CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Although, or perhaps because, he had not seen his sister in nearly two months, Bingley struggled to cope with her oppressive bearing. Caroline assailed him for hours on end about the details of his travels, while impeding, by her own self-absorption, each of his attempts to apprise her of said details. Often, he would have only just begun to speak, when she would launch into a lengthy oration about the latest fashion trends for ladies, the balls and soirées she had attended in his absence, and even occasionally a disingenuous gibe about the provinciality of those long and tedious evenings spent in and around Meryton. He inquired timidly if she had been in correspondence with any of the Bennets or other families from Meryton, to which she replied in the negative. She did, however, remember that she had received a rather dull reply from Miss Jane Bennet, after inviting her to visit in London, in which she had stated her strong aversion to travel of any type. “Miss Bennet,” Caroline recalled with effected indifference, “does not wish to take leave of her mother. Jane is very attached , you see, and has no desire, in the least , to leave her side.”
Through a squint of his eyes and a tilt of his head he had a strong notion that she was lying—at least about something , though naturally he could not infer about what in particular. Had she indeed been in further contact with Jane?—or were there other extenuating circumstances that prevented Jane from being in town, other than close familial bonds? His immediate instinct was to depart for Netherfield that evening, but he knew he would be hedged in and berated at the very suggestion of it and lacked, at present, the energy to deflect such a tirade. There was too much merriment to be had in town yet, and with the weather still quite in the grip of winter—according to his sister—he was sure to be reminded of miserable travel conditions and more. It did enliven him to recall, however, that he would have the opportunity of seeing Darcy for at least several days before he and his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, departed for their aunt’s house in Kent—
Lady Catherine .
A cold shiver racked Bingley’s spine at the mere mental recollection of her name. Surely, she had not seen him that night in Naples— what if she had? He had been in her company but a handful of times in his life, but those meetings were enough to convince him that a woman of her obduracy and austerity would not fail to make note of such an inexplicable chance encounter on the far side of the continent. Perhaps she had only a suspicion that she had, indeed, seen Charles Bingley covered in blood, racing through a public square in the seconds after a notorious double homicide was committed? And if it were more than a creeping suspicion, would it be enough for her to, perhaps, breach propriety and question her nephew Darcy about it? Would she solicit from him the whereabouts of his friend during the winter? He resolved that he must prepare Darcy for such a possible interrogation, lest his activities came under further scrutiny on British soil.
On the Monday after he had returned, Bingley spent the better part of the afternoon, and into the evening, attending to his various—legitimate—business ventures. He was advised of the unfortunate news that, while the crew had been rescued, a large consignment of timber, in addition to furs, from Canada in which he had an interest had been lost during the penultimate week of February when the vessel known as “Renown” ran ashore off Penzance and sunk the following morning. The insurance policy on the vessel only covered cost of merchandise lost and would take several months to be paid. The singular shipwreck aside, his affairs were still in good order, and he could even expect a marginal increase in his expected income for the first quarter.
When he arrived back at the Grosvenor Street address, he was startled by his steward’s insistence that he be immediately granted a private audience. Bingley’s coat had hardly been taken before Wilshere whisked him down the hall and into the master’s private study.
“We have reason to believe the Constable from Grantley has not yet abdicated his obligation to seek out the killer of Sir Andrew Fraser,” the steward said in grim ferment.
“Lord almighty, Wilshere,” Bingley replied. “Would you pour me a drink, or at the very least have Ridley pour one, before you start with all this rubbish?” The steward’s mouth contorted frenetically for the span of half a second before he turned and was down the hall. Bingley rubbed his temples with his fore and middle fingers on both sides while closing his eyes and inhaling slowly. He only opened his eyes when he heard the agitated footsteps of his man returning up the hall. Wilshere entered with a hastily poured glass of sherry. “When do we expect Darcy?” Bingley asked, taking the glass, and smelling its contents before sipping.
“He shall be here for dinner, sir,” replied an exasperated Wilshere.
“And what does Jensen have on the menu for this evening?”
“Pea soup, veal cutlets, asparagus, lamb, and salad alongside apple pudding and pineapples, sir.”
“Very good,” mused Bingley. “Have Jensen put some pudding back for me. I shall require another serving before I retire for the evening.”
“Aye, sir.”
“What do you anticipate for the weather tomorrow?”
“Cold.”
“Undoubtedly.” Bingley idled intentionally, taking a turn about the room and cupping his hands by the fire. “Was there something else that you required, Wilshere?”
“The Constable , sir.”
“Oh, yes, do remind me about the Constable,” Bingley quipped with feigned disinterestedness.
“It appears that he has resumed his inquest into the death of Andrew Fraser.”
Bingley ruffled his nose and bit at the corner of his mouth. “Is the estate so troubled by his murder? It would seem to me that whatever distant relation should inherit such a grand domain would be content to take it over from such an odious man.”
“The estate continues to finance the Constable’s inquisition at a rudimentary rate—which, to my mind, does seem rather more out of obligation than fervour for justice.”
“Why then has this Constable of late become so freshly entrenched?” Bingley asked.
“It seems, sir, that there is a private donor to the cause,” answered the steward.
“A private donor? And what is his interest?”
“Justice, it would seem—and justice solely.”
“This is enough to cut up my peace,” the master said, swigging his wine. “And who is this new benefactor?”
Wilshere shook his head quickly. “I do not know, sir. That information has been impossible to come by. I would assume it is a business relation or a close friend.”
“You do not think—”
“Mr. Hurst?”
Bingley’s eyes darted to and fro around the room as if he were connecting visual dots within his psyche. “Surely they were not so closely connected.”
“His reaction, sir,” Wilshere began with a shrug, “was rather severe.”
“He was dipping more deeply than usual in the weeks after the news, was he not?”
“Most of his waking hours were spent properly shot in the neck, as I recall.”
“You must do some digging on the matter,” Bingley directed. “But with great care and discretion; he is my relation, after all.”
“Of course, sir.”
“You would not believe Mr. Hurst could have been involved with Fraser’s plot, would you?”
“I have never come across anything that would even mildly suggest a connection in that particularly untidy arrangement.”
“Was he perhaps a patron of it?” Bingley asked with a look of disgust on his face.
Wilshere paused, considering scrupulously his thoughts. “We have become accustomed to shocking revelations over the course of recent time. Any involvement on Mr. Hurst’s behalf would surely give me a fit of the blue devils. He may be a bit of a rube for someone of his situation, but I do not believe him to be a man of ill character.”
“Nor do I,” stated Bingley, sipping the last of his wine. “Any word on Wickham?”
“It would seem that he now fancies himself in the pursuit of a Miss Mary King.”
“Mary King? —was her grandfather Atticus King, of Liverpool?”
“Aye,” responded Wilshere. “The shipping magnate. Indeed, he bequeathed her ten thousand pounds upon his passing.”
“Surely her fortune is his target, then?”
“She is also very young,” retorted the steward.
Bingley cocked his head to one side and fidgeted with the cuff of his coat. “It does not fit the pattern.”
“How so, Mr. Bingley?”
“Every young lady who has as yet been abducted and killed has had little family protection to recommend her. Targeting someone of Miss King’s situation would be highly imprudent. Her familial connections, not to mention fortune, would expose the entire plot to intense and extremely public scrutiny.”
“I see,” Wilshere replied. “Then perhaps he truly is no more harmful than your common fortune-seeker.”
“Unfortunately, Wilshere, I believe Mr. Wickham to be even more dangerous because he is disposed to seek his fortune at any cost. If he can marry into wealth, he certainly will; if he must murder his way to affluence, I am persuaded that he shall not hesitate on that score, either.”
The room fell silent for a moment.
“Shall there be anything else, sir?” Wilshere finally asked, sensing that his master perhaps wished to be left in solitude.
“Yes, Wilshere,” Bingley said, leaning against the large mahogany desk. “Have you any word of Miss Bennet?”
“Unfortunately, no, sir.”
Bingley nodded and looked down absentmindedly at his empty glass.
“Shall I bring you another glass of sherry, Mr. Bingley?”
“Oh,” the master said, seemingly awakened from a dream. “That is very kind of you. And be sure to have one yourself, Wilshere.”
“Thank you, sir,” the steward answered. “I always have one with dinner.”
Bingley smiled sullenly as his man went back up the hall to fetch more wine. He was indeed thankful for the half hour in seclusion before Darcy and Georgiana arrived. His pleasure in seeing his dear friends after what seemed like a long and arduous interval was somewhat curtailed by the overbearing interference of Caroline, who was sure to compliment Darcy’s sister in the most hyperbolic language she could muster. It was Caroline’s fixed desire to have her brother notice each of Georgiana’s perfections, of which, admittedly, there were many. His genteel nature and concern for the feelings of his good friend’s young sister compelled him to courteous replies to his own sister’s effluence of flatteries. Georgiana, for her part, was all parts humility and good breeding, accepting adulation with grace and even a degree of self-deprecation. She was a good-spirited girl who, despite her lofty and advantageous position in life, thought of herself in a seemingly ideal balance of confidence and modesty.
Once their guests had finally been settled and reacquainted with each other, the party dined. To Bingley’s surprise, Darcy was more reserved than usual in his company, and he even sensed in his demeanour a certain restlessness that was quite out of the ordinary. Nevertheless, Bingley devoured his serving of apple pudding before requesting that his friend join him in the study.
“Darcy, you must tell me whatever is the matter,” Bingley urged while he poured two glasses of brandy from a crystal decanter.
“What is your meaning?” Darcy asked with an attempt to deflect his disquietude.
“You seem out of sorts.”
“As do you, I might add.”
“Perhaps I am,” countered Bingley, handing his friend a glass of amber-coloured inebriant. “Though my reasons for being forlorn and disconsolate should be rather apparent.”
“Are they?”
“For one, I have just returned from a rather abominable holiday abroad.”
“It came to my attention that several weeks back the Earl of Canterbury met a grim end whilst in Naples,” remarked Darcy playfully.
“Indeed, he did,” Bingley answered in a tone that betrayed the conflict in his soul.
“And what other reason do you have for melancholy?”
“Among your many aptitudes, Darcy,” Bingley began with a chuckle, “you certainly possess a talent for averting any discourse on your private thoughts.”
“I do not wish to obscure my personal feelings from you in the slightest, my friend,” replied Darcy after sipping his brandy. “On the contrary, what vexes me is a concern of the heart that I should hope may be settled in a matter of a fortnight.”
Bingley had his glass half-raised to his lips when he put it down on the table next to him. “Surely you are not inferring that your cousin—”
Darcy shook his head. “I shall not enter into an agreement of marriage with my cousin, Anne de Bourgh, despite the most ardent wishes of my aunt.”
“I see,” was all the answer Bingley could marshal.
“Your friendship is dear to me, Bingley, and I pledge that once my current state of suffering is settled, for better or for worse, you shall be apprised of the matter in all its detail.”
Bingley nodded and sipped at his drink.
“What of the other matter of your despondency?” Darcy inquired.
“It is difficult to say, even with a friend as close as you.”
“If you do not feel inclined—”
“I am in love with Miss Jane Bennet, Darcy, and I cannot be persuaded otherwise.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed slightly before he turned his attention anxiously to the glass in his hand. “Charles,” he began, with perhaps a modicum of vacillation in his voice, “I would entreat you to be cautious with such declarations. Certainly, you have not forgotten the position of her family, to say nothing of the wanton impropriety—”
“I have not forgotten a thing,” Bingley interjected. “My entire life has been an exercise in caution —from my upbringing to my time at school to my business practices to the endeavour of staying alive and keeping my neck out of the hangman’s knot. For once in my life, I want to feel something freely —I want to give myself with abandon to the woman I love.”
“Are you, then, convinced unequivocally that Miss Bennet would reciprocate your feelings?” Darcy challenged.
“It is not a matter of unequivocal certainty, Darcy,” rebutted Bingley. “My heart demands that I, at the very least, make my feelings known.”
Mr. Darcy shifted his weight restlessly on the sofa and drew a deep breath. “Having considered all things, Bingley, you must not be hasty —that is all that I ask. Your mission should be completed before the distraction of matrimony weighs down upon you. And even if, as you have declared, you truly love Miss Bennet, would it be prudent to marry with such dreadful business unfinished? What if you were to be killed or captured? Your wife—whoever might be so fortunate as to secure that title —would be disgraced . In light of your feelings and your honour this consideration must be borne with solemn gravity.”
“I cannot say that I disagree with your reasoning,” Bingley admitted. “But it pains me greatly all the same.”
“Your feelings are natural,” stated Darcy with sympathy. “From all appearances, your vocation of justice is nearly at an end. Take comfort in that, at least. You shall have your happiness, and God knows it will be well deserved.”
“Thank you. I dearly hope that you are correct.”
The two men sat in silence for a moment, both of them lost in their own thoughts.
“Before the thought escapes me completely,” Bingley abruptly proclaimed, “there is a very slight possibility that your aunt and your cousin may have observed my fleeing the scene of Lord St. John’s murder.”
At those words, Darcy’s jaw dropped, though he felt a sudden urge to laugh for a reason he could not explain. He listened to Bingley’s recollection of the incident and assured his friend that whatever Lady Catherine might have thought she had observed, her adulation for her nephew would certainly permit Darcy to convince her otherwise.