Page 17 of Elizabeth Bennet Says Yes to Mr. Darcy

If I made it disappear without explanation, Elizabeth would think I was trying to buy my way back into her favor. If I asked her permission, she would refuse out of pride. If I did nothing, her family faced public humiliation.

I chose a path that would preserve Mr. Bennet’s independence as much as possible. My man of business would purchase the obligation, suspend all proceedings, and offer repayment over fifteen years at a very low interest, secured only by a reasonable portion of Longbourn’s income. No gift. No connection to the marriage contract. No advantage to me if Elizabeth married me.

I wrote the instructions.

Then I drafted a copy for Mr. Bennet, clearly explaining my intervention and giving him the option to refuse.

It was late when I finished. Fitzwilliam was asleep. Rosings was silent.

I stepped out onto the terrace.

In the distance, a single light still burned in a window of the parsonage. Was it Elizabeth’s room? Was she reading my letter? Did she hate me more now that she knew Georgiana’s history? Was she thinking of Wickham with shame, of Jane with anger, of me with something that might still resemble the esteem she had once claimed to feel?

I knew nothing.

This ignorance was new. I had always considered uncertainty a weakness to be conquered through reflection and will. Elizabeth forced me to understand that another’s heart could not be governed like an estate.

I could offer my name, my fortune, my protection.

I could not obtain her love.

For the first time in my life, I desired something I could neither earn through duty nor secure through decision.

I had to wait for her to give it to me.

Chapter 6

Elizabeth

Mr. Darcy's letter sat on my table for nearly an hour before I found the courage to break the seal.

I had expected a proud defense, some impeccable demonstration designed to prove that my reproaches arose from an intelligence inferior to his own. Instead, I found a precise account of the facts, devoid of ornament, and this restraint made each revelation harder to dismiss.

Wickham had not been deprived of an inheritance on a whim. Mr. Darcy's father had intended a church living for him and had provided him a generous education. Wickham had refused that path, received a sum in compensation, squandered the money, then demanded more. This alone would have been enough to overturn part of my judgment.

What followed chilled me.

Georgiana Darcy was only fifteen when Wickham persuaded her to elope with him. His aim was neither love nor even revenge alone, but the young girl's thirty thousand pounds. Mr. Darcy had arrived before the scheme could be carried out.

I let the letter fall onto my lap.

I had listened to Wickham because he was charming. I had believed him because his story confirmed the opinion I had already formed of Darcy. I had mistaken my discernment for a guarantee against error and my taste for wit for proof of intelligence. My pride had merely assumed a more seductive form than his.

I resumed reading.

As for Jane and Bingley, Mr. Darcy did not seek to absolve himself. He explained that he had truly believed my sister indifferent. He acknowledged that he had been influenced by my mother's conduct, by Lydia's and Kitty's, and by my father's imprudence. Above all, he admitted having concealed from Bingley that Jane was in London.

“I believed that the certainty of my own judgment justified a deception I would condemn in any other man. You were right to remind me that the intention to protect a friend grants no authority over his choices.”

I reread this sentence.

He promised to speak to Bingley upon his return to London. He asked for neither forgiveness nor a favorable response. The last page contained only a few lines.

“I do not know what difficulty threatens your family. I only beg you to believe that my assistance, if it can be of use, will never depend upon your consent to marry me. Refuse me freely. I would rather suffer from your decision than owe your presence to fear.”

I pressed the letter against my chest and closed my eyes.

He had made my freedom more terrible than my sacrifice.