Darcy swiftly exited the room. His heart was pounding even more than before, and he found himself pausing for breath after quitting the house.
Had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.
Darcy's fists were clenched tight by the time he made it into the grove. He found his log and sat heavily, face in his hands.
You fool Fitzwilliam. You complete and utter fool.
He had known that Elizabeth was not his most fervent admirer certainly. But to be addressed with such complete lack of civility and blind hatred? Darcy had not expected that in the slightest.
Mr Darcy had honestly believed that Elizabeth would accept, even with their past, when he exclaimed his love. He thought that the truth of his struggles would make her respect him.
And yet…it has made me lose her forever.
If he had been less truthful?
No…as she said…I am the last man on earth she would consider marrying.
Darcy knew that his behaviour whilst staying at Netherfield was not his finest. Although perfectly civil to Charles and his sisters (and even sometimes to the abhorrent Mr Hurst), he struggled to communicate well with the Bennets, Lucas's and the like.
I can hardly converse with strangers, with whom I have nothing in common...
Mr Darcy found that Mrs Bennet and her daughters, excepting for Elizabeth, had less class and taste than all of the country ladies he had met.
That was why I convinced Charles not to propose to Miss Bennet. To him I have been kinder than to myself.
Was it comparable though? Darcy stopped that particular union because he did not believe Miss Bennet loved Charles, and because of the complete want of propriety of the whole Bennet family – even Mr Bennet.
In stopping Charles from proposing to that girl, I unintentionally destroyed my own chance of happiness.
His father always said to do unto others as you would have them do unto you; sound advice that Darcy rarely followed.
I suppose this is my punishment. It is probably well deserved.
Darcy was used to women falling at his feet, practically begging him to marry them. Even Miss Bingley, supposedly a lady of high class, accomplished and beautiful, flirted shamelessly with him.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet is one of few who would refuse to marry Mr Darcy.
Naturally. I would love the one lady who hates me. Though ending Charles's relationship isn't the only reason she hates me…
Darcy stood up and began to walk again. He hardly knew where he was going. Everything still felt like a dream. The trees around him blurred together as he played over the scene in his mind again, and again. He blinked furiously to keep tears at bay.
It was starting to get dark, but Darcy had no intention of returning to Rosings yet. No doubt Lady Catherine would demand his presence, and would indelicately ask where he had been.
I hardly know what I would say. Indeed, I barely know how long I have been gone.
It was a strain to read the time on his pocket watch, so he gave up and continued walking in the twilight.
She also hates me because of Wickham…what has he said?
Wickham had always been a liar. An extremely good liar. Darcy could never forget how his father had been so fond of Wickham, that he had been convinced that the latter had truly wanted to enter the church.
A man who spent as much time as Wickham did in dirty brothels and public houses could never have been suitable for such a profession. Indeed, he was hardly suitable for any profession.
Wickham had lied to Darcy countless times in their youth. Some lies were more obvious than others. They were even close friends for a time; they played together as boys.
Whatever he told her is false…but she believed him. And she hates me for it.
Darcy found himself in front of the stables. The boy looking after the horses stood up swaying as Darcy approached.
"Shall I get yer horse for you Mr Darcy, sir? It's pretty dark to be ridin' but…"
"Yes, bring me my horse, boy."
The boy nodded and stumbled towards Darcy's horse. He could be no more than 17, but he was blind drunk. He fumbled with the ropes but eventually managed to untie it. All the while, Darcy felt himself seething with anger.
A boy so young should be far more attentive to his duties: how many other boys of 17 have jobs on great estates?
George Wickham was much the same in his youth when not at school or near my father.
He was not usually nasty to servants, but he had to hold in his choice remarks as the boy finally led the horse over.
Anger is a ridiculous emotion – it bubbles over from one thing to another, making the most trivial of matters seem apocalyptic.
Darcy mounted quickly and set off at a brisk trot. Both the horse and its rider knew the paths well, even in the dark. The moon was mostly full, and gave off a reasonable amount of light. The cool breeze whipped around them as Darcy tried to focus on his riding.
Had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner
Elizabeth hated him for what seemed like a thousand reasons. Darcy could barely believe that anyone could abhor someone so much as Elizabeth seemed to loathe him.
Looking at it purely from what she has seen and heard…perhaps…perhaps she's right.
Darcy gulped, and sped his horse up to a canter, then a gallop. He could not see the house anymore, but continued along the path, relishing the strong winds.
The speed seemed to heighten his senses, making him focus. He could see the fields all around him in the moonlight. His heart was pounding again, but this time it was from exhilaration, not anxiety.
He felt whole, and one with himself. It had been weeks since he had spent a prolonged period of time alone. It felt extraordinary.
I can conquer this. Even if she will not marry me…I can at least defend myself against some of her accusations.
Darcy turned, and galloped back towards Rosings. He felt a new sense of energy and determination. There was still an inexplicable ache in his chest, but he dismissed it.
He knew it was impossible for Elizabeth to love him now. In all probability, he didn't deserve her anyway.
But I can make her see…at least the truth about Wickham if nothing else.
He left the horse with the drunken stable boy, and jumped up the stairs two at a time into the house.
"Darcy! There you are! Where on earth have you been? Lady Catherine has not stopped fretting about your absence. She takes it as a slight you know…", Colonel Fitzwilliam exclaimed, as Darcy came through the door.
"You must come and ease her suffering, cousin." Fitzwilliam said, looking curiously at Darcy.
I must look like quite the sight.
"No…no…make my excuses. I thank you."
"Darcy…are you unwell? Will you allow me to send for a physician?" Fitzwilliam looked concerned now, taking in Mr Darcy's windswept hair and drawn expression.
"No. I apologise. We may converse on the morrow."
Darcy trudged up the flights of stairs to his room. He promptly slammed his door and took a few more deep breaths.
The truth is all that matters now. May she find it in her heart to forgive at least some of my character.
Darcy slowly stepped towards his desk, pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and a quill, and began to write.