Chapter 1
HUMBLE
Mr Bingley’s defiance immediately engendered surprise in his friend Mr Darcy and outraged disdain in his younger sister, Miss Bingley.
“You cannot intend to return to Hertfordshire now,” Miss Bingley declared. “You cannot mean it, Charles, to-to go back again and make your sentiments known to Miss Bennet! Did you not listen to even a word of what Mr Darcy and I just said?”
Bingley squared his shoulders away from his sister and towards the doorway, where he directed a sharp gaze at Darcy.
“My ears work well enough, as does my mind. I have weighed your concerns and the costs in my own balance. Either I choose to dishonour Miss Bennet by slighting her before all her neighbours, or I risk my own disappointment in finding her feelings for me are as shallow as you have asserted. Only one choice places the risks on my side, where they belong, if I am to truly call myself a gentleman.”
He held Darcy’s eye for only a moment. Darcy, seeing his friend so firm in his purpose, could only nod and move aside. Bingley brushed past him, and moments later, the great door of Hurst House groaned open and shut. He was gone.
Miss Bingley, stricken in stillness until that moment, suddenly stood and moved as if to chase after her brother. “How dare he! How dare he!” she railed, until, recalling Darcy’s presence, she clapped a hand over her mouth and instead darted up the stairs.
Darcy remained outwardly calm. He walked to the ample libations Mr Hurst kept on a side table and measured himself half a glass of what he deemed strongest. Setting his foot to the fender of the fireplace, he took a sip and attempted to make some order of his sensibilities after such a display.
Until the last few moments, the evening had gone exactly as he presumed Miss Bingley had planned.
There had been a quiet dinner with a ragout to produce a predictable, sleepy satiety in Mr Hurst, who had excused himself to retire not long after consuming a double portion.
Mrs Hurst had winked at Miss Bingley as she suggested the rest of the party’s removal to the sitting room to entertain Mr Darcy whilst the dinner dishes were cleared away.
Then Mrs Hurst had gone above stairs to join her husband.
Once Bingley was sequestered in the quiet sitting room with only Miss Bingley and Darcy, those very companions had worked in concert to confront him with their warnings against his continued pursuit of Miss Jane Bennet.
Darcy had certainly expected Bingley’s initial deflections, but he had clearly placed too much confidence in his friend’s natural modesty eventually producing sufficient indecision to merit a concession.
“Hang it all, Bingley,” said Darcy under his breath. “Of all the moments to choose to keep steady to your purpose, is it to be this one?”
He tried to picture it—to picture Bingley actually married to Miss Jane Bennet and living merely a sizeable pasture’s crossing from Longbourn and those Bennets. Mrs Bennet, especially, the most mortifying of all potential mothers-in-law.
His frown deepened further as he ruminated on the nature of Bingley’s disinterested choice in marrying a woman of no considerable fortune and no extraordinary rank.
Yes, Miss Bennet was the daughter of a gentleman, but her mother’s people carried only connexions to trade.
It would be no true elevation for Bingley, himself part of the nouveau riche, whose fortune from his father could give him access to a bride who came with more wealth—or with more respectable relations, at the very least.
Bingley deserves more, Darcy told himself, fighting a swell of indignation. Why can he not see sense? Does his passion have complete rule over him?
Just as he was beginning to consider going after his friend to force him to see reason, the fireplace near his feet emitted a pop and a bright spark. Darcy leapt back from the cinder that came flying towards his trouser leg. The shock of the near miss was enough to jar him into motion.
As he began pacing the room, he caught a glimpse of himself looking rather wild in the looking glass on the far wall.
He sighed and ran a hand through his curls, restoring order to his appearance and soothing his own ill feelings.
As he brought himself nearer to the glass, he was surprised to find in his reflection not just his features and face but also his own frustration—bordering on an irrational rage—more clearly illumined for what it was.
Jealousy.
Yes, he was jealous. Jealous that Bingley had made a choice to suit his own desires, something Darcy had denied to himself, to his own regret, even to this moment.
Had he not, less than a se’nnight ago, lost precious sleep to his own inner turmoil regarding these self-same concerns surrounding his dangerous attraction to Miss Bennet’s sister, Elizabeth?
Had he not warred within himself mightily for half an hour as he sat mere steps away from her in the Netherfield library?
Had he not indulged his fancy, for only a moment, in thoughts of sweeping such concerns about social standing aside and taking a knee before her?
Of making an offer for her and keeping her, all of her—her passionate, witty, delightful self—for his own pleasure, regardless of the expectations his lofty position would place upon a Darcy marriage?
Of accepting the denigration that such a connexion to the Bennets might create in exchange for the exquisite thrill and happiness of calling Elizabeth his own?
He had denied himself the fulfilment of his own most ardent feelings, and he had done it, he thought, for the best.
That Bingley—Bingley, who was so rarely brave, who was more often irresolute and indecisive, who claimed far less security of position in society than Darcy enjoyed with his ancient name—that he would be the bold one, the one to take a prize he desired in the face of so much opposition!
Darcy looked away from the mirror and tugged at his waistcoat, feeling uncomfortable in his very skin, like a stranger in his own body. Indeed, he felt he hardly knew himself. The fire of his rage had vanished like smoke under the cold draught of his shame.
What a hypocrite he was—what a coward! How dare he cast aspersions on his younger friend for choosing to love and honour his beloved over any notions of self-interested pride!
In moments, he was in motion again, ringing for the butler to bring his hat and greatcoat, which he drew on like the cloak of a penitent. Then he stole out of the door and into the night in pursuit of his friend.
It was a rather short chase, for he knew where to find him.
Unlike Darcy, who craved solitude when troubled, Bingley instead sought the distraction of the company of others.
On a cold evening such as this, Darcy surmised, a game of billiards in the warmth of the nearby gentlemen’s club would be just the thing.
When he arrived, he immediately sidled up to his friend in the billiards room and wordlessly divested himself down to his shirtsleeves.
“Quite bold of you to assume that I wish to play a game with you at this moment,” Bingley said, sparing him only a wry glance as he angled his body to make his next stroke.
“But I suppose you would prefer my irritation to the ire of my sister, who I am sure is still fuming at home at this very moment.”
“You are rightfully angry with me, Bingley. I should not have interfered,” said Darcy with level frankness.
Bingley unbent himself from the table and pressed the tip of his cue into the floor, where he balanced his weight onto it like a cane to steady himself. Eyebrows raised, he regarded Darcy warily for a moment. “Are you—are you apologising? To me?”
“It is appropriate for me to ask your forgiveness in this instance. I acted, and spoke, in disregard of your own feelings and convictions on a very personal matter. Can you forgive me, my friend?”
Bingley sighed. “I suppose I already have, Darcy. I know you too well, you know, to assume you were acting out of any selfishness. Unlike my sister, you merely wish to see me well-saddled in marriage, as any true friend ought.”
The sound of a throat clearing itself across the table brought both gentlemen up short.
Bingley immediately blushed and acknowledged his billiards opponent, a rotund man whose eyes were twinkling from both amusement and a glass of fine port, which he tilted in Bingley’s direction in imitation of a wedding toast. “Some happy news you wish to share with the club, Bingley?” he guffawed good-naturedly.
“Ah, Hemsworth, old man, I beg your pardon. Darcy and I had some unfinished business.”
“Yes, so I see. Well, this is a game we might finish some other time. It appears you have an important matter about an extraordinary woman to discuss,” he replied with a smile.
“How do you know she is extraordinary?” Bingley countered.
“No ordinary woman is worth the trouble,” replied Hemsworth with a wink. Pointing at Darcy with his cue, he offered, “Care to replace me?”
Darcy accepted the instrument, and Hemsworth smirked and gave an unsteady bow before moving away. Darcy nodded to Bingley to string for the lead, then he ventured, “He is entirely correct, you know.”
“In what regard? That Miss Bennet is indeed extraordinary? I happen to agree with him there.” Bingley chose his ball and made his stroke, which did not rebound well.
Darcy’s stroke was superior to Bingley’s in proximity to the cushion, giving him the lead in the game and the courage to speak further.
“She is indeed—and I also agree that, as it follows, she is therefore worthy of your struggle. It is humbling for me to examine my own thinking in regard to a woman I had thought I might love and to see my own consideration of her worth rather wanting.”
When Darcy’s bank shot for the object ball fell short of the pocket, he looked to Bingley, awaiting his attempt, only to find his friend observing him with studious intensity.
“Is this a recent consideration?” Bingley asked rather boldly before he finally bent to make his own stroke, an admirable two-ball cannon that rebounded off both Darcy’s ball and the object.
Darcy’s ears were hot under his hair as he leaned forwards again to line up his cue. “Fairly recent, yes.”
Bingley twirled his own cue at this concession.
“I find myself at times a studier of character, often observing others. It is a rather amusing occupation, as I once mentioned to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. And you know, I had thought once or twice that you rather enjoyed observing and studying her character at Netherfield.”
Darcy looked up with such speed that Bingley let out a whoop of laughter. “Oh ho! I did not expect to hit so exactly on target. So then, our struggle with each of our Miss Bennets is nearly the same.”
“If you think that my suit in regard to Miss Elizabeth closely resembles yours, you would be mistaken. I have not endeavoured to pay her such particular attention as you have her sister, nor have I tested the strength of my own admiration in the ways you have. I did not allow myself to do so. I had thought her too unsuitable from the first to merit serious consideration. But I do confess, I did—I do—feel myself in danger of forming an attachment whenever I am with her.”
“Is this, then, the reason you joined Caroline in her demand for our swift removal to town after the ball?”
Darcy’s ears carried their hot blaze to his cheeks. He remained silent.
Bingley nodded. “I see. Well then, there is nothing else for it, old man.”
“Nothing else for what?”
“You must come back with me to Hertfordshire, where I intend to find out for myself whether my own Miss Bennet returns my regard. And you ought to prevent your own future regret by working to discover whether your regard for Miss Elizabeth is genuine—for we already know that she is no ordinary woman and is therefore more than worth your trouble.”