Darcy's Diary (13 page)

No, indeed I cannot. I spared him a fate which I did not spare myself, and yet I was not easy. I had acted badly, I must confess it. My honour demanded it.

I had written the easy part of the letter. The difficult part was still to come. Had I the right to go further? The incidents I had to relate did not only concern myself, they concerned my sister, my dear Georgiana. If they should ever be made public … but I found I had no apprehension of it. Elizabeth would not speak of them to anyone, certainly not if I asked her to keep silence, and she had to know.

But did she have to know all? Did she have to know of my sister's weakness? I wrestled with myself. I returned once more to the window. I watched the moon sailing over the cloudless sky. If she did not know of my sister's weakness, then she could not know of Wickham's perfidy, I reflected, and it was to tell her of this that I had begun the letter.

I could pretend it was to answer the charge of being the cause of her sister's unhappiness, but I knew in my heart it was because I wanted to exonerate myself of all blame in my conduct towards George Wickham.

I could not bear the thought of him being her favourite, or the thought of my being valued at nothing by his side.

I resumed my letter.

‘Colonel Fitzwilliam will vouch for me,' I said under my breath.

But how to tell the tale? How to arrange the incidents of Wickham's life into some coherent whole? And how to write it in such a way that my animosity did not colour every word? For I meant to be fair, even to him.

I thought. At last I continued to write.

How deep do her feelings go? I wondered. I stabbed the paper with my quill and blotted the page. It was so scored through with crossings out and additions, however, that I knew I would have to rewrite it before presenting it to Elizabeth, and I paid the blot no heed.

A motive of keeping you safe, dear Elizabeth.

I found myself thinking of what could have been. If she had accepted me, I could be sleeping soundly, with the expectation of rising to a happy morning spent in her company. As it was, I was unable to sleep, writing by the light of a candle and the glow of the moonlight that came in at the window.

I took up my quill, telling her how my father, in his will, had desired me to give Wickham a valuable living, that Wickham had decided he did not want to enter the church, and that he had asked for money instead.

Rationally put. She could not take exception to such moderation, though I had had to write it five times to achieve such a result.

Yes. Last summer. I went over to the side of the room. I had brought a decanter with me, and a glass. I poured myself a whisky and drank it off. The fire had been lit against the Easter chill, but it had long since gone out, and I needed the whisky to warm me.

I did not want to write the next part of the letter but it had to be done. I tried to put it off, but the clock on the mantelpiece was ticking and I knew I must finish what I had begun. I must, however, ask her for secrecy. That she would grant it I had no doubt. She had a sister whom she loved dearly. She would understand the love and affection I had for mine.

I told her of Georgiana's meeting with Wickham in Ramsgate, and of the way he had played upon her affections, persuading her to agree to an elopement.

I sat back, tired. I had come to the end. Now all that remained was for me to wish her well.

It was done.

I glanced at the clock. It was half past two. I had to copy the letter into a fair hand, one she could read, but I was tired. I decided to rest.

I undressed slowly and went to bed.

This morning I woke with the dawn. I slept again, until my valet wakened me. I rose quickly, then made a fair copy of my letter. I made my way to Colonel Fitzwilliam's room. He was in his dressing-gown when I arrived, about to have his valet shave him.

‘I need to speak to you,' I said.

‘At this hour?' he asked, laughing.

‘I need your help.'

His look changed. He dismissed his valet.

‘You have it,' he said.

‘I need you to do something for me.'

‘Name it.'

‘I need you to bear witness to the events related in this letter.'

He looked at me in surprise.

‘They contain particulars of Wickham's relations with my sister.'

He frowned. ‘I do not think you should divulge them to anyone.'

‘Events have made it imperative that I do so.'

In the briefest of terms I told him of what had passed; that I had proposed to Elizabeth and been refused.

‘Refused?' He broke in at that. ‘Good God, what can you have said to her to make her refuse you?'

‘Nothing. I said only what any sensible man would have said,' I replied. ‘I told her of the struggle I had had in overlooking the inferiority of her connections, the objectionable behaviour of her family, the lowness of her situation in life—'

‘Only what any sensible man would have said?' he asked in surprise. ‘Darcy, this is not like you. You cannot have so mismanaged it. To insult a woman and then to expect her to marry you?'

I was surprised at his reaction.

‘I spoke nothing but the truth.'

‘If we all spoke the truth there would be a great deal of unhappiness in the world, and particularly at such a time. Some things are better left unsaid.'

‘I abhor deception,' I said.

‘And I abhor a blockhead!' he returned, half-smiling, half-exasperated. Then he became serious. ‘But to offer for Miss Bennet … I confess you have taken me by surprise. I had no idea your affections were engaged.'

‘I took care you should not know. I did not want anyone to know. I thought I could vanquish them.'

‘But they were too strong for you?'

I nodded, and though I would not have admitted it to anyone but myself, they still were. No matter. I would conquer them. I had no choice.

‘Will you stand witness for me? Will you make yourself available to her, should she wish it?' I asked him.

‘You are sure she will say nothing of it to anyone?'

‘I am sure.'

‘Very well. Then yes, I will.'

‘Thank you. And now I must leave you. I hope to put this letter into her hand this morning. She walks in the park after breakfast. I hope to find her there.'

I left him to his valet and went out into the park. I had not long to wait. I saw Elizabeth and walked towards her. She hesitated, and I believe she would have turned away if she could, but she knew that I had seen her. I walked towards her purposefully.

‘I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting
you. Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?'

I put it into her hand. And then, before she could hand it back to me, I made her a slight bow and walked away.

Of my feelings as I returned to Rosings I will say nothing. I scarcely know what they were. I imagined her reading the letter. Would she believe me? Would she think better of me? Or would she dismiss it as a fabrication?

I had no way of knowing.

My visit to my aunt is drawing to an end. I leave tomorrow with my cousin. I could not go without taking my leave of those at the parsonage, but I was apprehensive about the visit. How would Elizabeth look? What would she say? What would I say?

As chance should have it, Elizabeth was not there. I said all that was proper to Mr and Mrs Collins and then took my leave.

Colonel Fitzwilliam went later, remaining an hour so that Elizabeth might have a chance of speaking to him if she wished it, but she did not return. I can only hope she has accepted that I have told her the truth, and that her feelings towards me are now less hostile. But any other kind of feelings … such hopes are over.

I am in London again. After all the unforeseeable events at Rosings I find that here, at least, things are still the same. Georgiana has learnt a new sonata and netted a purse. She has also made a very good sketch of Mrs Annesley. But although London has not changed, I find that I have. I am no longer happy here. My house seems lonely. I had never realized how large it is, or how empty. If things had gone otherwise … but they did not.

I have much to do, and I will soon be too busy to think of the past. During the days, I have business which must be attended to, and at night I mean to attend every party and ball to which I have been invited. I will not allow the events of the last few weeks to discompose me. I have been a fool, but I will be a fool no more. I am determined to forget Elizabeth.

‘Mr Darcy! How good of you to attend our little gathering!' said Lady Susan Wigham as I entered her house this evening.

It was comfortable to be back in a world of elegance and taste, with not
one vulgar person to mortify me. The ballroom was full of refined people, many of whom I had known all my life.

‘Do let me introduce you to my niece, Cordelia. She is visiting me from the country. She is a charming girl, and a graceful dancer.'

She presented Miss Farnham, a blonde beauty of some nineteen or twenty years of age.

‘Would you care to dance, Miss Farnham? I asked.

She blushed prettily and whispered: ‘Thank you, yes.'