Chapter 2 In Which Darcy Plays the Part of Chimney Sweep with Disastrous Results
Two
In Which Darcy Plays the Part of Chimney Sweep with Disastrous Results
“She’s angry,” Bingley observed as he poured amber liquid into a cut crystal glass.
“Oh really? I hadn’t noticed.”
Darcy accepted the drink and barely gave the alcohol a swirl before taking a gulp. The whiskey slid across his tongue, smoother
than silk. It was down his throat before he felt the burn, but he welcomed it.
Bingley didn’t know the half of it.
His friend stared at him as he sat with the aftereffects of the alcohol. “You’re being sarcastic. You’re hardly ever sarcastic.”
Darcy grimaced. Oh, the joys of long friendship—Bingley knew him almost better than he knew himself. “It’ll blow over,” he
said, not sure whether he meant Lizzie’s anger or his sarcasm.
They were dressed for dinner that evening, waiting for the rest of the house party to come down.
The carriage with Mr. Bennet and the younger Bennet sisters had arrived with a predictable amount of carrying on, and they’d all made polite conversation in the drawing room while Lizzie had looked everywhere but at him until Jane rang for the housekeeper to show them all to their rooms. Bingley, of course, had missed none of it, and he doubted the rest of the party was oblivious to Lizzie’s cold shoulder, either.
“Doesn’t she understand this holiday is for her own safety?” Bingley asked.
Darcy thought of the (unfortunately, many) examples he had collected since he’d first become acquainted with Lizzie in which
she had blithely thrown caution to the wind. “Yes. But while she’s here, she can’t be doing what she really wants.”
And that was to find Lady Catherine. Darcy couldn’t blame her—he wanted the woman found so she’d stop toying with all of them.
But he also knew Lizzie. Neither caution nor relaxation were her strong suits. While whisking her away from London might have
been the safest thing for her and her family, it was also the thing most likely to drive her—and by extension, him—mad.
“And your father?” Bingley asked. “Have you heard anything more from him?”
Darcy grimaced and took a sip. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and withdrew the travel-worn letter that had
been sitting next to his heart all day. “He’s responded about how I would expect,” he said, and handed the letter to Bingley.
Charles Bingley was the only one he would trust with the letter.
Not that he didn’t trust Lizzie—but he didn’t want her to ever read what his father had written about her.
He looked away as Bingley opened the letter, the memory of his father’s words echoing painfully in his head.
You’ve shamed me and the firm’s name by taking up with that woman.
I expect you to cut all ties with her and her father’s business immediately.
Bingley let out a low whistle.
“What part are you at?”
“The one where your father accuses you of debasing the entire legal profession.”
Darcy finished his drink and got up to pour himself another. “Ah, that entire paragraph was so touching. Second only to the
part where he wrote that Darcys are too good to dangle after some base bluestocking, and then said that Lizzie has likely
set her cap on me.”
Bingley’s eyebrows went up as he read. “If there is any lady who is the least likely to ensnare a man into marriage, it is
Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Try telling that to my father.”
“What are you going to do?” Bingley asked, tossing the letter aside.
Darcy poured himself another splash of whiskey—but not too much. It wouldn’t do to get sloppy, not with dinner ahead of them.
“I can hardly tell him the truth.”
“Which is?”
Darcy stared down into the amber liquid. It was easier to tell his drink than it was to face his best friend. “Which is that
I would propose and marry her in a heartbeat if she’d have me.”
“If she’d have you! What possible reason would she give for throwing you over?”
Darcy appreciated his friend’s indignation on his behalf. It made him feel the slightest bit better. “I came close to asking,”
he admitted. “During the whole business with Tomlinson and that storehouse fire . . .”
His throat tightened when he thought about that early-morning carriage ride through London just three months earlier, when
he had finally declared his intentions. He hadn’t proposed, exactly, although he would have gladly, if that had been what
she’d wanted. She’d asked for time, which he was glad to give. It would give him no pleasure to have her acquiesce to his
proposal because she didn’t want to disappoint him, or because she thought it expected of her.
“And why didn’t you?” Bingley asked. “Was it Mrs. Bennet? I admit, she can be rather blunt and she has all the social graces
of a canon, but—”
“No, it wasn’t her mother. Lizzie said she wasn’t ready, and I won’t force the matter, even on the slim chance that it would
placate my father.”
“You’re a brave man,” Bingley said, with a small bit of admiration in his voice. “But your father . . .”
“He probably wouldn’t accept her anyway. It’s not just our association he objects to—it’s her.”
Edmund Darcy was an exacting man who expected his son to act rationally and to rarely show emotion.
Growing up, Darcy had learned to hide everything from his father—his tears and sorrows, disappointments and flashes of anger.
But he’d also learned to hide other things, too.
Laughter and smiles, his triumphs when he succeeded at school, and the immense pride he felt watching Georgiana grow up to be as smart as she was beautiful.
His father would have scoffed at all that emotion—feelings were weakness, and in order to succeed he must always come from a position of strength.
Darcy had spent so many years living up to his father’s rigid expectations that he almost hadn’t known what to do when he’d
first encountered Lizzie and all her fiery passion and obvious emotion for her cases. But one thing was certain: He loved
her, and he would not go back to pretending to be the cold, unfeeling automaton his father wanted. Nor could he pretend he
didn’t love Lizzie.
Which put them at an impasse—for now.
“Forget him,” Darcy said, taking the letter back and stuffing it into his inner jacket pocket. “He’s not here, and we have
bigger problems.”
Darcy could tell that Bingley wanted to say more on the subject, but he simply nodded. “Have you had any news?”
“No,” Darcy said, and his frustration leaked into his tone. “I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of Graves since we decided to
leave London. There have been no new letters. Lady Catherine could be anywhere by now.”
“Well, she’s not here at Netherfield,” Bingley said, setting his glass down with a loud thunk. “And you all are safe to ramble
the grounds as you please.”
“Except for the east wing?” Darcy asked.
“Oh—yes. And on second thought, best to stay out of the barns as well. The stables weren’t in terrible shape, but I fear that
I’ll be investing a bit more than expected in getting this place up to snuff. Say, would you mind walking the grounds with
me tomorrow? It’s not nearly as grand as Pemberley, but I’d love to get your advice . . .”
“Of course,” Darcy said, for if there was one thing he knew aside from the law, it was how to manage an estate. “Don’t take
this the wrong way, but I suppose all these years, I thought of your great-aunt as playing a recluse in some old hunting lodge.
I didn’t expect . . . this.”
He glanced about the dim study, which, despite having been very recently cleaned, smelled of musty books and showed signs
of its age and disuse. But still, there was no mistaking that in its prime, the house had been quite impressive.
“Neither did I, to be perfectly frank. My father used to speak of the place, of course, and he’d send letters to Honoria every
now and then, but they’d always be returned unopened. To this day, I haven’t the faintest clue why she and my grandfather
became estranged.”
Darcy drained his glass. “Well, I suppose there’s no use in dwelling on it. Not when you have a successful business, a wonderful
wife, and now a proper estate.”
But he must not have done a very good job at masking his jealousy, because Bingley said, “Don’t be too quick to judge my life perfect.
Caroline has been rattling about for weeks, growing more cross with each day.
She’s even more restless now that Jane and I are married, and while they get along well enough, she’s made no secret of the fact that she wants to return to London as soon as possible. ”
Which would prove difficult if Bingley and Jane were to host them for the foreseeable future. Darcy felt properly chastised.
“Forgive me, I appear to be in a rotten mood this evening. I’ll blame it on the travel.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Bingley told him, but he looked worried. “Will you be all right?”
His father had all but threatened disinheritance, Lady Catherine was out there somewhere, and Lizzie was angry with him. Of
all his problems, the last one felt most significant. He lifted his empty glass to his lips, forgetting he’d already finished
his drink. He hurriedly set it back down.
This did not have to be a miserable trip. He’d help Bingley with his estate, and he’d think of ways to placate his father.
He couldn’t do anything about Lady Catherine, but as for Lizzie . . .
He’d find a way to convince her to forgive him. He had to.
“Of course,” he said. “Shall we go through?”
Not an hour later, Darcy was beginning to doubt his abilities.