Chapter 9 In Love and War #4
Bingley haphazardly refilled his glass, dropped the decanter back down on his desk and gulped another mouthful of port.
His evening had been pleasant enough. Mrs Bennet had served as many of his favourite dishes as the season allowed.
Jane’s sisters had entertained him all evening with lively music and dancing.
Caroline and Louisa had grimaced their way through the whole thing, managing to offend no one.
Another larger gulp. Jane had bestowed upon him more smiles tonight than in the whole two months since his return to Hertfordshire.
He wished they had found more time together, for their single kiss had been disappointingly brief and all their attempts at conversation curtailed by one or other of their neighbours.
Indeed, every person there had seemed covetous of their attention, and Jane determined to please them all.
He tipped the remainder of his drink down his throat, poured another, quaffed half of that and returned to staring at the sheet of paper in his hand. The blue and orange crayon sketch blurred before his eyes. His head fell back, and the room swam out of focus.
“Mr Bingley? Mr Bingley, are ya dead?”
His eyes flew open, and they were greeted by the same sight as that upon which they had closed. “Lizzy!”
“Amelia, Sir,” Elizabeth replied, which was confusing to say the least.
He sat up and shook his head—and immediately regretted it. “What are you doing here?”
“Cleaning.”
“Cleaning? What? Oh!” Blast it—the maid!
“Beggin’ your pardon, Mr Bingley, sir. I wouldn’t ’ave woken you, only I thought you’d taken ill. I think you’ve been ’ere all night.”
“Not at all, Liz—Eliz—Emily—”
“Amelia.”
“Quite.” He ran a hand through his hair, mortified. “It is very good of you to be concerned.”
The maid blushed and bit her lip prettily. “’Tis very good o’ you not to be angry with me, sir.” She curtsied but then seemed to hesitate, regarding him with eyes that felt too familiar for comfort.
“Thank you,” he mumbled then dismissed her before confusion and his pounding head overwhelmed him.
The moment the study door closed behind her, his forehead hit the desk.
Elizabeth’s crayon-brown eyes stared up at him, one blue eyebrow quirked as though waiting for him to explain himself.
He could not and, instead, surrendered once more to oblivion.
Friday 26 June 1812, London
At precisely seven o’clock on Friday evening, Darcy’s carriage arrived in Portman Square to collect Elizabeth and Georgiana.
It then continued on to Mr and Mrs Gardiner’s establishment in Cheapside, whereupon the postillion promptly lost his way, having never once ventured into that part of the city.
It was, therefore, somewhat later than anticipated that the party of four was delivered to Darcy House.
As their conveyance drew into the gated driveway, Elizabeth stole a glance at her aunt and uncle.
They had yet to meet her intended or see her new London home, and she privately suspected their determined reasonableness on the subject of both to be a mote affected.
She turned away to conceal a smile when Mrs Gardiner’s mouth dropped open, and Mr Gardiner pursed his lips in a silent whistle.
She had no intention of becoming proud of her new situation, but there was some satisfaction to be had in astonishing her typically phlegmatic relatives.
Darcy met them himself at the door, expressing his relief to see them safely arrived.
She introduced him to the Gardiners, whom he greeted with a humility she comprehended as being recompense for his previous censure.
She was only grateful that he should know she had some relations for whom there was no need to blush.
Divertingly, it could not be said the reverse was true, for Mrs Gardiner had been in high colour since first setting eyes on Darcy.
Not wishing to embarrass either of them, Elizabeth said nothing of it, though she could not help but triumph at having a husband for whom there was every need to blush.
“About time!” exclaimed an elderly lady almost before they set foot through the door of the parlour to which Darcy led them.
“I was beginning to despair of having any conversation worth the while. Between Mr Darcy’s incessant brooding over your tardiness and Thirson’s incessant teasing over Mr Darcy’s broodiness, my evening thus far has been distinctly underwhelming. ”
Darcy’s countenance darkened, and Georgiana was visibly shocked, but a close connection with Mrs Bennet inured one to brash behaviour, making Elizabeth and the Gardiners far more disposed to be diverted. All three of them laughed.
“May I introduce my grandmother, Mrs Tabitha Sinclair,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, seeming equally amused. “If I may, Darcy? Grandmother, this is Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Pray, call me Lizzy,” Elizabeth offered.
“Call me anything you choose, dear, as long as you are sitting on my right,” she replied. “I am deaf as a post in that ear.”
Mr Gardiner chuckled, Darcy interceded to perform the remaining introductions, and Elizabeth drew a smile from Mrs Sinclair by choosing the seat on her left. That put her on the Colonel’s right, and she fixed him with a suspicious grin. “Thirson?”
“It is an abbreviation of Third Son,” Mrs Sinclair answered for him. “His eldest brother was christened ‘Albert,’ nicknamed ‘Alby’ within the year and styled ‘Ashby’ before his second birthday when his father was awarded the viscountcy. I resorted to numbering the rest of them.”
“You are the third son of three?” Elizabeth asked him.
He confirmed that he was and took some time sketching his eldest brother’s character and that of his ‘ghastly’ future sister, the soon-to-be Lady Ashby.
“And your second brother?”
“Was lost at sea.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon!” she exclaimed, mortified to have brought up such a painful subject, even though he was splaying his hands and smiling with the evident intent of reassuring her.
“He was fairly lost when he was on land,” said Mrs Sinclair. “He never stood a chance on a boat. I always said he should have gone into the Church.”
Thus, the tone for the evening was set, and a vastly enjoyable evening it transpired to be.
Darcy was as unreserved as Elizabeth had ever seen him in company.
Despite having come to understand him better, to see him thus amazed her still.
It may have been the glass of sherry in which she indulged after dinner, but she rather thought the warm feeling that suffused her as she watched him speaking with her uncle later that evening, was her falling further in love with him.
He happened to look at her as she thought it, and the intensity of her affection made her suddenly breathless.
She held his gaze and mouthed, I love you.
His countenance barely moved, but she perfectly comprehended the sentiment behind the small, private smile he sent her.
“Do you? What a shame,” said Mrs Sinclair beside her.
“Pardon?”
“I may be deaf, but I can lip read as well as the next person. You just said you love him.”
“And why is that a shame?”
“Because I had high hopes of finding you more sensible. Are you going to disappoint me after all and prove foolish and sentimental?”
“If such things as folly and sentiment disappoint you, then it is very probable, yes. Though, if it will ease your mind, I have no objection to acknowledging a fine streak of impertinence.”
“Perfect!” Mrs Sinclair broke into a toothy grin and turned to call across the room. “Mr Darcy, have you any gin? I feel a thirst coming on.”
Darcy looked over, a knowing smile playing about his lips. “I did warn you, madam.”
Comprehending that she was not party to their joke, but satisfied she had passed some manner of test, Elizabeth turned to the conversation on the opposite sofa in time to hear Georgiana say, “Lizzy was wonderful. I should have been terrified to be asked so many questions by so many strangers.”
“Miss Darcy is telling me about your trip to the theatre,” her aunt explained. “You were well received I hear?”
“Well enough. Nobody was uncivil at least. No doubt, I disappointed them all by not being dressed in rags. Oh, but there was one gentleman there whose acquaintance I was particularly happy to make—Darcy’s friend, Mr Montgomery. He is very amiable.”
“And exceptionally useful, so I understand from Darcy,” Fitzwilliam said.
“Aye!” she agreed, briefly explaining for everybody else Mr Montgomery’s part in uniting her with Darcy.
“It is so sad that he should be a widower at such a young age, though,” said Georgiana.
“Is he?” Fitzwilliam cried.
“He is,” Darcy confirmed. “His wife died the year after they arrived in India. The man is in an unenviable state of limbo. He has returned to England in possession of an infant son with no mother and a considerable fortune with no estate.”
“No estate?” Mrs Sinclair enquired. “I understood the Montgomerys owned Stortley Castle?”
“His father gambled away every brick,” said Fitzwilliam. “And then died.”
“Not quite as useful as his son, then?”
Fitzwilliam snorted. “Perhaps if Montgomery is in possession of both fortune and heir but wants for land and a wife, he could marry Anne and save me the bother.”
“His uses multiply!” Mrs Sinclair exclaimed.
“What is this?” Darcy enquired.
“Lady Catherine has set her sights on Thirson now that her preferred suitor is no longer available.”
Other than pressing his lips together very slightly, Elizabeth thought Darcy did an admirable job of concealing his amusement.
“Matlock would never consent to it,” he said.
“I do not know,” his cousin replied. “My aunt likes to have her way very well.”
“True, but Montgomery has had misfortune enough. Pray, find another dupe to saddle with such a mother.”