Chapter 15 #2
“The world,” Darcy replied, “is not always worth consulting.”
A faint, reluctant smile touched her lips. It lingered.
Darcy felt something within him ease at the sight. “I have not spoken to you out of pity,” he said. “I have spoken because I cannot do otherwise.”
Elizabeth was silent for several moments. “And if I were to believe you?” she asked.
Darcy held her gaze.
“Then I would consider myself very fortunate indeed.”
The light shifted, the cloud cover thinning just enough to allow a warmer brightness to fall across the hillside. It touched her face unevenly, illuminating one side more fully than the other, and for a moment Darcy was struck not by contrast, but by the harmony of it.
Elizabeth drew a slow breath. “I do not know if I am ready to believe you,” she said.
“That is fair.” It hurt to hear, but he understood why she felt that way.
“But I do not wish to misunderstand you either.”
Darcy inclined his head. “That is all I ask.”
They remained where they were for some time after that, the silence between them altered, no longer strained, no longer defensive, but tentative in a way that suggested something had begun, though neither had yet named it.
When at last Darcy rose and offered his hand, she accepted it.
And though nothing had been resolved entirely, he knew, as they began to walk back toward Longbourn, that something essential had shifted.
Not certainty, but possibility.
The house appeared as it always did upon his return—orderly, composed, attended with the silent efficiency that marked a well-managed household.
The servants moved with their usual discretion, and the familiar arrangement of the entrance hall gave no outward sign that the atmosphere within had shifted in any meaningful way.
It was only when he crossed into the drawing room that he understood something was amiss.
Miss Bingley stood near the hearth, her posture drawn into a rigid elegance that did not conceal her agitation.
Mrs. Hurst occupied a chair beside her, though her usual languor had sharpened into a more attentive stillness.
Mr. Hurst dozed in a corner, completely oblivious to the discord around him.
Bingley himself stood opposite them, one hand braced against the back of a chair, his expression animated in a way that suggested his patience had been tried.
The conversation ceased at Darcy’s entrance.
He took in the scene at a glance, noting the tension that lingered in the air, the strained civility that had not yet settled into anything resembling ease.
“Darcy,” Bingley said, with a measure of relief that was not entirely disguised. “You return at an interesting moment.”
“So, it appears,” Darcy replied, setting aside his gloves with purposeful calm. “Have I interrupted something of consequence?”
Miss Bingley inclined her head, though the movement held none of its usual grace. “Not at all. We were merely discussing our plans.”
“Our plans?” Bingley repeated, his tone sharpening.
“Yes,” she said, turning toward him with renewed composure. “The Hursts and I have determined that it would be best for us to return to London.”
Bingley blinked. “You have determined.”
“We have,” Mrs. Hurst said, her voice smooth, though her gaze flickered between them. “The autumn advances, and Hertfordshire offers very little to detain us longer than necessary.”
Bingley’s mouth curved slightly, though there was little humor in it. “You seemed quite content here not a fortnight ago.”
Had they? Darcy had not noticed.
“Circumstances change,” Miss Bingley replied.
Darcy remained silent, though he observed her closely. There was purpose in her manner now, a clarity that suggested this departure had not been decided in haste.
“And what circumstances might those be?” Bingley asked.
Miss Bingley’s expression sharpened. “I had thought it evident,” she said. “But if it is not, I shall speak plainly. It is not suitable for us to remain where our society is neither appreciated nor properly matched.”
Bingley stared at her. “You cannot mean—”
“I mean precisely what I say,” she interrupted. “You have allowed yourself to become… attached in a manner that cannot end well. Mrs. Collins is not a proper object for your consideration.”
The words landed with unmistakable force.
Darcy felt something in him still, not in surprise, but in recognition of where this must lead.
Bingley straightened. “You presume too much.”
“I presume nothing that is not obvious,” Miss Bingley returned. “She is a widow, burdened with a child, connected to a family whose manners and connections leave much to be desired. You cannot seriously intend—”
“I intend nothing that concerns you,” Bingley said, his voice firm now in a way Darcy had rarely heard.
Miss Bingley’s composure faltered.
“It concerns me very much,” she said. “You are my brother. Your actions reflect upon us all. And I will not stand by while you throw yourself away on a woman whose circumstances make her entirely unsuitable.”
Mrs. Hurst made a subtle repositioning, silently electing not to take action.
Darcy stepped forward then, his voice measured. “I must disagree.” All eyes turned to him.
Miss Bingley’s lips pressed together. “I did not ask your opinion, Mr. Darcy.” Her words were bitter and she fairly spat them at him.
“You have it nonetheless,” he replied. “Mrs. Collins is a lady of excellent character. Her conduct reflects it, and her circumstances do not diminish her worth.”
Miss Bingley laughed, though there was no mirth in the sound. “You speak as though you believe her an equal.”
“I do.” The simplicity of the answer seemed to strike her more forcefully than any elaborate defense might have done.
She turned toward him fully. “And what of the rest of the family?” she demanded.
“Will you defend them as well? The patriarch, a distant cousin who wishes them gone? The mother, whose nerves govern her speech? The younger sisters, whose behavior would scarcely be tolerated in any respectable circle? And Miss Elizabeth—”
Darcy’s expression changed. It was not dramatic. It did not need to be. “You will not speak of Miss Bennet in such a manner,” he said.
Miss Bingley’s eyes flashed. “I will speak as I please.”
“You will not,” he said, his tone still even, though it carried an authority that left no room for interpretation.
For a moment, silence fell.
Miss Bingley held his gaze, as though testing whether he would yield.
He did not.
“And why not?” she demanded at last. “What possible claim can she have upon your regard that would warrant such a defense? How could such a creature demand any sort of regard?”
Darcy did not hesitate. “Because she is strong, capable, and kind. Beyond that, Miss Bennet is one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.” The words settled into the room with tranquil force.
Bingley’s brows rose. Mrs. Hurst’s fan stilled in her hand.
Miss Bingley stared at him as though she had misheard. “Handsome,” she repeated.
Darcy met her gaze without flinching. “In countenance,” he continued, “in mind, and in character. I know of no lady whose qualities I esteem more highly.”
The color drained from Miss Bingley’s face, only to return in a flush that spoke more of anger than embarrassment. “This is absurd,” she said. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am entirely serious.”
“And you would set her above every lady of consequence you have known? Above me?”
“I would set her above any lady who lacks her sense, her steadiness, and her strength.”
The silence that followed was not merely tense—it was decisive. He had never considered Miss Bingley as a potential match, and her words betrayed her incredulity at that fact.
Miss Bingley drew herself up, her composure returning in a form more rigid than before. “Then we are agreed,” she said. “There is nothing further to be said.” She turned away, her movements precise.
Mrs. Hurst rose more slowly, casting a brief glance toward Darcy that held something like reluctant acknowledgment before following her sister.
The door closed behind them. For a moment, neither man spoke.
Then Bingley let out a breath that bordered on a laugh. “Well,” he said, “that was more decisive than I had expected.”
Darcy did not immediately respond. He remained where he stood, his gaze fixed upon the door through which Miss Bingley had departed, his expression thoughtful.
“At least they are gone,” Bingley continued. “Or soon will be. I cannot say I shall miss these discussions.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly. “Nor I. And you have been subject to far more than me.”
Bingley crossed the room, pouring himself a glass of wine before turning back.
“You have given me much to consider,” he said.
Darcy glanced at him. “In what respect?”
Bingley smiled, though there was a keen interest beneath it.
“In that you have declared Miss Bennet one of the handsomest women of your acquaintance,” he said. “Which, coming from you, is no small thing.”
Darcy did not attempt to evade the observation.
“It is no less than the truth.”
Bingley studied him. “And nothing more?”
Darcy was silent for a moment. Then, with a steadiness that surprised even himself, he said, “I cannot deny that my regard for Miss Bennet extends beyond mere admiration.”
Bingley’s expression brightened at once. “I thought as much.”
Darcy allowed himself the faintest hint of a smile. “It came on gradually,” he said. “So gradually that I did not at first perceive it for what it was. But I see it clearly now.”
“And what do you intend to do?” Bingley asked.
Darcy did not hesitate. “I intend to ask for her hand,” he said. “If she will accept me.”
Bingley laughed outright then, the sound warm and unrestrained. “Well,” he said, “then we are in perfect agreement.”
Darcy raised a brow. “You feel the same?”
“I do,” Bingley replied. “As to Mrs. Collins, I mean. I have never been more certain of anything.”
Darcy regarded him with sober approval. “Then we are both resolved.”
Bingley’s grin widened. “Caroline will have her wish, after all,” he said.
Darcy’s expression shifted slightly. “In what sense?”
Bingley laughed again. “We shall be brothers.”
Darcy allowed himself a brief pause, then said dryly, “Just not in the manner she intended.”
“Precisely.”
The ease between them returned, though it carried now a different weight—one of shared purpose rather than simple companionship.
Outside, the day had fully taken hold, the earlier chill giving way to a steadier warmth.
Within, something had settled. There was no uncertainty, no hesitation.
Only resolve. And finally, after the previous day’s misunderstanding, Darcy felt that he stood not at a disadvantage, but at the beginning of something he fully intended to see through.