by Jann Rowland
“There is nothing in your sister’s mind,” continued Hurst, “but grasping, artful scheming. If she cared about you, she would not threaten my wife.”
“You misunderstood,” said Caroline, sitting stiff-backed in the chair, anger radiating out in waves.
“Do you consider me witless, Caroline?” asked Bingley, his own fury a match for hers. “You may not respect me—you may think I am nothing more than a man perpetually in love with the next pretty woman I meet. To be frank, I care nothing for your respect and doubt you have any affection for anyone but yourself.
“Let me be rightly understood,” growled Bingley, leaning on his desk and peering at her with all the determination he could muster, “I will tolerate no interference in my affairs, particularly those with respect to my choice in a marriage partner. If I choose Miss Bennet as that partner, it can be nothing to you.”
“Nothing to me?” screeched Caroline. “It affects me in every way, for choosing so unsuitable a woman will make it more difficult for me to marry. The Bennets can do nothing for us—they have nothing, they are connected to no one. Is this how you will betray our father’s sacrifice, his memory?”
“Do not speak to me of my father,” spat Bingley. “Father did not care for society any more than I do. His wish was for us to become landed, to become that which he could not in his lifetime. But he was not so foolish as to believe the Bingleys would be acceptable to high society, for he understood our history is an impediment to our acceptance. I shall not continue to shift in the wind for that which I cannot acquire. I prefer to be happy.”
“Happy with a woman so far down on the scale of gentry she may as well not even be on it!”
“Is she not a gentleman’s daughter?” demanded Bingley. “Have the Bennets not lived on their land for generations? Is Miss Bennet’s dowry not the estate itself?”
“A mere pittance,” was Caroline’s dismissive reply.
“And yet they have the one thing we Bingleys have never had. Even Netherfield, which is a fine estate for a man of my wealth, is not mine. I only lease it, as you should understand.”
“Netherfield is larger than Dunton Heath,” interjected Hurst. When Caroline opened her mouth to speak, Hurst leaned forward and looked her in the eye, saying: “And before you say it, the Hursts have owned our land for as long as the Bennets. My father did not consider your sister a suitable wife—that is one reason he is so difficult at present. But I married her because of my affection for her. This business of you disparaging those above you in society would be laughable if it was not so very pathetic.”
“And so is your pursuit of Darcy,” said Bingley as Caroline glared and seethed at Hurst. “I have it on good authority—that of the man himself—that he does not consider you a prospective bride, and while I am eager to cede your responsibility to another, I cannot blame him!”
“You know nothing!” rasped Caroline. “I am everything he could ever wish for in a wife.”
“There is no reasoning with her, Bingley,” said Hurst. “She will believe what she wants to believe, and nothing you say will change her mind.”
Bingley grunted in agreement. He cared little what Caroline thought—his concern was her interference in matters of importance to him. That he would not tolerate.
“Let me say it again, Caroline,” said Bingley, drawing her attention back to him. “It is of no concern to you if I look at Miss Bennet as a prospective bride. There is nothing about her that is objectionable, and a connection to another landed family will only do the Bingleys good, especially if her sister marries Darcy, which I consider likely.”
Holding up his hand, Bingley forestalled Caroline’s angry retort, looking at her with pity. “If you will not cease this objectionable behavior, then I shall have no choice but to put you out of my house. And before you protest, you should remember that you are of age, and are not my ward. I have kept you here, offered you an allowance, paid your overages, and squired you around in society longer than any man should endure, all without a jot of thanks—you continue to demand more! It is well within my right to release your dowry to you, set you up in an establishment with a companion, paid from the interest of your dowry, and wash my hands of you.”
Caroline listened with growing alarm, exclaiming: “You would not dare!”
“Try me, Sister,” said Bingley, glaring at her with pitiless determination. “Father only charged me to see to your care—in setting you up in your own establishment, I would consider that charge well fulfilled.”
For a moment longer, Caroline gazed at him, calculating, attempting to see how strong his will, how firm his determination. It seemed she did not like what she saw, for it was she who looked away a moment later. Bingley nodded with grim satisfaction.
“You may continue as mistress of this house at present, but let me inform you that any objectionable behavior on your part will lead to Louisa’s assuming the position. Do not test me, Caroline, for you will find that Darcy’s admonitions all these years have borne fruit. You will not bully me into doing as you wish.”
“May I be excused?”
“Yes, please leave,” said Bingley. “Do not rejoin us until you can act properly.”
Caroline’s nostrils flared at his sarcastic words, but she did not reply. Instead, she rose and glided from the room, the door impacting with the wall behind it with less force than he might have expected. Bingley sank wearily into his chair—he had never liked confrontation, but Caroline had driven him beyond what any man could be expected to endure. Though he could not predict her future actions, he hoped he would not be forced to cast her off. Little though she deserved his affection, she was still his sister.
As the woman stalked down the hall in high dudgeon, Darcy waited until she disappeared from sight and the sound of her footsteps on the stairs echoed away before he strode to the door she had left open. Turning, he closed it, moving to a chair beside Hurst, noting Bingley’s still agitated state. A sudden thought entered his mind, and he instead moved to the sideboard, poured three measures of the brandy Bingley kept there, and handed one to each of his companions, noting with amusement how Bingley drained his in one swallow.
“My cousin would abuse you for treating this fine brandy in such a cavalier fashion, Bingley,” said Darcy with some amusement while he sipped from his own glass. “Brandy is to be savored, not devoured.”
“Then he may make his complaints to my sister,” said Bingley shortly. “I would wager even he could be driven to sacrilege by Caroline’s ways.”
Darcy smiled and sipped again, while Hurst snorted around his own glass. It was Hurst who spoke next.
“Thank you for your support, Bingley. Louisa, as you know, is not as forceful as her sister, and I would not have her upset.” Hurst paused and thought for a moment, before adding: “In fact, I believe Louisa may be with child.”
Bingley looked up. “Has she informed you of this yourself?”
With a shaken head and an amused smile, Hurst said: “I am uncertain she has made the connection herself, though it is possible she might. It is not customary for a wife to inform her husband until she feels the quickening.”
“Then how do you know?”
“I maintain enough knowledge of my wife to know when certain things happen. While I should not wish to injure the virgin ears of two unmarried men, suffice it to say the cessation of certain . . . functions of a woman’s body indicate the possibility of a child, which leads me to suspect—and hope—that an heir is on the way.” Hurst snorted again. “With any luck, the birth of a grandson will satisfy my father, and he will slip off into the ether and cease to bedevil me!”
Darcy could only shake his head at Hurst’s irreverent words about his sire. Hurst, he knew, did not dislike the irascible old man, but he longed for his own independence. It was something Darcy could not understand himself—he would have been happy if his own father had lived for thirty more years!
“If it is true, then you h
ave my congratulations,” said Bingley, as Darcy murmured his own as well. Then Bingley paused and stared morosely into his own glass. “Would that I had something similar to anticipate. Instead, I am weighed down by a bitter shrew with delusions of grandeur.”
“I may be incorrect,” said Darcy, “but I believe you must first marry a woman before siring an heir—at least if you wish the child to be accepted in polite society.”
A bark of laughter was Hurst’s response, and even Bingley grinned, his mood seeming to lighten. “Yes, well I think I might have that matter in hand if I can keep my sister from offending the woman I am considering. And what a woman she is! Tall, elegant, beautiful, blonde, and in every way perfect. I doubt I could find her like if I searched the entirety of my life.”
“Perhaps it is time to leave,” said Hurst sotto voce. “Now he has begun reminiscing about his lover, I have no doubt he will continue for hours.”
“I have half a mind to join him,” said Darcy. “Though I will own that Miss Bennet is a fine woman, it is, in my opinion, daft for anyone to suggest any woman could be to her sister.”
“Ha!” cried Bingley. “Do my ears betray me? Has the great Fitzwilliam Darcy owned to being captivated by a mere woman?”
“Completely,” replied Darcy. “It was inevitable, old man—I was not willing to settle for a woman of society, one who can net purses, paint tables, embroider, play the pianoforte, and sing like an angel, but who is dull enough to put a man to sleep the minute they are alone together.”
The two men laughed, but Hurst, who was not willing to be inundated with such talk, drained his glass and rose. “I can see this is about to turn into a discussion of lovely young ladies—unwed young ladies. Since I have one I married, I believe I shall go to her and inform her of this morning’s discussion with her sister, if you will excuse me.”
When Hurst left the room, closing the door behind him, Bingley turned to look at Darcy, a questioning quality in his gaze. “Are you set on Miss Elizabeth?”
Darcy demurred. “I do not know I am set on her, for I have not yet known her long enough to make that determination. But I am interested, enough to further my acquaintance with her to decide whether I can be set on her.”
“Then perhaps we shall be brothers after all,” said Bingley with a wide grin. “It will not be in the way my sister desires, but I find myself less concerned with her desires than I have ever been before.”
“It shall most certainly not be in the way your sister desires,” replied Darcy. “As for the Bennet sisters—we shall wait and see. At present, I find I am prepared to acknowledge the possibility and more than a mere possibility.”
“Excellent!” said Bingley. “Now, unless I am very much mistaken, I seem to remember hearing you claim that your Bennet sister is superior to mine. I must disabuse you of that notion, old man, for no one can possibly be any better than Jane Bennet.”
“You may think that—if it brings you comfort. But while Miss Bennet may bring an estate with her, I am certain I shall receive the better bargain, for Miss Elizabeth is incandescent. There is no other way to describe her!”
They debated the virtues of their chosen ladies for a time, much laughter and amusement passing between them. Though Darcy knew there were many in his circle who would consider him daft, he welcomed the thought of Bingley as a brother, for he was one of the best men Darcy had ever met. Society could disapprove all they wished—Darcy had never had any care for society and did not intend to start now.
That was one facet of Miss Bingley’s desire to be his wife that had always confused Darcy. The woman was not stupid, just eager to see the world in a way she wished, ignoring that which she did not like. Even so, she could not be in any doubt as to his opinion of society, for she had often witnessed his discomfort, his eagerness to withdraw, the downright disdain for many members of whom he did not approve. It must be her propensity to see things as she wished, for any rational person could not help but understand that marriage to Darcy would not be an endless progression of balls, parties, dinners, and the adulation of the masses, which was what Miss Bingley wanted. Darcy much preferred to be at Pemberley—if he could, he would be there always.
After a time of this, they were interrupted when the door opened and in stepped the larger than life person of his cousin, grinning at them as he entered. Bingley, as was his wont, stood and welcomed Fitzwilliam with a hearty shake of his hand.
“Fitzwilliam! We did not expect you back so soon. How do you do, man?”
“Very well!” said Fitzwilliam, greeting Darcy in a similar manner. “If I informed you of my coming, it would deprive me of the pleasure of seeing you surprised by my entry, would it not?”
“One of these days your glib tongue will land you in trouble, Fitzwilliam,” said Darcy, shaking his head at his cousin’s antics.
“I have every confidence your conjecture is correct,” said Fitzwilliam. “But I dare say that will not be today.” Then his manner turned more serious. “I apologize for arriving unannounced, Bingley. I have come to ask a few further questions of Wickham’s friends in the militia and shall not stay long.”
“Still no sign of Wickham?” asked Darcy.
“There has been a sighting or two of him, though unconfirmed,” said Fitzwilliam. “The man continues to evade us, though I am convinced the noose has tightened. It is only a matter of time before we shall have him.”
“I hope you are not spending all the hours of the day and night looking for him. It would not do to anger your general.”
“Ah,” said Fitzwilliam with a laugh, “but you forget this is now a matter which concerns the military since our friend Wickham was so good as to desert from his regiment. I have kept up with my duties, but they have been largely superseded by the search for Wickham and a few other deserters. As Wickham is the only one suspected to be hiding in London, I have concentrated most of my efforts there.”
Fitzwilliam paused and put his hand on the desk, tapping his fingers against the surface, an absence of mind, as he continued to consider the matter at hand. “There is also this matter of Wickham’s supporter. There has been little success in determining who that may be, though, again, I believe I am getting closer to discovering the identity of the individual. I hope you do not mind, Darcy, but I took the liberty of interviewing some of the staff at your house.”
“Oh?” asked Darcy with a frown. “Why would they know anything?”
“Somehow Wickham must have had access to the house at Ramsgate,” replied Fitzwilliam. “The housekeeper and butler were not there, of course, but they know the staff, and know what goes on below stairs. On the other hand, Georgiana’s companion was also there, though I found the woman had little she could tell me.”
“And what of Georgiana?” asked Darcy. “Is she still busy with my aunt?”
“There are other matters which have consumed my mother’s attention of late, though I believe they still meet regularly.” Fitzwilliam grinned and shook his head. “Do not concern yourself, Darcy. Thompson is always in close attendance, and the staff is alerted to the possibility of nefarious activity on the part of our dear friend Wickham. With all these safeguards, I doubt Wickham will make the attempt. At present, she is immersed in her studies with her companion, and I have no doubt Mrs. Younge will keep her from harm.”
Chapter XXI
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s return was welcome by the Longbourn family, as he routinely visited with Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley and was often in evidence when the Bennets returned the visits to Netherfield. That there was much congress between the families was welcome to most, though there was a notable exception. What Miss Bingley’s behavior in those days presaged, Elizabeth could not be certain, for she was much altered from what she had been before. The visits to Longbourn were usually conducted without her presence, a circumstance for which Elizabeth could not repine. When the Bennets were at Netherfield, however, Miss Bingley attended them, though with evident reluctance. But
unlike before, she did not talk to anyone, watched them all with disdain (which was no alteration), but made no attempt to disparage them.
What Elizabeth did see was an increase in both Mr. Bingley’s attentions to Jane and Mr. Darcy’s eagerness to engage her. As convinced as she was of Mr. Darcy’s worth, Elizabeth was thrilled at the sight of his ardency, and several times, she felt almost like Lydia, required to regulate her excitement lest she embarrass herself. It seemed they could speak of anything, and they often did. Matters were proceeding as she might have hoped and dreamed, making her wonder if it was all imagined.
The one matter which was not as idyllic as Elizabeth might have liked was the reason for Colonel Fitzwilliam’s presence and the news Mr. Darcy brought of Mr. Wickham. Or perhaps it was more correct to call it the lack of news.
“That is why he has come,” said Mr. Darcy the day after Colonel Fitzwilliam’s unannounced arrival. “It seems he believes he can pull something of use from Wickham’s former associates in the regiment.”
“But you have a different opinion,” replied Elizabeth.
Mr. Darcy shrugged. “If Wickham followed his usual pattern—and it seems he did—he will have told them little of himself or his activities. To be honest, I suspect Fitzwilliam is looking for an excuse to spend leisure time in the country.”
This last was spoken with a grin, one which Elizabeth returned. “It does not speak well to his character if that is his purpose.”
“Whatever gave you the idea that Fitzwilliam was of good character?” asked Mr. Darcy.
They laughed together, drawing the eyes of more than one of the company and Colonel Fitzwilliam in particular. He glared at Mr. Darcy as if suspecting the conversation was regarding him and then turned back to Elizabeth’s youngest sisters whom he was entertaining at present. As for Elizabeth, she turned the conversation to other matters and was well diverted for the rest of the visit.