Kent, England – Spring 1812
Fitzwilliam Darcy could put off his departure from Kent no longer. Business affairs dictated his presence in town. It was the last evening he would spend in company with Miss Elizabeth Bennet at Rosings as merely an acquaintance from Hertfordshire. He did not intend to miss a single moment of it, starting with watching her as she arrived.
Waiting outside for the Hunsford party’s arrival might have been the thing to do. However, doing so would encourage premature speculation—the likes with which his aunt Lady Catherine de Bourgh would surely take umbrage.
Darcy snapped shut the small velvet-covered box in his hand and tucked it deep inside his pocket. He could hardly wait to see the look on Elizabeth’s face when she beheld the dazzling diamond engagement ring. Its delay in reaching him from town bore some of the blame for his still being in Kent.
He poured himself a drink and took a seat near the window. If events unfolded as he expected, a long, promising night awaited him—one he was sure to cherish for the rest of his life.
Upon finishing his drink, he set his stone-cut crystal glass aside. His secret plans for Elizabeth were heavy on his mind. He had awakened that morning with such vivid dreams of knowing her in all the ways a man violently in love knew his wife.
Would that he could return to where his dream had left off—wildly intoxicating flashes of him loving Elizabeth and her loving him.
He closed his eyes, intending to give it a try. Adjusting himself accordingly, he knew exactly how to make a start.
After a while, clock bells ringing in the distance aroused Darcy from his slumber. He sat up straight and tall and consulted his pocket watch. Elizabeth’s party was due to arrive from the parsonage at any minute. He wanted to glimpse his future bride in privacy before joining everyone in the drawing-room.
Admiring her beauty was one of his favorite pastimes, although he was forced to admit it had not always been that way. The fool that he was. He had first described her as merely tolerable and not handsome enough to tempt him upon first seeing her in Hertfordshire. But that was before he really looked at her and grew fascinated by her fine eyes—dark and bewitching—and her light and pleasing figure. He soon regarded Elizabeth as one of the most handsome women of his acquaintance and then as the woman with whom he would spend the rest of his life.
The sound of Lady Catherine’s carriage outside drew him to his feet, and he stationed himself discreetly by the window.
Mr. William Collins, Lady Catherine’s sycophant vicar and Elizabeth’s cousin, descended first. What a ridiculous man he was. Mrs. Charlotte Collins, Elizabeth’s intimate friend, quit the carriage next. Darcy waited with bated breath for a much-desired glimpse of Elizabeth, at which point he planned to hurry to her side in the drawing-room. He waited. He watched. He wondered.
His heart slammed against his chest when he saw the carriage pull away.
“Where is Elizabeth?”
Insulting a lady’s family is the surest means of tripping over that fine line between love and hate.
It indeed was for the best that Elizabeth did not go to Rosings with the Collinses that evening. By now, she had her fill of the haughty Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Time spent in her ladyship’s company often required a defensive posture on Elizabeth’s part as the former never tired of insinuating herself into everyone’s business—Elizabeth’s family, the Bennets of Longbourn, in particular. That evening, however, avoiding Lady Catherine was not Elizabeth’s primary aim. No, in that instant she was furious with her ladyship’s nephew Mr. Darcy over what he allegedly had done.
Report of the gentleman’s offenses came directly from his relation’s mouth—a Colonel Fitzwilliam. Naturally, therefore, it must hold sway.
As if intending to exasperate herself as much as possible against the officious Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth chose for her employment the examination of all the letters her dearest sister, Jane, had written to her since her being in Kent.
Jane’s spirits were as low as ever. And now Elizabeth had confirmation of what she had suspected all along, even if there was a time or two of late when she wished with all her heart she was wrong. According to the colonel’s testimony, Mr. Darcy had actively conspired to separate his friend Charles Bingley from Jane all those months ago.
Just like that, all the goodwill Mr. Darcy had garnered with Elizabeth during his stay in Kent—despite the string of deficits he had amassed while they were in Hertfordshire–was gone.
All the occasions they accidentally met in the lanes when he would turn and walk with her. The good-natured banter they shared, often at his own expense. Every incidental brush of his hand. Everything had amounted to this.
We are no better off now than we were when he left Hertfordshire. No—we are much worse off, for now he has given me sufficient cause to dislike him over a hundredfold.
It was some consolation to think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the next and a still greater comfort that in less than a fortnight she should herself be with Jane again and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her spirits by all that affection could do.
Poor Jane.
All Elizabeth’s fanciful notions of how it would be once Bingley reunited with her dearest sister and returned to Netherfield Park—conceivably with Mr. Darcy as a future guest—had been for naught. Long strolls about the countryside. Chance encounters at Netherfield. Dinners at Longbourn. Who was to say what their futures might have entailed?
Now Elizabeth did not care if she ever laid eyes on Mr. Darcy again. She surely did not mean to be unhappy about him.
While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the doorbell, and her spirits were a little disturbed by the idea of its being Mr. Darcy himself, who had given the strongest hint of wanting to see her at Rosings that evening. Unfortunately, this idea was soon confirmed, and her composure was severely affected when she saw the gentleman walk into the room.
In a hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she was better.
How dare he inquire about my health when his offenses against my sister are the reason for my distress?
She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and then, getting up, walked about the room.
Elizabeth was surprised but said not a word.
After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her. Mr. Darcy retrieved a velvet box from his jacket’s breast pocket and went down on bended knee.