The Darcys and the Bingleys

by Marsha Altman

  “You—he—” Mr. Darcy was at a loss for words. “He made you an offer of marriage?”

  “Yes. Did I not tell you? Oh no, it was before even your first proposal—shortly after the ball at Netherfield. Less heated but with considerably less regret on my part.”

  He merely repeated in total shock. “He made you an offer of marriage?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Yes, darling.”

  “I should run him through!”

  She took hold of his balled fists. “I think you are in such a state that you would gladly run anyone through. Do not take it out on poor Mr. Collins.”

  “To think that—”

  “I rejected him,” she said clearly. “Without a second thought. The matter is long settled. You are just upset because you are so . . . stymied.”

  “What?” It took him a second to grasp her meaning. “I am not!”

  “Yes, you are.”

  In frustration, he flung himself on the bed next to her. “Fine. Maybe. A small amount, I will grant you.”

  “Whatever did you do before me, husband?”

  “I believe I was a proud, inconsiderate man lacking in social manners who would obsess about a woman because she had lovely eyes to the point of getting drunk and having to buy my sister the most expensive musical instrument in England to make up for it.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “That I cannot dispute.”

  He sighed and rested his head on her shoulder, facing away from her, and she stroked his hair.

  “So you are expectant when? Three weeks?”

  “It is not an exact science! And besides, there will be a period of indisposition afterwards!”

  He put the pillow over his head and moaned.

  Thinking on the matter, she said, “Surely there must be something in the book for this.”

  He immediately removed the pillow. “Yes! I am sure there is. I must check.” And he ran out of their bedchamber with a speed she had never seen before, which brought her no end of laughter for some time.

  ***

  Darcy had his head buried beneath his desk when his servant entered. “Miss Anne de Bourgh to see you, sir.”

  He slammed the drawer shut and picked his head up. “Oh, of course. Send her in.” He immediately stood and bowed. “Miss de Bourgh.”

  “Mr. Darcy.” She curtsied and quickly took the seat offered to her facing the desk. “Thank you for inviting me to Pemberley on such short notice.”

  “Think nothing of it. You are always welcome at Pemberley, especially since we are to be—” he frowned. “Double cousins?”

  “I’m sure there is a proper word for it.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know it. Nonetheless, my most firm congratulations, for I see you are very happy with this arrangement. Though I have to ask—”

  “It was done not without my mother’s consent. I am not to be banished from Rosings,” she said. “But it was not her idea if that is what you are inclined to think.”

  “Still, it does come as some surprise. Though my cousin is a pleasant and affectionate man—”

  “Who is often at Rosings—”

  “And is not without social stature.” He blinked. “I cannot see why it comes as much surprise to me, then. Clearly, men are somewhat blind on these matters.”

  “Clearly, marriage has done wonders for your insight.”

  He did not take it as an insult, as it was not meant as one. “And engagement has done wonders for your health.” For—though it was improper to say it—this was the first time he could rightfully recall that she had some colour on her face.

  “I am feeling much better these days,” she said, and almost looked like she was beaming as she rose. “I will not keep you from your work.” She offered her hand, and he kissed it. “I am glad we have both found happiness, even at the expense of my mother’s wishes. Though, do not be surprised if we produce children of opposite gender and she proposes another infancy engagement.”

  “For that,” he said, “she would have to get my wife to agree. And I do believe she will not find Elizabeth as agreeable as my mother on the subject.”

  ***

  Darcy went to great lengths to make sure his wife did not have to play hostess to so many guests, however welcome they were or happy she was to see them. He took great pains to keep the men outdoors when the weather improved, and Mr. Bennet was quite happy in the library. It was only when Mrs. Bennet and her remaining daughters arrived that he was persuaded by his wife and Mrs. Reynolds—who teamed up on him in his chambers—to give up on the matter entirely and let nature take its course. He was only willing to stray within a certain distance of the house, but that was far enough for some casual shooting, which Mr. Bingley was eager to do.

  “So,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam as they were reloading, “I hear that there are some plans for a ball for Georgiana.”

  “What, is she finally coming out?” Bingley said in his usual oblivious voice.

  “She’ll come out when I’m cold in my grave,” Darcy said without looking at either of them, which Bingley took most severely and Fitzwilliam only took with a laugh.

  “I am her guardian, too, and I consent to it. She is seventeen, Darcy.”

  “But you are not her brother; therefore, I overrule you.”

  “Hmm, that is true. Perhaps I will ask Mrs. Darcy her opinion on the matter.”

  “If you are thinking of having her enter a conspiracy against me on this subject, I will have to run you through at our next fencing match,” Darcy casually replied.

  “Surely you would not do that and make Anne suffer so.”

  Darcy growled. “You have caught me.”

  Fitzwilliam jovially turned to Bingley. “We should have a celebration for this, for the master of Pemberley is so rarely caught.”

  “He’s like a wild bird.”

  “When did I become a source of amusement for everyone?” Darcy asked.

  “Since you’ve been managing your wife’s confinement worse than she does,” Fitzwilliam answered.

  Bingley added, “That’s because he hasn’t found chapter three and twenty yet.”

  “What?”

  But before Bingley could enlighten Fitzwilliam, Darcy was charging at him like a wild boar, various curses coming out his mouth as he chased him all the way around the stately home of Pemberley.

  ***

  Whether Jane was merely early and Elizabeth late was never determined, but Mrs. Bingley delivered a healthy baby girl a full two weeks before her sister, ending her confinement—and making Mr. Darcy five pounds poorer. There were no great theatrics on Bingley’s part when presented with his daughter, as his father-in-law held him firmly in his chair by both shoulders. Elizabeth later remarked in privacy to her sister that it was Darcy who looked the palest of them all. As to naming the child “Elizabeth,” Mr. Bennet objected soundly, saying his old brain would be much befuddled by the confusion despite their considerable age and height differences. And if the two great families weren’t united enough, Bingley mildly said, “I’ve always liked the name Georgiana.” His wife agreed, and so she was christened, and everyone immediately took to calling her Georgie.

  Bingley did not benefit much from the bet and the result of the financial transaction, for despite their intense secrecy, Elizabeth immediately demanded that the funds be donated to a local poorhouse, and both husbands decided to be obliging. In fact, when Geoffrey Darcy—named after his paternal grandfather—was born two weeks later, Darcy and Bingley got into a sort of competition of piety about local donations to the point where the house manager was exasperated at the repeated appearances of both of them. Some of the orphans were eating out of silver spoons, and Elizabeth told her husband to swallow his pride lest Pemberley become the home of every orphan and destitute child in Derbyshire.

  “I did not know you to be so ungenerous,” Darcy said as he held their son, now a week old.

  “I did not know you to be so competitive,” a still-tired Elizabeth replied from her
bed. “But I suppose you must have something to amuse yourselves with while your wives do all the work?”

  “All the work?” he said. “There was at least . . . an hour of my time spent on . . . this,” he said, cradling his son.

  “My dear husband, you are being very generous with yourself in your estimation.”

  He decided that with a physically weak wife, it was better not to be affronted. “Well, I suppose, since I am considered the most generous man in Derbyshire at the moment, I am allowed that.” Geoffrey giggled in his arms or made some kind of sound that sounded like a giggle and hopefully was not a precursor to a crying fit. His father looked at him hopelessly, only to be greeted by a face full of drool, and he quickly coloured and relinquished the infant to the nurse, all the while having to endure his wife’s laughter.

  With the stress of his wife’s confinement (for giving birth was a dangerous prospect for any woman) and the weight of producing an heir off his shoulders, Mr. Darcy was free to enjoy all of the many pleasures life had to offer him. Despite the constant wailing of an infant, Geoffrey Darcy was a lively child and had his mother’s eyes, and basking in the glow of parenthood, neither parent could find fault in him—no matter how many cravats and waistcoats he ruined with various unexpected discharges. Normally, a man of Darcy’s stature was expected to maintain a distance from his infant son, having him only brought to his father in his study, but Darcy felt no sense of obligation to this particular tradition; between him and Elizabeth, the child was hardly out of someone’s arms, and how fast they went through clothing became a comedy to them and an exasperation to their servants.

  The Bingleys returned to Chatton after the second birth, but there were many correspondences between them and the Darcys, and every small instance of amusement was described in detail. The babies did not see each other again until the Pemberley Ball some months later, when little Georgie appeared sporting a wild twist of red hair that could not be combed down no matter how hard anyone tried. Her own mother, in fact, merely shrugged and said she had long since given up, giving a wry glance to her husband.

  Colonel Fitzwilliam was still in attendance, and Anne would make her last appearance as a maid before retiring to Rosings for preparations for her fall wedding. With a hesitant grace, Georgiana Darcy emerged in society officially as an eligible maiden, though every man she danced with who was not a relation got a cold glare from Mr. Darcy.

  When the festivities were finally over and the guests more or less departed in every direction, Jane made one final announcement over the relatively quiet breakfast of the two couples in attendance—she was pregnant again. So there were more congratulations and smiles as the Darcys saw Bingley and Jane off, with their now five-month-old Georgiana Bingley in Jane’s arms.

  “I suppose this is my fault,” Darcy said to his wife as they watched the carriage pull away.

  “And how would that possibly be so?”

  “Well,” he said, “I gave him that damned book.”

  END OF BOOK 1

  Book Two

  The Question of Consent

  Chapter 1

  A Most Unexpected Visitor

  For once, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy had his massive study to himself, but he did not revel in the privacy as he thought he would. Since her first days at Pemberley, Elizabeth had been fascinated by this male sanctuary and had thoroughly invaded it, even when he offered her many alternate locations for her own writing and reading and what little financial business she had to contract with her minor personal income. He had not the will to shoo her away, and she seemed to realise it. Her goings in and out became more of a silly war of personal space, one both sides were content to occasionally win and occasionally lose (though Darcy had to admit, he most often lost but was compensated thoroughly later at night).

  As it was, on this beautiful fall morning, he had the room truly to himself because Elizabeth was three miles away tending to her confined sister at Chatton Hall. His only reason for being at Pemberley was for business, which he hurried to finish. Only his highest scruples would not allow him to sign contracts before reading them, even if it meant another few hours without Lizzy and Geoffrey.

  His son was yet another loss in the study. Since he had learned to crawl, he spent far too long (according to Nurse) rolling around on the carpet in front of the desk. Usually when infants were brought to see their father it was largely for show, but Darcy was content to let the toddler have his way about the room, ruining whatever clothing he was bundled in. In fact, the servants had become adept at stepping around the young Master Geoffrey.

  The servant this morning had no such worries as he entered. “Mr. Bingley, sir.”

  Bingley was in Town. Darcy knew that as a fact. Bingley had received a letter and had business of great import in London that could not be avoided. He was finally convinced by his wife to answer the call and hightail it to Town. That was only six days ago by Darcy’s estimation, but he didn’t question Bingley’s reappearance and gave him an approving nod.

  The man who entered immediately after the servant was indeed Charles Bingley, still carrying his hat and looking rather weatherworn. He had clearly been riding, perhaps from Chatton. “Please forgive—”

  “What is wrong?” Darcy did not hide his concern. “Who is ill?”

  “No one. I have not, in fact, been to Chatton, but I did hear that everyone is well.”

  Darcy frowned and bid him to be seated, but Bingley would not. He paced by the fireplace instead as Darcy observed, “You came here directly from Town?”

  “Yes. Yes, I did.” He practically spit it out. “I need your advice.”

  “On business I assume?”

  “No. Yes. Sort of. Not the business you are thinking of.” As usual, Bingley was a sputtering mess, but the truth would be out soon enough. The important thing was Jane and Elizabeth and the children were well. Everything else was irrelevant. “You recall I was told of pressing affairs in Town. The letter made it seem as if they were related to the business.” Though he rarely spoke of it, the Bingley family was still very connected to the wool trade, as it was the source of their original fortune and had potential for future fortune, but Mr. Bingley Senior had raised his son a gentleman of leisure, so Bingley had little to do with his own business and relied on overseers and stewards to manage it almost entirely. “This was not entirely true.”

  Darcy simply gave him the same impatient look that said, “Do go on, silly man who is wasting my time” that he gave to practically everybody.

  “As it turns out, my sister is engaged and was seeking my consent for her marriage to a certain minor earl. His name is Lord James Kincaid, and they are very eager to be married, but I suppose they must have imagined that I would not leave Chatton for another two months.”

  “And they could not come to you?”

  Bingley shrugged. “I suppose Caroline wanted me to meet him in the proper setting.”

  “So I am to understand that Miss Bingley is affianced to Scottish nobility, and you are here to ask me . . . what, exactly? If you should give your consent?”

  “No, not precisely.” Bingley twirled around in frustration. “I dislike saying it.”

  “Saying what? I was not under the impression that you dislike anything in this world.”

  Bingley frowned and leaned on the fireplace. “I do not favour this man.”

  To this, Darcy had to give pause—considerable pause. “In our entire history, I cannot think of a single acquaintance that you did not like immensely, even when there was ample reason for the contrary. You have spoken highly even of women who have slighted you and servants who have cheated you. So I must come to the conclusion that this man is either secretly George Wickham, or he is the most disgusting, disagreeable man in Britain.”

  “Precisely. Only he isn’t. He’s quite pleasant, and he seems . . . well, Caroline is pleased with the arrangement.”

  “So he is wealthy.”

  “Not by heritage. His particular region is not
very prosperous, somewhere in the lowlands. But he went to Australia and made a fortune there and has just recently returned to settle down.”

  “The lowlands, you say?”

  “Yes. Not so terribly far from here, so it is not a question of my not wanting the distance between us . . .” Because despite the general disposition of his siblings, Charles Bingley was a model brother and loved them dearly. “To be blunt about it, I don’t know what it is that bothers me about him. I can find no proper reason not to like this man and eagerly consent to a marriage that would make Caroline happy.” He paused. “And yet, here I am.”

  “And I am still waiting for your answer to my question. On what subject do you need advice? Surely you cannot ask me to judge the man from afar? Or for that matter, to have any real say in the matter of whom Miss Bingley marries.”

  “I know, but . . .” he hesitated again. “I would wish a favour from you, Darcy.”

  “You know you don’t even have to ask.”

  “I would ask you to go to Town—secretly or to accompany, I care not. But—to put it correctly—you know something of discovering people’s . . . connections.”

  “You suspect something of this man? Lord Kincaid?”

  “I cannot even say that. But there is something I cannot describe that has caused me to withhold my consent. Not that Caroline could not be in the process of marrying him at this moment, as she is only my sister and has her own will, but I do not believe she would do so, or she wouldn’t have called for me with Jane in confinement. Am I correct in my estimation?”

  “She is your sister, Bingley!” Darcy said. “I am merely her brother by marriage whom she spent many years fawning over. I have no great insight on her present disposition toward this suitor. Normally, I would say let her be married at last and be even perhaps happy! But . . .” He stood up and looked out the window, his hands clasped behind his back, his own posture of deep concentration. “Tell me—what is her inheritance?”

  “Twenty thousand pounds. But . . . he has made a fortune in Australia!”