by Meg Osborne
“Why, Jane, whatever is the matter? You needn’t think this unfortunate incident will cause any problem between you and Mr Bingley, for I promise I shall bow and scrape and make myself quite desperately apologetic if it looks as though it might, though I doubt even so obnoxious a man as Mr Darcy could help but see how Bingley cares for you.”
“Oh, Lizzy, I think I understand the reason for his hurry. Your Mr Darcy, I mean.” Her lips turned down. “Mr Bingley is quite unwell, you see. We heard so from Charlotte, who called while you were out, and we were just wondering whether to go and visit him. Or rather, Mama was wondering. I thought I might take something pleasant from the kitchen and stay a few minutes with his sister, in hopes he might be cheered to hear our good wishes.” Anxiety attacked her perfectly even features. “Will you accompany me? For I shan’t care to go alone, and daren’t take any of the others, they are sure only to upset things.”
Lizzy lay back down, burying her head in a pillow. Mr Bingley ill. His friend in a rapid course to reach him before he worsened. Of course, his haste and agitation made sense. She groaned.
“I am sure we needn’t stay long if you do not wish it,” Jane continued. “Mr Darcy may not even be there.”
“He will,” Lizzy said, her voice muffled. “As is my luck. Probably he will be the very man to receive us!”
“Well, there is one point to be grateful for,” Jane ventured after a moment’s pause. Her voice lightened, and Lizzy could tell from the amusement in her words that her features were creeping back into a smile. “Last time you met, you were covered head to toe in mud. When he sees you now, I doubt Mr Darcy will even recognise you.”
“WELL, OF COURSE, IT is so wonderful to see you,” Charles Bingley stopped talking, consumed momentarily by a racking cough that was soothed only by a swift gulp of tea. When he spoke again, his voice was strained.
“But I’m not sure quite where you got the notion I was at death’s door!” He laughed. “It is but a bad cold, hardly warranting so desperate a flight to Netherfield.”
Darcy’s hand strayed, on reflex, to his pocket. He had got the notion quite as it had been intended he would, from the hand of Caroline Bingley. She had made no bones about the fate of her brother’s “dreadful ill health” in her letter, and her intent had been clear. Darcy must come without delay, and see his ailing friend before that friend deteriorated still further.
“A misunderstanding, I don’t doubt,” Darcy said, as unwilling to dwell on his friend’s sister’s part in it as he was to confess his own concern for his friend that had had him abandon all his plans and hurry to visit. There were few men in creation Fitzwilliam Darcy would hurtle about the countryside for, fewer still he would gladly sacrifice a carriage for. Well, perhaps not “gladly”, he thought, ruefully.
“Anyway, whatever the cause, it shall all be to the good.” Bingley rearranged himself on the sofa he occupied, and drained the last of his tea. “For you are here now and we might begin our Christmas celebrations early. I had intended on giving a ball –” Another cough interrupted him. “But perhaps I ought to postpone it, or abandon the idea altogether.” He sighed. “I did so want for you to meet Miss Bennett. All the Miss Bennets, actually, for there are a number of them.” He frowned. “Four, I believe. No, five. But all quite pretty, jolly girls. Though of course, I consider Miss Jane to be the best and brightest among them.”
“Naturally.” Darcy smiled at his friend. He had never known Charles Bingley to do anything by half measures. If he liked a person, they were to be held in the highest possible esteem. If he thought a girl pretty, she was beautiful beyond compare. An image of the woman he had passed on the road floated before his eyes and he snorted at the memory. Covered in mud, and literally shaking with cold and anger, beautiful was not the epithet that could be applied to that unfortunate young woman. Yet, even here he was forced to pause and acknowledge the ferocity that flashed in her dark eyes did afford them a fine sort of energy he did not often notice in a woman.
“What are you thinking about?” Bingley asked, holding back a sneeze. “Come on, out with it. I can tell your mind has strayed from my hosting dilemmas to another thing altogether. At least share the joke, for I’ve had little enough to entertain me these past few days.”
Darcy relayed the disaster that had delayed his arrival to Netherfield in the most succinct manner he could, yet he was not half done before Bingley let out a raucous laugh, which became a coughing fit, eventually subsiding sufficiently for Darcy to ask him a question.
“What is so funny?”
“You!” Bingley croaked. “I can just imagine the fury you unleashed on the poor young woman who had the misfortune to be standing at just the wrong place at precisely the wrong time. Was not your driver awake?”
“Awake, yes, and hurrying to comfort my ‘dying friend’.” He scowled at Bingley. “Though now I see you are suffering from barely a cold, I cannot see why I bothered.”
“Come, don’t barrack at me next," Bingley said with complacency. He had learnt over the years how best to handle his friend’s fits of temper. “It’s hardly my fault your carriage was damaged. I did not orchestrate a woodland sprite to bewitch your horses.”
The description of the furious young woman of his memory as a “woodland sprite” was amusing to Darcy, and despite himself, he felt a smile creep onto his face.
“Aha! See, I knew you would appreciate being here eventually. Do just wait until the ball. You shall see some of the beauties that live here and begin to appreciate the virtues of country living.” Bingley’s lips quirked. “Carriage accidents and mysterious young women notwithstanding.”
“It is women through and through,” Darcy grumbled, largely to himself. “Women the cause and reason behind most struggles in the modern world. Take your sister for example. You know I value her highly as an accomplished woman - and as your near relation - but her letter was of such urgency, such excessive exaggeration that -”
The door behind the two men opened and a servant cleared his throat.
“The Misses Bennet, sir.” He nodded deferentially at Bingley. “They merely asked to wish you a speedy recovery.”
“Oh, do entreat them to join us!” Bingley said, hurrying to sit upright, and brushing down non-existent lint from his front.
Darcy turned, annoyance at the interruption fading as he looked with interest to see if one of the Misses was the Miss Jane Bennet his friend had alluded to. One of the pair was definitely beautiful: statuesque and fair-haired. Darcy could see his friend easily losing his heart to such kind features and gentle manners, but it was the second Miss Bennet that struck feeling into his breast. His heart sank and he prayed the emotion would not be so evident in his features, as he found himself face to face with the woman who had destroyed his carriage.
“Excellent,” Mr Bingley said. “We had just been talking about you fine ladies, and now here you are! Do come in, only don’t mind if I don’t get up, will you? I am sure Mr Darcy can be well-mannered and gentlemanly enough for both of us.”
Those fine eyes now sparkled with irritation and something that looked like amusement, as the darker haired of the two women nodded archly at him.
“Indeed, Mr Darcy is certainly well-practised at being gentlemanly and well-mannered.” She laid heavy meaning on the words, and Darcy felt heat prick uncomfortably at the back of his neck. “How wonderful to meet you properly this time. How is your carriage?”
Henry Crawford’s Redemption
Henry Crawford stared dolefully around the interior of the quiet inn. It would be heaving with bodies later in the evening, he was sure, but for his purposes the peaceful chatter of the landlord, punctuated with the odd sigh from a few otherwise-silent fellow patrons was ideal. He preferred solitude to crowds these days. He frowned, recalling countless other visits to London where this time of day was an hour he scarcely knew: he was most often still sleeping after a night of revelling. His frown darkened and he lifted his glass to his lips, taking a sip of h
is beer and waiting for it to work its magic in lifting his spirits. It was cheap watery ale, not a patch on the port or brandy that was his preference, but he had need of economy at present, and this at least offered him the anonymity he required.
A passing fellow bumped his table, jarring Henry’s arm so that the contents of his glass sloshed over his hand. It was shock, more than anger, that prompted him to leap to his feet, but when he saw the easy smile that briefly lit his assailants’ face, the quick apology and even quicker offer of assistance, he waved the man away.
Henry returned to his seat, shaking out his arm and thanking his lucky stars he’d avoided the ridiculous cuffs Maria had tried to press on him. That had been the last conversation they had had - back when he still intended, however reluctantly, to marry her. He did not love Maria Rushworth, he never had. She was just some plaything to him, some entertainment to pass the time. And it had been flattering, of course, to see her pretty head turned in his direction, particularly after Portsmouth. He sighed. If he was apportioning blame for his behaviour, he must return to Fanny, who persisted in haunting him whenever he felt particularly sorry for himself. If only she had accepted when he offered, had seen the real intent in his attempts to change. That she had spurned him again, in Portsmouth, had been devastating, and he had gone off half-cocked to his old friends and his old ways with enthusiasm. She thought me a cad and a rake, and so I was determined to be just that. Crossing paths with Maria Rushworth had been merely inflammatory, and what had begun as flirtation quickly became scandal. He had never really thought Rushworth would divorce his wife - for he, Henry, certainly did not wish to marry her. When she had grasped - really grasped - that if they did marry, they would not be wealthy, for his money was gone, and they had burned any number of social bridges with their impetuous actions, she had thrown herself onto the bed and wept over her own idiocy. And mine, he thought, ruefully recalling the paperweight she had launched at his head, and how narrowly he had managed to avoid it. She had allowed herself to be collected, then, by her family and dispatched with all haste to the continent, where she hoped to ride out the storm and the damage to her reputation, and perhaps return with a replacement husband in tow. A count or an ambassador, or someone eminently preferable to one penniless, rakish Henry Crawford.
He drank his draught down and consulted his pocket-watch, wondering if the house would be quiet on his return, or if he would be forced into making stilted conversation with his host. It was early, still, but perhaps he might spare an hour to listen to his aunt’s complaints. She was kind enough to offer him sanctuary after all, and the only member of his family who still thought anything of him at all. Marianne Parker had always been partial to her sister’s only son, and no record of his wrongdoings could lessen her opinion of him. Alas, no amount of pleading could loosen her purse strings, either, so he was there at her good pleasure and must mind it, or risk being cast away yet again.
Returning his glass to the table, he stood and made his way out into the grey morning. The street was busy, which was a surprise to Henry. He’d been lulled into a false sense of peace by the quietness of the pub, and he found himself shrinking a little into the collar of his great-coat, praying that nobody would recognise him. This, too, was a new and unusual feeling to him. Usually, he found a strange measure of pride in his name being on the lips of the most pernicious gossips, as if his wild living simultaneously amused and horrified those committed to a quieter mode of living. He liked that people he had never met before knew him by reputation. Or, he had liked it. Since Fanny Price’s last, definitive refusal he had begun to look at his exploits with her eyes and he did not like what he saw.
Still, I can’t be other than I am, he thought. His attempts to improve, no matter how fervent or enormous, had not been enough to win the affections of a young lady as gentle and unassuming as Fanny, and now he repented too late, for certain stains on a person’s character could apparently not be lifted.
He had been so lost in his own thoughts that he scarcely paid any attention to where he was walking. Had the roadway been quiet, it would not have mattered, but a young lady was jostled into his path too swiftly and suddenly for him to avoid her. He noticed her too late, and they collided with a heavy thump.
“Oof!”
“Oh!”
She sprang back, murmuring apologies before Henry could even summon up the word “sorry”.
“You are not hurt, are you?” he asked, fearing that he had caused her some injury.
“N-no,” she stammered, dropping her gaze. She was not particularly pretty, at least not in the made-up, showy way favoured by his sisters and other ladies of his former acquaintance. But there was something about the way her cheeks coloured as she looked away from his, and the light in her eyes that called to mind the precise young lady who had been on his mind mere moments before, so much so that he found himself murmuring under his breath, “Fan?”
The young lady frowned instinctively and the spell was broken. Of course this was not Fanny Price. For one, she was still far away from here, as far as Henry knew, and for another, this young mouse’s hair was brown, not blond.
“I’m sorry,” Henry said, hurriedly recalled to himself. “You reminded me of someone. Please, I must at least reassure myself that you were not hurt by our collision?”
She shook her head, glancing around as if to reassure herself it was indeed her that he addressed. Not for the first time, Henry was grateful that London, capital for social gossip and scrutiny, was also busy and occupied enough that most people did not have time to slow their progress and regard this altercation, now that it was evident no real injury had been sustained by either party.
“Well, in that case, you must allow me to escort you to wherever you were heading in such a hurry.” He risked a vague smile and was rewarded to see her plain features illuminated in a shy return. Why, she was not plain at all, but pretty, delicate and dainty in a way that was utterly at odds with the rough streets of this particular part of town.
“Oh, you needn’t!” she said, speaking at last with a voice that was as clear and musical as a bell. “I know my way and am quite capable of reaching my friend’s house without - oh!”
She had glanced at her hands as she spoke and finding them empty, dropped her gaze to the ground. Henry looked down to see what had caused the light smile to vanish and recognised a book nestled unhappily in a muddy puddle. He bent quickly to retrieve the lost item and grimaced.
“It’s ruined,” his companion murmured.
“It certainly has seen better days,” Henry remarked, turning it over to read the title on the spine. “It may yet dry out.” He was not hopeful that it would, or, if it did, that it would ever be readable again. Mud and dirt seemed to have permeated every page, leaving it damp and heavy with grime.
“Let me replace it,” he offered, recalling aloud the name of a bookseller mere moments’ walk from where they stood.
“Oh, I couldn’t!”
“You can and you must, for the poor book’s fate is entirely my fault.” He looked at her seriously. “Please.”
She visibly hesitated for a moment and to Henry, it felt as if time itself had slowed with her deliberation. Too eager, Crawford. Too quick, he cautioned himself, feeling certain he had hurried in his desire to do good to a young woman, as if the purchase of a novel for one individual might somehow redeem him from all the ills he had wrought on her sex.
“Well...” She sounded as if she might relent, and Henry, at last, dared to smile, gratified when she returned it once more, shy at first, but with a growing confidence.
“You are very kind, Mr -” She paused. “Forgive me, I do not recall your name.”
“That’s because I haven’t offered it. How remiss! My name is Crawford.” He paused, steeling himself for grim recognition to wipe the smile from his new acquaintance’s face. “Mr Henry Crawford.”
“How lovely to make your acquaintance, Mr Crawford,” the young lady said, her smile diminishing
only a fraction, and more out of shyness than any reaction to his name. “I am Miss Amelia Barton. Now, where is the bookseller you mentioned?”
THEY REACHED BRIGGS Bookseller all too quickly for Henry’s liking. His young friend had begun to open up as they walked and he discovered that she had come to London with her sister and aunt, with the chief goal of securing a husband for her sister and introducing the young Miss Amelia to some culture and society.
“And what do you make of the culture and society you have experienced so far?” Henry asked.
Previously, this comment would have been laden with intent, accompanied by a wink or a rakish grin, designed to have the lady he addressed blush and smile and fall a little further under his spell. He was almost surprised that, this time, he was genuinely curious to hear what Miss Barton thought of London.
“It is very different to home!” she admitted, with a merry laugh. “There are so many people! And everyone must behave just so.” She made a motion with her hands, and Henry nodded. There was a code of conduct to all behaviour in London, even the less-than-acceptable manners he had previously indulged in.
“It can be overwhelming, when you are new to it, I am sure,” he remarked. “But there is much to appreciate about life in town, as well.” He nodded towards the skyline. “For example, one might enjoy any number of concerts and exhibitions, and one meets the most interesting people.” He opened his mouth to say more but closed it without a word, fearing she would ask him for introductions, and knowing very few people he might parade before her who would have a kind word to say about him. And for some reason he did not dare to fathom, it mattered to him that she heard a good report.