P&P The Untold Stories: After the Proposal

The bitterness of rejection…

April 9, 1812

(BBC)

Fury choked him. All-consuming fury – at her, of course, but no less at himself for laying himself open to the abject humiliation.

Darcy tugged his gloves on and his countenance twisted into an almighty scowl.

Heavens above! How had he failed himself so utterly, so completely? He, who had always prided himself on his understanding, had been no better than a common addle-pate devoid of both reason and perception. Like the veriest clod, he had closed his eyes to the truth and chased after an illusion. He had taken his own wishes and stirrings of desire, and fashioned them into a picture of perfection. He had cloaked her in every imaginable virtue, and refused to see her for what she truly was: a foolish girl, self-absorbed, intemperate, immature and absurd.

He had thought her wise beyond her years! Ha! Of all the idiotic notions! Worse still, he had thought her his equal in intelligence, woefully beneath him as she was in everything else. He had paid her the utmost compliment: he had entrusted her with his innermost thoughts and feelings, assuming that she would understand!

Her response? That she was offended and insulted!

She was offended and insulted! She had rejected his offer of marriage – had declined the honour of walking in his mother’s footsteps, in the footsteps of all the ladies of noble birth who had ensured that the Pemberley lineage had run unbroken from the times of the Norman Conquest to the present day – but she was the one who claimed she had just cause to feel offended and insulted!

How dare she?

And how dare she accuse him of ungentlemanly conduct? Who did she think she was, this slip of a girl who had never set foot in high society – and, through her own choice, never would? Against which paragon of her acquaintance had he been measured and found wanting? Her eccentric father, with his near-criminal neglect of his affairs and his parental duties? Her grovelling cousin, who bowed and scraped to anyone who might offer him advancement? Sir William Lucas, the former tradesman who had been elevated to a knighthood? The four-and-twenty heads of the four-an-twenty families who formed the full extent of her modest circle? Worthy squires, aye, perhaps they were worthy, but there was a world of difference between a worthy squire and a true gentleman. His departed father was among those who richly deserved that accolade. He had learnt the precepts of gentlemanly conduct at his sire’s knee, and could not have received instruction from a better quarter. Even so, Mrs Bennet’s second daughter had seen fit to brand him as less than a gentleman!

Darcy frowned. That was beneath him. Having Mrs Bennet for her mother was not her fault, but her misfortune. And, since he had allowed his conscience to prick him, he might as well continue in that vein and acknowledge that he should not have lost his temper. In that respect at least, he could not claim to have upheld his father’s teachings.

But no sooner had he allowed himself to arrive at that conclusion than his hands tightened into fists. No, there was no way under heaven that he might have feigned any degree of cool composure once she had championed Wickham. Wickham!

Darcy swallowed hard.

She had championed the rogue with energy and warmth. Excessive warmth. Had she— No! This could not be! Surely she had not taken Wickham into her heart!

The passing thought that had unsettled him earlier that morning took a new shape, and this time felt like a dagger to his gut. Precise. Sharp. Deadly. Elizabeth making a life with Wickham? Bearing Wickham’s children?

Bile rose to his throat. Darcy stopped short, frozen to the spot, raised his gloved hand and rubbed his eyes, as though to erase the hideous picture. He took a deep breath, then another, and a glimmer of reason came, cutting through the dark, nauseating fog that was playing havoc with his senses.

It would not come to pass. Wickham’s aim in life was to marry money. Elizabeth was too poor to tempt him, and too principled to consent to anything less than marriage.

And yet…

The dark fog fell once more, and swirled, whipping him into panic – because even Georgiana, who was as principled as could be, had been coaxed into consenting to an elopement. Wickham would have married her given half a chance, the rotten, self-serving blackguard – but he would not marry Elizabeth. What if she were to be likewise cajoled, only to discover his true nature when it was too late?

Darcy turned on his heel and headed back with long, purposeful strides, but mere moments later he drew to a halt once more, compelled to acknowledge that he was in no fit state to decide what could safely be said, and how. Frankly, in his present frame of mind, he would be hard-pressed not to lash out in anger when faced with fresh obstinacy. Which would make matters worse. A heated disagreement would scarce persuade her that Wickham was the devil, not he.

Nay, his warnings would not serve their purpose if delivered face to face. There was nothing for it: he would have to put them in a letter, then find a way of placing it into her hands without anybody else’s notice.

(BBC)

Thus, Darcy spun round and bent his firm steps towards Rosings. Aye, this was the sole option, and the best course of action, too. He had always found it a vast deal easier to express himself in writing. Besides, a piece of correspondence could be altered, its contents rephrased as many times as necessary. One could sound cool, calm and collected in a letter.

And when he wrote it, he might as well address the other accusation she had levelled at him: namely, that he had ruined Bingley’s happiness for his own unjust and ungenerous reasons.

Darcy scoffed. Very well. He would detail his reasons, make of them what she would. Her opinion of him no longer was of any import. All in all, it mattered not. He would discharge his duty, provide her with all the information that ought to prevent her from falling prey to Wickham’s wiles, and—

Despite himself, a quiet groan escaped him. There he was, lying to himself – again. Her opinion did matter. Of course it mattered that she, who had commanded his thoughts for such a length of time – the one woman he had wished to marry – regarded him as beneath contempt.

He sighed. Perhaps, in time, he might learn to thank his stars – inwardly thank her, even – that she had not been so callous as to despise him and still join her fate with his, on account of his name and fortune. Heavens above! It did not bear thinking that he might have so easily, so readily condemned himself to a lifetime of cold misery and married her in haste, only to repent at leisure.

All of a sudden – unbidden and decidedly unwelcome – the visions of the morning flashed before him without warning. Visions of a lifetime brightened by requited love, and shared joys, and laughter.

Darcy flinched and pressed his lips together. No! No more. By all that was holy, he would have no more of that! He had dwelt in the land of foolish daydreams for long enough. It was high time to turn away from pernicious illusions, and banish them once and for all. He would return to town as soon as might be, and finally free himself from bonds of his own making.

But first, he had a long letter to write.

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