The Darcys and the Bingleys

by Marsha Altman

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Father’s desk.”

  She reached out to touch it, and he waved it beyond her reach. “Don’t be such a brat.”

  “Do you want to use it?”

  “You don’t know how to use it!”

  That much was true. They had only seen their father use his lock pick once, when the laundress was stuck in the closet with the old door and he had misplaced the key. “It can’t be all that hard,” Charles asserted. “Or maybe you’re just chicken.”

  “I’m not chicken!”

  “I think you look like a chicken.”

  “Shut up!” She snatched the lock pick from him. “I’m going to use it, just to prove you wrong—not because I want to.”

  There was no question as to where it would be used. Even with all of the doors that creaked and got stuck or wouldn’t shut properly or had their knobs broken sometimes, there was one door that always stayed locked at the end of the hallway. It was Papa’s storeroom, and though he gave no grave warnings as to venturing inside, he kept it locked, which led to no end of speculation as to what might be inside. No idea was too gruesome or scandalous, at least when it was very late at night and they were talking. He spent almost no time there, giving them not a chance to peek inside. Papa was most often in Town or occasionally on the Continent and sometimes came home only late at night or not at all, except on Sundays.

  As soon as they checked that the hallway was clear, Charles and Caroline scampered down the hallway to the door at the end of it. Charles put the pick in, but it did not unlock it as he thought it would.

  “Stupid. You’re doing it wrong,” Caroline said, and pushed him aside. Her own attempt was no better. The door remained locked. She jiggled the doorknob to no avail.

  “That’s because you don’t have the key.”

  They spun around to see Louisa towering over them. Being older than both of them at a time when age determined height, this was not very difficult. She was holding in her hand a small, sharp item of the same metal and colour as the pick. “You need the other half.”

  “Charles!” Caroline said, apparently annoyed that her time was wasted. “So?”

  “So? Let me show you,” Louisa said, and put her half in, and after some wiggling about, they all heard the door soundly unlock, and the door swung open.

  “That’s it?” Charles said. “Clothing?”

  “Not clothing, Charles. Fabric.” For that was what it was. It was shelves and shelves of rolled, piled, and folded fabric and practically nothing else but a chair. “But it is very beautiful.” Caroline ran a hand across the embroidered silk in colours she had never seen. The three of them had their way about the room.

  “Look at me,” Charles said, draping himself in brown fabric. “I’m a monk!”

  “I’m the Princess of Wales,” said Caroline, wrapped in the prettiest print on the top of the pile.

  “And I cannot begin to imagine the trouble you will be in when your father comes home,” their governess said with all severity, blocking their escape by standing in the doorway, and they all turned to her. The most terrifying part of it was that they knew it to be true.

  ***

  Charles thought it was most intolerable that he was last. He was dressed in his best clothes and made to wait in the chair outside his father’s study while one after another his sisters were sent to Charles Senior, leaving his son to swing his legs back and forth on the chair that was too big for him. He was almost relieved when he was finally called in.

  To his surprise, his father’s expression was not entirely malign. Mr. Bingley was seated at his massive desk, which was stacked with endless papers of business. He was not a corpulent man, but he did allow himself the fine French food when he had the chance, so he was not an imposing personage, which, if not for the regular broad smile on his face, could easily have made him an intimidating man. Perhaps he was when he needed to be. All that his son really knew was that his father was very successful, so he must have been good at whatever he did.

  Charles Bingley Senior said nothing but bade his son to take a seat on the chair, which he practically had to climb into, feeling very small indeed and very afraid.

  “Charles,” his father said. His father usually called him Junior. “I heard about your little exploit today. Do you have something to say about it? The proper Christian thing to do would be to allow a proper chance for a confession.” And he crossed his fingers and waited while his son gathered his thoughts.

  “I didn’t—we were just really—we wanted to know—what was inside.”

  “But you didn’t ask.”

  “No.” He shrunk further into his seat. “We didn’t know. Maybe it was awful. Maybe it was . . . not proper.”

  “And do you really believe your father would do anything scandalous?”

  “No,” he answered honestly. He had, after all, only respect for his progenitor.

  His father was very patient as he began, “Charles, would you like to guess the worth of the cloth in that room? I will aid you by saying some of it is from the Far East.”

  “I don’t know.” This was not the time to admit that he was behind in his math lessons. “Um . . . thirty pounds?” He watched his father’s face for a reaction. “Forty?” Still nothing. “A hundred.”

  “I will not torture you. I purchased that collection at some twelve thousand pounds. I plan to sell it at about forty thousand, depending on the current market,” his father explained. “I think you are old enough to see now how a fortune is made. Because I intend to have a fortune—not for myself, of course, or my wife—for you and your sisters until they marry well. I work so you will inherit and be a man of society, though that may seem like a daunting prospect, but it is very important that I provide for my children to the best of my abilities.” He went on, “I keep it in the house because it is the best of my stock, and my warehouse is regularly robbed. I keep the door locked because even the best of servants cannot always avoid the temptation of Chinese silk. So now you know, and this was your method of discovering it.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. He would have been crying in shame, but instead he was just overwhelmed at the astronomical numbers flown at him. “I was curious—”

  “There is nothing wrong with curiosity, as long as it does not involve the theft of one’s father’s things. Now, the pick?”

  Charles guiltily climbed out of the chair, went around the desk, and presented his father with the lock picks that Louisa had shoved into his tiny hands upon their discovery.

  “Thank you. You understand this is an emergency tool, to be used for the old locks when they fail and trap people. It is not a toy.”

  “It is not, sir.”

  “Good. And since no damage was done, I suppose I could let you off, provided you do not pull this sort of stunt again.”

  “Yes, sir,” his son said proudly, eager to please his father. It was only later that he and Caroline would decide that “this stunt” referred only to the storeroom, which barely interested them anyway now that the mystery was solved, and many hours were passed picking the locks on their own doors until all three Bingleys could do it with just two of Louisa’s hairpins. But this secret they kept to themselves.

  ***

  1806

  Geoffrey was jumping on his head. Of that, Darcy was sure. It was the only way to explain the splitting pain in his skull. Kincaid hadn’t gotten him in the head, right? And he wasn’t dead, right? The details were a little fuzzy. The pain wasn’t.

  “Darcy, how do you feel?”

  His lovely wife’s voice was entirely unwelcome. “Please,” he mumbled into the pillow as he found himself facedown on his bed. “The noise.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Was I too loud?” she said, and he covered his ears in defence. “How could you have a headache? I really have no idea, darling.”

  “Lizzy,” he whispered, wildly and numbly grasping for her. “Please—”

  “Something about a drinking horn
?”

  He picked his head up, his vision blurry in the morning light—or afternoon. He had no idea. “What?”

  She kissed him, which had its mixture of pleasure and pain. “You are too adorable when befuddled to be tortured further.”

  “Thank God for that,” he said, and put his head back down on the pillow.

  It was some time before he was properly roused and put together in a way that he considered presentable and was willing to venture outside his bedchamber, but only after a lot of coffee had been brought up for him.

  On the stairway he immediately encountered Bingley who not only had a welt on his head but was otherwise injured. “My God, man, what happened to your eye?”

  Bingley looked confused and then stifled a grin. “You socked me, Darcy.”

  “I did?” he stumbled. Bingley did have a black eye in evidence, and he was not known to be a good liar, so it was probably true. But why in the world would he punch Bingley? “Do you wish to tell me the circumstances under which this occurred? I assume it was more than just being inebriated.”

  “Are you daft?” This time, his friend felt no compunction to hold back his laughter. “I have no desire to have a matching pair.”

  “Well, then.” Darcy decided it was prudent not to question it. “My apologies.”

  “Apologies accepted. Oh, and the constable has arrived, so you may wish to gather your memories for the inquest.”

  “My memories are perfectly clear,” he said, adding, “until about the third glass.”

  “You may wish to leave that out.”

  “I do not believe it is relevant to the inquest,” Darcy said.

  “Good point.” Bingley added, “And there is the matter of Mr. Maddox.”

  “How is he?”

  “I am not the expert on the subject, but he is alive and has a long recovery ahead of him. Whether he spends it in prison or not is a decision that falls to you.”

  “Dr. Maddox is not pressing charges?”

  “No.”

  “Nor Miss Bingley, I assume?”

  “No, or, not since I asked. She may feel differently now. I’ve not had the time—”

  Darcy put his hand up. He was master of Pemberley. It was time to act like it. “When am I expected to report to the constable?”

  “I believe when he is done with Lord Kincaid.” He clarified, “Lord William Kincaid.”

  “Then I must find the good doctor and speak with him if I can first. I assume he is well.”

  “All things considered, I think he is faring better than either of us.”

  “Good for him. Sorry again about the eye. Was it really that terrible?”

  “I’m not telling you, Darcy.”

  “That bad,” he said, and inquired no further.

  ***

  Darcy was directed to the library where he found Dr. Maddox trying to distract himself with some text Darcy had not the time to identify. “Dr. Maddox.”

  “Mr. Darcy,” he bowed.

  “How is your brother?”

  “Recovering.” Maddox put his book down. “But very slowly. He has some terrible days ahead of him.”

  “And you clearly think this enough of a punishment.”

  “What am I to do? He’s my brother.”

  “He’s a fool who has ruined your fortune and your life and had almost gotten us all killed, if I must remind you.”

  “If you wish to press charges, that is your right, Mr. Darcy.”

  “You are changing the subject.”

  “Not very well, apparently.”

  There was a silence between them, and Darcy stared out the window. When Maddox would not break it and might have even gone back to his reading, Darcy announced, “He cannot stay at Pemberley.”

  “I understand. But in his condition, I must go with him.”

  Darcy sighed. Everyone seemed to be making life harder for him than was necessary. “Then I suppose . . . until he is recovered . . . he may stay here. But under guard, of course.”

  “Of course.” Maddox audibly closed his book. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy.”

  Darcy did not have to look at the expression on Maddox’s face to know it was genuine.

  ***

  On his way out of his meeting with the constable, which was mostly procedure at this point, with an escaped convict breaking into his home and stabbing people, nobleman or not, Darcy was surprised to run into someone he had never met before.

  “Mr. Darcy,” the man bowed. “It is good to see you again.”

  The accent was unmistakable. He recognised Lord William Kincaid now back in normal, proper clothing, which included pants. “Lord Kincaid. Thank you.”

  “I have no wish to further intrude now that my business is concluded. And I must return for the funeral. Thank you, Mr. Darcy, for all of your aid, and I’m sorry to bring James’s habits into your family.”

  “Hardly your fault.”

  “It is, but I will not press the point. Thank you again,” he bowed.

  “You’re welcome.” Darcy took the trouble to properly show out his guest to the waiting carriage.

  “Sealbh math dhuit,” said the Scot from his carriage. “Ask your wife what it means. And hail to the chief!”

  Darcy did not reply because he had not the slightest idea what he meant by that.

  Chapter 18

  The Unlikely Bride

  The matter of who was to be the best man became a severely complicated issue, at least among those who were inclined to chat about it behind Dr. Maddox’s back, as apparently he was to have no say in the matter. Darcy was the obvious choice, but it took Bingley to admit over billiards that even he would find Darcy as best man at Caroline’s wedding a bit strange. Mr. Hurst could barely stand up through a whole ceremony, and Bingley, of course, had the task of giving his sister away. Brian Maddox, despite being an amiable and very repentant fellow, was nobody’s favourite for obvious reasons and was a most inappropriate choice.

  “It is a shame that I have not yet developed a horrid disease and therefore do not know him better,” he said. “Though perhaps we could consult the groom before assigning the position?”

  “It’s not our fault he cares more for the library than for billiards,” Mr. Hurst said.

  “Or being in Miss Bingley’s sitting room.”

  “Elizabeth is a bad influence on you,” Bingley spat back at Darcy. “I think I liked you better when you just stared out the window during these conversations.”

  ***

  The snow stopped and melted, causing the roads to flood, and it was almost April before the last Bingley sibling was married off to a man of relatively small fortune but an outstanding reputation in his profession. He was offered a sizeable position in Scotland by a certain earl but turned it down saying he preferred his work in London, and his wife liked the social life, and he would forever be at the mercy of his wife’s wants and wishes. Lord William Kincaid, who returned to England for the wedding, smiled and shook his hand and said that he understood.

  To everyone’s chagrin, at least privately, Maddox did (undoubtedly with full awareness of the irony) ask Darcy to stand as his best man. Aside from a few associates from Town and University, he had few guests of his own beyond his brother, who was to depart from England as soon as the amnesty granted to him until the wedding ended was up. Brian Maddox had recovered but walked with a limp, having had a particular nerve severed near his spine, and this was somehow deemed enough of a punishment by his sibling and sister-in-law. Not that anyone beyond the doctor himself felt compelled to be nice to him, but he did attend the ceremony, and whatever understanding had transpired between brothers in the weeks up to the wedding they kept to themselves.

  “If my brother is poor in character, it is not my place to judge,” Dr. Maddox finally said when cornered, and then would say no more on the matter.

  But aside from being the recipient of many cold stares in the church, Brian Maddox bothered no one and smiled awkwardly to the guests who didn’t know him a
s they arrived.

  It seemed the last people to actually arrive were the two people the ceremony concerned. Caroline had all of the usual delays of fittings and women doing whatever it is they do when a woman gets married, which Charles Bingley avoided assiduously and, instead, stood in the church with Darcy, despite the fact that this was the last day he would see his sister for some time, as the couple was taking their honeymoon on the Continent. Once again, Bingley found himself in the office of the local pastor with Darcy.

  “Your wedding gift?” Darcy said. “If I may inquire.”

  “A townhouse in West London. Caroline should have her own place.”

  “Now I feel cheap,” Darcy said. “All I got them was a book.”

  “Well, you are only a—Darcy! That’s my sister we’re talking about!”

  “I didn’t say what kind of book. You have a foul mind, Bingley.”

  “Don’t mock me on my sister’s wedding day!”

  “I mocked you on yours; I hardly see how this is as bad,” was Darcy’s reply.

  “I’m buying Georgiana a copy on her wedding day!”

  “You must be referring to your daughter, because Georgiana Darcy is never getting married. She’s taking the veil,” he said. “And if it isn’t the man of the hour.”

  Dr. Maddox had finally arrived, looking more nervous than he normally looked—not the Bingley sort of “I can’t stay still” nervous, but more of the skittish terrified nervousness, which was not entirely unexpected. “Hello.”

  “Doctor,” Bingley said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Best of luck. If you have any questions on how to entice Caroline, ask Darcy here.” And with that, he left to meet his sister.

  “Bastard,” Darcy said. “Got out of here before I could say anything.”

  “You don’t . . . have any advice?”

  Darcy shrugged. “You don’t seem to need any. And I assume you are quite acquainted with feminine biology.”

  “Am I going to have to return this witty brotherly repartee?”

  “To last in this family, yes,” he said. “A small price to pay, all things considered.”

  “And I even made it in without a mother-in-law.”

  “Mrs. Bennet will happily fill the role if you find yourself lacking one,” Darcy said. “She may even do it without your formal request.”