A Most Civil Proposal (5 page)

Darcy sat straight in his chair with his eyes focused far away as he continued his account. “But Wickham was not done with my family. Last summer, he again intruded into my life in a manner which is the most painful I have ever experienced, and his prey this time was the sweetest, the most innocent heart in the land. I speak of my dear sister, Georgiana.”

“Oh, no,” Elizabeth moaned, closing her eyes in disbelief. She had reason to know that, whatever else she had believed of Mr. Darcy, his affection for his sister was apparent and sincere. A single tear slid down her cheek as she stared in dismay at Mr. Darcy’s frozen visage. If his face had been grim before, it was chiselled in granite now.

“Miss Bennet, I must ask your secrecy on this matter, for until this moment, no other mortal knew of these events except the participants and Colonel Fitzwilliam.” Elizabeth managed to nod, for she could not talk, and he continued.

“My sister is very precious to me, for I lost my mother in my youth and now lately my father. She is more than ten years my junior, and I share her guardianship with my cousin Fitzwilliam. Last summer, Georgiana travelled to Ramsgate with a Mrs. Younge, who was in charge of the establishment formed for her in London. We were quite deceived in the character of Mrs. Younge, who proved to have a prior acquaintance with George Wickham. The two evidently had conspired since she allowed Wickham, who also travelled to Ramsgate, to meet with my sister. Georgiana has a most affectionate heart and could not have been suspicious since she still retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child.”

Darcy’s dark eyes flashed with remembered fury. “With the aid of Mrs. Younge, Wickham recommended himself to Georgiana to such an extent that he was able to persuade her that she was in love and to convince her to agree to an elopement.”

Elizabeth could not stand the look of raw pain on Mr. Darcy’s face, regardless of any previous opinion of him, and she cried out, “Sir, enough! I do not need to know more, I do not doubt the truth of your report!”

Darcy heard her, but he was committed to a full accounting.

“Georgiana was then but fifteen, Miss Bennet! Fifteen!” He stopped for a moment before continuing remorselessly, “Her youth, of course, is her excuse, and additionally, she herself disclosed this plan to me when I joined her unexpectedly a few days before the intended elopement. She has always looked up to me almost as a father, and she could not face the grief and offence of such an action. She acknowledged the whole to me, and I acted instantly. I wrote to Wickham, who left the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was, of course, instantly discharged.”

This last was too much, and Elizabeth wept openly, her handkerchief clutched to her mouth.

“Wickham’s chief object,” Darcy said, “was unquestionably my sister’s fortune of thirty thousand pounds, but I am convinced that he hoped also to revenge himself on me. Had he succeeded, his vengeance would have been complete indeed. The thought of what a marriage to such a man would have done to Georgiana’s tender spirit makes my blood run cold to this day.”

Darcy’s smile was savage as he reflected, “Not that such an event would have long transpired, Miss Bennet. If you thought my temper was extreme earlier, you have not seen that of Colonel Fitzwilliam. He would have called out Wickham immediately, and, if he would not fight, he would have killed him as he stood. It took all my powers of persuasion to dissuade him from that course after Wickham’s plans were thwarted. Had they succeeded, Wickham’s life would have been measured by the length of time it took Fitzwilliam to find him. A man who has faced Bonaparte’s armies on the continent could not be frightened by the likes of George Wickham.

“This is the end of my report, madam. I had not seen Wickham again until that day in Meryton when I met you on the street with him. My reaction to him you saw, but you could not know the history between us that led me to act as I did. Perhaps I should have made my knowledge of him available at that time, but I did not want to chance any possibility of harm to my sister. Perhaps that is a fault of my nature. It has certainly not played to my advantage with you. But I hope that this faithful narrative will at least acquit me of the charge of cruelty towards George Wickham. As testimony to the truthfulness of my account, I repeat that I can appeal to Colonel Fitzwilliam, and I urge you to consult with him on any particulars about which you still have questions. I will charge him to give full and complete disclosure, since I already have your assurance of confidence in this matter.”

Darcy was silent. He was spent, exhausted, and he had no idea what the result of his assurances would be. That he had affected Miss Bennet was obvious; her tears attested to that. But she would not look at him, and he could make no estimate of whether he had improved or harmed himself in her regard — except that her opinion of him could hardly have gotten worse.

In truth, Elizabeth was not considering her opinion of Mr. Darcy at all; her concern was with her own foolishness, and her growing dismay at Darcy’s revelations had translated to a feeling of definite nausea. She wanted to flee the drawing room, not in fear but to take herself to her own room to let loose the tears that threatened to spring from her eyes.

Mr. Wickham did not deceive me as much as I deceived myself
, she thought miserably.
I allowed my dislike of Mr. Darcy to affect me so much that I eagerly listened to Mr. Wickham’s tale
s —
nay his slanders. And Colonel Fitzwilliam can attest to this? Surely, Mr. Darcy would not offer such if that assurance was not easily at hand. Oh, foolish, foolish girl!
She could not remember ever being as mortified in her life as she was at the present moment.

She sat in agitated reflection for upwards of fifteen minutes while Darcy remained motionless in his chair. Her tears died away, and she tried to pull her thoughts together, but as she struggled to determine
what
she could possibly say, the sound of Lady Catherine’s carriage announced the return of the party from Rosings.

“Please , sir, I beg leave to go to my room,” she said in agitation.

“Miss Bennet —”

“Please do not, sir,” Elizabeth said in desperation. “I cannot speak of this; I must have time to think!”

“Will you walk with me in the morning?” Darcy asked. He could not believe the pleading tone in his voice. He had never uttered such in his life before that moment, and it stung his pride, but after the intensity of the past hour, he could not leave the matter unresolved. “Can we not talk further then after you have refreshed your spirit by rest?”

Elizabeth did indeed need the healing balm of sleep; however, her inner turmoil was so great that she feared sleep would not come early that night if at all. Nevertheless, in desperation to quit the room, she nodded in agreement though the tears again flowed from her eyes.

At that moment, the door to the parlour opened to admit Mr. Collins, followed by his wife. Both Darcy and Elizabeth jumped to their feet, and Mr. Collins’s mouth gaped in shock as he beheld the two distressed occupants in the room. Two servants were also visible in the hall, peering through the doorway. Mr. Collins looked from Elizabeth’s tearful face to Darcy’s grim, stony expression, and he was completely at a loss of what to say. Elizabeth, unequal to face any further observations, whether by her cousin or her friend, uttered a low, “Please excuse me,” and hurried away to her room.

Darcy bowed stiffly. “Mrs. Collins, Mr. Collins, I must beg your pardon. I had not realized how long I had stayed. I must bid you good evening,” and, bowing once more, he quickly departed.

Mr. Collins looked at his wife in confusion. He did not know what to say, but he did know what to do. He would ask for Lady Catherine’s advice on the morrow.

Chapter 3

Thursday, April 9, 1812

After reaching the sanctuary of her room, Elizabeth cried for a full half-hour, sobbing out the emotions that had been loosed by Mr. Darcy’s proposal and its aftermath. She did not try to think; what she had experienced had been too emotionally charged to bear any scrutiny just yet. Instead, she gave vent to all the feelings that threatened to strangle her, instinctively letting the poisons drain out. She had finally cried herself out, and she was sitting up in her bed, her eyes still puffy and reddened, when there came a soft knock at the door. When she did not respond, the knock was repeated, and this time the door opened and Charlotte peered inside.

“Lizzy?” she asked, the concern in her voice evident, “Are you ill? Is your headache worse? Can I be of help?”

“No, Charlotte,” Elizabeth said, “I am not ill, though my headache is not gone. I am just distressed. I will be well after I have a chance to rest.”

Entering the room, Charlotte closed the door and crossed to sit on the bed by Elizabeth. “Lizzy, you have been crying. What is the matter? Did you quarrel with Mr. Darcy?”

“There was a quarrel, right enough, Charlotte,” Elizabeth laughed bitterly, “but it was not quarrelling that has made me cry; my own foolishness and stupidity are the source of my tears.”

“Are you sure, Lizzy? Mr. Collins is very upset. The servants were quite disturbed when we arrived home. They reported loud voices and crying from the parlour, but none dared to enter to see whether anything was wrong. And Lady Catherine was most displeased with Mr. Darcy’s sudden departure from Rosings. She would not stop speaking of it, and then we find him here in my drawing room with you.”

Charlotte paused, looking carefully at her friend before leaning forward and taking her hand. “My husband,” she said in a low voice, “fears that Mr. Darcy must have made advances to you and reduced you to tears.”

Elizabeth could not stop a sharp, bitter laugh. “My cousin has once again displayed his unerring instinct for reaching the wrong conclusion, Charlotte. Mr. Darcy made no improper advances of any kind. His behaviour was most correct.”

“Then what, Lizzy? What could have upset you so?”

Seeing that there was no avoiding Charlotte’s question, Elizabeth decided she could not lie to her oldest and best friend.

“Charlotte, will you promise to keep what I tell you secret — not even to tell your husband? I know that is much to ask, but I cannot talk of this if there is a chance it might spread beyond the two of us.”

Charlotte was troubled, but at length she agreed, and Elizabeth looked down at the bed.

“Mr. Darcy came to . . . to make me an offer of marriage.”

“See, I told you, Lizzy,” Charlotte said happily, squeezing her friend’s hand.

“You were right, Charlotte,” Elizabeth said wryly, “but not in the way you think. Congratulations are not in order. I do not want to marry Mr. Darcy. I refused him.”

“You did not!” Charlotte exclaimed in horror.

“But I did. Oh, his proposal was really most moving, almost poetic, in fact. It caught me completely by surprise, but my previous opinion was completely against him, both because of his arrogant behaviour, because of Jane, and because of his abuse of Wickham. I quite definitely refused him.”

“And that was what made you cry?”

“No, what made me cry was what came after that, after he pressed me for the reasons for my refusal. I tried to avoid answering, but when he persisted, I was more than happy to provide the details of my objections. I challenged him to defend himself as I was sure he could not, but I was wrong. He spoke long in his defence, and it was hard to listen at first; I was so angry. But I did listen to him, and then . . . then I found that my very clever assignment of blame was based more on my own mistaken prejudice than on real cause. His previous behaviour may have been arrogant, but his proposal was most civil. I wholly misunderstood his actions on Bingley’s behalf, and his supposed abuse of Wickham was a complete deception, in which I played a part. I am now convinced that the truth of the matter is the exact opposite, with Mr. Darcy being the innocent party and Mr. Wickham being the villain of the piece. In fact, not only was Wickham actually the source of severe affronts to Mr. Darcy rather than the reverse, but he also engaged in a campaign to destroy Mr. Darcy’s character in Hertfordshire, with me and my so-called unerring judgment as his most willing accomplice!”

She laughed in bitter self-condemnation. “I have accused Mr. Darcy of being proud, arrogant, conceited, and disdainful of the feeling of others. How much of that may be accurate is unclear to me at the moment, but am I any better? I quail inside as I remember how I prided myself on my discernment and valued my own abilities! Even worse, I remember that I often disparaged Jane’s generous candour and gratified my vanity in useless or blamable distrust!”

A tear ran down Elizabeth’s cheek, and she brushed it away. “How I am humiliated by this discovery, Charlotte. Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind. I have been so misled by my vanity that I could not detect Mr. Wickham’s deceit or Mr. Darcy’s innocence. I allowed his effrontery and neglect, occasioned at the beginning of our acquaintance, to drive reason away. Until this moment,” she said dully, “I never knew myself.”

Charlotte was distressed greatly by Elizabeth’s account — distressed by everything, from her unbelievable refusal of a man of Mr. Darcy’s value to her cruel words about herself.

“You are convinced of his innocence of what Mr. Wickham said?” she asked.

“Yes,” Elizabeth nodded. “I cannot speak of the particulars, for it concerns affairs private to the Darcy family, but he offered a trustworthy witness of his account. Yes, I am now convinced of Mr. Darcy’s innocence in this, at least.”