Read aloud he might, but Darcy was not inclined to lecture on the merits of free verse, nor the delight that Lady Austen took from it, at whose request The Task had been written. He did not offer reply of any sort, nor was one expected. Bingley had left the matter as soon as he had raised it. Darcy surreptitiously drew his watch from his pocket and glanced at it. An hour had elapsed since they were shut in the cellar. How many more must they endure before they would be found?
Rising, he took a lamp and returned to the shelves, selecting a second bottle identical to the first. He opened it and set it on the table to settle in the air a few moments. Its bouquet was delightful, redolent of its black cherry undertones. Though full-bodied, it had a smooth texture that slid easily—and gratifyingly—down the throat.
“How long have we been here?” asked Bingley during the wine preparation. “Do you know, Darcy?”
“Mmm. Upward of an hour, I should think.” He raised the first bottle, now empty. “Long enough to enjoy this,” he said and laughed.
Bingley laughed as well, but with trepidation. Darcy sat down again and, to divert his friend, said, “Tell me. You have secured the hand of Miss Bennet. How did you go about it? When I departed for London, you were yet hesitant in your address of her.”
In truth, Darcy cared little for the details of Bingley’s courtship with Jane Bennet beyond that it had been put to rights, as had their own friendship once Bingley had forgiven Darcy’s part in the couple’s separation of several months. But it was a topic sure to draw Bingley’s full attention and thus draw the same away from their continued incarceration.
“I can tell you that I am glad to have the thing decided!” said Bingley with a laugh. “I believe I resolved on at least three occasions—no, four—to offer to Miss Bennet. If I had endured one more supper with Mrs. Bennet without its being settled, I am certain I should have gone mad.” He smiled as he recalled his lady. “She is most beautiful, Darcy, is not she?”
“Mrs. Bennet?” The name had been pronounced with wry amusement as Darcy poured servings from the second pinot noir, but Bingley took his friend’s question seriously.
“Good God, no, man! It is of Miss Bennet that I speak!” He looked at Darcy in some astonishment until he realized the man was making sport. The smile returned, along with a dreamy mooning: “My Jane…”
“Indeed, she is very fair. You deserve no less.” Raising his wine glass, he added, “To Miss Bennet, soon to become Mrs. Bingley!”
“To Miss Bennet!” Bingley could hardly drink without dribbling, so wide was the smile upon his countenance.
“It was torturous, Darcy. To be so near and yet feel so far removed from my beauty, simply for want of words.”
Darcy nodded sagely. “I gather a constant audience did little to free your tongue.”
“Indeed. Although…in truth I cannot lay blame at any feet but my own. Mrs. Bennet hinted for me to get on with it at every turn, and then contrived pointedly with each of my visits to arrange for my privacy with Miss Bennet. On each occasion, the echo of her hints—Mrs. Bennet’s hints, that is—lodged the words in my chest. Blasted awkward, it was.”
Bingley went on, sighing at the memory of it. “And when the words would come to me, there was always some sister about. I tell you, Darcy, but for the love of my Jane…well, it would have been akin to living in a…a ribbon emporium!”
Darcy laughed. “And Mr. Bennet? Surely, there could be little doubt of your design with such studious attendance upon them. Did he nothing by way of advancing your suit?”
“I scarcely saw him, in truth. He closets himself in his study during the day, and escapes to it again directly when dinner concludes.”
If he could not condone his actions, he could at least understand Mr. Bennet’s motives in such a household. But did not the gentleman see that to further an understanding between his daughter and Bingley would be greatly to his own advantage?
“I might still have failed to speak, were it not for Miss Elizabeth!” added Bingley.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet?” Darcy, who had been listening idly to his friend’s recounting, now gave him his full attention. Indeed, up to that point, as Bingley had related his tale, his friend had given half his thoughts to that young lady. She was never far from his consciousness these months past; and events of the preceding day had only escalated the frequency and intensity of his imaginings. It was she, in fact, who had precipitated his early return to Netherfield. He struggled now to put aside those thoughts and listen to Bingley, who had already begun his explanation.
“…nothing she said, but I am certain she saw the situation with clarity. Soon after tea, she excused herself to go into another room to write a letter. A ruse, I suspect.”
“A letter? And this loosed your tongue and your resolve?” Darcy asked, jealously wondering to whom the lady wrote.
The two men had been draining and refilling their glasses whilst the one had been reliving his proposal. By now, a third bottle had found its way to the table and stood awaiting their attentions. Bingley applied the screw to it as he continued.
“No, no. But as she passed, she gazed upon me directly and smiled, Darcy. The simple gesture carried such an understanding—such earnest friendship—that it provided me the encouragement, indeed, all the fortitude I had been lacking. Imagine that, Darcy. Nothing more than a smile!”
Darcy could imagine it with ease, particularly the smile of that lady. It had been etched in his mind since the day they had met by accident at Pemberley two months earlier, when he himself had been a shocked and grateful recipient of Elizabeth Bennet’s smile. He smiled now, recalling it. Bingley took no notice, however, of any alteration in Darcy’s mien, being intent on the task of pouring their libations as he continued.
“We had been establishing a table for cards at the time, but immediately upon Elizabeth’s departure, Mrs. Bennet herself recalled some errand or other and begged that we postpone our play for a few moments only; and shortly thereafter, she required the assistance of Miss Catherine and Miss Mary.”
At Darcy’s sideways glance, Bingley said, “Oh, I comprehend that it was yet another of her attempts to push me along. I am not a perfect fool. But it was done with less preamble—less nonsense, if you will—such that on this occasion, it did not put me from my purpose.”
Darcy poured another glass for each of them as he asked, “And the lady herself? How did Miss Bennet compose herself through these myriad moments of privacy?”
“Oh, Darcy! She was the very example of decorum. At first when left to ourselves, she was a bit quiet, shy of her relations’ presumptions. I am quite sure it did not help when I flustered about as well. But once we moved past believing any understanding would be ventured, she was sweetness itself and I found my own manner yet again.”
Darcy could wonder if the lady had indeed been as serene as his friend suggested, but it would serve no purpose to question, as the issue had been resolved successfully.
“Hic!—Oh, Darcy, forgive me,” said Bingley, as he placed his empty glass on the table. He sighed.
“Do you know, Darcy, ladies are the strangest of creatures. As delightful as they are, I wonder if I will ever understand them.”
“Why is that, Bingley?”
“Do you know, when at last I screwed up my courage and professed my love to Jane, what she did?”
Now that he had at last come to describing the proposal, Darcy tried to give him his full attention. “What did she do?”
“She cried, Darcy! She cried!”
“She cried?” repeated Darcy. “How extraordinary. Did she offer you no immediate answer?”
“No! And that is the wonder of it!” Bingley’s countenance took on a moment’s beleaguered sadness before brightening yet again. “She could not speak for the tears, and I began to wonder if I had misread her affections after all and placed her in the awful circumstance of having to reject me kindly.” His eyes softened as he thought of Jane. “I could not have borne it, Darcy. I ador
e her with complete abandon.”
Darcy smiled with understanding from having borne such disappointment himself. “But how did you finally arrive at a settlement, then?”
“She noted my alarm growing and managed to stammer out a yes, hesitated, and then said yes again with more force. I tell you, Darcy, I was beside myself with joy to hear that one small word.”
That one small word thought Darcy. I wonder if… Suddenly, he felt very tired, as if he were an old man. His friend, on the other hand, was wound tight as a clock spring with his joy. Darcy once more pulled his watch out and squinted to see the face clearly: another circuit of the hands and more. They had now been in the wretched cellar well over two hours. The Bennets would arrive at any moment, expecting dinner with their new son. Miss Elizabeth could be there even now, at Netherfield, little knowing and perhaps little caring that Darcy sat, consumed by thoughts of her, so near.
“I gave Miss Bennet my handkerchief, and once the tears sub-, er, subseed, er, subsided—do you know, that is a dashed hard word to say—when once that was got past, she told me she loved me, Darcy, has done all along.”
“I am truly happy for you, sir. Very happy, indeed.” Darcy forced a smile for his friend’s good fortune and raised his glass yet again. “To Miss Bennet.”
“Does it grow cold in here, Darcy?” asked Bingley some while later. “I wonder, could you ring for the fire to be lit? I am not secure in my legs, I think, to do so.”
Darcy frowned and looked about him. “There does not appear to be a fire here, Bingley.” He looked around once more. “For that matter, there is no servant bell.”
“Ah! A pity, is not it? I believe I could find this room quite homely if only it held the addition of a fire.”
His friend only grunted by way of reply, his attention now claimed by the precarious task of replacing a spent taper in their lamp with a fresh one without losing the flame. For the moment, it required all his concentration, as his fingers for some reason fumbled about, having swelled to twice their customary thickness.
That task finally accomplished, Darcy accepted another glass of wine from his friend. “To what shall we drink now?”
“Hmm…” Bingley’s face screwed up to consider this important decision. Then suddenly, his countenance cleared as inspiration was found, and with great satisfaction he proclaimed, “To a fire!” and lapsed into a fit of giggles at his own cleverness.
Darcy scowled but he raised his glass and drank nonetheless.
“Bingley, I believe you are in your cups…well, inebriated, at the least. Perhaps we should make this our last,” he said as he raised the bottle and noted with surprise that it, too, was empty.
“Nonsense!” cried Bingley. “I am as sober as you!”
They considered the statement a moment, pronouncing it acceptable finally before Bingley offered, “But we should exercise care, I daresay; we shall be called to dine soon.”
Darcy nodded by way of reply, and then picked up his glass and drained it. “Right, then. It is enough.”
Bingley followed his example. The two sat then, staring alternately at their glasses and the empty bottles, fingers tapping the tabletop, until Bingley offered, “One more, do you think? If we change to a lighter grape, perhaps…”
“Yes, of course! A lighter grape…” Darcy stood and then placed his hands upon the table for support a moment before carefully approaching the shelves. His gaze moved down them slowly. He squinted and peered at labels before selecting a bottle and returning to his seat. When he had some difficulty in aligning the wine screw, Bingley moved to assist him. He held the bottle firmly on the table whilst Darcy, with two hands gripping the screw, guided it to the cork; after several attempts, the bottle was opened.
“This looks remarkably like the wine we had earlier, Darcy, does it not?” Bingley was studying his glass near the lamplight.
“No,” chided Darcy, swirling the garnet liquid in his own glass. “They are nothing near alike. Our former were pinot noir, and this…” He read closely the bottle’s label. “This is a pinot noir. There, you see?” He gestured at Bingley’s wine.
“Ah yes, of course. My mistake. I beg your pardon.”
“To Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” offered Darcy as they raised full glasses yet again.
“Miss Elizabeth Benhic…” Bingley met the toast and drank, but then frowned as he considered what he had heard. “No, no, Darcy, surely you mean Miss Jane Bennnn…” He studied his friend and, smiling then, repeated, “My Jane.”
“No, no.” Darcy waved his finger from side to side. “I must object, Bingley. Miss Jane Bennet is indeed your sweet lady, but we have drunk to her enough, I think. I wish now to drink to my lady! My lively, lovely Elizabeth and her fine eyes!”
Bingley’s elbows rested on the table, and he leaned forward on them now. He stared at his friend across the short distance, attempting to make sense of what he had just heard. Darcy took no notice, his own eyes gazing into his glass as though he could see her countenance within the deep, rich spirits. His lips were turned up in a distracted manner that Bingley took for a smile.
When Darcy raised his glass to drink yet again, he noticed his cell mate. “Bingley, your jaw hangs down nearly to the table. Are you ill, man?”
Bingley promptly closed his mouth, which act allowed him speech again. “Your lady?”
“My lady? My lady who?” He chuckled on his repetition, finding it enormously humorous as the sound filled the room.
“Darcy! Did not you claim just now my Jane’s sister Elizabeth Bennet for your own? Could I have mistaken my ears?”
“No one could mistake your ears,” his friend said, laughing as he pointed at the organs under review. “They turn as red as your hair when you imbibe too much.”
Bingley’s hands flew to his ears immediately to seek truth in Darcy’s claim. “Do they?” He pulled on his lobes, holding them extended between thumb and finger whilst trying unsuccessfully to inspect them from his side vision, as he added, “They do not feel warm. Indeed, they do not feel, Darcy. I have lost all sensation in them.”
Darcy snorted at this pronouncement. But immediately after, his expression sobered; his mien became doleful as he said, “Would that I could lose all sensation, my friend. For I am in a miserable state.”
“You are ill?”
“Yes!” Darcy curled his frame over and rested his brow atop the table. “I am sick with love, Bingley.”
“Sick with what? I cannot hear if you speak into the table, man.”
“Love, Bingley.” He sat up again. “Love!” He winced at the volume of his proclamation. “There is no hope for me. I am doomed. ‘A painful passage o’er a restless flood,…Closing at last in darkness and despair.’ Such is my allotment.”
“Do you mean…Miss Bennet?” Bingley screwed up his face as he said this, testing the possibility. “Miss Elizabeth Ben—?”
“The very same. My Elizabeth Bennet. Elizabeth. Lizshy.” He tried out the diminutive name, but it felt awkward.
“But…that is wonderful news, man. I had no idea of it—it is…a wonder!”
“But for the complication that she despises me, I might agree.”
“No! Despise you? I hardly can credit such a thing.”
“It is so, Bingley. And I have only myself to blame for it. I do not deserve her estimation.”
“Nonsense! You are the best of men—”
“No—I have behaved dreadfully toward her.”
When Bingley once more began to demur, Darcy launched into his tale of woe. He acknowledged first his haughty disdain on his and Bingley’s initial foray into Hertfordshire a year past, a recital Bingley could not but concede to have a measure of truth in it by his own recollection. Then began a slow rendering of Darcy’s growing admiration of Miss Elizabeth Bennet even as Bingley was making love to her sister; his reacquaintance with her in Kent the preceding Easter and the realization that he must act to secure her hand. Bingley sat rapt throughout the singular recounting, ha
rdly able to take in his friend’s words.
“Darcy. I have had no inkling of your sentiments these past months. My poor friend!”
“No, do not pity me, Bingley, for I am undeserving of such goodwill after my actions to separate you from your own lady. I was wrong to do so.”
“Darcy, you know, surely you must know, that is all resolved; I have long dropped the matter.”
“Ah! But you do not know all, you see. I did not admit of it before; my…confession…to you was not complete.” He paused, grimaced, and then said, “My actions damned me all the more for having attempted to gain for myself what I withheld from you.”
Bingley regarded Darcy quizzically whilst his friend’s gaze moved to a knothole in the table’s surface, his countenance reflecting pain at the memory until finally he roused himself to regard Bingley again.
He sighed softly. “I proposed to her, Bingley…there in Kent this past April.”
“Did you?” Bingley asked with benign interest until his faculties gave meaning to the utterance, and then: “Darcy! You proposed marriage?”
“Indeed I did, sir. Most abominably, but nonetheless I sought a match similar to that which I denied you. Do you see now what a wretched friend I have been?”
“But…” Bingley was at a loss. Finally, he stammered, “How… what did she—”
“She upbraided me most efficash…violently.” As Bingley had made no more of his own injury at his friend’s hands, Darcy continued, telling Bingley of the horror of his realization that the woman he esteemed so highly—loved most ardently—looked upon him in the worst possible manner. Bingley listened with all the attention at his disposal.
“Darcy, I do not understand. What you describe is grave, indeed—”
“Indeed. She forced me to look at myself; I could not admire what I found.”
“But…” Bingley struggled with his memory a moment to frame his question. “But did not you entertain Miss Elizabeth at Pemberley not two months past? I did not guess—could not have done—of any bad blood between you! Do you jest with me?”
The Road to Pemberley Page 22