‘And happy, I trust?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Rosings is a fine house.’
‘It is, though it is difficult to find my way about. I have become lost on one or two occasions. When I tried to find the library, I walked into the parlour instead.’
‘It is not to be expected that you would find your way round it all at once. Next time you visit Kent you will have a better opportunity to become acquainted with it.’
She looked astonished at this, and I berated myself inwardly. I had almost betrayed my feelings, which in that incautious sentence had suggested the idea that the next time she visited Kent she would be staying at Rosings, and how could she do that unless she was my wife? But indeed, it grows harder and harder to be circumspect. I ought to leave at once, and put myself out of harm’s way.
But if I do, it will arouse comment, so I must endure a little while longer. Colonel Fitzwilliam and I will be leaving soon, and then I will be safe.
I am in torment. After all my promises to myself. After all my resolutions, this – this! – is the result.
I cannot believe the events of the last few hours. If only I could put them down to a fever of the brain, but there is no doubt they happened. I have offered my hand to Elizabeth Bennet.
I should not have gone to see her. I had no need to do it, merely because she did not join us for tea. She had a headache. What lady does not suffer from headaches?
At first I drank my tea with my aunt, my cousins and Mr and Mrs Collins, but all the time my thoughts were on Elizabeth. Was she suffering? Was she really ill? Could I do anything to help her?
At last I could contain myself no longer. Whilst the others talked of the parish, I declared I needed some fresh air and expressed my intention of taking a walk. I scarce know whether I meant to visit the parsonage or not when I left Rosings. My heart drove me on but my reason urged me back, and all the while my feet carried on walking until at last I found myself outside the parsonage door.
On enquiring if Miss Bennet was in I was shown into the parlour, where she looked up in surprise as she saw me enter. I was surprised myself.
I began rationally enough. I asked after her health, and she replied that she was not too poorly. I sat down. I stood up. I walked about the room. At last I could contain it no longer.
‘In vain have I struggled. ’ The words were out before I could stop them. ‘It will not do,’ I went on. ‘My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.’
There. It was out. The secret I had carried so long had found voice, and pushed its way into the light of day.
She stared, she coloured, and was silent. How could she not be? There was nothing for her to say. She had only to listen to my declaration and then accept me.
Knowing that I had fallen beneath her spell, she knew full well that the door of Pemberley would be open to her, and the world of society would be hers.
‘I do not pretend to be ignorant of the low nature of your connections, of their inferiority and lack of worth,’
I said, scarcely believing that I had allowed my love for her to overcome such natural feelings, but driven onwards by emotions that were impossible to control.
‘Having spent many weeks in Hertfordshire, it would be folly to pretend that it would not be a degradation to ally myself to such a family, and only the force of my passion has allowed me to put such feelings aside.’
As I spoke, a picture of the Bennets rose before my eyes, and I found that I was not so much speaking to Elizabeth as to myself, thinking aloud all the thoughts that had plagued me over the last few weeks and months.
‘Your mother, with her vulgarity and prattling tongue; your father with his wilful refusal to curb the wild excesses of your younger sisters. To be joined to such girls!’ I said, as I recalled Mary Bennet singing at the assembly. ‘The best of them a dull, plodding girl with neither taste nor sense, and the worst of them silly, spoilt and selfish, finding nothing better to do with their time than to run after officers,’ I continued, as I remembered Lydia and Kitty at the Netherfield ball. ‘One uncle an attorney and another living in Cheapside,’ I went on, my feelings pouring forth with a torrent. ‘I have felt all the impossibility of such a match these many weeks. My reason revolts against it, nay, my very nature revolts against it. I know that I am lowering myself in making such an offer.
I am wounding both family connections and family pride. That I should entertain such feelings for someone so far beneath me is a weakness I despise, and yet I cannot conquer my feelings. I took myself to London and immersed myself in both business and pleasure, but none of it would remove the memory of you from my mind,’ I said, turning to look at her and letting my eyes linger on her face. ‘My attachment has outlived all my reasoned arguments, it has outlived a lengthy separation, which, instead of curing it, has only made it stronger, and it has resisted my determination to root it out. No matter what my more rational feelings, it will not be denied. It is so strong that I am prepared to overlook the faults of your family, the lowness of your connections and the pain I know I must inflict on my friends and family, by asking you to marry me. I only hope my struggles will now be rewarded,’ I said. ‘Relieve me from my apprehension. Still my anxieties. Tell me, Elizabeth, that you will be my wife.’
My speech had been impassioned. I had done what I had never done for any other human being; I had bared my soul. I had shown her all my fears and anxieties, my arguments and wrestling, and now I waited for her answer. It could not be long in coming. She had been waiting for my declaration; expecting it; I was sure of it.
She could not be unaware of my attraction, and any woman would be elated to have won the hand of Fitzwilliam Darcy. It only remained for her to say the word that would unite us and the thing would be done.
And yet, to my amazement, the smile I had expected to see on her face did not appear. She did not say: ‘You do me too much honour, Mr Darcy. I am flattered, nay gratified by your professions, and I am grateful to you for your condescension. My relatives’ situation in life, their follies and vices, cannot be expected to bring you pleasure, and I am sensible of the honour you do me in overlooking their inadequacies in order to ask me to be your wife. It is therefore with a humble sense of obligation that I accept your hand.’
She did not even say a simple ‘Yes.’
Instead, the colour rose to her cheeks, and in the most indignant voice possible she said: ‘In cases such as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot. I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly.
I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgement of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation.’
I looked at her in astonishment. She had refused me!
Never once had I imagined she might do so. Not once in all those nights when I had lain awake, telling myself how impossible such a union would be, had I pictured this outcome.
This was to be the end of all my struggles? To be rejected? And in such a manner! I! A Darcy! To be answered as though I was a fortune-hunter or an undesirable suitor. My astonishment quickly gave way to resentment. So resentful did I feel that I would not open my lips until I believed I had mastered my emotion.
‘And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting!’ I said at last. ‘I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance.’