Chapter Eight
After sitting with Mr. Bennet in his book room for a short time after dinner, Darcy excused himself to go upstairs and speak with Bingley.
“My leg is improving,” Bingley informed him as he stepped inside. He moved the leg and winced. “I am still sporting an impressive bruise, though.”
“Congratulations?” Darcy responded wryly. Bingley rolled his eyes and the valet grinned. “Greyson?” he asked.
“Yes, Mr. Darcy?”
“Thank you. We shall call when you are needed again.”
The valet nodded and stepped smartly out of the room.
“What is it, Darcy?” Bingley asked when Greyson had gone.
“I have some news, though I fear you will not like it.” Darcy unfolded the letter and handed it over, then held the lit candle up so Bingley could see to read it.
Before the letter, Bingley’s energy had been unfocused. After he finished it, a dark shadow passed over his visage. He said, very quietly, “And Miss Bennet has read this?”
“Yes, though it was her sister Miss Elizabeth who brought it to my attention.”
Bingley’s scowl was prodigious, and very out of place on his face. “Jane would have wished for me to see it. She might not have had the confidence to give it to you herself, though, not after hearing Caroline’s description of me as the worst sort of . . . as unintentionally inconstant.”
Darcy had not realised Bingley knew Miss Bennet so well as all that, and he said so.
As Bingley handed the letter back, he said, “You are surprised, Darcy? Did you think we spoke of nothing but the weather and the state of the roads those evenings we were in company?”
“Well . . . yes.”
His friend laughed softly. “Perhaps those are your preferred topics of conversation, but they are not mine. Miss Bennet is an intriguing woman with an improved mind, Darcy, but I am aware she would not be suited to someone like you. You want a challenge. I already have that in my sisters.” He tapped the edge of the letter against his lips.
“And you know, it does not follow that a more predictable character cannot be a complex and estimable one.”
Darcy nodded. “You are correct, of course.”
Bingley stopped tapping the letter and blinked. “It is a shame you did not write that down in a letter. I should so like to have it to gaze at from time to time.”
“Really, Bingley.” Darcy did not know whether he should laugh or be offended.
“Darcy, why did Miss Elizabeth give you the letter?” Bingley held up the note between the fingers of his good hand.
“I presume because my sister is mentioned.”
Bingley continued to stare at him. “The last time you two were in a room together, you nearly took each other’s heads off.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Bingley was incredulous. “Do you not recall? You and Caroline created a list of the thousand subjects a lady must master to be considered truly accomplished! I thanked God that evening that I am a man, for as a woman I should never measure up. Nor would nine gentlemen out of ten, I daresay.”
“I was attempting to offer her a compliment,” Darcy protested.
“Who?”
“Miss Elizabeth! She was holding a book when I said extensive reading was an accomplishment. Which is true.”
Bingley laughed aloud and then grabbed at his shoulder. “Do not make me laugh, Darcy. Miss Elizabeth had only just told Caroline that she was not a great reader.”
Darcy was confused. “I thought she was only being modest.”
Bingley grunted and grabbed at his shoulder again. “Stop.”
“A woman who is as witty and bright as Miss Elizabeth must be a wide reader. She even compared your sisters and me to Gilpin’s cows without any of us being aware.”
It was Bingley’s turn to appear lost. “What? Whose cows?”
Darcy rolled his eyes. “Never mind. Is there a point to this attack on my character?”
“Yes,” Bingley replied, amused. “Miss Elizabeth does not like you. Why did she give you the note, even if it mentioned your sister? She might have had her maid pass it to Greyson without any risk, yet she gave it to you.” Bingley was quiet for a moment before he pushed himself up. “She does like you.”
Darcy’s heart leaped at the notion. Did she?
Bingley scratched the back of his head. “You believed you were offering her a compliment, in your own moody way, yes?
“It was a compliment,” Darcy insisted, though now he was less certain.
“You like Miss Elizabeth. You did even at Netherfield, but she did not like you, then.” Bingley was nodding as he put it all together. “Now that you are staying in her home to assist me, the same way she came to my home to assist her sister, she is learning to like you! Ha! This is excellent!”
“It is more complicated than that,” he said sternly.
“Oh.” Bingley nodded sagely. “Because you think everyone expects you to make a brilliant match and you hate to disappoint the members of the ton.”
“I could not give two bloody . . . I do not care what the ton thinks of me.”
“Do you not?” Bingley wore a shrewd expression that Darcy could not like. “Well, not you, perhaps. But the Darcy name? That you wish to have spoken of with reverence.”
Was this what Bingley truly thought of him? Moreover, was he right?
“I did not wish to disappoint my parents, Bingley. You know they always intended for me to marry well.”
“Yet their definition of ‘well’ need not be your own. Come now, man. Your mother favoured a marriage to your cousin Anne for you, and you have decided against honouring that wish. And from what you have said about your father, I daresay he would approve of Miss Elizabeth.”
Darcy was silent. Bingley might be right. His father had been drawn to his mother not for her father’s title and her ample fortune, though he had been grateful for them. He had appreciated Lady Anne’s lively wit, her love of learning, the way she had of lighting up a room when she entered it.
“Do you intend to act upon your feelings for her?” Bingley cocked his head to one side. “I will not judge you either way. But consider it, my friend. If we are fortunate, a marriage lasts a lifetime. How do you wish to spend yours?”
How indeed? He was sure there was a woman who had all of Miss Elizabeth’s best characteristics yet was also in possession of a fine fortune and elevated connections. But his fickle heart did not want her. It wanted Miss Elizabeth.
Bingley gave him a sombre look. “I only ask that if you are not serious about Miss Elizabeth that you do not continue this friendship,” he said. “Politeness is all that is required.”
“You need not tell me,” Darcy grumbled. “I have given you that speech several times.”
“Well, my friend,” Bingley replied thoughtfully, “let me say only this, and then I will have done.”
Bingley waited, and Darcy offered him a nod.
“Darcy, you have demonstrated many times how difficult it is for you to find a woman who pleases you. I do not believe one ever truly has, until now. If Miss Elizabeth suits you, be your own man and give yourself permission to be happy.”
“Bingley,” Darcy replied, shaking his head, amused. “What has got into you?”
His friend offered a one-shouldered shrug. “Perhaps being thrown from my horse has knocked some sense into me.”
Two days after the accident, Elizabeth and Jane waited at the foot of the stairs as Mr. Bingley made his way down. He lowered his bad leg first while leaning on the banister with his good hand, then brought his uninjured leg down to the same step.
It was slow but steady, and he did not seem to be in much pain. Stiff and sore, perhaps, but smiling at Jane all the while.
Mr Darcy remained on one side of Mr. Bingley while a footman backed down the stairs in front of him.
Between the two, they would not allow the patient to stumble.
Even so, Jane’s hands were clasped together and held near her chest. She was the very picture of quiet devotion, but Elizabeth expected that her sister was prepared to leap forward and assist at any sign that Mr. Bingley might be in need of it.
Elizabeth met Mr. Darcy’s eye and found him watching Jane. He smiled knowingly and returned his attention to his friend. If Jane’s anxiety was not proof enough of her feelings for Mr. Bingley, then Elizabeth would give up on Mr. Darcy entirely. No one could misread their mutual affection.
They were about halfway down the steps when a booming voice cracked through the air. “Mr. Bingley!”
Mr. Bingley had been just about to set his foot on the next step. He started at the sudden noise, his foot slid out from beneath him, and he fell backward.
Jane gasped and leapt up the steps.
Before the back of Mr. Bingley’s head could strike against the stairs behind him, Mr. Darcy’s arm was around the man’s shoulders, arresting his fall.
Mr. Bingley grunted at the pain of the contact with his shoulder, and rather than attempting to haul Mr. Bingley back up to his feet, Mr. Darcy allowed his friend’s momentum to guide him to an easy seat.
He then immediately removed his own arm.
Mr. Bingley sat for a moment to regain his composure and his bearings but managed to nod his thanks to Mr. Darcy.
“Apologies, Bingley,” Mr. Darcy muttered, casting a nasty glance over her head at the owner of the voice.
Mr. Bingley grimaced, but replied, “None required, Darcy. Saved me from another injury there, I daresay.”
Elizabeth sighed. Could Mr. Collins never speak quietly, or did he always presume he was in his pulpit? Was his vaunted patroness deaf, or did he lower his voice for her alone?
“I only wished to offer congratulations on your recovery,” Mr. Collins said with only the tiniest hint of remorse and a good deal of affront.
The end to Mr. Collins’s planned visit was tomorrow morning. Elizabeth could not wait for him to go.
“Mr. Collins,” Mr. Bingley called, “would you mind awaiting us in the drawing room?”
“Of course, sir,” Mr. Collins said, hurrying away. It was infuriating how he was so quick to fulfil a request for the men in the house after his treatment of her.