This was to be the end of all my struggles? To be rejected? And in such a manner! I! A Darcy! To be answered as though I was a fortune-hunter or an undesirable suitor. My astonishment quickly gave way to resentment. So resentful did I feel that I would not open my lips until I believed I had mastered my emotion.

‘And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting!’ I said at last. ‘I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance.’

‘I might as well enquire,’ replied she heatedly, ‘why with so evident a design of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason and even against your character? Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil? But I have other provocations. You know I have. Had not my own feelings decided against you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?’

I felt myself change colour. So she had heard of that.

I hoped she had not. It could not be expected to make her think well of me. But I had nothing to be ashamed of. I had acted in the best interests of my friend.

‘I have every reason in the world to think ill of you.

No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted there,’ she went on.

I felt my expression hardening. Unjust? Ungenerous?

No indeed.

‘You dare not, you cannot deny that you have been the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from each other, of exposing one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest kind.’

I could not believe what I was hearing. Caprice and instability? Who would judge Bingley capricious for removing to London when he had business to attend to?

Derision for disappointed hopes? Miss Bennet had had no hopes, unless they had been planted in her mind by her mother, who could see no further than Bingley’s five thousand pounds a year.

Misery of the acutest kind? Yes, that was what Bingley would have suffered if he had voiced his feelings. He would have been joined to a woman who was beneath him.

‘I have no wish to deny that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself.’

Elizabeth ignored my remark and said, ‘But it is not merely this affair on which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place my opinion of you was decided.

Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself? Or under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others?’

Wickham! She could not have found a name more calculated to wound and, at the same time, disgust me.

‘You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns,’ I remarked in agitation.

I regretted the words as soon as they were spoken.

What was it to me if she showed an interest in George Wickham? After her refusal of my hand, nothing about Elizabeth had any right to interest me ever again.

And yet the mortification I felt intensified, and I found a new emotion in my breast, a most unwelcome one. Jealousy. I found it intolerable that she should prefer George Wickham to me! That she should be unable to see through his smiling exterior to the black heart beneath.

‘Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an interest in him?’

‘His misfortunes!’ I repeated. What tale had he been spinning her? Wickham, who had had everything. Who had been spoilt and petted in childhood and, despite that, had turned into one of the most dissolute, profligate young men of my acquaintance.

As I thought of the money my father had lavished on him, the opportunities he had had and the help I myself had given him, I could not help my lip’s curling. ‘Yes, his misfortunes have been great indeed.’

‘And of your infliction,’ she said angrily. ‘You have reduced him to his present state of poverty, comparative poverty. You have withheld the advantages, which you must know to have been designed for him. You have deprived the best years of his life, of that independence which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this! And yet you can treat the mention of his misfortunes with contempt and ridicule.’

‘And this,’ I cried, as, goaded beyond endurance, I began to pace the room, ‘is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps these offences might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. I am not ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just.

Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections? To congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?’

She was growing as angry as I was, yet she controlled her temper sufficiently to reply.

‘You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.’

I felt an intense shock. If I had behaved in a more gentleman-like manner? When had I ever been anything but a gentleman?

‘You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it,’ she said.

I could not believe it. She could never have accepted my hand? Never accept a connection with the Darcy family? Never accept all the benefits that would accrue to her as my wife? It was madness. And to blame it, not on my manner, but on my person! I looked at her with open incredulity. I, who had been courted in drawing-rooms the length and breadth of the land!

But she had not finished.

‘From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.’

I felt incredulity give way to anger, and anger to humiliation. My mortification was now complete.

‘You have said quite enough, madam,’ I told her curtly.

‘I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time’ – and to prove that I was, even now after such base insults, a gentleman, I added – ‘and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.’

Then, having delivered myself of my final proud utterance, I left the room.

I returned to Rosings, walking blindly, seeing nothing of my surroundings, seeing only Elizabeth. Elizabeth telling me I had ruined her sister’s happiness. Elizabeth telling me I had ruined George Wickham’s hopes. Elizabeth telling me I had not behaved like a gentleman. Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth.

I said not a word at dinner. I saw nothing, heard nothing, tasted nothing. I thought only of her.

Try as I might, I could not put her accusations out of my mind. The charge that I had ruined her sister’s happiness might have some merit, though I had acted for the best. The accusation that I had ruined Wickham’s hopes was of another order. It impugned my honour, and I could not let it rest.

‘A game of billiards, Darcy?’ asked Colonel Fitzwilliam, when Lady Catherine and Anne retired for the night.

‘No. Thank you. I have a letter to write.’

He looked at me curiously but said nothing. I retired to my room and took up my quill. I had to exonerate myself. I had to answer her accusation. I had to show her she was wrong. And yet how?

My dear Miss Bennet

I scored through the lines as soon as I had written them. She was not my dear Miss Bennet. I had not the right to call her dear.

I crushed my piece of paper and threw it away.

Miss Bennet

The name conjured up an image of her sister. It would not do.

I threw away a second sheet of paper.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet

No.

I tried again.

Madam, you have charged me with

She will not read it.

Be not alarmed, Madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers which were last night so disgusting to you.

Better.

I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself by dwelling on wishes which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten.

Yes. The manner was formal but, I prided myself, not stiff. It should relieve her immediate concerns and persuade her to read on. But what to write next? How to put into words what I had to say?

I threw down my quill and walked over to the window. I looked out over the parkland as I gathered my thoughts. The night was still. There were no clouds, and the moon could be seen glistening in the sky. Beneath that same moon, within the parsonage, was Elizabeth.

What was she thinking? Was she thinking about me?

About my proposal? About my sins?

My sins! I had no sins. I returned to my desk and read over what I had written. I picked up my quill and continued. My words flowed easily.

Two offences of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr Bingley from your sister: and the other, that I had, in defiance of various claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr Wickham.

Blasted the prospects of that scoundrel! I had given him every benefit, and he had repaid me by seeking to ruin my sister. But the first charge must be answered first.

I thought back to the autumn, when I had first arrived in Hertfordshire. It was a few months ago only, and yet it seemed a lifetime away.

I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with others, that Bingley preferred your eldest sister, to any other young woman in the country. I observed my friend’s behaviour attentively; and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him.

Let there be no deception. I had done with deceit. I had seen a partiality in Bingley, and I did not disguise it.

Your sister I also watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful and engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced from the evening’s scrutiny, that though she received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of sentiment. If you have not been mistaken here, I must have been in an error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter probable. If it be so, if I have been misled by such error, to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable.

I was charitable, allowing Elizabeth her feelings, and her natural defensiveness on behalf of her sister, but I must also be charitable to myself.

…the want of connection could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me. But there were other causes of repugnance.

I hesitated. I had expressed these feelings before, in person. Elizabeth’s words came back to me. ‘Had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner. ’ Was it ungentleman-like to list her family’s failings? My anger stirred. No, it was nothing but the truth. And I would tell the truth. I had already given her a disgust of me. I had nothing left to fear.

These causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your mother’s family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison of that total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father. Pardon me. It pains me to offend you.

Ungentleman-like? I thought, as I wrote the words. I had begged her pardon. What could be more gentlemanlike than that?

…let it give you consolation to consider that, to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure, is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your eldest sister, than it is honourable to the sense and disposition of both.

Not only gentleman-like but magnanimous, I thought, well pleased.

Bingley left Netherfield for London, on the day following, as you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon returning.

I paused for a moment. Here my conscience troubled me. I had behaved in an underhand manner. It had worried me at the time, for deceit is repugnant to me, and yet I had done it.

The part which I acted is now to be explained.

I paused again. But the letter must be written, and the night was drawing on.

His sisters’ uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence of feeling was soon discovered, and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in London. We accordingly went, and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such a choice. I described, and enforced them earnestly. But, however this remonstrance might have staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded by the assurance, which I hesitated not in giving, of your sister’s indifference. He had before believed her to return his affection with sincere, if not with equal regard.

But Bingley has great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgement than on his own. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself, was no very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done thus much.

No, indeed I cannot. I spared him a fate which I did not spare myself, and yet I was not easy. I had acted badly, I must confess it. My honour demanded it.

There is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair, on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is, that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister’s being in town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley; but her brother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might have met without ill consequence, is perhaps probable; but his regard did not appear to me enough extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this concealment, this disguise was beneath me; it is done, however, and it was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister’s feelings, it was unknowingly done: and though the motives which governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn them.

I had written the easy part of the letter. The difficult part was still to come. Had I the right to go further? The incidents I had to relate did not only concern myself, they concerned my sister, my dear Georgiana. If they should ever be made public…but I found I had no apprehension of it. Elizabeth would not speak of them to anyone, certainly not if I asked her to keep silence, and she had to know.

But did she have to know all? Did she have to know of my sister’s weakness? I wrestled with myself. I returned once more to the window. I watched the moon sailing over the cloudless sky. If she did not know of my sister’s weakness, then she could not know of Wickham’s perfidy, I reflected, and it was to tell her of this that I had begun the letter.

I could pretend it was to answer the charge of being the cause of her sister’s unhappiness, but I knew in my heart it was because I wanted to exonerate myself of all blame in my conduct towards George Wickham.

I could not bear the thought of him being her favourite, or the thought of my being valued at nothing by his side.

I resumed my letter.

With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured Mr Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his connection with my family. Of what he has particularly accused me I am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity.

‘Colonel Fitzwilliam will vouch for me,’ I said under my breath.

But how to tell the tale? How to arrange the incidents of Wickham’s life into some coherent whole? And how to write it in such a way that my animosity did not colour every word? For I meant to be fair, even to him.

I thought. At last I continued to write.

Mr Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many years the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service to him, and on George Wickham, who was his godson, his kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and afterwards at Cambridge. Hoping the church would be his profession, he intended to provide for him in it. As for myself it is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities, the want of principle, which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself.

Here again I shall give you pain…

How deep do her feelings go? I wondered. I stabbed the paper with my quill and blotted the page. It was so scored through with crossings out and additions, however, that I knew I would have to rewrite it before presenting it to Elizabeth, and I paid the blot no heed.

…to what degree you only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr Wickham has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his real character. It adds even another motive.

A motive of keeping you safe, dear Elizabeth.

I found myself thinking of what could have been. If she had accepted me, I could be sleeping soundly, with the expectation of rising to a happy morning spent in her company. As it was, I was unable to sleep, writing by the light of a candle and the glow of the moonlight that came in at the window.

I took up my quill, telling her how my father, in his will, had desired me to give Wickham a valuable living, that Wickham had decided he did not want to enter the church and that he had asked for money instead.

He had some intention, he added, of studying the law, and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than believed him to be sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr Wickham ought not to be a clergyman; the business was therefore soon settled, he resigned all claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his society in town.

Rationally put. She could not take exception to such moderation, though I had had to write it five times to achieve such a result.

For about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. You will hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circumstances, and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others as in his reproaches to myself. After this period every appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice.

Yes. Last summer. I went over to the side of the room.

I had brought a decanter with me, and a glass. I poured myself a whisky and drank it off. The fire had been lit against the Easter chill, but it had long since gone out, and I needed the whisky to warm me.

I did not want to write the next part of the letter but it had to be done. I tried to put it off, but the clock on the mantelpiece was ticking and I knew I must finish what I had begun. I must, however, ask her for secrecy.

That she would grant it I had no doubt. She had a sister whom she loved dearly. She would understand the love and affection I had for mine.

I told her of Georgiana’s meeting with Wickham in Ramsgate, and of the way he had played upon her affections, persuading her to agree to an elopement.

Mr Wickham’s chief object was unquestionably my sister’s fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me, was a strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.

I sat back, tired. I had come to the end. Now all that remained was for me to wish her well.

This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not then master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed. For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam; and that there may be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morning.

I will only add, God bless you.

Fitzwilliam Darcy.

It was done.

I glanced at the clock. It was half past two. I had to copy the letter into a fair hand, one she could read, but I was tired. I decided to rest.

I undressed slowly and went to bed.

This morning I woke with the dawn. I slept again, until my valet wakened me. I rose quickly, then made a fair copy of my letter. I made my way to Colonel Fitzwilliam’s room. He was in his dressing-gown when I arrived, about to have his valet shave him.

‘I need to speak to you,’ I said.

‘At this hour?’ he asked, laughing.

‘I need your help.’

His look changed. He dismissed his valet.

‘You have it,’ he said.

‘I need you to do something for me.’

‘Name it.’

‘I need you to bear witness to the events related in this letter.’

He looked at me in surprise.

‘They contain particulars of Wickham’s relations with my sister.’

He frowned. ‘I do not think you should divulge them to anyone.’

‘Events have made it imperative that I do so.’

In the briefest of terms I told him of what had passed; that I had proposed to Elizabeth and been refused.

‘Refused?’ He broke in at that. ‘Good God, what can you have said to her to make her refuse you?’

‘Nothing. I said only what any sensible man would have said,’ I replied. ‘I told her of the struggle I had had in overlooking the inferiority of her connections, the objectionable behaviour of her family, the lowness of her situation in life –’

‘Only what any sensible man would have said?’ he asked in surprise. ‘Darcy, this is not like you. You cannot have so mismanaged it. To insult a woman and then to expect her to marry you?’

I was surprised at his reaction.

‘I spoke nothing but the truth.’

‘If we all spoke the truth there would be a great deal of unhappiness in the world, and particularly at such a time. Some things are better left unsaid.’

‘I abhor deception,’ I said.

‘And I abhor a blockhead!’ he returned, half-smiling, half-exasperated. Then he became serious. ‘But to offer for Miss Bennet…I confess you have taken me by surprise. I had no idea your affections were engaged.’

‘I took care you should not know. I did not want anyone to know. I thought I could vanquish them.’

‘But they were too strong for you?’

I nodded, and though I would not have admitted it to anyone but myself, they still were. No matter. I would conquer them. I had no choice.

‘Will you stand witness for me? Will you make yourself available to her, should she wish it?’ I asked him.

‘You are sure she will say nothing of it to anyone?’

‘I am sure.’

‘Very well. Then yes, I will.’

‘Thank you. And now I must leave you. I hope to put this letter into her hand this morning. She walks in the park after breakfast. I hope to find her there.’

I left him to his valet and went out into the park. I had not long to wait. I saw Elizabeth and walked towards her.

She hesitated, and I believe she would have turned away if she could, but she knew that I had seen her. I walked towards her purposefully.

‘I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?’

I put it into her hand. And then, before she could hand it back to me, I made her a slight bow and walked away.

Of my feelings as I returned to Rosings I will say nothing. I scarcely know what they were. I imagined her reading the letter. Would she believe me? Would she think better of me? Or would she dismiss it as a fabrication?

I had no way of knowing.

My visit to my aunt is drawing to an end. I leave tomorrow with my cousin. I could not go without taking my leave of those at the parsonage, but I was apprehensive about the visit. How would Elizabeth look?

What would she say? What would I say?

As chance should have it, Elizabeth was not there. I said all that was proper to Mr and Mrs Collins and then took my leave.

Colonel Fitzwilliam went later, remaining an hour so that Elizabeth might have a chance of speaking to him if she wished it, but she did not return. I can only hope she has accepted that I have told her the truth, and that her feelings towards me are now less hostile. But any other kind of feelings…such hopes are over.

I am in London again. After all the unforeseeable events at Rosings I find that here, at least, things are still the same. Georgiana has learnt a new sonata and netted a purse. She has also made a very good sketch of Mrs Annesley. But although London has not changed, I find that I have. I am no longer happy here. My house seems lonely. I had never realized how large it is, or how empty.

If things had gone otherwise…but they did not.

I have much to do, and I will soon be too busy to think of the past. During the days, I have business which must be attended to, and at night I mean to attend every party and ball to which I have been invited. I will not allow the events of the last few weeks to discompose me.

I have been a fool, but I will be a fool no more. I am determined to forget Elizabeth.

‘Mr Darcy! How good of you to attend our little gathering!’ said Lady Susan Wigham as I entered her house this evening.

It was comfortable to be back in a world of elegance and taste, with not one vulgar person to mortify me. The ballroom was full of refined people, many of whom I had known all my life.

‘Do let me introduce you to my niece, Cordelia. She is visiting me from the country. She is a charming girl, and a graceful dancer.’

She presented Miss Farnham, a blonde beauty of some nineteen or twenty years of age.

‘Would you care to dance, Miss Farnham?’ I asked.

She blushed prettily and whispered: ‘Thank you, yes.’

As I led her out on to the floor, I found my thoughts straying to the Netherfield ball, but I quickly controlled them and made myself think of Miss Farnham.

‘Have you been in town long?’ I asked her.

‘No, not very long,’ she said.

At least, I believe that is what she said. She has a habit of whispering which makes it difficult to hear her.

‘Are you enjoying your stay?’

‘Yes, I thank you.’

She relapsed into silence.

‘Have you been doing anything of interest?’ I asked.

‘No, not really,’ she said.

‘You have been to the theatre, perhaps?’

‘Yes.’

She said nothing more.

‘What play did you see?’ I coaxed her.

‘I cannot recall.’

‘You have been to one of the museums, perhaps?’ I asked, thinking the change of subject might stimulate her.

‘I do not know. Is the museum the large building with the columns outside? If so, I have been there. I did not like it. It was very cold and draughty.’

‘Perhaps you prefer reading books to visiting museums?’ I asked her.

‘Not especially,’ she whispered. ‘Books are very difficult, are they not? They have so many words in them.’

‘It is one of their undeniable failings.’

Elizabeth would have smiled at this, but there was no humour in Miss Farnham’s voice when she whispered:

‘That is exactly what I think.’

We lapsed into silence, but realizing that my thoughts were beginning to turn to Elizabeth, I determined to persevere.

‘Perhaps you like to sketch?’ I asked her.

‘Not especially,’ she said.

‘Is there anything you like to do?’ I asked, hearing a note of exasperation in my voice.

She looked up at me with more animation.

‘Oh, yes, indeed there is. I like playing with my kittens. I have three of them, Spot, Patch and Stripe. Spot has a black spot, but otherwise he is entirely white. Patch has a white patch on his back, and Stripe –’

‘Allow me to guess. He has a stripe?’

‘Why, have you seen him?’ she asked in amazement.

‘No.’

‘You must have done, else how could you know?’ she said, round-eyed. ‘I think my aunt must have showed him to you when I was out.’

She continued to talk of her kittens until the dance was over.

I did not let my lack of success with my first partner shake my resolve to enjoy myself, and I danced every dance. I came home pleased that I had not thought of Elizabeth above two or three times all evening.

Does she think of me ever? Does she, perhaps, think of my letter? I am satisfied that she believed me when I spoke of Wickham, for she has not asked my cousin about it, but does she understand why I spoke to her as I did when I offered her my hand? She must. She cannot be unaware of her low position in life, and on reflection she has undoubtedly decided that it was not ungentlemanlike of me to speak to her in such a manner. She must have realized I was right to do so.

And what of her feelings on the way I dealt with her sister’s affections? She sees now, I hope, that I acted for the best. She cannot fail to understand, or to acknowledge that what I did was right.

As for George Wickham, she knows him now for the scoundrel he is. But does she still have feelings for him?

Does she still prefer his company to mine? Is she laughing with him at this moment, in her aunt’s house? Does she think it better to speak to a man who has all the appearance of gentility, than one who has true worth?

If she should marry him…

I will not think of it. If I do, I will go mad.