Page 27 of One Good Sonnet
“Your father suffered an apoplexy?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She nodded. “And you left immediately?”
“Yes.”
“You forgot Jane.” He had forgotten a lady he professed to love!
Darcy paused. “Yes. And I am sorry for it.”
Elizabeth continued, “My sister tells me you believed her to live in Herefordshire.”
“I did.” Darcy rubbed the back of his neck. “I misheard her. She was so soft-spoken.”
“That explains why you could not easily find her. It does not explain why you ceased trying.”
He sighed. “No.”
Elizabeth’s surprise colored her tone. “No?”
“There are circumstances which explain my conduct, Miss Elizabeth. They do not excuse all of it.”
How very vexing of him to be so sensible. “Would you do the same thing now? What if your sister died?”
It was harsh, but she needed to know.
“I know your direction, Miss Elizabeth. If circumstances were such that I was required to depart without notice, I would write to your father. If he did not answer, I would send a messenger with a message for you.”
She could not fault him for that.
“I understand that these events occurred many years ago. I am trying to reconcile the man I thought I knew with what I now know.”
“Time changes people, Miss Elizabeth.”
It was as if he and Jane had discussed it; their words were so similar.
“It does. It is also said to heal all wounds. I shall need time.” I have spent seven years hating a fictional man, she realized. In her mind, the Poetical Villain was a cad who deliberately charmed an innocent fifteen-year-old, wrote pretty verses, and disappeared once he tired of her.
In truth, Fitzwilliam Darcy was a frightened twenty-one-year-old whose father nearly died, who subsequently handled the situation badly.
The villain is not the same man I know.
“You have presented me with a considerable problem, Mr. Darcy,” she said at length.
“Have I?”
She nodded. “I have hated you for seven years.”
Darcy winced. “Your sister intimated as much.”
When did Jane tell him that?
He was not finished. “You did not even know my name.”
“That did not prevent me from resenting your behavior. My mother tormented Jane for weeks!” She paused. “Jane refused to give a name. In my youth, you were christened the Poetical Villain.”
A startled laugh burst forth. “The Poetical Villain?”
