The End of Equanimity #2
“I know not how you can laugh,” his wife whispered heatedly. “You must stop Lizzy flirting with Mr Bingley this instant.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Nay, my money is on Mr Greyson. He at least is consistent. Mr Bingley seems unable to decide whom he prefers. Be not surprised if he offers for Mary next week, my dear.”
“I am in earnest, Mr Bennet! Mr Greyson prefers Lizzy and will not have Jane—therefore Lizzy cannot have Mr Bingley, for otherwise, Jane will have no one!”
“And, um, who will Mary have?”
Mary would have to wait, it seemed. Her mother had stormed away in a cloud of smelling salt vapours without nominating her a beau.
After her mother’s third instruction to leave Mr Bingley alone, Elizabeth stole away from the main party in search of solitude.
She had only spoken to him in an effort to disguise Jane’s reluctance to do so—an increasingly difficult endeavour.
She comprehended her sister’s unwillingness to surrender her heart too easily, but Jane’s present guardedness was beginning to look like indifference.
At this rate, there was a real danger she would frighten Mr Bingley off before her mother had the chance.
Elizabeth settled herself beneath a tree and took out the letter she had received that morning from Mrs Gardiner. She had not long been reading it when Mr Bingley himself came upon her, breathing heavily and looking excessively hot.
“I beg your pardon,” he panted, bending forward with his hands on his knees to catch his breath.
“It is I who must beg your pardon. I did not think anybody would notice if I slipped away for a short time.”
“Do not make yourself uneasy. I am not part of a search party.” He straightened, put his hands on his hips and grimaced, no less short of breath. “Well, I am, but you are not the quarry. I am after our cricket ball.”
“Oh, you are playing cricket? You were speaking with Jane when I left you.”
“I was, but…” He coloured slightly and looked at his feet. “I do not think your sister much cared for my talk of Nova Scotia. Goulding saw me standing idle and press-ganged me into the game.”
Elizabeth attempted not to allow her frustration to show. “Pray, do not mistake Jane’s serenity for indifference, sir. She often prefers to listen to other people’s opinions on a subject before forming her own.” At least, that used to be true.
Several bellows of “OUT!” from beyond the crest of the rise confirmed somebody else had found the ball.
“Excellent, that saves me a job,” Mr Bingley said, puffing out his cheeks. He took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. Then, with a quizzical look, added, “May I be so bold as to enquire what that is?”
Elizabeth followed his gaze to the crayon sketch in her lap. “Oh, this is me!” she said, laughing. “My cousin drew it. She is but four years old. I think it a very good attempt, from memory.”
He agreed it was and enquired whether she saw her relatives in London often.
“Not as often as I should like,” she answered, refolding the pages of her letter.
“And my aunt writes with news of another delay. I am to accompany her and my uncle on a tour of the northern counties in the summer, but it seems my uncle’s business will prevent us leaving as soon as we had planned or staying away for as long.
We will no longer be able to travel as far as Yorkshire. ”
“That is a great shame.” He perched farther down the same root upon which she was sitting. “I hail from Yorkshire. It is a wonderful part of the country.”
“I still hope to see it one day, but for now, I shall have to content myself with Derbyshire.”
“That is no great hardship. Derbyshire is delightful. You will enjoy walking in the Peak, I think. And you could visit Pemberley while you are there.”
The mention of Mr Darcy’s home so thoroughly unsettled Elizabeth that she stumbled over her reply but managed to make it known she thought it unlikely he would appreciate her visiting.
“Nonsense! Darcy takes great pleasure in entertaining his friends at Pemberley. I daresay he would be delighted were you to visit.”
Something tugged inside her at the thought of how far from friends she and Mr Darcy must now be. Then she rallied indignantly with the remembrance of his avowed disdain for her connections. He would not be delighted to receive her at Pemberley with her relations from Cheapside in tow.
“You ought to go,” Mr Bingley said, a sly grin overtaking his countenance, “if only to hear Mrs Reynolds’ panegyric on him.”
“Mrs Reynolds?”
“His housekeeper. She is a delightful lady—most amenable, very intelligent—but excessively fond of Darcy.”
“Does she not have good reason to be so?”
“Certainly. Only she does rather like to boast of his virtues. She has a sort of paean to which all tourists and visitors are subjected.” To Elizabeth’s vast amusement, he affected a falsetto voice and screeched, “The best landlord, the best master that ever lived! Never had a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him since he was four! He is sweet-tempered, generous-hearted, good-natured!” With each accolade, he flopped his head from side to side.
“Affable to the poor, revered by his tenants and servants, the most wonderful brother, and”—he put the heels of his palms together under his chin and splayed his fingers—“I am sure I know none so handsome!”
It was too much. Elizabeth burst into laughter. “I have no need to go there now since you have acted her part so faithfully!”
“As I said, it is quite something.”
“It is a very fine account,” she observed, for notwithstanding the silliness of his performance, every commendation he attributed to the housekeeper was favourable to Mr Darcy’s character, and what praise could be more valuable than that of an intelligent servant?
“And justly given,” he assured her.
“You are very good to speak so highly of him.”
He shrugged lightly. “It is no effort to speak highly of good friends. Which brings me full circle—Darcy speaks very highly of you. He would be very well pleased if you were to visit Pemberley.”
Elizabeth scarcely knew what she said in response but nodded gratefully when he suggested they return to the other guests.
Great was her confusion! Mr Bingley had been in company with Mr Darcy more recently than she.
What could possibly have been said—or not said—to make him think his friend still held her in high esteem?
And what did it matter? For if despite everything, Mr Darcy still felt some lingering regard for her, it only made both their situations more pitiable.
No man so savagely rejected could ever concede to rekindling such a disastrous acquaintance.
Knowing that did not prevent her from endlessly examining every new morsel of information about him she had gleaned.
It was true. Darcy did speak highly of Miss Elizabeth.
He wondered that such an endorsement had not occurred to him sooner.
Unsure why he did so and deliberately giving it as little thought as possible, Bingley slipped the piece of folded paper she had dropped into his inside coat pocket and went to re-join the cricket.
The same day, London
Though he had intended to call at a more acceptable hour, a brawl at the barracks had waylaid all his plans.
It was, therefore, gone seven in the evening before Colonel Fitzwilliam arrived at Darcy House.
A frequent visitor and one of very few with the privilege of doing so, he declined any attendant and made his way to the study alone.
He found his cousin in a chair before a banked fire, coat and cravat discarded, elbows on his knees, staring into the glass he held in his hands.
“Fitzwilliam.”
It was a cursory greeting and Darcy did not look up as he gave it, though it provided a fair idea of how the interview was to go.
If Fitzwilliam was to treat with him in that state, he thought he ought at least to be on a level footing.
He went first to the sideboard, filled his glass, drained it, refilled it and only then claimed the other fireside seat.
“Must I beg?” he enquired after a full ten minutes of silence.
For the first time, Darcy raised his head. He looked awful. Apart from the obvious gash and bruising to his cheek, his pallor was ashen, his expression grim, and it would seem he had not slept for days. He uttered not a word, only sipped his drink and returned to staring at it.
“Who did that?” Fitzwilliam enquired, gesturing to Darcy’s cheek with his glass.
“No idea. I was not taking note of their names.”
“You were not taking note of much yesterday, it seems. You completely overlooked Georgiana’s distress.”
Darcy winced but held his tongue.
“How many did you fight?”
“Not enough.”
“And whatever it is that troubles you, has it been put to rights by the addition of a bloody great gash to your face?”
Darcy almost spoke several times before throwing back the remainder of his drink and clamping his lips shut.
It was deeply unsettling. Fitzwilliam was not sure he had ever before seen Darcy as discomposed as this.
He stood to retrieve the decanter from the sideboard, refilled both their glasses and set it down within arm’s reach of his chair.
“You know I will assist in any way I can.”
Darcy’s eyes slid closed, and he grimaced as though pained. “You cannot.”
Silence reigned, the daylight ebbed and the fire dwindled.
“Come, man, you are disconcerting me. This is not at all like you.”
Darcy’s lip curled. “Thank God for that.”
“Bloody hell! Darcy, what has got into you?”
Silence.
“Tell me.”
“Go away, Fitzwilliam.”
He leant forwards. “Tell me.”
Darcy snapped his head up, his eyes savage. “What exactly would you have me tell you?”
“Look at you! I would have you tell me what has you sitting in a chair with your face cut up and pissing self-pity into your boots!”