Page 12 of He Insulted My Entire Family Before Proposing

Elizabeth waited until he had turned the bend before breaking the seal. She told herself she would read calmly. She lied with admirable confidence.

The first part answered the charge about Wickham, which Darcy had drawn into the quarrel himself.

Here Darcy was severe, precise, and, most inconveniently, convincing. He wrote of his father's affection for the young man, of provision made, of squandered opportunities, of a living refused and later demanded, of debts, falsehoods, and attempted elopement with Darcy's sister. The sentences did not plead. They laid stones. By the end of that portion Elizabeth felt the ground under one of her judgments give way.

She sat on a fallen trunk because her body required it, whatever her pride preferred.

Wickham had been charming. That was the worst of it. Not handsome, not agreeable, not unfortunate: charming. He had told his story so well that believing him had felt like generosity. Elizabeth had enjoyed despising Darcy with evidence that cost her nothing.

She forced herself on.

The second part concerned Jane.

Here the letter became more difficult, not because Darcy was less clear but because he was more himself. He admitted to encouraging Bingley's departure. He admitted to concealing Jane's presence in London. He defended himself with observations of Jane's composure, objections to the Bennet family, and concern for his friend's happiness. He conceded that his actions might have caused pain if his judgment had been mistaken, then explained at length why his judgment had not seemed mistaken at the time.

Elizabeth stood and walked as she read. The lane blurred, then sharpened. Birds made inconsiderate music. Somewhere, sheep existed without moral crisis.

She reached the end and began again.

By the third reading, her anger had changed shape. It had not lessened. It had become heavier.

Wickham was worse than she had believed. Darcy was better than she had accused in one matter and worse in another. He had not laughed at Jane. He had not acted from casual malice. He had acted from certainty.

Certainty was more respectable than malice and far more dangerous.

She returned to the parsonage late enough that Charlotte looked up from her work with concern.

"You missed Mr. Collins's account of Lady Catherine's poultry yard," Charlotte said. "It may be repeated if you require punishment."

Elizabeth held out the letter, then drew it back before Charlotte could take it.

Charlotte's gaze moved to the seal. "Is it private?"

"Everything is private until a man wants his version believed."

"Do you want me to read it?"

Elizabeth hesitated. She did not want to expose Darcy's sister, nor even Wickham's sins, to more eyes than necessary. Her anger had limits, and it was a relief to discover them. "No. But I want to say that I was wrong about one thing."

"Wickham?"

"Yes."

Charlotte nodded, not surprised. "He was very agreeable."

"That is becoming a suspicious quality."

"It often is."

Elizabeth sat. "But Darcy was wrong about Jane. Worse, he is still explaining why his mistake seemed reasonable."

"Men prefer mistakes that sound reasonable. Such mistakes leave a drawing room looking undisturbed."

Elizabeth drew the letter back into her lap. "He says he observed no sign of particular regard."

"From Jane?"

"Yes."