Chapter 20 #2
Bingley looked at him at once. “Something more?”
“Yes.” He paused briefly. “Your sister has written to Miss Bennet.”
The cue slipped slightly in Bingley’s hand. “Written… to Jane?”
Darcy inclined his head.
Bingley stared at him. “On what subject?”
Darcy’s voice remained even. “To persuade her that you would not return this winter.”
Bingley’s expression changed.
“She told her so?”
“She implied as much.”
A silence followed.
“And more,” Darcy continued. “She spoke of your pleasure in remaining in town… of your eagerness to renew your acquaintance with my sister.”
Bingley’s brows drew together. “With Georgiana?”
“Yes.”
He added, after a slight pause, “She suggested that your friends would view such an attachment with particular satisfaction.”
Bingley set the cue aside. “I do not understand how she could suppose… I hope you know this is not true.”
“I know. Only she did not suppose,” Darcy said quietly. “She intended to direct.”
That struck home. Bingley began to pace. “This is-this is not to be borne,” he said at last. “To interfere in such a manner… without my knowledge…”
He broke off.
Darcy remained composed. “I thought it right that you should be informed.”
Bingley stopped. “And Miss Bennet – does she believe it?”
“I cannot say with certainty. But she has had no reason to doubt it. When I visited, she had to be called for as she had stayed in her room.”
Bingley’s countenance darkened – more deeply than before.
“Then she must think me – what? Fickle? Indifferent? Capable of-of trifling with her feelings?” He turned away. “I never intended…”
Darcy said nothing.
After a moment, Bingley spoke again, more steadily, though not less affected.
“She deserved better than this.”
“Yes,” said Darcy.
That single word settled something.
Bingley drew a long breath. “Then it must be set right.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly. “I thought you would think so. I delivered your message and made it clear that we have no intention of quitting Hertfordshire. But such assurances must come from you.”
Bingley looked at him with renewed determination.
“I shall go to Longbourn tomorrow.” Yet he did not wholly trust himself to examine too closely how nearly he had been persuaded otherwise.
Darcy’s expression did not change, but there was a quiet satisfaction in it.
“I believe that would be the proper course.”
Bingley gave a short, decisive nod. “And I shall not be persuaded away again.”
He took up his cue and struck the first ball with more force than precision.
After a moment, he added, more thoughtfully, “Caroline – what am I to do with her?”
Darcy considered, then said with composed indifference, “I do not think there is a need to do anything.”
Bingley glanced at him.
“Your perseverance will speak more plainly than any argument… She will not misunderstand it.”
Bingley allowed himself a small, rueful smile. “She has misunderstood me before.”
“That,” Darcy returned, “may prove more difficult in the future.”
Bingley looked at him again. “She has lost you as well, you know.”
Darcy gave the slightest shake of his head as though dismissing the subject. “I would rather not discuss it.”
“You have quite surprised me, my friend – you and Miss Elizabeth. I had thought her disposed against you, particularly when she made so free with the seating cards. And yet – she has accepted you.”
“We had long understood one another imperfectly – though perhaps not entirely unconsciously. It was only a question of time before I determined that I could not be content without her.” Then, with a glance toward the table, “Now – yours, I believe.”
***
Darcy sat in the library at Netherfield, a book open before him. He had been reading – or attempting to read – for some time, though he could not have said what he had read. The same page had held his attention far longer than it deserved.
At length, he closed the book. It was useless. His thoughts, despite every effort to command them otherwise, returned again and again to the morning.
He had gone to Longbourn early – earlier, perhaps, than strict propriety might have recommended – and had been received with a readiness which, though not remarked upon by others, had not escaped him.
He had joined them at breakfast.
Mrs. Bennet had been all civility – if somewhat disordered in her attentions; Kitty and Lydia lively; Jane composed and gentle as ever. Yet it was not the room, nor the conversation, that occupied him.
It was Elizabeth.
She had met him with a composure that was not entirely steady – nor, he thought, entirely assumed.
Afterwards, they had walked.
The morning had been mild, the grounds quiet, and for some time their conversation had been easy – light even – though beneath it there was something else, less easily defined.
He had not intended…
Darcy rose, then sat again.
No. That was not true. He had not intended it at first.
But there had come a moment – unexpected, unguarded – when she had laughed.
It was not merely the sound of it, though that alone had been enough to arrest him. It was the way she had looked at him afterwards – her eyes radiant, unguarded, and fixed upon his in a manner that admitted of no indifference.
He had forgotten himself.
There had been no calculation in it. Only certainty.
He had paused – only a moment – and said, more quietly than he had ever spoken, “I hope you will not be offended…”
She had not answered. She had only looked at him.
And that had been answer enough. He had bent toward her…
Darcy turned away slightly, as though even the memory required restraint.
He had kissed her.
Not hastily – nor with the uncertainty of a man unsure of his reception – but with a steadiness that surprised even himself.
For one brief moment, the world had narrowed entirely to that single point.
And then…
A sound. Sudden. Near.
They had both drawn back at once.
Elizabeth had turned – quickly – her colour heightened; and Darcy, instinctively alert, had stepped away, his attention fixed beyond the hedge.
There had been something – he was certain of it. A movement. A flash of colour – red, perhaps – half-seen, half-imagined.
He had gone at once to the place. There had been no one. Only stillness. He had remained there a moment longer than was necessary. Then returned.
Darcy drew a slow breath. Even now, he could not determine whether he had been mistaken. But the interruption – ill-timed as it was – had not wholly displeased him.
He leaned back slightly, his expression altering – less grave now. For though the moment had been broken, it had not been lost.
She had not withdrawn. She had not refused him. She had answered him.
Darcy allowed himself the smallest smile.
He had not doubted it, though he could not say whether he ought to have done so, nor whether she had fully understood him.
He rose at last, the book forgotten entirely. Whatever had begun that morning could not easily be set aside. Nor, he thought, did he wish it to be.