by Pamela Aidan
As they wended their way to their next morning call, Darcy listened with sympathy to all his friend’s expressions of renewed hope, but his own hopes he considered as gravely in doubt. If, as it appeared, he only caused Elizabeth pain or his presence confused her into silence, he would not give her cause for more by imposing himself upon her notice any more than necessary. He would place himself even more firmly at Bingley’s disposal and continue to observe Miss Bennet, his eyes this time attuned to the more subtle signs of affection which resided in that Bennet sister. As for Elizabeth, he decided as they rode to the squire’s, he would need a sign from her or he was for London as soon as possible.
Their visit with Squire Justin was conducted along such familiar lines as to deny they had been absent from Hertfordshire for more than a fortnight. Under the squire’s hearty ministrations, it occurred again to Darcy that, should his friend become a fixture in the neighborhood, he would do quite well among them. The squire, Darcy noted, might be just the sort of older, wiser head toward whom Bingley would do well to turn as Darcy eased himself out of a role he felt less and less qualified to play. He would mention it to Bingley, should his friend find that all he desired did, indeed, reside in Hertfordshire.
It was decided. He would leave on the following day. Darcy looked up at the ceiling above his bed, then flung an arm over his eyes. The dinner at Longbourn the previous evening had provided every reason to believe Bingley’s feet upon the path to happiness. He had watched the pair, their delight in each other patently obvious, with growing certainty. With the confession Darcy must make to him today, Charles would soon be well down the road to matrimony. It was time to cut him loose and leave him to make his future. As for his own…
The company at Longbourn had proved to be large in number. Of this fact, Mrs. Bennet had not hesitated to remind him several times, harking back, Darcy supposed, to his utterance last autumn about the confining nature of country life. Other than those commonplaces required of a hostess, she had ignored him most of the evening, and he had kept his distance from her. Only at dinner had he been forced to sit near her and partake of a meal replete with the reiteration of all the vulgar speculations of the dinner ball at Netherfield, now generously seasoned with raptures over her recently married daughter and son-in-law.
After being greeted in the hall by his hosts, he had come to Miss Bennet, who had greeted him with the kind smile she was wont to bestow on every creature. Making his bow, he had moved on. Elizabeth. His heart had turned over as he looked down on her glossy curls and creamy brow. How could she always surprise him with more loveliness than he remembered when he remembered and cherished every moment between them?
“Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth had looked up at him, her glorious eyes uncertain as she briefly explored his face, then looked down in her curtsy. “So good of you to come.”
“Not at all,” he had replied upon rising from his bow. “It is you who are good to invite us.” And that had been the sum of their conversation until the evening was almost over. When he had taken the opportunity to stand by her, she had asked about Georgiana. He had answered her and then waited, standing there awkwardly, his tongue tied against the riot of questions he longed to ask, but she had said no more and he had walked away when another young woman required her attention. Not once that evening had she approached him! Neither had the vivacious Elizabeth, full of life and wit and challenge, ever made an appearance.
Soon after, he had found himself planted at a table of whist players whose fiendish affinity for the game fortunately required his unwavering attention. Between hands, he had stolen glances across the room to Elizabeth’s table. The look upon her face had indicated little pleasure with her cards. Perhaps it had indicated little pleasure with the whole of the evening. He could not tell. What had pleased her was the renewal of Bingley’s attentions to her sister. The soft look he so coveted for himself she had bestowed often on the pair as they walked about the room together or sat and conversed with other guests.
Well, so it must be, he thought to himself with something like despair and threw off the covers. He had wished for a sign, and though he had not received a negative reception, there was in nowise enough positive in their exchanges to constitute any encouragement to stay. So, he was for London. Darcy rose and threw open the curtains. One last day…one last day that must end in either strengthening or destroying a friendship. His eyes traced the distance over the fields from Netherfield to Longbourn. Elizabeth…Elizabeth.
“What good fellows they are!” Bingley turned a bright, satisfied countenance upon Darcy when the last of his guests had called for his carriage or horse and departed into the cool of the autumn night. “I like them quite as well as — better than — I did last autumn.” An impromptu gathering of gentlemen for cards had been announced by Bingley the night before at Longbourn, and many had come, glad for an evening away from the eyes of mother, wife, or sister.
“A good sort on all counts,” Darcy agreed as they returned to the drawing room and a last glass of port. “It is gratifying to know that I leave you in such good company. You shall want for nothing to keep you occupied during my absence.” He observed Bingley carefully as he poured out their drinks. His friend was in the best of humors. The visits to Longbourn and the welcome of his return by the neighboring gentry were doing his friend great good, and for this, Darcy was exceedingly thankful. Now, the night before he was to leave Hertfordshire for London, was the time to tell him. His stomach tightened even as he accepted a glass from his friend.
“I wish you would not leave so soon, but since you must, here is to those fellows who just departed, and to your speedy return.” Bingley raised his glass, smiling at him. A swift pang smote Darcy at the sight. When he had done with what he must tell him, would Bingley still wish for his return? Darcy tipped his glass to Bingley’s, and each downed a portion of his liquor. Go to! Darcy’s conscience badgered him.
“Charles, there is something that I must tell you before I leave.”
“Tell away, Darcy!” Bingley set his glass down, flung himself with a bounce into the large stuffed chair, and motioned to its mate before the fire.
“No, thank you, I think I will stand.” Darcy took another sip of the port and stared into the flames.
Bingley looked up at him in concern. “Are you quite the thing, Darcy? I did notice that you have been more quiet than usual this evening.”
“A sore conscience tends to subdue the spirits, my friend, and that is the reason for my behavior tonight. I knew that I must speak, and the prospect of confession, however necessary, is never pleasant.”
“I say, you are sounding frightfully somber, Darcy. Confession! What can you have to confess to me?”
“I have interfered in your life, Charles, in such a manner that I can only regard as the most absurd piece of impertinence that I have ever committed.” Darcy looked down into his friend’s confused but trusting countenance, and regret washed over him as a tide. “My only excuse, if I may be allowed one, is that at the time I had convinced myself I was acting entirely for your good. I have come to see that I was wrong, very wrong, on every side.”
“Darcy! Come, my friend —”
“Charles.” He forestalled Bingley’s denial of his guilt with an upraised palm. “You must understand my offense.” He bit his lip as a sigh escaped him and then took a deep breath. “Without any regard for your feelings or hers, I made it my aim to do everything that was within my power to separate you from Miss Bennet last autumn.”
“What?” Bingley stared uncomprehendingly at him.
“I worked to prevent you from pursuing the connection despite the evidence of your attachment. I had convinced myself of Miss Bennet’s indifference to you and then made it my business to cast doubt upon her character and dissuade you from trusting your own mind and heart.” He stared down into the glass in his hand, unable to look at his companion. “My temerity so astounds me, even as I tell you, that I should not complain should you order me from your
house this instant.”
Bingley’s face had gone pale. His hand shook as he set down his glass. “All this time? Do you mean to say that all this time she…But Caroline and Louisa both said the same!”
“Your sisters did not desire the connection, Charles. They have more exalted hopes where your marriage is concerned. Frankly, and to my shame, I conspired with them in this.”
“Good God, Darcy! I cannot believe it of you!” Bingley jumped up and walked away from him, raking his hand through his hair.
“It was in every way reprehensible.” Darcy watched in concern and not a little pain as Bingley paced to and fro. If only he could end it here, but of course, there was more. “My dishonor does not end there, Charles. I must also confess that Miss Bennet was in London above three months last winter, and I directed that her presence be hidden from you.”
“Darcy!”
“I should also tell you that Miss Bennet called on Miss Bingley and waited weeks for her notice, which when it came, was made only to cut the acquaintance. That, also, was under my direction.” The look on Bingley’s face was terrible to see, and Darcy’s heart sank. He closed his eyes, searching for the words for a proper apology.
“I am sorry for the pain I have caused you and Miss Bennet. Heartily sorry, Charles. The only amends I can offer are my assurances that I was very wrong about Miss Bennet and that she, indeed, loves you and would yet make you a very happy man.”
Bingley rounded on him. “Your assurances! You tell me that you deceived me, defrauded me of the love of the sweetest of women, encouraged me to doubt my own heart; and I am to accept your assurances?”
“You are right not to depend upon me, Charles. I have proved a poor friend. Leave me out of it. What is your own view of Miss Bennet?” Darcy asked quietly.
A variety of emotions played across Bingley’s face as he wrestled with what he had learned. Turning away and taking a seat, Darcy allowed him the dignity of silence. He sipped at the last of his port and waited, the hearth fire snapping against the irons.
“That my dear Jane suffered all those weeks in London, Darcy! What she must have thought of me! What all the Bennets must think of me! I cannot understand why they received me with such civility when I returned!”
“Charles, the fact that you were so warmly welcomed by them is further proof that Miss Bennet’s affections are very much in your favor.”
“Yes,” Bingley mused aloud, “that seems reasonable. I was welcomed! Although it is true that Miss Bennet and I are not on quite as easy terms as before, I have only just returned.”
“If I may be allowed an opinion, I believe a proposal on your part will be answered in a manner that will afford great happiness to you both.”
“Do you, Darcy?” Bingley flushed. Drawing back a little, he cleared his throat. “Truly?”
“I have no doubt; do you?”
“I don’t know!” Bingley resumed his pacing. “I think…Last night she…Oh, if I dared to ask! Darcy!” he pled, coming to stand before him.
“Wait if you wish, but it will end the same, Charles, and with that I am silent now on the subject!”
With a shout, Bingley grabbed his hand in a crushing grip. Thereafter such a flood of words poured from that gentleman as went far to assure Darcy that, though he had behaved abominably, he had not lost a friend and that that friend forgave him everything in light of his future happiness.
Chapter 11
The Course of True Love
London was yet thin of company, most of its exalted inhabitants remaining at their hunting boxes as long as possible before Parliament and the Season called them back to the frantic activities of Town. The normal dizzying round would be greatly exacerbated, Colonel Fitzwilliam told his cousin over a glass at Boodle’s, when they heard the news that Bonaparte had been denied Moscow, albeit at a terrible price. Darcy shook his head. What could one say to desperation so great that it drove men to burn their own homes — an entire capital city! — to the ground rather than leave them to that rapacious monster.
“What are you tsking at now, Darcy! Good Lord, you look like two old men!”
Darcy twisted around at the voice but gave up trying to see its owner and bounded from his chair to pound him unmercifully on the back. “Dy! My God, when did you get back? Why did you not write?”
Lord Dyfed Brougham held up carefully manicured hands in protest at such a greeting and took a step away when Fitzwilliam rose as well. “Write? Too fatiguing by half, old friend! And you, Fitzwilliam, may shake my hand but no more. Yes, that will do.” He grinned at the two of them in fatuous triumph and then helped himself to a nearby chair and motioned for them to sit down. “Write? No, no…thought to surprise you, which I have, quite handily it seems.” Darcy resumed his seat, the absurdity of Dy’s words a signal of the persona he wished to play.
“And how was America, Brougham?” Fitzwilliam sat, stretching out his lanky frame. “You don’t look like it agreed with you.” Looking closely at his friend now, Darcy had to agree, and the closer he looked, the more alarming were his conclusions. Dy was dressed elegantly as always, but his clothes hung about him in an odd manner. His face, neither broad nor fleshy to begin with, was now grown very thin, his cheeks almost sunken. It could not have gone well with him over the sea.
“Do not, I beg you, mention that place in my presence!” Dy laid a dramatic hand over his brow. “How I ever allowed myself to be talked into going, I shall never know. The voyage was brutal, Fitzwilliam, absolutely brutal! The natives are completely without culture or the least morsel of sensibility. It was ghastly!”
Richard hooted at Dy’s description, then asked, “Which natives were these, Brougham? The Algonquian, the Iroquois?” He looked at Darcy for help, but Darcy could only shrug his shoulders.
“No, no, old man.” Dy looked at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. “The natives of Boston and New York!” He removed a handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed at his temples. “Dreadful, simply dreadful.”
Richard rolled his eyes at Darcy and stood up. “Well, I shall leave you to my cousin, who will be of more help to you than I in your recovery, I am sure. Fitz.” He turned and addressed Darcy. “I must get back to post. Remember, His Lordship and Mater expect us for supper tonight, nine sharp!” He bowed to Brougham. “Rather face red Indians myself than delay His Lordship’s supper. Your servant, Brougham.” Dy nodded and graciously waved him away.
Both Brougham and Darcy remained silent as they watched Fitzwilliam make his way to the door through the knots of club members and servants.
Darcy turned back to his friend. “My God, Dy, you look terrible!”
“That bad, then?” His Lordship responded, straightening in his chair, motioning a servant over, and ordering something to drink. “I had not wished to show my face in Town until I had put more flesh back on my bones” — he sighed — “but I had been gone so long as it is that the Home Office was afraid I would lose my footing if I stayed away longer. So, here I am.” He raised his arms. “I look like a scarecrow!”
“What happened?” Darcy leaned across the table.
“I cannot tell you, my friend.” Dy smiled sadly. “Except to say that she eluded me.”
“And Beverly Trenholme, did you find him?”
“He never set foot on that ship you provided passage upon. He, in fact, never left England. Someone else believed she was more needful than Trenholme.”
“Sylvanie! But, no one has seen Bev — Good God, you do not mean…!” Dy nodded, and both men fell silent. The buzz of conversation and laughter of the crowd continued unabated as they sat. Somewhere a glass hit the floor, accompanied by sounds of an argument.
“Tell me,” Dy asked finally, breaking the shocked quiet that had settled between them, “how is Miss Darcy?”
“She is well.” Darcy spoke slowly. “Quite well, actually, although she does miss your company.” Another sort of foolish grin spread across Brougham’s face, this time a sincere one. Darcy sat b
ack and arranged his face and frame in as disinterested an attitude as possible in order to deliver his news. “She has made a new friend since you have been gone.”
Dy’s grin dissolved instantly. “A ‘new friend,’ you say?” He traced the rim of his glass with a finger once, twice, then tapped it. “Might one inquire the name of this ‘new friend’?”
“One might, and I see what you are thinking. No, that is not what I meant.” His friend’s shoulders relaxed. The tight cast of his jaw softened. “Her new friend is Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Elizabeth Bennet!” Dy was all attention. “Your Elizabeth? How on earth did that come to pass?”
Maintaining his pose, Darcy told Dy of their meeting by chance at Pemberley in August. Brougham raised a brow at the word chance but did not interrupt his recital. “Unfortunately, a letter from home required that she return posthaste, so Georgiana was deprived of her company sooner than she wished.”
“Georgiana,” Dy echoed dubiously, “hmm.” He looked at Darcy compassionately. “It would seem that Miss Bennet is not so ill disposed toward you as you feared. What a shame that she was called away! Have you seen her since, or heard of her?”
Darcy nodded and shifted uneasily. “A little over a week ago I went down to see my friend Bingley — you remember Bingley, the Melbourne ball?” Dy nodded. “I visited him at Netherfield, the property he is thinking of purchasing in Hertfordshire. We called on the Bennets the day after my arrival. It did not go well.”
Dy shot him a questioning look. “How?”
“She scarcely looked at me, barely spoke, although we were in each other’s company several hours.”
“That seems odd!” Dy replied thoughtfully. “Do you mean to say that she refused to answer when you spoke to her, gave you the cut direct?”
“No, certainly not!” Darcy grew defensive. “She was…she was not herself and I…” He looked down at his hands. “I did not know what to think, what to say.”