Part 11- '…dinner and detailed explanations…'

Lizzy did eventually get that invite from Lady Catherine that Darcy had promised, and what a time to get it! Robert Fitzwilliam appeared at her door, barely a half-hour after Darcy had left. He explained his aunt had extended a dinner invitation which included her, seeing as she was to leave in the morning now that all her filming in Kent was complete.

He asked her if she was feeling well. She looked pale and seemed distracted; it took her a while to form a reply. 'Yes…I'm fine. There's nothing the matter…nothing at all, nothing…' she replied a little too emphatically while shaking her head. He looked at her strangely.

He thought it best to leave and, stating that a car would be sent round to pick her up, promptly did so.

Lizzy spent the next few hours in a daze, thinking over what Darcy had said and what she had said. It took longer than usual to prepare for Lady Catherine's dinner. On the one hand, she didn't want to give Lady Catherine an excuse to find fault with her, but on the other, she equally didn't wish it to appear as if she were rubbing Darcy's nose in it. She dreaded seeing him again so soon and was glad she would be leaving tomorrow, returning to the set and Herrington Estate. She would not have to see him there. Darcy and Robert still had scenes to finish here in Kent.

Dinner was going to prove an uncomfortable affair, to say the least. The dining room was one long rectangle with the grand dining table stretching to the entire length of the space. The whole room and the table itself were spectacularly furnished, with huge paintings, flickering candles and gleaming cutlery.

The guest list was a pathetically short one, consisting entirely of Lizzy herself. Harry had been invited but had cried off with some excuse Lady Catherine had not cared to listen to or relay to the others. The party, therefore, was a meagre five persons altogether: Lizzy, Lady Catherine, her daughter Anne, Robert and Darcy. They took up residence at one end of the table, and the rest stretched away from them, a disused and redundant sea of polished walnut.

Despite the scant number of guests, the dinner was still by all means going to be a grand affair. Servants milled about the place, bringing and removing plates with a wondrous flair. Lizzy tried to appear her normal self but being seated with Darcy on one side and Anne de Bourgh on the other left her flustered. He was more grave and quiet than she, so Lizzy took the opportunity to survey the appearance of Anne. She was a thin, pale and sickly looking girl, with dark rings under her eyes and what Lizzy was sure was a slight tic above her lip on the left side. She did not appear to be the sort of girl Darcy could even feign an interest in, but what did she know, she thought only this morning that Darcy hated her as much as she did him.

Lady Catherine had entirely manipulated the situation so that Lizzy would find herself between the two cousins; she was still suspicious despite Darcy's continued declarations that he felt nothing for Miss Bennet. She carefully watched the interaction between them and was pleased to note there was little to see. Darcy did not look at Lizzy once.

Lady Catherine smiled. She could afford to be more pleasant to Miss Bennet now. 'You are very quiet this evening, Miss Bennet. Not unwell, are you?'

Lizzy looked up, surprised. 'No, not at all…I'm very well, I thank you…' She felt Darcy shift uneasily.

Lady Catherine continued, 'Well, I suspect it's because you have to leave a place as beautiful as Kent…you ought to have petitioned Harry to do more filming here.'

Lizzy smiled painfully, 'I don't think that would have been possible, only the last few chapters of the book are set here…'

Lady Catherine was not really listening. She watched for a reaction from Darcy, a betrayal of his disappointment at her departure, and was satisfied there was none. 'Well, it's a shame…but at least I'll still have my two nephews. They will still be here…'

There was a sharp clang that made Lizzy jump. She realised Darcy had dropped his fork. He stood up abruptly. Everyone was surprised; only Lizzy did not turn to look up at him, and he glanced briefly at her instead. 'Please…excuse me…'

Lady Catherine was clearly annoyed at his apparent rudeness. 'Darcy…are you alright? Where are you going..?'

'I've…it's nothing…' he mumbled, almost running to the door, 'I wish you all a good night…'

Gone! Nobody knew where to look; this was a strange dinner party indeed, where it was either impossible to talk or impossible to care enough to make the effort. The whole evening was strange. Robert attempted to spark a conversation with Lizzy, with his usual characteristic easiness, but she seemed so preoccupied that he could not get more than a few sentences out of her.

Never could a group of people have been happier to see the dessert and wine finally finished. Lizzy was relieved to be going at last. As she made her way across the gravel walk, her heels purposefully scrunching against the stones, she pulled her coat tighter around her. The chill in the air was more noticeable than ever.

She had almost reached the car waiting for her when the sound of a second pair of footsteps startled her. In another moment Darcy was standing before her. Even in the dark she could see he wore an angry expression. He thrust an envelope at her…a letter, thick and heavy. She took it almost instinctively.

'Read it…' he angrily snarled at her, 'read it… and then tell me I don't have every reason in the world to hate him.' He was still in his dinner suit. She realised he must have been writing it whilst they were all sitting downstairs; it must have been the reason for his abrupt departure. He turned to leave but stopped. His expression changed and his voice softened.

'It is unlikely we should meet again, Miss Bennet… I know the thought does not make you unhappy, only …I…I wish you all the happiness in the world, Miss Bennet. I don't think I've ever met, or am likely to meet, anyone who deserves such a sentiment more…' He sighed deeply and left.

Lizzy was left shocked by it all. At that moment the moon appeared out of its shadows, and as she turned over the letter in her hand she noted her initials on the front. She folded it over, thrust it deep into her coat pocket and hurried to the car, anxious to be home, far away from Rosings and anyone remotely connected with it.

Lizzy rubbed her aching head as she got ready for bed. She was tired. It had been an amazingly long day, and she doubted she was going to get much sleep tonight.

Her bags were already packed and placed close to the door; she had made arrangements to leave early. She picked up her coat, and as she was about to drape it over a chair, it fell to the floor and she bent down wearily to retrieve it. The letter had fallen out of her pocket, the same letter Darcy had given to her in his aunt's driveway.

With no other expectation than a burning curiosity, she sat down cross-legged on her bed and opened it. It was three pages, closely written.

Don't worry; this letter doesn't contain any repeat of those sentiments or of the offer you found so disgusting this morning. Rest assured you have made your feelings perfectly clear on that point. It would be best for us both to forget the whole thing.

But I cannot forget the accusations you made against my character with regards to Jane and Bingley, and the weightier one where Wickham is concerned.

Let us deal with what I consider to be the lesser of the two evils first: your sister and my friend. As I have already stated, I did separate them and make no apologies for having done so. I wished to save my friend from disappointment.

I watched you sister, Miss Bennet, her behaviour on the set and at the charity ball, and I can honestly say I saw no particular regard from her for my friend.

Perhaps I was wrong, you know your sister better, of course, but even though she was open and cheerful I soon concluded her to be that way with everyone. It may surprise you to know that she was even nice to me!

She did not reject his attentions but from what I perceived she did nothing to encourage them, either. I was concerned for Bingley; it was easy to see, from what he said and the way he behaved, that he was very much in the way of falling in love with Jane Bennet.

And so I acted. I proposed that we go to London on business. He agreed, a little reluctantly at first. There I put all this before him, beginning with the embarrassment a connection with a family such as yours would entail. I doubt this would have worked very much at all, had I not further persuaded him of your sister's indifference. He had hitherto believed her to return his affections, but Bingley is uniquely modest, more reliant on the judgement of others than his own and particularly reliant on mine.

If I was wrong and have caused your sister unnecessary pain then I apologise, but I did everything with only the very best of intentions. There is only one part of the whole affair that I have to be ashamed of, a small deception of my own.

I knew of your sister's stay in London. I did not think Bingley's regard done away enough quite yet for him to meet her in relative safety; thus, I instructed his secretary, through a little misplaced flattery, to ensure that any messages he received were screened through me first. This way I was able to make sure he heard and thought nothing of Jane Bennet.

There is nothing more to be said on the subject and I find no reason to apologise further.

Next: to George Wickham. You accused me, Miss Bennet, of a lack of compassion and humanity there; let us see if we can engage yours in a true vein.

Have you ever felt so low, Miss Bennet, that every movement, the simplest, a raising of the arm, a turning of the head or even the soft rise and fall of your chest as you breathed, proved to require a tremendous, concerted effort? And that effort required was becoming more laborious and painful every day?

I have. Should I describe it to you? It is as awful as falling into the deepest, darkest waters, where the dark and the cold are all-consuming, where all hope and prayer must be given up, because you cannot even begin to see the surface, let alone break through it.

I don't write these words in an effort to engage your pity, Miss Bennet. From your words this morning I have long come to conclude that I should not hope to ever receive so generous a sentiment from you.

I write them because the very cause for such despondency lies with the actions of your friend, George Wickham. I do not know what he has told you, though given the strength with which you sought to chastise me I will not wonder at the success he has had in imposing his views on you.

Mr Wickham and I were brought up together and, yes, my father did love him as a son, perhaps more than his natural one, but he also trusted the wrong son, and that is where my bitterness and resentment lie.

Whereas my father bound me to Pemberley Theatre for eternity, he offered Wickham a release in the form of a sizeable amount of money and a share in the theatre. But Wickham, and here I really cannot blame him, sought to make good his release; he had surmised – rather foolishly, as it turned out – that a career in the film industry would be more profitable, and no doubt it would have been had he the patience or resolve to undertake proper training.

He took the money, sold his share to me and was gone. I cannot pretend to be sorry; his tendency to chase and then abandon the chorus girls was a dubious charm that was beginning to wear thin. He was never any good with money. He did very well spending it but was not the type to be forward-thinking enough to save for a rainy day. He was soon back.

He told me his plans had not worked out. He had the nerve to ask for more money and for the return of his share in the theatre. That would have been impossible. Had I complied then I believe I would have been taking care of Wickham's finances for the rest of his life. It was not a prospect I would have relished. He was angry and abusive, to say the least. I thought I had seen the last of him. How wrong could I have been?

I must now relate an incident to you, Miss Bennet, that I wish to God I could forget. It is a secret I have been at pains to keep from the world. I have every faith in your confidentiality and do not fear it travelling further through your means.

A couple of years ago Wickham reappeared, a blot on the horizon. He enticed Georgiana into a secret relationship. She had only just turned sixteen. You ought to have seen what she was then, Miss Bennet. All our lives have been spent at the theatre. Georgiana had grown up watching Prima Donnas sing to standing ovations, seeing inspiring thespians die a dramatic Shakespearean death, and it was all she ever aspired to.

But he came and wrought a change in her so profound, so complete that she suffers from it still. Wickham had made many unsavoury friends during his stint as a would-be actor and it was in this way that he introduced various vices to my impressionable sister.

I cannot help but think that it was all in the name of revenge against me. He took pictures of her drinking heavily one evening and passed out on the floor of some seedy nightclub. He showed them to me and said that he would have no scruple in selling them to the papers. The story of a young, rising star like my sister having a supposed drinking problem would have been like dynamite for us all.

He demanded a payment of twenty thousand pounds for the pictures, a sum not easily obtained. You see, my father sought to save his children from the temptations of this world. He perhaps had not counted on his adopted son introducing them to his only daughter. My father tied up all our wealth in the theatre, and set up a committee to ensure it was spent well. Our money is not our own. We are held accountable for every penny to the committee. It is perhaps the reason why I am so resentful towards my father.

I could not raise twenty thousand pounds so easily. The project I was working on had a contract to be completed before payment, and Wickham showed no inclination to patience.

I was forced, I am ashamed to say, to steal the money. I knew of a sizeable donation that was to be made. I siphoned off the amount I needed, fully intending to repay the money before it could be discovered. But it was discovered, by the one person in the world from whom I ought to have nothing to fear: my aunt, Lady Catherine.

Ever since, she has held the discovery over me, influencing every decision I make and analysing every step, and always with that menacing reminder that I face losing everything if the dreaded committee ever found out.

She assumed my theft to be attributed to some addiction, gambling or otherwise. I allowed the assumption to stand; better that I should bear the brunt of Lady Catherine's disapproval than Georgiana suffer it. I can stand it better than my sister. She must already live with the pain that because of a moment of youthful trust placed in the wrong man, her brother has been tied up in pitiful straits.

I hope now you will finally acquit me of a lack of humanity and compassion, and understand why I can never forgive George Wickham for all the misery my sister and I have suffered and continue to suffer.

One last word: Miss Bennet, my wealth, my whole life has never been my own. I always appear to be at the mercy of others. Perhaps in proposing to you, unknowingly, deep within my subconscious, I wished to claim you as a possession; if that is the case my proposal ought to invoke shame. But I cannot blame myself for wanting something truly for my own, wanting someone…you.

If a repulsion of my character leads you to disbelieve still all that I have written, you may ask my cousin Robert to verify the details. He is the only other soul in this world apart from you who knows anything of the whole sorry affair.

Goodbye, Miss Bennet. I will make sure you have this letter in your hands before you leave this evening.

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Lizzy read the letter with a growing disbelief. What he had said about his efforts concerning Jane and Bingley infuriated her and in a fit of anger she threw the letter to the floor, determined not to look at it.

But the things he had said against Wickham…surely they couldn't be true. Well, they must be, she thought, or why else would he cite Robert as a reference if he were not certain of his cousin corroborating the story? She read and re-read the whole thing a number of times before it truly sank in: Wickham had lied to her!