The Darcys and the Bingleys

by Marsha Altman

  “You know,” Jane said nonchalantly, no doubt as she watched the horror wash over her husband’s face, “there is a whole bit in here about other people’s wives . . . and courtesans.”

  “I did not read that part.”

  “I am not saying you did,” and she said it with a smile, which meant she was teasing him. “I am merely pointing it out.”

  “So you are telling me you lied to my guests and deserted me so you could sit up reading the most illustriously wicked book ever written?”

  “I don’t know about that. Have you ever actually read the Bible, Charles? There are some early passages I find rather disturbing. Something about Noah and his daughters,” she said with mock hauteur. “But yes, I did what you have accused me of. I am a terrible hostess indeed.”

  “I think we merely have wicked guests for keeping us away from each other.”

  At this, they both shared a laugh, and he kissed her on the cheek. This was pleasant enough, but not satisfying to either of them. Their sleeping schedule quite out of sorts, they were both awake and, at long last after many trying hours, alone. Once their guests vacated Netherfield, they could do as they pleased, but until then . . . well, it did not matter. Bingley decided that many little things in this world—like family, duty, and being the master of an estate—did not matter as much as getting his shirt off at this exact moment.

  “Charles,” she said, as soon as she could find a time for interruption.

  “Pray, what?” he said, his breathing heavy with anticipation.

  She merely handed him the book, open to a certain chapter, one of the ones Darcy had pointed out to him as being exceedingly productive—hence the reason he recognised it. That did not make it an undaunting prospect. “Clearly, I should never have let you see this book.”

  “Is that a no?”

  “Jane, dearest, I could never say no to you.” He added, “And I have a feeling that you know it.”

  Chapter 11

  Letters to Pemberley

  As fall approached, Netherfield Park had fallen into an easy rhythm, uninterrupted by the London summer season, which the Bingleys did not attend. As the weather began to chill, Charles Bingley decided to take pleasure in every remaining burst of warm air and slipped out for his morning constitution with exceptional diligence. Sometimes his wife accompanied him, but she usually preferred the bed at that hour, and he was not wont to push her into something she had no wish to do.

  Sometimes he walked toward Meryton, sometimes in the direction of Longbourn, but never reaching a particular destination. It was nature he admired, and he was content to occasionally wander rather aimlessly, getting lost and showing up hours later with a coat torn by thorns. And Jane would say, “Oh Charles,” in such an adorable way that it would make any following admonishments worth it. But he was very determined to inspect every inch of his property now that he was considering relinquishing it.

  Sisterly affection had not waned with marriage, and Jane and Elizabeth corresponded to such an extent that the post bin was always full. Jane missed her sister even more since the Darcys’ visit and recent departure. Mr. Darcy, who was like a bird in his nest at Pemberley, content never to leave if he did not have to, could not be coaxed from his roost for a full six months, and then only to visit the Bingleys. As much as he liked Netherfield, Bingley was not ready to rule out the rest of England as being bereft of suitable places to live. In fact, with the renovations done for his purchase, Netherfield’s worth had increased considerably, and there were buyers at the ready to his advantage. He had a list of places closer to Pemberley, but this was not something to be done in haste, not when he was uneager to rock the calm waters at home. Jane was open and even eager to the idea, but it was something to be done with great care, and they both knew that, so it was not a topic that was discussed with any immediacy.

  His only immediate concern at the moment was getting back to his manor, now with an overcoat thoroughly soaked by morning dew. Despite the fact that breakfast was on the table, Jane was not downstairs, and when he inquired as to why this was, the maid merely bowed.

  Always one to take the initiative no matter how ridiculous it made him look, he leapt up the stairs and knocked on her door. “Jane?”

  To his surprise, Jane’s attendant answered the door, looking proper but out of sorts. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bingley, but the mistress is not available.”

  “Not available?” He blinked and tried to imagine why. “Is she ill?”

  “Only in a very minor way, sir,” she said, apparently knowing the words “Jane” and “ill” would immediately send him into full panic mode. “I will ask her if she wants a visitor.”

  “Has someone sent for a doctor?”

  “It may not be necessary.”

  “Necessary! A doctor must be sent for right away! And not some Meryton quack. Town!”

  The maid rolled her eyes and disappeared back into the bedchamber, shutting the door behind her. Bingley turned to his manservant who had the good sense to appear immediately and listen to his careful instructions. By the time Bingley was finished, the door reopened, and to his surprise, it was in fact the housekeeper, Mrs. Eddings, who curtseyed to Bingley and shuffled out.

  “Jane?” he called as he entered, and found her on the chaise, sitting straight up and looking very pale. There was an empty bucket beside her. “Jane!” he practically shouted, and rushed to her side. “Are you all right?”

  “I am better,” she said. “It is nothing serious. I was ill, and now I feel better.” She leaned on his shoulder as he sat down next to her, wrapping an arm across her shoulders.

  “Was it something you ate?”

  “That was my inclination—about a week ago.”

  “This has been going on for a week?” How did I not notice it? was the greater question. He was a terrible husband, filled with guilt not to notice an ongoing illness.

  “It is only in the morning, and you are often out.”

  “Then I will not be out anymore. I have sent for a doctor from Town.”

  She smiled, but it was an odd sort of smile, and took his hand. “Mrs. Eddings has informed me that it will not be necessary.”

  “So you are fully recovered? To be plain, you do not look it. You are obviously in much distress, and I will not have it.”

  “Charles,” she said very slowly and carefully, as if he were a child. “I am not ill. I am pregnant.”

  To this, he had nothing immediate to say. All of his mental energy was taken up by gaping. Jane very politely closed his hanging mouth and kissed him on the cheek. “I would prefer a doctor to confirm it, though, but evidently this illness is the first sign—that and the lack of a certain feminine affliction when it was due.” She looked at him oddly, “Charles, say something.”

  Apparently he had to, but first he had to break himself from his shocked stupor. “P-pregnant?”

  “Yes.”

  Pregnant, with child—it meant a confinement, and with heaven’s help, a baby in . . . the early spring, maybe late winter. A child, a Bingley heir, to welcome into their lives. His life complete, as if he were not happy enough with Jane. He laughed with joy. “It’s wonderful. Jane, it’s so wonderful.” He was not sure whether he was referring to this new prospect or to life in general.

  “Should I ring the bell?” he asked, wiping his tears, realising now he was uncertain what propriety called for in the case of announcing a pregnancy. Confinement, yes, he was familiar enough with, but should they wait?

  “Perhaps not until the doctor has come, if he is coming anyway. And I would prefer to not have everyone treating me like fine china just yet,” Jane admitted. “But I must write to Lizzy.”

  “Perhaps you will give her leave to tell Darcy herself, as I have just posted to him earlier this morning, when I did not have this wonderful news.”

  “Of course, dearest,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek. Yes, she would be the one to tell Darcy, and Bingley would be content to quietly bask in his accompli
shment until he saw Darcy next—something he was definitely looking forward to.

  ***

  When the postman finally arrived at Pemberley, he was nervous. Mr. Darcy was rather benevolent for a landlord, but even he was not necessarily about to excuse a considerable delay, no matter how bad the rains. Fortunately for him, the master of Pemberley was rather distracted by other business and merely took the considerable stack of mail and disappeared with it.

  Mr. Darcy headed into his study and was not the least bit surprised to see Elizabeth at his desk, no doubt composing a letter to her sister or to Georgiana. One day Elizabeth had apparently decided that, when it was vacant, his writing station was the most preferable one in the house. The only way to solve this was of course to get her one of comparable size and expense, as—even though she had said nothing—she would not be satisfied by a simple feminine writing desk. If the servants had anything to say about the usurpation of his sacred male temple of business, they did a good job of keeping it beyond his ears.

  “The post has finally arrived,” he announced, and set it down across from her on the desk. The stack was considerable. Elizabeth looked up and stopped writing as he began to sort it. “Mostly business letters . . . business . . . business . . . Netherfield.” He passed it to her, and she immediately opened it and went to reading the several-page letter from her sister. “Oh, and Longbourn.”

  “Mother’s handwriting or Father’s?”

  “Mrs. Bennet.”

  “Oh,” she said without looking up from her letter. “It must be her monthly enquiry to see if I am yet pregnant. Will you do me the favour of writing her a quick response that I am and that she should stop asking?”

  “Anything you—what?”

  “Yes,” she said with a nonchalance he thought only he was capable of. “I am with child. This will please her to no end, especially if it is a boy.”

  He was stuck in place, holding the letter from Mrs. Bennet, his mouth frozen for some time before he could say, “How long have you known?”

  “It was confirmed a few days ago—the nurse who visited briefly?”

  He puffed himself up with considerable partially mocking disgust. “And this is how you chose to tell me?”

  “I did deliberate over it for some time about the best way and then decided that if I am to suffer nearly a year of sore muscles, stomach pains, and ballooning to a bovine, then I should at least have the pleasure of seeing that adorably miffed look upon your face just once more.”

  Her voice was perfectly serious and dismissive, the exact way she obviously wanted it, and when he realised the joke was on him, the tension fell away from him, and he ran around the desk and picked up his wife, twirling her around. “You will drive me to Bedlam!”

  “And then I will have Pemberley and Derbyshire all to myself! My plan all along! Oh no, you have discovered it!” She kissed him. “But please, as much as I do love you holding me, another twirl and I will be ill—which is your fault.”

  “I thought it was those bad clams I insisted on you trying.”

  “For two weeks?”

  “Perhaps I am not the most observant husband.”

  She kissed him again. “You will do.”

  She giddily returned to her letter, and he went back to the pile of mail, opening the letter from Mrs. Bennet and composing a hasty reply. He was only interrupted from his assignment when Elizabeth said, “Oh!”

  “What?”

  “It seems I am in good company, as Jane is also expecting.”

  “Wonderful news!” he said, and then thought on the matter. “Did she give a date for her confinement?”

  “She estimates it should begin sometime after New Year’s. Why?”

  “And the date for your confinement would be—”

  “Sometime after New Year’s.”

  He bit his lip. “So, we don’t actually know who—”

  “Darcy! It is not a competition!”

  “No!” he said appropriately quickly. “No, of course it is not.” And he returned hastily to the letter to give the appearance of his mind being on other things.

  “Darcy,” Elizabeth said as he stamped the wax on the letter to his mother-in-law, “there is a package beneath the other letters.”

  “Really? I did not notice it.” He returned to the desk and tossed the other post aside. The reason the pile was so high was that at the bottom lay a small package sealed with string, small in size and weight but bigger than an envelope. “It is from Bingley.” It said Netherfield, but he recognised the script. “The knife in the drawer on your left, if you would.” She handed it to him, and he cut loose the strings and removed the wrapping paper to reveal a dusty brown book.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know.” He frowned and read the title, “The Ananga Ranga.” At the bottom was printed in tiny letters, “Translation by M. L. Watts.”

  “Bless you.”

  “That is the title.” He opened it and found a note from Bingley.

  Dear Darcy,

  I apologise for the delay in returning your considerable favour, but it took me some great time to locate a book that would be even remotely comparable to the one you have provided me with. I do not know much about it, but I did peruse it when it arrived with the East Indian shipment, and suffice to say, you may be the only man in England who owns it. I apologise for a lack of illustrations, but this was the only English edition I could find.

  CB

  He did not need to open past the table of contents to know precisely the nature of the book.

  “Pray, what is it?”

  Very calmly and with the best monotone he could muster, he told his wife as he put the book behind his back, “Merely a book on shipping I have been inquiring about. The title is a bunch of nautical terms, I believe.”

  “Oh,” Elizabeth said. Yes, he was in the clear! With his letter to Longbourn finished, he took his leave to post it. He was halfway out the door when she said, “You are lying to me. This may make me very annoyed, which would be bad for the baby. Surely you know that.”

  In the doorway, Darcy silently cursed then turned around and put on his best smile. “You know me too well.”

  Elizabeth merely crossed her arms in expectation.

  “It is really noth—”

  “The book, Darcy.”

  “I could not betray Mr. Bingley’s confidence.”

  “So he told you in the letter not to mention a word about this to me on pain of death? What does it contain, an entire sordid history of his own family? Surely they would not bind that and give it such an obscure name. Anyway, if you are just to put it in the library, then I will eventually find it.”

  “I will not put it in the library,” he responded.

  “Then you will put it in the false bottom of this locked drawer.” She motioned to her right. “The one with the lock that matches the key you keep in the dresser by the bed stand?”

  Very few people could render Darcy speechless. Elizabeth was one of them. No, in fact, she was the only one. Unfortunately, he had married her. “You have me at your mercy,” he said at last.

  “Then give me the book.”

  “Allow me at least to read it first.”

  “Fine. I will wait in the drawing room while you peruse it.”

  He sighed and decided it was time to give up this game. “Very well.” He placed it on the desk before her, and she scooped it up with entirely too much interest.

  Elizabeth Darcy put her hand over her mouth to hide her expression. She had, it seemed, some propriety left. “My goodness.”

  “I cannot account for—”

  She slammed the book shut. “You do not need to account for it.” With that, she stood up, taking the book and the letter from Jane with her. “If you need me, I will be in the library.” And with a quick kiss on his cheek she added, “Reading.”

  To this, he could form no proper response before she was gone.

  Chapter 12

  The Visitor

/>   As December approached, the Pemberley staff was at the appropriate frantic level of anticipation. Only their master seemed particularly calm, probably because he had the natural ability to seem calm in any situation whatsoever, except perhaps a military invasion or someone tying his cravat wrong. There was no amount of guessing (or betting) on the part of the servants as to how he would act toward the end of his wife’s first confinement, as the only time he showed his true emotions was around his wife or his sister, and the former was burdened with producing the heir to Pemberley.

  At the moment, that was not Elizabeth’s chief concern (though it hardly truly left her mind for a moment). She had to assemble a guest list, and as mistress of Pemberley, it had to be done with a ridiculous amount of care. She was surprised then when Darcy, avoiding eye contact by staring out the window as he said it, casually asked that she invite the Wickham family—husband, wife, and relatively newborn son.

  When queried on this, he replied, “It’s the proper thing to do, and I know he won’t come.” To this, he left no explanation and quickly exited the room.

  In his infinite wisdom, Mr. Darcy was not wrong. The Wickhams returned post with the message that they were embedded at Newcastle and would decline the invitation. Elizabeth was sure she saw her husband give one of his quiet smirks at the news.

  The list needed careful consideration this year, as it involved two wives very near entering confinement, and so was restricted to their very extensive families. Lady Catherine immediately sent her refusal, and it was regrettable only that they could see no way to invite cousin Anne de Bourgh away from her home on Christmas under any pretence. Though Darcy did not mourn the loss of Mr. Collins as a guest, he was aware that Elizabeth did feel the loss of any acquaintance with Mrs. Collins, now that all relations with Rosings were for the most part hopelessly severed. “It will not do to lose your relationship with your aunt,” Elizabeth said. “I mean, you may do as you choose, but I will not suffer the loss of Charlotte as a friend.”