Anguish and Animosity: a Pride and Prejudice Fanfic
Full Summary: This "what-if" fic takes place right after Darcy's disastrous proposal to Elizabeth at Hunsford. Instead of composing his infamous letter to Elizabeth, Darcy abruptly leaves Rosings without further explanation, nursing his wounded pride. Thus, Elizabeth does not discover Wickham's true character, and her dislike for Darcy still stands. Other plot elements from Pride and Prejudice also change, making the struggle to find true love all the more difficult for Darcy and Elizabeth.
From one of the great many windows of Rosings Park one could see, besides the fashionable gardens and the charming woods of Kent, a solitary figure walking up the path. Fitzwilliam Darcy was striding up the walk in a posture not befitting a gentleman of his consequence: slumped in defeat.
Darcy entered the hall of Rosings, silently handed his hat and greatcoat to the manservant waiting for him, and quickly made for the stairs, hoping neither his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam nor his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, would notice him. He was in no mood to endure the company of his formidable aunt, given the events that had transpired at the Hunsford parsonage.
Unfortunately, Fitzwilliam had heard Darcy's entrance and appeared in the hall, cheerfully inquiring his cousin on his disappearance. Mr. Darcy's face considerably paled; he replied succinctly to the Colonel's inquiries and feigned a quick excuse of attending a pressing matter of business. As he was taking the stairs to his chamber, he requested that Fitzwilliam make his apologies to their aunt. Fitzwilliam glanced at him questioningly, but Darcy ignored him, not wishing to explain himself to anyone at all.
Upon entering his chamber, Darcy swiftly shut and locked his door to ensure no one would disturb him. Now reddening with anger, he furiously stripped off his jacket, waistcoat, and cravat, tossing them carelessly on his bed. In an attempt to alleviate his temper, he leaned against the window, only to observe the parsonage, where Elizabeth Bennet had...
Darcy whirled around and threw himself into a chair. "I will not be reminded of her!" he hissed under his breath. But it could not be helped. He was swiftly reminded of Elizabeth's censure on his supposed injuries against Mr. Wickham. "You have reduced him to his present state of poverty, comparative poverty. And yet you can treat the mention of his misfortunes with contempt and ridicule!" Her voice, sharp and caustic with seemingly righteous anger, rang in his head. Darcy jumped to his feet immediately, rage rendering him unable to sit still.
"Has the devil himself set this scoundrel against me?" he fumed, slamming his fist against the desk. "How could she be so blinded by his wiles? Why must I suffer from his contemptible deceit?"
Darcy cut himself off at once and let out a shuddering breath. He passed a hand over his face as if to allay his fury and sat down once again. At least regarding the charges against Wickham he could defend himself. Unfortunately, he soon realized, such a defense would require him to expose the circumstances surrounding Wickham and his sister Georgiana. To have his poor sister subject to gossip and ridicule alarmed Darcy. Was it really worth putting her through that pain? Long had he guarded the secrecy of the whole affair, and he was not wholly willing to submit his family to shame and ridicule. If he informed Elizabeth of the matter, surely her whole family would pick up the particulars. Darcy shuddered at the thought of Mrs. Bennet being privy to such a delicate affair. That woman could hardly keep any secret at all.
No, that was nonsense. Elizabeth could be trusted; she would respect his confidence. That matter did not worry him. In truth, Darcy was uncertain whether or not she would believe his testimony. She had made it very obvious that she felt nothing but the deepest contempt for him. Furthermore, Elizabeth showed pity and high regard for Wickham, no doubt because of his charms. Darcy's face darkened immediately. Did she and Wickham have an understanding? Did Elizabeth refuse him because of her admiration for that man?
Damn him! thought Darcy contemptuously. To think that he could be intimate with Elizabeth! God in heaven, what did I do to deserve such torture? He could picture both Elizabeth and Wickham sneering at him, but while the lady only looked at him in disgust, the man looked insufferably smug, knowing that he had won the battle they had waged against one another.
Darcy slumped into his chair, defeated. That was how the entire affair was going to end. Elizabeth had slipped from his grasp, never to return, and has thrown herself with Wickham, where she will inevitably remain. He groaned and buried his face in his hands.
The other charge placed upon him resulted in even more problems. Darcy felt no remorse for separating Charles Bingley from Jane Bennet last November, for he knew that Bingley often found himself in love with some woman; these infatuations were hardly ever serious. In these times Darcy observed his friend closely, making certain that Bingley should never be ensnared by some mercenary. In the case of Miss Bennet, Darcy realized that Bingley's attachment to the young lady was more serious that he had imagined; his friend was most certainly besotted. During their time in Hertfordshire, Darcy carefully monitored the couple, and deduced that Jane Bennet's feelings for his friend was certainly not as strong or deep as Bingley's, though it was clear that she was pleased with his attentions. He was certain that the sweet-tempered Miss Bennet was by no means a fortune hunter, but it was her mother that had made evident her reasons for marrying off her daughters to men like Bingley. Darcy observed that Miss Bennet was a compliant, innocent young woman and would certainly obey her mother's wishes by marrying not for love but for more...material reasons. Thus, to save his friend from a most inconvenient alliance, Darcy convinced Charles of Miss Bennet's indifference and whisked him off to London before anything disastrous could occur.
Little did he know that his prudent decision to protect his friend would backfire him so! Darcy snorted in disgust at his own kindness to Bingley, realizing that his generosity to his friend had ruined his chances with Elizabeth. She must have thought him hypocritical to deem her sister unsuitable for Bingley while in the same breath confessing his love for her and asking for her hand in marriage. Darcy, however, saw the prudence behind his actions, which Elizabeth refused to see. In his opinion Elizabeth was highly unlikely to marry for monetary reasons, for she possessed such a free-spirited, impertinent nature; she was not as submissive as her sister. Certainly Elizabeth would never become the mercenary that her mother encouraged her to be, and for this Darcy was infinitely grateful. At times he was so conflicted in his opinion of Elizabeth; he recalled seeing her at Netherfield when her sister was ill. Elizabeth had walked three miles from Longbourn and had muddied herself considerably. When she arrived at Netherfield, her hair was all in disarray, her petticoat "six inches deep in mud", as Mrs. Hurst had observed. Darcy did not know whether to be appalled at such an exhibition or amused at Elizabeth's refreshing sense of independence. He contented himself with admiring her fine eyes, which were bright and alert from the strenuous exercise. Darcy also admitted to himself that he loved her quick wit and pert tongue and secretly enjoyed the verbal battles they engaged in.
There was no other woman in the world like Elizabeth Bennet.
Darcy groaned again at the thought of Elizabeth. Will she never leave my mind? I have admitted defeat. Will she not leave me be? he thought desperately. He recalled his proposal to her, if one could refer to it so. It was a disaster, a complete and utter failure on his part. Elizabeth did not only make it known that she felt nothing but abhorrence for him but also declared that she would never accept him. "You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it." Darcy could have endured marrying Elizabeth if only to satisfy her financial needs, for his fortune was vast enough to do so. At least then he could have her, and perhaps during their union he could improve in her eyes. But her pronouncement dashed any hopes of ever applying for her favor again, any hopes of ever seeing Elizabeth smile at him in adoration...
Darcy closed his eyes in despair. In his mind he recalled every sharp word they exchanged that evening. He winced when he recalled his proposal; it was indeed a mistake to immediately criticizing her family, but how could he not? Elizabeth had sense enough; she knew of her family's impropriety. Darcy colored suddenly. Of course she knew, but it was indeed very improper of him to point it out. How could he have been so mindless? He grimaced in self-loathing, recalling how...confident he was that Elizabeth would accept his proposal. Damn your pride, Fitzwilliam Darcy, he berated himself. Did you truly think that, after such a proposal, that she could ever accept it? What in God's name could I have been thinking? Elizabeth was perfectly right in her censure of him: "...had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner." How right she had been! He had been an arrogant fool.
But what was to be done? Elizabeth had stated herself: there was nothing that Darcy could do to tempt her to accept him. It was hopeless; he would have to endure a lifetime without her while watching her marry some buffoon simply to secure her own future. Darcy gripped the edge of his desk in frustration and despair until his knuckles turned white. There was no way he was going to completely give up to that fate. If he failed to make an attempt to defend himself now, he would regret it for all of his life. Resolve to do this much, Darcy extracted a piece of paper, pen, and an inkwell from the desk. He paused with the pen poised above the pristine white parchment, formulating in his mind how to address the missive. Then he lifted his pen and wrote thus: "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..."
Several hours ticked by when, at last, Darcy tossed the pen onto the desk and clenched his aching, ink-stained fingers. The candle that had provided him with adequate light was now nearly out, but a faint flame still cast the tiniest bit of light on the painstakingly written words on his completed letter. The letter, which was several pages in length, contained a detailed and thorough account of Darcy's history with Wickham, every painful particular that he would rather forget. The other part outlined his motives for separating Bingley and Miss Bennet. He pored out his very soul into those words, for any concealment of any kind was his abhorrence. Darcy did not spare Elizabeth's family from his criticism, although he was well aware that his censure of their lack of propriety would not sit well with the recipient of the letter.
At this sudden thought, Darcy clenched his hands into fists, ignoring the aching that ensued. "There is nothing I can do to win Elizabeth's favor," he muttered darkly. "To defend myself thus, despite of my honesty, will only make her contempt for me all the stronger! What is the use? Shall I torture myself by exposing all I have kept secret just to win even more of her hate? Shall I have my good judgment scorned and belittled to nothing but 'selfish disdain' and contemptible pride?" Darcy broke off his rant, breathing hard as his frustration mounted. He stood up abruptly and paced about the room, his steps agitated. "If I am to torture myself thus, simply to be rejected a second time, then it is no better than giving up to my inevitable fate. Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! If only you knew how much you torment me! You do not know half of the extent of my love for you. It is not simply passionate but bittersweet...it is not only ardent but agonizing..." Darcy was stunned to feel, unmistakably, tears pricking his eyes. He hardly ever shed tears, not even at the death of his father. And here he was, lamenting over the love of a woman and feeling very weak and feeble indeed. Darcy stopped pacing immediately and picked up the letter from the desk. Then, with a solemnity of a man facing death, he placed the letter into the flame of his candle and watched it burn, its ashes fluttering to the floor.