"This must be false! This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!"
The morning after Darcy and his cousin had left Rosings Elizabeth found herself wandering in the park yet again, eager to find a private place where she could continue studying the contents of the startling letter he had given her just one day before. Although the parsonage was only occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Collins at this moment, it still felt too crowded for Elizabeth's taste. Wanting as much seclusion as possible she made her way to a secluded grove she thought of as hers, next to a fresh spring that trailed away into a noisy brook, and sat on the end of a fallen log before pulling the letter from the pocket of her spencer and opening it.
With a renewed desire not to believe a word Darcy said, she read again his defense of his actions in regards to Jane and Bingley, but the passage of twenty four hours did not change the conclusions she had reached the day before. She had already nearly memorized the letter, but she could not help reading through it repeatedly, hoping to find some new meaning, some way of interpreting its assertions, that would excuse the angry accusations she had hurled at Darcy during their spirited conversation. After careful reflection, forcing herself to an unflinching honesty, she reluctantly admitted to herself that Darcy's behavior in this instance might be considered reasonable, if high-handed. She could not quite forgive him for it, of course. But neither could she completely condemn his desire to protect his friend, even though he had unintentionally hurt Jane. His motives had been good. If she herself had been a detached observer, not aware of Jane's true feelings, she might even have approved of what he had done.
Reluctantly she moved on to the sections which dealt with Wickham, reading these passages much more slowly today than yesterday. Perhaps there might be some detail she had missed that would exonerate her former favorite. After reading Darcy's account of their interactions several more times, she made herself lay the letter aside for a moment, concentrating on recalling every detail that Wickham had told her, weighing the merits of each person's story, the pertinent details, and especially considering how Darcy had trusted her with information about his own sister. She weighed each man's story in her mind, as best she could recall their differing account, and then took up the letter again.
It was no use. She found that to blame Darcy regarding Wickham was now impossible. One man had displayed all the appearance of goodness, but the other, all the substance. When she closed her eyes, she could still see Wickham's handsome features in her mind and picture again the charming persona he had presented, the very picture of an ideal gentleman. But when her eyes were opened, that vision vanished as abruptly as the ripples in the stream next to her.
She had arrived back at the same conclusion she had reached yesterday: Darcy was a much better man than she had credited, and she had let her own prejudice blind her to that fact.
She did not regret her refusal of his offer. Even though his character was better than she had thought, his disposition was proven to be just as disagreeable. His application for her hand had been an exercise in insults, and his anger at her refusal was not worthy of a gentleman. The tone of his letter, too, showed condescension and arrogance. He was all haughtiness, pride, and insolence. She may have spoken to him in anger, but at least some of what she said had been the truth. He was still, of all the men she had known, one of the most unpleasant.
It was not likely that she and Darcy would ever meet again, and even less likely that he would ever want to renew his addresses. But if he did her answer would remain the same, although she would take care to couch it in much more gentle terms. As a gentleman of good breeding he at least deserved that much courtesy. In the meantime she would do her best to put the whole sorry incident out of her mind. She was not made for unhappiness, and she was determined that memories of the ill-tempered Mr. Darcy would not spoil her last few days in Kent.
She had been in the grove for some time now, and a look at the sun's position in the sky showed it was past time for her to return to the parsonage. Accordingly she rose and turned back, still holding the letter and reading intently as she went, her eyes fixed on particular passages, reading it one last time before she would put it aside for what she hoped would be the last time. She was about to replace the letter in her pocket when the heel of her shoe struck an upturned tree root and threw her abruptly off balance. Darcy's letter flew from her hands. She fell hard on the packed dirt of the path, both arms outstretched before her.
In a moment she was standing upright again. She had not been badly hurt, but the heel of her right hand was red and swollen, and apt to cause pain when she pressed on it. Her dress had several stains and marks on it to show where she had fallen. Annoyed, she began to brush the dirt away, but just that light pressure on the palm of her hand made it throb painfully. She knew she had to return to the parsonage at once to wrap it before the swelling became any worse.
Her dignity had now been injured twice in a short time—once by Darcy's infuriating letter, and once by her own actions. Irritated by her carelessness, she retrieved the letter and its envelope with her good hand and impatiently thrust them in her pocket. With all the dignity she could muster, she slowly made her way back down the path towards the parsonage.
Behind her, one single page of Mr. Darcy's letter still lay in the path, overlooked by its distracted owner.
"Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter," it began in Darcy's distinctive hand, "by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments or renewal of those offers which were last night so disgusting to you. . . . "
This story copyrighted 2015 by Elaine Owen. No copying or publishing allowed without express permission of the author.