Chapter Nineteen #2
Richard’s tone remained light. “I endured far worse in Spain, Charles. I assure you, a breakfast invitation is not an act of war.”
Bingley rounded on him. “No, it is not. It is strategy.”
Darcy’s head turned sharply. “Strategy?”
“You know precisely what I mean.” Bingley’s eyes flickered, not at Darcy but toward the drawing room—toward the women, toward the scrutiny of the house. “You wish to keep me from her.”
Darcy felt something cold settle in his chest. “From whom?”
“From Miss Bennet,” Bingley said, and there was a possessive edge to his voice that Darcy had never heard before. “You bring Fitzwilliam here and set him upon her like—like some polite hunting dog, and you think I do not see it?”
Richard laughed outright. “Set me upon her? I have never been anyone’s dog, polite or otherwise.”
Bingley did not laugh. He looked instead like he might strike something if he did not speak.
“I am done being managed,” he said hoarsely. “I am done being—guided—like a child. I purchased this estate without you, Darcy, and I will run it without you. I will court whom I please. I will—”
Darcy stepped forward and cut him off. “Not here.”
Bingley’s jaw tightened. “Why not? Are you afraid your cousin will hear the truth?”
“I am afraid,” Darcy said with deliberate calm, “that you will make a spectacle of yourself in front of your household and give your sister fresh ammunition.”
Miss Bingley’s eyes narrowed, but she remained silent—whether from obedience to Bingley’s earlier command or from a desire to listen, Darcy could not tell.
Darcy held Bingley’s gaze a moment longer, then inclined his head toward the study.
“Come,” he said quietly. “If you have grievances, air them where they will not poison the entire house.”
Bingley hesitated, his chest rising and falling too quickly, then gave a sharp nod. “Very well.”
Darcy turned without looking back. He heard Richard’s boots follow a step, then stop.
“You do not need me,” Richard said softly.
“No,” Darcy murmured. “I do not.”
Behind them, the great house continued to breathe—servants moving somewhere out of sight, a faint clink of china from the breakfast room, the hush of carpets swallowing sound.
Darcy could feel the attention that lingered like a scent in the hall.
Miss Bingley would make an account of this the moment she could.
Mr. Hurst would laugh over it later. Even the footmen, no matter how well trained, would remember a master’s raised voice.
In the study, Darcy closed the door firmly.
Bingley did not sit. He paced instead, running a hand through his hair and then yanking it back, as if the motion might restore sense to him. He turned suddenly, eyes bright. “You did it on purpose,” he said.
Darcy did not move. “If you mean I chose to accept an invitation to breakfast, then yes. It was purposeful. I wanted to see Elizabeth.”
Bingley’s mouth opened, then shut again. He seemed genuinely stunned by the bluntness.
“And,” Darcy added, because he would not half-speak it now, “I wanted Richard to have an opportunity to converse with Jane Bennet without you hovering as though she were already your property.”
“She is not property,” Bingley snapped. “She is—she is—”
“Free,” Darcy supplied. “And until you request a courtship and obtain her consent, you have no claim.”
Bingley’s face twisted. “You speak as though I am some villain.”
“I speak as though you are a man in danger of becoming one,” Darcy said coldly.
The words hung between them, heavy and undeniable. Bingley stopped pacing. For a moment he looked younger than Darcy had ever seen him—young not in years but in spirit, the weight he carried having dragged his easy charm into something strained.
“You think I am not worthy of her,” he said quietly.
Darcy exhaled slowly, forcing himself to temper the sharpness that rose instinctively. “I think you are not steady.”
Bingley’s eyes flashed. “And you are?”
“Yes,” Darcy said, and if it sounded arrogant, he could not help it. “I am. Where it matters, I am.”
Bingley’s hands clenched. “You speak as though you are above temptation.”
“I am not above it,” Darcy replied. “But I do not indulge every impulse merely because it pleases me in the moment.”
The silence that followed was taut.
Then Bingley turned away abruptly, as if the conversation itself had become unbearable. He moved to the sideboard, poured himself a glass of brandy with shaking hands, and took a long swallow, though it was hardly yet noon.
Darcy watched the tremor in his fingers. He watched the way Bingley’s shoulders lifted and fell, too fast, as if he were trying to outpace his own thoughts.
“Why,” Darcy asked at last, his voice lower, more controlled, “are you truly angry?”
Bingley froze. For a moment, he did not answer. Then, with a rough laugh that held no humor, he said, “Because I am tired, Darcy.”
“Tired,” Darcy repeated.
“Yes. Tired.” Bingley whirled to face him, eyes bright with frustration. “Do you think I enjoy arguing? Do you think I wanted to stand in that hall and shout like a fool? I have had…matters pressing on me. And you choose now, of all times, to take sides against me.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed. “What matters?”
Bingley’s jaw tightened again. “Estate matters.”
“Then discuss them with me,” Darcy said. “That is why I am here.”
Bingley’s laugh turned sharper. “That is precisely why you are here. Because you believe yourself indispensable.”
Darcy felt his temper stir. “I believe you require counsel, whether you like it or not.”
Bingley flung a hand outward. “You always do this. You always push.”
“Because you always evade,” Darcy returned.
Bingley’s face reddened. “I am not evading.”
“Then tell me,” Darcy said, taking a step closer. “Tell me what has happened.”
For a moment, Bingley looked as if he might refuse out of sheer stubbornness. Then he exhaled hard, dragged a hand down his face, and muttered, “I must go to town.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “To London.”
“Yes,” Bingley said, and his gaze flicked away. “To speak with my man of business.”
Darcy’s stomach tightened. “Why?”
Bingley’s fingers tightened around his glass. “There has been…a mix-up in billing. Or a misunderstanding. I do not yet know.”
Darcy held very still. He kept his voice even by force. “What sort of misunderstanding?”
Bingley’s mouth tightened. “You ask too many questions.”
“I ask the necessary ones,” Darcy said. “Did you receive a letter? An account? A demand?”
Bingley’s eyes flashed. “Stay out of it.”
Darcy stared at him. “Stay out of it,” he repeated softly, as if he could not quite believe those words had come from Charles Bingley, who had once treated Darcy’s advice as a suggestion rather than a constraint.
“I mean it,” Bingley said, and now his voice rose again, edged with panic he could not conceal. “This is my affair. My finances. My estate. You do not get to—”
“I do not get to what?” Darcy cut in, the control in his voice cracking at last. “Protect you? Advise you? Stop you from ruining yourself?”
Bingley’s eyes were wild. “You cannot stop me from anything, Darcy. You have done enough.”
Darcy’s breath caught. “Enough,” he echoed.
Bingley’s face twisted, and the words came out in a rush. “You told me to lease. You told me to be cautious. Yes, you told me—always told me—what to do. As if I am incapable of making a decision without you.”
Darcy’s hands clenched at his sides. “Bingley, you purchased Netherfield at an inflated price without reviewing the accounts. You allowed your sister to order alterations before you even understood the expense. And you dismissed every warning I offered, and now you tell me to stay out of it when you finally discover the consequences.”
Bingley’s chest heaved. For a heartbeat he looked as though he might strike Darcy—not from violence, but from sheer, helpless rage.
Then, abruptly, his anger faltered. His gaze dropped. His voice went quieter, raw. “You do not know what it is like,” he said, “to feel…trapped. To have everyone looking at you and expecting you to be something. To be…solvent, confident, prosperous—when you are not certain you are.”
Darcy’s fury cooled, replaced by a chill understanding.
“You are not solvent,” he said softly. It is as I feared.
Bingley’s shoulders tightened. “I did not say that.”
“You did,” Darcy replied. “Without words.”
Bingley squeezed his eyes shut briefly, then opened them again, jaw rigid. “I will go to town,” he said, almost stubbornly. “There, I will speak with my man of business. I will resolve it.”
“And if it is not easily resolved?” Darcy asked.
Bingley’s eyes flashed. “It will be resolved.”
Darcy stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Charles. Look at me.”
Bingley’s gaze met his, reluctant and resentful.
“You are my friend,” Darcy said, each word measured. “And you have done a foolish thing. Perhaps more than one. I do not say that to humiliate you. I say it because I will not watch you fall and pretend it is none of my concern.”
Bingley swallowed. His fingers trembled again around the glass.
Darcy continued, gentler now, though the urgency remained. “If there is an issue with the accounts—if the purchase has left you strained—if there are debts, then the worst thing you can do is conceal it from those who would help you.”
Bingley’s lips pressed together. “Help,” he muttered. “You mean take control.”
“I wish to keep you from making it worse,” Darcy replied.
Bingley’s eyes hardened again, pride rushing back to fill the gap vulnerability had opened. “I will handle it.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “Then at least allow me to accompany you.”
“No,” Bingley snapped at once. “No. If you come, you will speak for me. You will take over. You will make it look as though I am incapable. I will not have it.”
Darcy’s hands clenched again. The stubbornness was infuriating, but beneath it Darcy could see the fear: fear of being exposed, fear of losing face, fear of being seen as what Darcy had begun to suspect he was—a desperate man who had gambled too much on good fortune and charm.
“Very well,” Darcy said finally, and it cost him to say it.
“Go alone if you insist. But do not dare pretend to me afterward that I ought not to worry.”
Bingley’s shoulders rose and fell. “I do not need you to worry.”
Darcy’s voice sharpened. “You do not get to decide what I feel.”
Bingley flinched as if struck. For a moment, the two of them stood in silence, the crackle of the fire the only sound.
The house beyond the closed door felt far away, Netherfield itself seeming to withdraw to give them privacy for this unraveling.
At last, Bingley set his glass down with a force that sloshed brandy onto the polished wood.
“I will leave this as soon as may be,” he said abruptly.
“I will return tomorrow, or the next day at the latest.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime,” Bingley said, voice tight, “you may continue to do as you please. Breakfasting at Longbourn. Strolling over Oakham Mount. Whispering in Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s ear.” His mouth twisted. “I do not doubt you find it all very diverting.”
Darcy’s expression went cold. “Do not speak meanly of her.”
Bingley’s eyes flashed again, but he stopped himself—perhaps because he saw, at last, how close Darcy’s restraint was to breaking.
“You truly care for her,” Bingley said, quieter.
Darcy did not deny it. “Yes. She is everything to me.”
Bingley’s gaze dropped again, and for a heartbeat Darcy saw something like shame.
Then Bingley straightened, the mask of confidence dragging itself back into place. “I have work to do,” he said curtly. “And you have…whatever it is you are doing.”
He moved toward the door.
“Charles,” Darcy said, and the name held more weight than reprimand.
Bingley paused, hand on the latch, without turning.
“I have never seen you like this,” Darcy said softly. “If you are in trouble—real trouble—then pride will not save you. It will only ensure you drown alone.”
Bingley’s shoulders tensed. For a moment he seemed to waver. Then he yanked the door open and strode out without a reply.
Darcy stood in the study long after the sound of Bingley’s footsteps had faded down the corridor. He listened to the house settle back into its ordinary sounds—servants moving, distant voices, a faint laugh from somewhere that made his teeth ache with irritation.
He stared at the brandy spill on the sideboard as though it were an omen.
So, this was the truth beneath Bingley’s easy charm: not malice, but fear; not cruelty, but selfishness born of panic; not wickedness, but a recklessness that could ruin not only himself but anyone who trusted him.
Darcy closed his eyes briefly and thought of Jane Bennet—sweet, patient Miss Bennet—whose heart might be caught in the undertow of Bingley’s instability. He thought of Elizabeth, with her fierce moral clarity and her tender loyalty, who would not forgive herself if her sister were hurt.
The world, Darcy realized with a cold, steady certainty, was turning volatile. He opened his eyes, drew a slow breath, and began to plan. Because whatever Bingley wished, Darcy could not “stay out of it.” Not when the consequences were already gathering like storm clouds over Hertfordshire.