Equal Ground #3
Bingley drifted, by degrees rather than design, to Miss Bennet’s side.
He asked questions about the view, about the river, about whether Derbyshire always looked so green, and somehow every question became an excuse to hear her speak again.
Miss Bennet’s replies were never elaborate, yet they were so composed, so kindly given, that Bingley listened as though she had been saying something of real consequence.
They might have continued much longer, had the sun not shifted and broken through the leaves at an angle that altered the light upon Miss Catherine’s page. Miss Bennet glanced up, roused by that slight change alone.
“We must go back,” she said gently. “My mother will expect us.”
Miss Catherine looked up at once, dismayed. “Already?”
“You may draw again,” Miss Elizabeth said, and there was authority in the reassurance. “You have not exhausted the river.”
Bingley’s disappointment was plain, though he attempted to disguise it as politeness. “Then we have kept you too long. I beg you will forgive it.”
“It has been a very pleasant walk,” Miss Bennet replied, and if it was merely civility, it was civility spoken with perfect ease.
Darcy went to the gate for Wicked’s reins, and Bingley followed, still looking back, half-hoping the path might offer some excuse to continue.
On the ride back to Pemberley Bingley’s spirits rose higher with every field they crossed.
“Well,” he began, before they had even reached the upper park, “your neighbours are the very sort of neighbours a man ought to have.”
Darcy made no answer. Bingley never required one.
“I do not mean only that they are handsome,” Bingley continued, determined to be understood precisely.
“Miss Bennet is handsome, certainly, but that is not the point. There is something in her manner that is… I do not know how to describe it. It is not art. It is not studied. One feels at ease with her at once, incapable of imagining that she could think ill of you even if she tried.”
Darcy glanced at him, and found the openness of his admiration almost disconcerting.
“And Miss Elizabeth,” Bingley went on, warming to his subject, “has a way of speaking that makes the simplest remark feel exactly placed. She is very quick, I think, without being unkind. I cannot decide whether she amused you or challenged you more.”
“She is not easily managed,” Darcy said, and the words were true enough to be safe.
Bingley laughed. “Nor ought she to be. And Miss Catherine. I declare, I have never seen a young lady look so relieved to be allowed to run away.”
Darcy’s mouth tightened a fraction, because he could not deny the justice of it.
“But tell me,” Bingley persisted, leaning a little nearer in the saddle as though closeness could produce information, “how long have they been in the neighbourhood? Who are their connections? Are they to remain here, or is it only a temporary arrangement? You called them new neighbours, and yet you spoke like a man who had known them longer than a week.”
“They have been in Derbyshire some months,” Darcy replied, keeping his eyes upon the path ahead. “They are distantly connected to the Hardings. Their father died last year, and his estate passed, by entail, to a cousin. They rent the cottage from Mr Harding.”
“That explains the mourning.”
“They are in half mourning now.”
Bingley absorbed this with the seriousness of a man to whom such things mattered because the people did. “Then they are dependent upon friends.”
“They are not helpless,” Darcy said, and knew at once he had spoken with more emphasis than was required.
Bingley’s smile softened rather than sharpened. “No,” he agreed quietly. “I saw that. I only mean that the world will be very quick to decide what it must about women without fortunes and without brothers.”
Darcy did not answer, because he had been thinking the same thing since the moment he saw Miss Bennet’s composed face and remembered, with unwelcome clarity, Mrs Harding’s very certain tone.
When Pemberley came into view again, Bingley sighed with the air of a man who regretted returning to walls. “You must bring us all together properly,” he said. “Not as a chance meeting. I should like to know them better.”
They dismounted at the steps, and the grooms came forward for the horses.
“I only regret,” Bingley said after a moment, searching for the exact truth he was allowed to admit, “that one cannot do the prettiest thing at once.”
Darcy glanced at him.
“To dance,” Bingley explained, with a half-laugh at his own impatience. “One meets three charming women in a lane, and must be content with bows and civilities, when the very next impulse is to beg for a set.”
“That impulse is not one you indulge in mourning,” Darcy returned.
“No, no, I understand it,” Bingley said quickly, sobering without losing warmth.
“And I would not wish Miss Bennet to be pressed into anything improper, even by accident. Only…” He hesitated, then added with honest simplicity, “I believe she would look exceedingly well at the head of a country dance.”