Chapter 9 #2
“It surely is. After all rumours might mean nothing, but a lover’s token is not so easily explained away now, is it?” Caroline smiled again, feeling that keen sense of triumph she always had when things worked out just as they should.
“I shall not believe it until I have had it from Darcy’s mouth.”
With a smile, Caroline dabbed delicately at her lips with her napkin, then tossed it on to the table. “Well, let us go speak to him, then, and hear the truth of the matter. It is early, but we are all such family, he will not mind.”
When the footman entered to announce the arrival of the Bingleys, Darcy had to sit down.
At Georgiana, he could not look, but neither could he bear the rage on Fitzwilliam’s face or the petulant scowl on Saye’s.
So he stared at the top of the fine mahogany table that had been in its place for over five decades and wished everyone away so he could make some sense of his life.
Miss Bingley immediately uttered a mewl of insincere sympathy on seeing her young friend sitting tear-stained and huddled over her untouched breakfast. Bingley entered behind her and, after greeting the others, sat next to Darcy, who had declined to stand upon their entrance.
“Darcy? Are you well?”
“No.” Darcy rubbed his face. “It is a long story, but one in which you do have an interest.”
“I daresay, I do,” Bingley agreed. Taking a letter from his pocket, he said, “Jane received this at Netherfield.”
Fitzwilliam leant in, reading the few brief words that Darcy could not.
The words swam before his eyes, and all he could think of was her pale, delicate hand, the way she had touched him, the way he had touched her.
Nothing made any sense right now, but one thing was certain—that light touch seemed very far away.
Fitzwilliam rose from his perusal without comment.
“Where is Lizzy?” Bingley pressed. “What is the meaning of this? I am sure I do not need to tell you how my dear Jane—”
“Yorkshire,” Darcy choked. “She is in Yorkshire.”
“Yorkshire? But what could she be doing in Yorkshire?” Bingley asked. Darcy was saved from replying by Georgiana, who had been speaking in low tones to Miss Bingley.
In a tremulous, high pitched voice, Georgiana said, “I did not tell you that. I did not know it myself until this morning.”
There was a brief pause whilst the men in the room turned to look at the pair. Georgiana’s colour was high, two fiercely red spots on her cheeks, as she insisted, “I did not, I could not have told you so, Miss Bingley.”
“Of what are you speaking?” Darcy demanded, exhaustion rendering it impossible for him to defer to female sensibilities.
There was another pause, and Bingley then said sternly, “Caroline? What is this about?”
“Miss Bingley knows about the handkerchief,” Georgiana interjected.
With a false, brittle laugh, Miss Bingley said, “Well, I had believed it was you who told me of it, but now that I think of it, it may have been—”
“There is no one outside of this room who knows of the handkerchief, and Georgiana was told only this morning,” said Fitzwilliam, easily slipping into the role of interrogator. He moved towards the hapless lady, looking down upon her. “What do you know of this, Miss Bingley?”
Miss Bingley stared up, meeting his icy blue gaze and, for once, quailing under the scrutiny. “I…well, it is all about town that Mrs Darcy—”
“Is it?” Saye strolled forward, his insouciance masking a resolve that was just as firm as his brother’s. “Because I do not think it is, and between us, I think my sources are better.”
Miss Bingley licked her lips, then dropped her gaze.
A shaft of sunlight pierced the room, illuminating the back of her neck and Saye’s eyes narrowed as Darcy watched.
Saye glanced at his brother and then at Darcy, returning his gaze to Miss Bingley before saying, “Will you hand me that handkerchief, Darcy?”
He understood immediately, even if part of his mind refused to comprehend it. Numbly, he reached into his pocket, handing the hated article to Saye, who unfolded it and then held the curl to Miss Bingley’s head. It matched, precisely, the curls at the base of her neck.
Feebly, the lady said, “It was a prank, that is—”
“A prank!” Anger roared in Darcy’s head as he fought the impulse to reach across the table, take Miss Bingley by the shoulders, and shake her.
“A row,” she whimpered. “We thought you would have a row, that is all, and I wished to help my young friend…”
She glanced at Georgiana, who looked stricken and opened her mouth to say nothing. Darcy immediately looked at his sister.
“You knew about this?”
“No!” Georgiana cried.
“And this was your confidante?” Fitzwilliam asked. “Hearing all about your affairs with George Wickham?”
“I…well, I told her…”
Miss Bingley, eager to redeem herself, said, “I told her it was a bad idea!”
“And did you tell her to blame my wife?” Darcy demanded. “Did you spread rumours about the ton to the same effect?”
“No…no, I did not, I assure you.”
“If you did,” said Saye, “I shall find out. And I know people who know how to take care of loose tongues in the most dreadful, disfiguring way possible.”
Miss Bingley looked shocked but only shook her head.
“Was it true when you told Georgiana you had heard rumours about Elizabeth?”
“No,” said Miss Bingley. “No, it…I heard nothing. Everyone likes Mrs Darcy.”
“They do. Must have eaten you up.” Saye leant over her, taunting. “After all, she got your prize. All those years, all those gowns, and walking about to show your figure, and he never gave you a second glance. Then she just snatched him right up, did she not?”
With a haughty sniff, he straightened. “Bingley, get your sister out of my sight. If I have my way, she will never be received by anyone of consequence again.”