These Three Remain

by Pamela Aidan

  “Ah, inside information!” Sir Hugh closed the fan of his cards. “The betting books are in Darcy’s favor at the moment. A pony on Brougham or Darcy, Manning?”

  “Oh, on Darcy” — Manning sneered — “but only to annoy him. He hates to be the subject of public interest; do you not, Darcy?”

  “Shall we play, gentlemen?” Darcy deflected Manning’s question. “Your bid, Devereaux.” With His Lordship’s bid, the game and the evening proceeded with no further mention of a possible re-match, but with a shift of his shoulders Manning ably communicated that his point had been proved. The appearance of his old antagonist in the club’s rooms had surprised Darcy, for although Manning was a member of Boodle’s, he was also a member of White’s and had demonstrated his preference for the latter with a prolonged absence from the former. Darcy had not seen him to exchange even a word since the horrible business at Norwycke Castle. There was no telling why Manning had suddenly chosen to grace Boodle’s with his presence unless it was for the perverse pleasure he took in pinching at Darcy, as he did now. For that, Manning had certainly positioned himself well, offering himself as Darcy’s partner when, upon reception of an urgent note, Sanding-ton had to quit the game.

  Although he could not enjoy his company, Darcy could not fault the man’s play. Manning was as shrewd at cards as he was at provocation, slicing at their opponents’ strategy as deftly as he did the reputations of those other club members who chanced to pass by. Both Goforth and Devereaux snorted with amusement at the remarks, leaving Darcy alone in disgust of the Baron’s entertainment and wishing himself elsewhere. They ended the evening victors, but Darcy took little pleasure in it or in Manning’s curt expression of satisfaction. Nodding his reception of his partner’s tight-lipped compliment, Darcy rose from the table, intent upon departing for Erewile House when Manning stepped around to him. “A word?” The tone of his request was almost civil.

  “Your servant,” Darcy replied evenly, masking his irritation. Manning motioned him over to a small table away from the swell of activity. Taking chairs, they once again faced each other. “What is it, Manning?” Darcy demanded without preamble. “I am for home and have no desire to tarry.”

  “I wish to speak to you…about a personal matter.” His Lordship’s arrogant voice faltered even as his eyes shifted away from Darcy’s. “I know how incongruous that must sound. Imagine me asking something of you! Only the most pressing necessity would, I assure you, bring me to you with this. Damn!” He fell back in his chair, his aspect stormy. Everything tempted Darcy to rise and leave, but something in the picture Manning made stayed him. Sitting back, he waited for the Baron to continue. “It is Bella; you remember my sister?” His Lordship looked back at him.

  “I hope that Miss Avery is well.” Darcy’s brows came together. What could Manning want with him concerning his sister?

  “Yes…and no! She is not ill in the common sense of the term.” His Lordship scowled. “But you know how she is! Ever the colorless little mouse. And that blasted stuttering of hers!” Darcy’s frown deepened. Yes, he knew quite well Manning’s opinion of his younger sister and his careless mistreatment of her. Returning him what he trusted was a look communicating his disapprobation, Darcy was gratified to see His Lordship had the grace to flush and cease his complaints.

  “Here it is, Darcy.” He lowered his voice. “I have come to see that Bella has lacked proper guidance. Our parents died before she was eight years old. Her governesses since have been adequate but not inspired. I have never known what to do with her.” His voice rose again in irritation. “And, Lord knows, my sister, Lady Sayre, never showed her a particle of interest even before the business last January. I have wasted a Season on her already and am in a fair way to be doing so again this year.”

  “My sympathies go out to your sister —”

  “Yes!” Manning stopped him. “I thought they must. You handled her so well at Norwycke. That is why I have come to you.” Darcy stared at him uncomprehendingly. “You are very close to your own sister, I believe.”

  “I have that honor.” He regarded Manning with suspicion.

  “I have noticed your unusual esteem for each other; so has Bella.”

  “When —?”

  “Saw you together at the theater, Monday last, Lady Lavinia’s recital on Thursday, although you came late and left early, and the opera on Saturday.” He ticked them off. “The short of it is this: Bella stands in admiration of you and Miss Darcy.” His Lordship’s rancor was unmistakable. “And frankly, although you are insufferably correct in all particulars, it is obvious that you do more than suffer the company of your sister. A man of your intelligence…” Darcy’s brow lifted, feigning just a bit more astonishment than he truly felt at this, the first genuine compliment he had ever received from Manning. “Yes, I admit to all your talents and graces,” Manning conceded. “A man of your intelligence and temper would not be so attentive to his much younger sister if she were a hubble-bubble, bird-witted miss on the one hand or a damned nattering bluestocking on the other. Bella would do well to acquire some of your sister’s self-possession and intelligence.” He paused as a servant came by with a tray. “You there, what is on deck?”

  “Brandy, my lord.” The man bowed and offered the tray.

  “Excellent! Dry work this!” Manning snatched a glass. “Darcy?”

  “No, I thank you.” He watched as the Baron attempted to soothe the discomfort of the distasteful position in which he found himself.

  “Would you — despite our long-standing antagonism — would you allow an introduction, encourage a friendship between Miss Darcy and Bella?” The proud look, so briefly abandoned, returned, daring Darcy against pity or triumph in whatever his answer might be.

  Everything inside Darcy went very still as he made shift to recover from the surprise of Manning’s request. How could he answer him? It involved so much: years of what Manning had rightly called an “antagonism,” of which he had taken the brunt, the foisting upon Georgiana of a “friend” not of her own choosing, and the increased contact with Manning that this meant for both of them. This was not to mention that Manning’s Sayre connections were in serious social and financial disgrace, one of whose members was up to her lovely neck in sedition! Narrowing his eyes on the man across the table, Darcy looked for anything that indicated some feeling in his bosom for his sister’s difficulties beyond irritation and the desire to be relieved of responsibility for her. The fact that Manning had come to him for assistance was unaccountably wonderful and spoke in favor of more than a concern for his sister’s effect on his purse, but the hard eyes and arrogant demeanor Manning displayed as he waited for his answer mitigated against the possession of softer affections. If Darcy agreed, it appeared that it would make no real difference in Manning’s disdain of him, a disdain he had never understood or discovered how he had earned. If there were any justice in the world, he should take this opportunity to —

  Though justice be thy plea… — as his jaw hardened to deliver his refusal, Georgiana’s soft vow to be his Portia, his advocate, recalled itself — we do pray for mercy. What more would be his bid for justice in this than revenge for his own offended pride? In his struggles, had it not been Georgiana’s mercy and Dy’s rougher sort that had pulled him through?

  “Well?” Manning barked at him, his lips preparing to curl into a sneer when the refusal came.

  “Would Thursday morning be convenient for Miss Avery?” Darcy inquired. “Perhaps eleven o’clock?” The astonishment on Manning’s face was, he found, worth every ounce of his surrender to mercy’s better angels.

  “You agree? I’ll be damned!” Manning sank back against his chair, astonished. “Dashed decent of you, Darcy!” he managed after several speechless moments. “I did not expect…Well, that is neither here nor there. Yes, eleven on Thursday; Bella will be ecstatic.” He rose and awkwardly extended his hand. “Th-thank you.”

  “You are welcome.” Darcy gripped His Lordship’s hand. He had do
ne the right thing; he was sure of it now. But that conviction did not include spending any more time with Manning than was strictly necessary. “Now, I am for home. Can I drop you anywhere, Manning?”

  “No, no,” His Lordship quickly responded, evidently no more at ease with this new way of relating to him than Darcy was with him. “I shall look in at White’s a bit, and then my dancer will be waiting…” He let the sentence dangle and shrugged. “Until Thursday.”

  “Thursday.” Darcy nodded, then took his leave of Manning and his club. Sauntering down to the sidewalk, he smiled to see Harry jump from the carriage and move swiftly to open the door and bring down the steps.

  “Evenin’ Mr. Darcy, sir.” The groomsman pulled on his forelock.

  “Good evening, Harry,” Darcy returned as he mounted the small steps. “Tell James to take us home. I have had enough for one evening.”

  “’ope it were a good un, sir.”

  “Oh, it was an extraordinary one, Harry! Proof of your assertion, I would say.”

  “Which one ’ud that be, sir?”

  “That ‘the Quality be a strange lot.’ ” He quoted Harry’s sage observation back to him.

  “Humph!” Harry snorted. “Proof o’ that ain’t in want!” He made to shut the door and then stopped short and ducked his head, apparently scandalized by his own free speech. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Mr. Darcy!”

  “Close the door, Harry.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The door clicked shut, but Darcy waited only until Harry was back up on top of the carriage before he gave in to the humorous truth of his groomsman’s philosophy. “Strange” surely described Manning’s seeking him out tonight and the odd turn their association had taken.

  “I cannot tell you what a relief it is to be back in London.” Miss Bingley accepted a cup of tea from Georgiana’s hand and settled back comfortably in her chair. “The shops and theaters of Scarborough are nothing, never mind what my aunt may claim for them! You may imagine, Georgiana, how I longed to return to civilization.”

  Darcy watched as his sister responded with a politely sympathetic smile before pouring out the next cup for Bingley. “It was not so bad as that.” Bingley looked up at him. “Though I will admit to feeling more at ease here in London than among our relatives and our parents’ older acquaintances in Scarborough. I fear we have quite lost touch with them. Another life altogether, it seems.” He ended on a pensive note but then rallied. “It has been weeks since we were last here! How was your visit in Kent, Darcy? Warmer than ours in the North, I should imagine.”

  “Yes…warmer.” Darcy’s voice caught only briefly. Georgiana looked up into his eyes, extending him a supporting smile. He nodded his receipt of it. “But it did not last. Both Fitzwilliam and I were more than glad to return to Town.”

  “And your portrait, Georgiana.” Miss Bingley’s voice bridged the lull that threatened to settle upon them. “I am so distressed that we returned too late to see it. Was the Unveiling well attended?” She paused, then shook herself with a throaty laugh. “But of course it was. I should rather ask who attended. Come, you may crow your triumph to us!”

  Such an invitation! Darcy looked hard at Bingley’s sister, wondering again how she could have so little understanding of Georgiana. Mistaking his observation of her, she cast him a sideways smile that spoke of a conspiracy of indulgence in which he declined to claim his share. “You are mistaken, Miss Bingley; I acceded to my sister’s wishes and issued no invitations. The portrait was displayed to family only and is on its way to Pemberley as we speak.”

  “Really?” Miss Bingley looked between brother and sister in puzzled disbelief.

  “It was my wish, Miss Bingley, which my brother was kind enough to grant.” Georgiana held out his cup to him with a tender smile. “He is very good to me, is he not?”

  Her lips pursed in an uncertain smile, Miss Bingley assented to her proposition.

  “What are your plans now that you have returned?” Darcy directed the conversation away from himself. “Society will soon explode into activity, and you will be much in demand.”

  “I have not altogether decided.” Bingley set down his cup. “My desk is already awash with invitations and notices.”

  Darcy nodded his understanding. “You must take care that you hold the reins, Bingley, and are not driven by Society’s whip. Else, my friend, you will end in the ditch.”

  Bingley grimaced. “I shall keep your advice in mind. It is just making a beginning —”

  “Upon which subject I have spoken to Hinchcliffe.”

  “Hinchcliffe!” his friend exclaimed, a glimmer of hope gilding his features.

  “The same.” Darcy grinned to see the cautious relief in Bingley’s face at the mention of his formidable secretary. “He is of the opinion that his nephew might well start in your service as an undersecretary in charge of your social affairs, if you are agreeable.”

  “Agreeable! I should say!”

  “It is done, then. Shall he report to you tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow — Yes! He may come tonight! I shall send a note round this minute if you will allow.”

  “By all means!” Darcy gestured to the door, then turned to his sister. “If you will excuse us.” Once in his study, he pushed a sheet of paper across his desk and flicked open the inkwell as Bingley availed himself of a chair.

  “This could not have come at a better time.” Bingley grinned as he took the pen Darcy offered and then bit his lip in all seriousness as he dipped it into the inkwell and set himself to writing. Darcy sat back and watched Bingley scratch away at his note, content with both the utility of the help he was able to offer and its glad acceptance. “There,” his friend exclaimed, dotting the i of his name with a flourish and pushing the note toward him. “Tell me if it is acceptable. I would not wish to risk Hinchcliffe’s opinion with a misspelled note.”

  The short epistle was soon read, but as Darcy looked back to Bingley with assurance upon his lips, he caught him in what could only be termed a dejection of spirits, his eyes focused on nothing present in the room, the laughter lines about his face gone slack. Even as Darcy watched, Bingley’s shoulders slumped and a furrow appeared across his brow. Quickly returning his gaze to the note, Darcy felt his contentment vanish. The prescription he held in his hand for the relief of Bingley’s social obligations would do nothing to cure the heartsickness that resided still in his friend’s bosom. As he trained his eyes upon the note, a wave of wretchedness engulfed him. What a pitiable pair they made! Bonded now in more than friendship, each had found his soul’s match in a Bennet sister; and as a result of Darcy’s interference, they both suffered the certainty of living the rest of their days only half alive. Yes, Charles loved Jane Bennet just as surely as Darcy loved Elizabeth. He had eyes to see that now. It was worse in Bingley’s case, for Jane Bennet loved him back, if Elizabeth was to be believed; and he believed Elizabeth. How damnably conceited of him to have held himself the arbiter of love! He had wronged Charles, wronged him unforgivably in a high-handed manner and in a matter that Charles’s own heart should have sought out, free from his influence or interference. What recompense for such a grievous error could he ever make him? Even this kindness smacked of a patronizing superiority.

  “Ahem.” He cleared his throat and straightened his waistcoat, giving his friend opportunity to recover himself. When Bingley’s head came up, Darcy pushed the note back across the desk. “It will do. Shall it be sent?”

  “Yes, by all means,” Bingley returned with a quick, faint grin. “I would not wish to accept the wrong invitations.” He took up the note and slowly creased it into precise thirds as Darcy looked on, dismayed at his quip. Did Charles truly have so little faith in his own judgment? Had Darcy’s attempt to act his mentor convinced him instead that it was safer to put his life in the hands of others he held wiser than himself ? If this was so, he had done Bingley a further wrong.

  “You need only take young Hinchcliffe’s recommendations as sugge
stions, Charles. The final word is yours in this as in all your dealings. If you should find yourself somewhere you discover you would rather not be, you will know what to do. You have ever landed on your feet in any social occasion in which I have observed you.”

  “Is that so?” Bingley’s face brightened tentatively. “A compliment, Darcy?” His uncertainty cut Darcy to the quick. When had he fallen into the pattern of treating his friend as less than his equal? How had the man borne his condescension?

  “No, the truth, Charles.” He faced him squarely. “If more of humanity was possessed of your innate good nature, your ability to make those around you comfortable and well disposed toward the world, Society would not be half the gauntlet that it is.” He paused to see the effect of his words. The brightness in Bingley’s face had gone a bit flush, but the grin on his lips assured Darcy it was from pleasure rather than anger or embarrassment. “Lord knows, I could profit from some of your talent.” Darcy sighed both for the truth of his confession and for his relief that Bingley was coming back to himself. “Perhaps I should apply to you for lessons!”

  “Lessons!” Bingley laughed and rose from his seat. “Shall the master and student change places?”

  “No.” Darcy shook his head and stood. “You are graduated, Bingley! I have encouraged you, wrongly, to lag behind in the classroom. I would rather we were friends coming to each other’s aid.” He extended his hand, which Bingley, though surprised, took readily. “Equals standing ready to assist each other along the way.”

  “Of course, Darcy, of course!” Bingley beamed at him.

  Darcy nodded and strengthened his grip on Bingley’s hand. “I overstepped the bounds, my friend. What I can rectify, I shall. I promise you.”