Page 10 of He Insulted My Entire Family Before Proposing

The flowers Charlotte had cut lay in their basket by the path. One had fallen out, its stem bent. Elizabeth picked it up because her hands needed employment. She expected triumph. She had refused him. She had said what ought to be said. She had defended Jane, Longbourn, herself.

Instead she felt as if she had been standing too near a fire and only now noticed her sleeve had caught.

Charlotte found her ten minutes later.

"Well?" she asked gently.

Elizabeth held up the bent flower. "Mr. Darcy has asked me to marry him."

Charlotte, to her credit, did not drop the basket she carried. "And?"

"I declined the honor of being loved as if I were a difficulty overcome."

Charlotte sat beside her. "Was he very bad?"

Elizabeth stared toward the gate. "He was sincere."

"Ah."

"That was the worst of it."

Charlotte said nothing. There were silences only a friend could give, and this was one of them: not empty, not demanding, merely present.

After a while Elizabeth said, "I told him he injured Jane."

"Good."

"I told him he insulted my family."

"Also good."

"I may have told him his proposal was a family condemnation with matrimonial decorations."

Charlotte's lips trembled.

"Do not laugh," Elizabeth warned.

"I am trying to be a respectable married woman."

"Then try elsewhere. I cannot survive respectability at present."

Charlotte did laugh, softly, and after a moment Elizabeth joined her. The laughter did not heal anything. It merely proved they were still themselves.

That night, alone, Elizabeth took out her list. She read the five offenses, then added a sixth.

6. Proposed as if love excused contempt.

She looked at the sentence for a long time.

Then beneath it she wrote:

Question: What would repair require?

She did not know why she wrote it. She did not intend forgiveness. She did not intend to think of him beyond the necessity of anger. But the question stood on the page, stubborn and unwelcome.

Elizabeth closed the little book.

Outside, the parsonage slept. At Rosings, perhaps, Mr. Darcy did not. She hoped he suffered. Then she was ashamed of hoping it. Then she was annoyed at being ashamed, because he had begun the whole thing.