12. The Consequences of Ramsgate #2
“That is not reassuring.”
“It concerns your sisters. Or more particularly, Miss Bingley.”
Bingley’s amusement dimmed by cautious degrees. “Ah.”
“They are to be guests as well, I assume.”
“Indeed, they have already told me of their intentions.” Bingley looked nervous. “Caroline and Louisa mean to accompany me. Hurst will come because Louisa does, and because Netherfield has plenty of opportunity for sport.”
“Naturally.”
“I know Caroline can be…” Bingley searched for a word, failed, and settled upon honesty. “Caroline.”
Darcy rose and walked to the mantel, where a small clock ticked with irritating precision. The conversation would be uncomfortable, but it had become necessary. Miss Bingley’s hopes had long ceased to be subtle, and what he had once permitted through indifference would now be unkind to everyone.
“I must speak plainly.”
Bingley sat a little straighter. “Very well.”
“I will not offer for your sister. You must see this, especially knowing I have formed an attachment elsewhere.”
His friend nodded amiably. “Naturally.”
“I have reason to believe she has entertained hopes in that direction.”
“Yes,” Bingley said after a pause. “She has. I never presumed you would meet them—you must know that.”
“I do not wish to wound her unnecessarily. I respect her as your sister, and I have no desire to create awkwardness in your household. But I will not encourage expectations I cannot satisfy.”
Bingley nodded once, though he did not give an immediate answer. He was a generous man, but generosity did not make a brother immune to discomfort. Darcy waited, giving him time to dislike the sentence without resenting the truth.
At length Bingley said, “Caroline will be disappointed. I suppose I ought to tell her. She will likely say cutting things about your taste, your judgment, my judgment, Hertfordshire, and any lady unlucky enough to be within five miles of you.”
“I had considered the possibility.” He would do everything in his power to protect Elizabeth from the barbs Miss Bingley would surely sling at her.
Bingley looked up then, and a rueful grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I must disagree, my friend. You have considered it in the abstract. I have breakfasted with Caroline after a disappointment. You cannot know.”
“That is a fair distinction.”
Bingley sought to reassure him. “I shall speak to her before we leave town.”
“I would be grateful.”
Bingley studied him with less levity now. “This attachment of yours is serious, then.”
“Yes.”
“Does the lady know?”
Darcy’s hand rested upon the mantel shelf. “Not the whole of it.” Elizabeth did not know Darcy would have no other, even if she refused him.
“That sounds like you.”
“I asked permission to call upon her in Hertfordshire.”
“Permission?” Bingley repeated, brightening in spite of himself. “Darcy, that is nearly romantic—for you.”
He protested, “It was proper.”
“It may have been both.”
Darcy gave him a warning look, which Bingley ignored with the ease of a man who had survived many such looks and found most of them less fatal than advertised.
“And she agreed?”
“She did.”
“Then you have excellent reason to come to Netherfield.”
“I have already said I shall come.”
Bingley chuckled once more. “Yes, but now I perceive you agreed with suspicious eagerness.”
Darcy allowed the corner of his mouth to rise. “I am glad you understand. Miss Bennet lives near the estate you have leased, so you have provided me with the perfect opportunity to pursue her.”
“There it is.” Bingley laughed, delighted. “A confession. I shall remember this day forever.”
“You will do nothing of the sort.”
“I shall write it down.”
“You will not.”
“I will tell Hurst. He will forget, but for a few minutes I shall have the satisfaction.”
Darcy crossed back to his chair and sat. “If you must know, I have no wish to deny it. I should have gone to Hertfordshire in any case, once I knew she had arrived home.”
Bingley’s teasing softened into something far more companionable. “Then I am doubly glad to have found Netherfield.”
“As am I.”
“I think you mentioned the lady’s aunt and uncle in town.”
“I did.”
“The Gardiners or something of the sort?”
“Yes.”
Bingley nodded, fitting the recollections together. “Then I shall like her. Anyone connected to people you praise so warmly must be worth knowing.”
Darcy looked down at his hands, thinking of Elizabeth in Hyde Park, of her laugh in Gracechurch Street, of the way she had said she would be very happy to see him. “She is worth knowing.”
Bingley, mercifully, did not tease him then.
A knock sounded, and Barton opened the door. “Miss Darcy, sir.”
Georgiana entered before Darcy could rise fully.
She wore a pale morning gown and carried a small book in both hands, her fingers pressed tightly along its spine.
The color in her face had not returned to what it had been in London before Ramsgate; she seemed slighter somehow, as if grief had altered the space she occupied in a room.
Still, she came in when called, and that was something.
“Mr. Bingley,” she said, curtseying.
Bingley stood at once, all warmth and civility without overwhelming her. “Miss Darcy. I am very happy to see you again.”
“And I you.” She looked toward her brother. “Barton said you wished to speak with me.”
“Yes.” Darcy indicated the chair near the fire. “Bingley has leased an estate in Hertfordshire. He has asked me to accompany him for a time.”
Georgiana sat, though she kept the book in her lap unopened. “Hertfordshire?”
“Near Meryton.”
Her eyes moved quickly to his face. “Miss Bennet’s home is near there.”
“Yes.”