The Darcys and the Bingleys

by Marsha Altman

  “I am glad you went with blue,” she said, taking a turn around him. He was unable to read her intentions, but then again, he was never able to read them, at least when Darcy wasn’t in the room and she wasn’t making them obvious. In fact, her behaviour since the announcement of Darcy’s engagement had been in general downright bizarre, but he had hardly rushed to quiz her on it. His attentions were admittedly elsewhere. Perhaps that made him a bad brother. “You are quite fetching.” She gave a playful tug to his coat to straighten it. This turn of affection was odd.

  “You will be honest with me,” he said, because, after all, if there was one person in the world—well, one woman in the world—that he could trust to be brutally honest, she was his sister. “Do I look proper? I mean, for a wedding?”

  “There is not a girl in England who would not marry you now, Charles,” she said, and for once, there wasn’t a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “And I have seen Miss Bennet’s dress—stunning.”

  “Please allow me to be surprised.”

  “Of course, brother.” She ran a line down his sleeve, and he took her hand. “My little brother, getting married.”

  They were not an affectionate family. At least, they had not been in years, since Bingley’s sisters had entered society. He had vague recollections of being depressed at the prospect because suddenly Louisa and then Caroline were all grown up, and he was left to be the only child in the family for a few more years, perhaps the loneliest in his life. And then he went to Cambridge, and when he came home for his father’s funeral, he was the man of the house, not the little brother, and one of his sisters was married and the other quite expecting to marry as soon as she found someone suitable. They still had their moments of treating him as their baby brother—three years Caroline’s junior and five to Louisa—but he, Charles Bingley, master of Netherfield and their London townhouse, controlled their fortunes however graciously and unwittingly. The entire Bingley line rested on him, and he had to act like the senior member of the Bingleys, while he often felt some trepidation at the idea of the role. Only because Darcy had prodded him had he purchased a country estate, and only at his sister’s prodding had he abandoned it, because he knew he could truly deny them nothing. And then Darcy’s prodding again—about the only thing he did totally on his own was propose to Jane, standing alone in the room before the proposal because Darcy had outright refused to accompany him on the return trip. She was right—he was the little brother, and he was getting married. Caroline was right.

  Caroline was also crying. Her eyes were a little watery, the sort of thing she would deny, but she was crying. He tugged at her hand. What was he supposed to say? Yes, I’m getting married? To the family you despise? And sorry, Darcy’s unavailable? What was this about? No, he was being cruel. “I know,” he said, being utterly without other words.

  “Papa would be so proud,” she said. She hadn’t mentioned him in years. It was not a topic of conversation between them, and he was taken aback. What would he be proud of? That he was marrying a country girl? That he was setting up a household and was finally going to continue the Bingley line? Not that he had put it off exceptionally long—he was just . . . it was hard to think of his father now, when there was so much else to deal with. Maybe he was a bad son that he hadn’t thought of his parents, looking down on him from heaven (and hopefully not seeing his reading material). “We are all proud of you, Charles.”

  On any other day, he would have doubted it because it was Jane Bennet he was marrying, not Georgiana Darcy or some other person of relative station. Yes, his sisters were civil to her, but first only in a joking manner, then in an awkward manner when the matter became very real, and he could not comprehend their true emotions. “Thank you, Caroline.” But she had gone into full sob mode, something he had not seen even at their father’s funeral, and he could only think to embrace her, as his manservant rushed to stuff a towel between the well-dressed Bingley and his sister’s tears. “There’s no need to be sad.”

  “I am not sad,” she said, looking at up him. Another rare occurrence—she was taller than he, but he was very high up on a stand at the moment for the dressing. “Forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive.”

  “You are too kind. It is only fitting that you would find the kindest girl in the kingdom to be your bride,” she said. “For all of our vexations, we only wanted to see you happy, Charles.”

  He could say with all truthfulness, even if his voice cracked when he said it, “I am very happy, I assure you.”

  “I know.” She pulled away, but only reluctantly. “Forgive me; I am ruining your wedding coat.”

  “Hardly.” And because he could think of nothing better to do, and because he had the rare opportunity of being taller than his sister, he kissed her on her forehead. “I am grateful for all of your support.”

  She was still crying, but not as badly, as she curtseyed and smiled a weak good-bye smile before leaving the room, which was suddenly very empty. The servants had disappeared at the displays of sibling affection, and he felt alone.

  But it was not to be for long. The door was left half-open, and Darcy did not even bother to knock. “What was that?”

  “What?” Bingley said, being brought back to awareness. He realised that Darcy must have seen Caroline upset, though there was hardly enough time to have a conversation with her. “It was family, Darcy.” He hoped that would be enough.

  It seemed to be. Darcy, refusing to wear the blue and wearing a more modest dark green, but still very formally attired, switched gears entirely. “I decided to relieve your staff of the liberty of reporting my condition to you, as they are quite busy. I am perfectly fine now, thank you very much.”

  “Did you eat?”

  “I had some tea. Must I tell you every detail?” Darcy didn’t look truly annoyed; Bingley could tell he was just nervous. He paced the room, looking out the window. “I am sorry for keeping you up. I hope you are at least partially rested.”

  “I confess I was up some time after you retired.” He swallowed. “Reading.”

  “Oh?” It seemed to take a minute to register with Darcy, which was a minute slower than it usually took. He was definitely preoccupied. “Yes . . . well—” He stopped short. “Can I borrow it for a moment?”

  “What? Oh, yes, I suppose.”

  “Where—”

  “Under the mattress,” Bingley said, pointing to his bedchamber.

  Darcy bowed to him. “Thank you.” And he quickly disappeared into Bingley’s bedchamber. Bingley himself was busy, as his manservant returned, removed the towel, and straightened his clothing once again. As long as no one else cried on his chest this morning, he would be all right, he decided. It was not a few moments before Darcy reappeared, flipping quickly through the book in question. “Just a moment.”

  “Looking something up?”

  “We are not having this conversation.” That was Darcy’s way of telling him to shut up. “Oh yes, okay. Here we go.” He did not enlighten Bingley as to what chapter he was reading, and when Bingley tried to peer over without getting off the stand, Darcy grunted and repositioned the book so its contents were out of sight. Eventually he finished and slammed it shut. “I am in your debt.” He then disappeared back into the adjoining room, presumably to return it to its hiding place.

  Bingley let out the giggle he had been withholding at Darcy’s actions as soon as he was gone. He did not have long to revel in his solitude, however, for another servant appeared at the door. “A guest, sir. He asked to be unannounced.”

  “Unannounced?” Bingley said, but before he could inquire further, the guest in question sideswiped the servant on his way into the room.

  It was George Wickham.

  Bingley swallowed. “Mr. Wickham, I don’t believe we’ve ever had the pleasure of being formally introduced—”

  “Of course.” Mr. Wickham was all charm, and perhaps if Bingley had no idea as to who this man was, he would suppose to like him immediat
ely, as he offered his hand. “George Wickham.”

  “Charles Bingley.” Yes, truly, there was nothing that appeared displeasing about this man at all, but he did not doubt Darcy’s account for one second. “Darcy! Perhaps this is not the best time—”

  “I cannot think of a better one. I very much desire to meet my future brother and of course to congratulate Darcy on his considerable ‘catch.’”

  “We are not fishing,” Darcy said harshly, announcing his presence in the room as he entered from the bedchamber and leaned impatiently against the wall. “Or participating in any other sport, for that matter.”

  “And this is how you greet your future brother?” Wickham was all smiles. “At last, I suppose.”

  “You will remain my brother until Mrs. Wickham comes to her senses and kicks you out of Newcastle,” Darcy answered coldly, to Bingley’s surprise. Even though there was no anger in his voice, that he was holding it back was visible enough. “Excuse me, but this wedding costume is making me a bit heated.” And with that, he opened the windows and looked out. “There, much better. Now, I assume you are here on some matter of business.”

  “Matter of business? On your wedding day? You can’t be serious.”

  “And you are not going to make jest with me? Do you have some reason for being here?”

  “I was invited.”

  “Lydia Wickham was invited, because it could not be prevented.”

  “And it would only be proper to invite both husband and wife to a wedding of relations,” Wickham countered. “And of course, Darcy, you are a master of propriety, so surely you know that, and the lack of my name on the invitation was merely an error.”

  Truly, Wickham was a master at the art of conversation, at least in the area of inciting Mr. Darcy to levels of barely controlled rage. His posture said nothing, but his eyes said everything. Bingley wanted very much to duck behind the dressing screen and let them have it out, even if this was his manor and they were both his guests.

  “Now that we have dispensed with pleasantries,” Darcy said, “I must inquire again as to your appearance. While I’m sure you are here to wish us well, the thing has been said, and so we must press on. Is there anything else on your mind, Wickham?”

  “You are quite keen on reading me, Darcy. But I have only the noblest of intentions. My wife would like very much to visit Pemberley this spring, but for some reason, I am prevented from entering the grounds.”

  “How odd,” Darcy said. “Well, Mrs. Wickham is welcome to visit Pemberley whenever our schedules are agreeable—but that is entirely Elizabeth’s decision. I am sure you can find some other amusement for yourself in her absence.”

  “Come now, Fitzers, we are finally brothers—”

  Bingley raised his hand to shield himself from Darcy’s rage, but Darcy’s voice, after a pause in which undoubtedly numerous emotions were suppressed, was surprisingly light-hearted. “And I suppose as your brother, I must be the mischievous pest. And as the youngest of the three, Bingley must be my partner-in-crime, the impressionable young lad that he is. Right, Mr. Bingley?”

  “Um . . . yes.” Bingley had no idea as to where this was going, but he was hardly going to contradict Darcy.

  Darcy began to pace the room, circling Wickham. “For example, I could be an annoying older brother and for no reason whatsoever, hit you with this walking stick.” And then, suddenly, he took Wickham’s walking stick and smacked him on the back of the head, causing Wickham to double over. “Then, because the youngest brother inevitably follows his senior, Bingley could help me toss you out the window. Bingley?”

  Bingley opened his mouth to put up a protest, but Darcy gave him a look that told him that resistance would be indefensible. And so, oddly enough, he helped Darcy heave Wickham out the window. They did not hear the cracking of bones, or even an audible thud, but it was not a long drop from the second story.

  “Will he be all right?”

  “Oh, yes,” Darcy said as he closed the window. “The manure pile there surely broke his fall.”

  ***

  Before they made haste for the church, there was one more guest to greet. “She’s arrived!” Georgiana practically screamed, running into her brother’s arms as he came down the steps. “She made it after all!”

  “Who?” Bingley asked, following Darcy down. “I can’t seem to keep track of my own guests.”

  “Something else must be on your mind,” Darcy said. “I assume we are speaking of Miss de Bourgh.”

  “Yes! I just saw her carriage over the bend. Oh, Mr. Bingley, you look wonderful!” Georgiana, as usual, was all smiles. “She should be arriving now. Thank you for agreeing to host her if she is not well enough to travel home tonight.”

  “Of course, but I must see her in!” Bingley ran to the door, leaving Darcy with his sister.

  “Oh, and of course, you are very handsome,” Georgiana said. “But you already knew that.”

  “As you selected the costume, I cannot fault you by saying anything else,” Darcy said as the doors opened and Charles welcomed Darcy’s cousin Anne de Bourgh. She was not dressed in nearly as dark shades as she normally was, and Darcy had to admit to himself that she looked the best he had seen in years, even if her health was in obvious decline. “Miss de Bourgh,” he said, bowing to her.

  “Mr. Darcy,” she said. “Thank you so much for the invitation.”

  “Thank my sister and her abilities of subterfuge.” For they had sent a formal invitation to the de Bourghs, knowing it would be refused. Another one was sent, quite inappropriately, to Anne alone, hidden in a letter from Georgiana. “You are looking well.”

  “We are so happy to have you here,” Georgiana said. “I do hope you do not get in much trouble with our aunt.”

  “I am visiting you, and that is not a lie. That it happens to be on Darcy’s wedding day is of no consequence to me,” Anne said. “Georgiana, if I may have a moment with your brother before the festivities begin?”

  “Of course.” Georgiana curtseyed, and Darcy took Anne’s hand and led her into the drawing room. This was the closest he had been to Anne since his last visit to Rosings, the disaster that he did not wish to recall even when wrongs had been righted. “Please, sit. Shall I call for some tea?”

  “I do not intend to hold you up for so long,” Anne said. “But I would appreciate some, yes.”

  He called for some tea and then shut the door behind the servant, taking a seat at the desk away from her. Despite the bizarre situation of the day—or what his aunt considered a bizarre situation—they were quite comfortable with each other. While she was hardly his confidant, they had a friendship over the years, and he was grateful for her kindness to Georgiana, who was often too shy to make friends easily. Well, he admitted to himself, neither of them made friends easily, but for entirely different reasons. “I am honoured that you chose to come against Aunt Catherine’s wishes.”

  “She is not so harsh with me as she is with everyone else. Perhaps because she believes I will break.”

  But he knew that wasn’t true. Anne was sickly, but inside she was strong. She was, after all, a de Bourgh. She would make someone a fine wife, even if they had decided together long ago that it was not to be him. “How is Aunt Catherine? She did not see fit to respond to my invitation, even to refuse.”

  “As can only be expected.”

  “Of course, I am sorry for breaking her heart—or at least, her well-laid plans.”

  “If it was her heart or yours, let it be hers,” she said. “Your heart has belonged to Miss Elizabeth Bennet for some time.”

  “Was I really that obvious?”

  “You were practically stalking her at Rosings,” she said with a sly smile. “Colonel Fitzwilliam said something to me about it. He asked me if there was a reason why you were so distant to me and everyone else during that trip.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “I told him you have always been a mystery to me.”

  “But you had me
figured out the whole time.”

  “Of course. You were being perfectly readable. But Fitzwilliam is a man; Mr. Collins is a bit of a fool; and my mother . . . has her blind spots. She was so busy disapproving of Miss Bennet that she did not notice you staring at her during every meal.”

  “I hardly think I was staring.”

  “Darcy,” she said gently, “you were staring.”

  He decided to point out, “You mentioned nothing of this to me when we talked.”

  “Of course not. Falling horribly in love is hardly something a man will easily admit to.” She smiled. “I do hope she is kind to you, because I know you will do whatever she says for the rest of your natural life.”

  “Now you are just insulting me,” he said playfully.

  “But am I not wrong.”

  “No. I will admit that much.”

  “Darcy,” she said, “I do wish you the best of luck. Elizabeth is a wonderful woman.”

  “Truly.” He rose because he knew he had to be getting on, and when she offered her hand, he kissed it. This was the secret Anne, away from her mother, that he knew and loved—kind and clever.

  But it was not Anne who appeared in his dreams at night.

  Chapter 8

  The Ceremony

  Longbourn was in the appropriate uproar.

  “I must enquire,” Elizabeth said from her dressing stand, “that if it takes me no less than two hours and a seamstress to get this dress on, how I am supposed to ever get it off?”

  “Lizzy! You will have servants enough as Mrs. Darcy to do whatever you please!” Mrs. Bennet assured her from her couch. She was in such a state of nerves, she could hardly stand up without aid. “Ten thousand a year! And half of Derbyshire! I would like very much to see it someday.”

  “And you shall—perhaps at Christmas?” She had not proposed the idea to Darcy, but she could not imagine that if there were to be a family gathering for the holidays, it would not be at Pemberley—though perhaps minus the Wickhams. At least Lydia had had the decency to show up for the wedding without her husband. He was not invited, but Elizabeth knew that would hardly stop Lydia from bringing him if she saw fit.