Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
THE CLAIMS OF DUTY AND HONOUR
Darcy did not sleep well.
At first, his anger kept him awake, tossing and turning. He wanted to kick something, and the pillows were distinctly unsatisfying targets.
As the hours passed, guilt began to leach in. He ought not to have spoken to his sister so harshly; he had never before done so, and knowing he had made her cry did not sit well.
But was not this, too, Elizabeth’s fault? She had dragged soft-hearted Georgiana into her fantasies. Even though a niggling sense of fairness argued that Georgiana had leapt in, rather than be dragged, he rebelled against the justice of the thought.
After hours of wakeful struggle, what everything came down to was that Elizabeth wanted Andrew Morris.
That was what he wanted to kick, most of all.
When he finally did fall asleep, his dreams were troubled visions of watching the hulking Morris wrap his arms around a lovely, ethereal Elizabeth garbed in wedding clothes.
He arose early, glad to be rid of the prison of his bedchamber, and hurried Havers through his shave and dress, causing a raised brow or two—his valet was unused to such impatience.
But he wanted to have a word with Georgiana before she went to Fox Hollow.
At first, he had been of a mind to refuse to allow her to go at all, but his head was cooler this morning.
He meant to tell her that she ought to confine her activities to helping with Edward, and keep out of any of Elizabeth’s other troubles.
Elizabeth’s uncle could arrange her marriage, if he was so inclined.
It was a Bennet family affair. It was no fault of theirs that her uncle was a grasping weasel.
Also, she was to repeat none of his unguarded sentiments regarding the arrangement of such a marriage from the night before, lest Elizabeth believe they were a product of simple jealousy instead of an…
an understanding of the outrageousness of the notion.
But when he was finally presentable, a few enquiries revealed that Georgiana had departed earlier than usual for ‘her morning ride’. It was maddening, knowing that even now his sister was making him out to be some sort of worm before Elizabeth.
It was a temptation to leave at once for Fox Hollow.
But no—his anger was not, as yet, under good regulation.
He entered the breakfast parlour expecting to have it to himself at this hour.
He did not wish to speak to anyone, about anything, and could not vouch for his temper if he did.
After he had eaten, he would go himself, politely explain to Miss Elizabeth Bennet why his sister was not to be used as a tool for her schemes, and bring Georgiana back to Netherfield.
Unfortunately, the last person he expected to see before noon was seated within.
Bingley seldom rose early unless there was shooting in their plans, but here he was, a full plate set before him.
He did not appear to be paying much attention to the food, but instead stared out the window with a brooding air unusual to him.
“Ah,” he said, at Darcy’s entrance. “Precisely the man I wished to see.” He nodded to the footman, and the servant made himself scarce at once.
Wonderful. Of all mornings, he chooses this one for a serious conversation.
Darcy hardly knew what he put on his plate—only wanting an excuse to say as little as possible.
Perhaps with his mouth full, he could put off any sort of discussion.
Bingley had been speaking of holding an elaborate Twelfth Night ball—the worst idea ever—and probably wished to gain Darcy’s approval.
But Bingley was silent for a long while and, when he spoke at last, he said nothing of entertainments.
“Darcy, you are as a brother to me,” the younger man declared. “There are no words to express how much poorer would be my life, if I had to live it without your friendship.”
Darcy swallowed—and not merely his toast. Especially after Georgiana’s set-down, his compliment was a boon.
“Thank you,” he managed.
“It is why this is the most difficult thing I have ever had to say.”
What? This was no mere discussion about a ball, then. Do not say it! he wanted to yell. It took all his control to merely lift a brow.
“I do not believe I am, or will ever be, the proper husband for your sister. I look upon her as a sister of my own; it would be so very unfair to her, to marry solely for my own selfish desire to retain your good will and elevate my family name.”
Darcy’s jaw clenched. “Elevating one’s family is not selfish. It is responsible.”
“It would be, in my case, because I cannot love her as she deserves. I know what love feels like now, and to give her less would be unkind—cruel, even. I would grow to resent her for what is not at all her fault. In the end, I might even lose the favour I desire so sincerely to preserve—your friendship.”
Friendship, ha! This was what a friend would do? Obviously, Bingley does not know the meaning of the word. Somehow, Darcy managed a reasonable tone. “I refuse to believe you would ever treat her cruelly. It is not in you.”
Bingley sighed. “Cruelty is not always harsh and grating. It can be in neglect, indifference, in bitterness. It can be a failure to love, when she is willing to give all she has. Miss Darcy is a perceptive young lady—anyone who can play the pianoforte with such passion, who can sketch with such perfection, must possess a good deal of sensitivity. Yes, cruel seems the right word.”
Fine! Darcy would have their trunks packed, gather up Georgiana, and be out of Netherfield within hours. “Of course, you must do as you think best,” Darcy bit out. As must I.
Bingley nodded soberly. “I deserve your anger. You have every right. Your sister is a precious gift, and I have refused it. I will only say that before coming to this conclusion, I have examined my heart, pondered carefully, and resolved to do as I feel a gentleman ought—what I believe you would have done in my position. It is how I make all my most important decisions, you know.” He stood, bowed, and left the room, leaving his untouched plate behind.
Darcy stared after him, those words repeating in his head, drilling into his chest with the force of a punch.
“…resolved to do as I feel a gentleman ought…what I believe you would have done…all my most important decisions…”
Bingley had taken him for an exemplar, as Darcy had once taken his own father.
How would his own father have acted? For Georgiana, yes, he might have attempted to arrange a good marriage for her, with someone who could love and appreciate her. Darcy had not been wrong in hoping that Bingley would consider it.
Regardless, Bingley has shown himself to be an honourable man in refusing, if he is certain he could never love her, and Father would not have held it against him. In fact, he would have appreciated a man who could not be bought.
Another question pressed itself to the forefront of his mind. What would Father have thought of Elizabeth?
Father loved children; he would have admired her commitment to her young brother.
He certainly could not have approved of her removal from Longbourn to live practically alone.
Yet, he had held an extreme distaste for men such as Philips—men who would steal, by any means at their disposal, a fortune belonging to young Edward Bennet.
His father had not been the magistrate, but how many times had he been approached to resolve issues, to help—not only their tenants, but many others?
Their vicar, old Mr Wilson, had relied upon him regularly to intervene, to use his influence and reputation to improve the lives of his parishioners, and using the Darcy wealth had been the least of it.
My father would have brought pressure to bear on the situation, he realised.
Unlike Goulding, who had done precisely nothing to actually lessen Philips’s disgusting behaviour, his father would have breathed fire down the weasel’s neck, ensuring Philips knew that his every action was being watched and weighed.
It would never have become necessary for Elizabeth to take the full burden of Edward’s situation upon her shoulders, because she would have had a champion—probably all unknowing, as George Darcy had been subtle, and never heavy-handed.
Darcy had known of her plight for weeks, but what had he done to help beyond allowing Georgiana to offer hers?
He had allowed his opinion of Philips to be known, idly, in a few random conversations, the sum total of any effort.
Had he encouraged Bingley to take a stand on the issue?
Had he confronted Sir William about his spiteful criticisms?
Had he brought any pressure to bear at all?
No. Always mindful of his pride, always ashamed of his own feelings for Elizabeth, always avoiding those for whom he held a distaste, he had been careful to pretend a deep disinterest.
In George Darcy’s home, peace had always reigned; his servants were well paid, and he was loyal to them.
Not only in his home, but in his neighbourhood, every young lady was safe.
He had considered such to be part of his code of honour.
It was why Wickham had never spawned bastards in their part of the country—George Darcy would have heard of it, and all his support would have been lost.
I should never have shielded Father from the consequences of Wickham’s actions at Cambridge. He would not have approved. He did not require me to protect him at any cost.
Bingley had claimed to know love, and because he did, he knew whom he could love. Georgiana had claimed Elizabeth had given up on a love of her own, in favour of Edward’s happiness.
What do I know of love?
Not as much as Bingley, who had sacrificed a great deal for it already.
And not as much as Elizabeth, who was, plainly, willing to sacrifice everything.