Chapter 9
WHERE MR BINGLEY EATS PASTRY AND TALKS A VAST DEAL.
While Bingley was in very good spirits the following morning, the same could not be said for Darcy. When he summoned his valet, the hour was closer to noon than nine and his disposition was far from pleasant.
He performed his morning ablutions, dressed, and half an hour later entered the breakfast parlour, where he made his way to the sideboard.
The fare he found there did little to tempt him.
Bingley’s penchant for sweets bordered on obsession.
It was an obsession Darcy did not share, at least not at the breakfast table.
He shook his head, distastefully eyeing a gleaming silver platter piled high with assorted pastries.
Resigned to the fact there would be no bacon or eggs that morning, he selected a poached pear and some toast instead, poured himself a cup of coffee, and claimed a chair beside his friend at the table.
Miss Bingley, Darcy noted, was blessedly absent. His grim mood improved.
“Are you planning on eating anything besides that pile of toast?” Bingley asked as he spread an inordinate amount of butter on a sticky-looking pastry and took a hearty bite.
Darcy observed him with equal parts fascination and revulsion. “Bingley, you do realise that pastry must be made almost entirely of butter. Surely, you will make yourself ill by adding more.”
“Codswallop,” Bingley proclaimed around a mouthful of pastry. “Cook has outdone herself. You have no idea what you are missing.”
“Most likely a stomach ache and apoplexy,” Darcy muttered as he took a bite of his toast and reached for the London newspaper.
Bingley clucked his tongue in disapproval. “I was not going to say anything but since you seem to be in a critical frame of mind this morning, I believe I shall follow your example and confess that I am disappointed in you.”
“Are you?” Darcy remarked dryly. He raised his coffee cup to his lips and turned his attention to an article about the war.
“Indeed, I am. You promised most faithfully that you would dance at the assembly last night, yet you did nothing to honour your word. It was most unseemly.”
Darcy set his cup upon the table and made a show of straightening his newspaper. If he ignored Bingley, perhaps he would simply stop speaking and leave him in peace.
“Darcy,” said his friend exasperatedly. “You promised you would dance!”
With a long-suffering exhalation, Darcy folded his newspaper in half and tossed it onto the table, where it landed with a muffled slap.
“After spending more than half the day confined to a coach, then waiting countless hours while your sister readied herself, I was no longer in the mood, Bingley. Fault me for it if you like, but you cannot deny I did an admirable job of exerting myself with your neighbours, despite my deficiency. I spoke with Mr Goulding of husbandry, to Mr Pruitt and Mr Wiley of politics, to Mr Thatcher regarding the state of the roads and the likelihood of a harsh winter and, to my detriment, I indulged old Mrs Long and her sister for a quarter hour while she complained of her rheumatism. It was only afterwards that she recalled I was single and rich and summoned her nieces, who, owing to an insufficient number of ladies in attendance, were engaged for the rest of the night. I was hardly idle.”
Shaking his head, Bingley reached for his teacup. “It was an assembly, for heaven’s sake. Conversation is well and good, but one is expected to dance at an assembly. But did you? The answer to that question is a resounding no. Not. Even. Once.”
Darcy rolled his eyes.
“While I applaud your efforts with my neighbours, you essentially ignored Miss Elizabeth Bennet! Glaring at her from across the room while she danced hardly counts. It was not terribly gallant of you, especially after you told me in London you would make a point of asking her to stand up with you. Now you have slighted her twice.”
“I did no such thing,” Darcy replied irritably. “Had Miss Elizabeth shown any inclination for my society at any point during the evening, I can assure you things would have turned out differently. As it was, she appeared to be much in demand, particularly with your new friend.”
At the mention of Ellis, Bingley’s countenance brightened considerably.
He plucked another pastry from his plate.
“I noticed that as well. I cannot blame the chap one bit, you know. Miss Elizabeth was in excellent looks last evening, even you cannot deny it. I daresay she looked very pretty indeed.”
“She looked extremely well,” Darcy allowed, hoping his friend would soon tire of the topic.
Bingley did not. “I confess I find the idea of an attachment between my future sister and my new friend delightful! In fact, I am hard-pressed to think of a more deserving gentleman to call my brother should a certain happy event take place. Well, except for you, of course, but many years have passed since I have entertained any hope of that possibility. After all, if you have not paid your addresses to Caroline by now, there is little chance of so intimate a connexion between us ever coming to fruition, eh?”
“Not unless I make an offer to another of your sisters,” Darcy muttered darkly.
Bingley choked on a mouthful of pastry.
Darcy felt the colour drain from his face.
For eight-and-twenty years he had been the soul of discretion, yet suddenly he had an appalling lack of it.
He reached for his coffee cup and downed the contents simply to have something to do.
Perhaps Bingley would leave well-enough alone, or at the very least have the decency to continue to choke on his croissant.
Bingley did neither.
“Another of my sisters!” Errant bits of pastry decorated his waistcoat and the lapels of his jacket.
“Have you completely taken leave of your senses? Hurst may very well like his port, but even he has not fallen so far off the wagon that he would fail to notice another man engaged in a dalliance with his wife! In fact, I would wager a good deal of my fortune that my brother-in-law would call you out over it—and I cannot say that I would blame him one bit! Make Louisa an offer! Why, I am of a mind to call you out myself!”
“Louisa?” That Bingley could think for one moment he was interested in Louisa Hurst was as incredible as it was appalling.
Despite the fact she was married, the turn of her mind made Eliza Harrow seem brilliant in comparison.
“For the love of God, Bingley,” he said indignantly, “in all the years you have known me, when have I ever shown the slightest inclination to entangle myself with a married woman, let alone either of your sisters!”
Bingley stared at him. His facial expressions ran a gambit of emotions—stupefied, furious, and indignant.
A full minute passed.
Darcy glared at him.
Suddenly, Bingley erupted into laughter. “Darcy!” he exclaimed. “You trickster! You very nearly had me going with that bag of moonshine.”
Darcy blinked at him, utterly perplexed.
Wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, Bingley shook his head and reached for his teacup. Upon finding it empty, he discarded it. He glanced at Darcy and nearly started laughing again. “Oh, come now, man. How thick do you think I am?”
Darcy had no idea how to answer him and so remained silent.
Chuckling, Bingley rolled his eyes. “Obviously, you cannot expect me to believe you intend to pay court to one of the Bennets.”
“What the deuce is that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, they are tolerable I suppose,” Bingley drawled, his tone reminiscent of Darcy’s haughty baritone, “but not handsome enough to tempt me.”
Darcy felt a flush of heat spread from the back of his neck to the tips of his ears. “I had not thought you capable of holding such a low opinion of anyone, Bingley, let alone your future sisters, especially Miss Elizabeth Bennet, who has long been the particular favourite of your future wife.”
“I have always had nothing but the highest opinion of the Bennets—Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth in particular, as you well know. You, on the other hand…”
Darcy became angry. “I hardly think—”
“No, you do not think, and therein lies the root of the problem. Tell me, who knows better than I your opinions on the matter? Who knows better than I your initial disapproval regarding my attachment to Miss Bennet last year? Given the callous manner with which you have dismissed the entire family in the past, I would wager no person within fifty miles of Hertfordshire would believe you would consider courting one of Mrs Bennet’s daughters, especially now that her youngest is wed to a man you despise. ”
“George Wickham,” said Darcy darkly, “has absolutely no—”
Again, Bingley interrupted him. “I know. I know. You, more than anyone, have just cause to hate Wickham, but that is beside the point. The entire village has long known how fervently you dislike the blackguard, so you can hardly hold me—or anyone else—accountable for disbelieving it is within your power to see past that offence, my friend.”
Darcy turned aside his head, though whether he did so mostly in umbrage or shame he could not say.
Bingley’s chastisement of his past behaviour brought back countless unpleasant memories of how Darcy had once conducted himself, not only in the company of Elizabeth and the Bennets, but in Hertfordshire society in general.
He was as disappointed in himself as he was disgusted.
“Forgive me.” He said no more. He did not trust his voice not to falter.