Chapter Twenty-One
Darcy had no chance to speak with his friend.
Bingley’s departure was managed with a haste that bordered on evasion.
He announced his intention to go to London to “see to business” only after he had nearly finished his breakfast, and before any response could be properly formed, he had risen, given a few hurried civilities, and quit the room.
By the time Darcy might have contrived a private word, Bingley was already calling for his curricle.
Miss Bingley and her sister exchanged looks of confusion, while Hurst merely leveled a knowing expression in Darcy’s direction.
Darcy watched through the breakfast room windows as the carriage swept down the gravel drive, the wheels biting at the pale stone with brisk impatience.
Though he had already broken his fast at Longbourn, he had joined the others there without delay, intending to speak with Bingley before his departure—but he had arrived only in time to witness the conclusion of it.
His cousin had followed him in, a cheerful grin on his face that would surely have infuriated their host had there been leisure to notice it.
The late morning was bright enough to suggest cheer, but the air held that thin autumn edge that promised winter without quite committing to it.
Bingley’s hasty retreat sat ill upon the scene.
There had been no affectionate lingering, no genial parting at the door, no promises shouted back over the shoulder.
He had eaten with clear haste, spoken of his intention more quickly still, and vanished, giving the impression that the very walls of Netherfield had become accusatory.
So, he has fled, Darcy thought, his mouth tightening as the carriage disappeared beyond the tree line.
Or he has gone to do what must be done and will not permit anyone to witness the doing of it.
Miss Bingley’s fork hovered above her plate long after her brother had gone, her hand momentarily forgetting its purpose.
Mrs. Hurst’s gaze drifted to the doorway and back again, her expression composed but faintly puzzled.
Hurst, however, looked entirely untroubled—indeed, almost pleased.
He sipped his tea with deliberate leisure, his eyes flicking toward Darcy with that same knowing look he had worn when last they spoke, as if they now shared a private understanding neither lady could fathom.
Darcy forced himself to lift his cup and drink. The tea was perfectly brewed, but somehow it tasted of nothing at all.
“Well,” Richard said with cheerful decisiveness, as though Bingley’s absence were no more significant than a change in weather, “what say you to calling on the ladies of Longbourn this afternoon, Darcy?” Richard grinned, clearly pleased to have his rival out of the way for a few days.
“I am all for it.” Darcy set his cup down with care and turned to the others at the table. “Would any of you care to join us?” Despite having seen Elizabeth just that morning, he wished to be with her again as soon as may be.
Mrs. Hurst expressed her enthusiasm for the idea, as did her husband. “Mrs. Bennet sets a fine table,” the gentleman declared. “Or so I have heard. I am eager to partake in her hospitality.”
There was a faint scrape as Miss Bingley placed her fork down more firmly than necessary. Her lips pursed, and she glanced toward the empty seat where her brother had sat, as if willing him to reappear and reclaim his place in the conversation.
“If they deign to invite us to dine.” Miss Bingley’s retort was slightly censorious.
“Oh, she will. Two such eligible gentlemen paying court to her daughters—she could not resist.” Hurst chuckled and sipped his tea. He did it with the air of a man delivering a simple fact, though his eyes glittered as if the entire situation amused him.
Richard’s brows rose, and his grin softened into something more pointedly polite. “Mrs. Bennet has ever behaved with decorum and circumspection,” Richard reminded Hurst. “Though she is very enthusiastic at the prospect of marrying her daughters off to ‘eligible gentlemen,’ as you call us.”
Hurst lifted his glass in a lazy sort of salute. “I meant no insult to the lady,” he said, the faintest edge of humor still in his voice. “Only that enthusiasm is difficult to disguise when it is the very marrow of one’s existence.”
Mrs. Hurst gave her husband a sharp look that might have been reproach. “Hurst,” she warned, though there was little heat in it.
“I speak plainly,” he said, unrepentant. “It is one of my few virtues.”
Darcy’s attention wandered as he contemplated his dear Elizabeth. Every moment away from her vibrancy, her zest for life, brought pain. How long until I can propose? he wondered.
It was an absurd question to ask so soon.
He had asked for a courtship, secured Mr. Bennet’s permission, and still he found himself restless, as if the future might slip away if he did not grasp it at once.
Elizabeth’s laugh haunted him—light and quick, but never empty.
Her very being made the world feel sharper, more honest. Even now, with Bingley’s troubles pressing at the edges of every thought, Darcy could not keep Elizabeth from the center of his mind.
If I had her beside me now, he thought, I could breathe.
Lost in his thoughts, it was some time before he realized Miss Bingley had moved to sit beside him. The scent of her perfume—something floral and too insistent—caught at the edge of his senses.
Immediately on his guard, he addressed her politely. She returned the greeting, and when the others were absorbed in their conversation, she spoke.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said hesitantly. Miss Bingley paused and cleared her throat nervously. “Sir, I am unsure how to go about what I must say without causing offense…or embarrassing myself.”
Darcy’s spine stiffened. He kept his expression neutral, though inwardly he braced. Caroline Bingley did nothing without calculation, and he had come to expect every word from her to be either a weapon or a snare.
He gave the slightest nod of his head. “You may speak freely, Miss Bingley,” he said, ever cautious. “I shall not take offense where none is intended.”
Her fingers tightened around her napkin. Darcy noticed the telltale white at her knuckles. For a moment, she looked not the assured, glittering creature of London drawing rooms, but a woman—young, uncertain, perhaps even frightened of her own vulnerability.
“Sir, I am sure you are aware that I had certain…expectations.” Her voice was quiet, pitched so low it could not easily carry beyond him.
“I believed us to be well-suited and designed for each other. I know now how very wrong I was. After seeing your…accord with Miss Elizabeth, I cannot help but see the difference in your manner to me.”
Darcy gaped. For an instant, he could not summon words. He had anticipated sharp insinuations, not…this.
“Miss Bingley, I am very sorry if I ever gave the impression—”
She raised a hand, effectively cutting him off. “No, sir, you never behaved with anything other than the utmost propriety. It was I who saw more than truly existed.” She took a breath, and her chin lifted, though not in its usual hauteur. “I am happy for you, and I hope we can be friends.”
The room seemed to tilt slightly. Darcy searched her face for mockery, for a concealed barb.
He found none. There was only earnestness, and something like weary acceptance.
It was as if something within her had deflated.
This behavior was so different from what he had come to expect in Miss Bingley that he did not know what to say.
“Friends,” he repeated awkwardly. “Yes, I believe that is acceptable.”
It was a miserable thing to say—flat, inadequate—but it was honest. Friendship with Caroline Bingley would never be effortless.
If she truly meant what she had said, if she truly intended to withdraw her pretensions and treat him with civility, then perhaps the remainder of his time at Netherfield might be bearable.
She looked very relieved, rising and excusing herself from the room. Her departure was brisk, as if she feared that if she lingered, she might regret having spoken at all.
Darcy stared after her, equal parts stunned and bemused.
Hurst made a low sound of amusement, as if he had been watching a play and had just been rewarded with an unexpected twist.
“Well, it would seem you have no need to worry about my sister any longer, eh, Darcy?” Hurst chuckled. “You have given her barely any attention since your arrival. It has been very entertaining to watch her brooding.”
Darcy blinked and forced himself back into the moment. “If she continues as she just demonstrated, I believe it will be no trial to be around her.” Darcy shrugged, feigning nonchalance while battling the very great shock Miss Bingley’s behavior had caused.
Mrs. Hurst’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Caroline can be…intense,” she said, weighing each word with care. “But she is not without sense. She may have finally realized the futility of continuing as she has.”
Hurst snorted softly. “Or she may have realized the danger of offending a man who no longer has patience for flattery.”
Richard’s grin returned, bright and untroubled. “Then all is as it should be.” He pushed away from the table. “Shall we go to Longbourn at one o’clock?”
Darcy’s heart gave a traitorous leap at the mention of Longbourn. One o’clock. Far enough that the morning might feel endless, yet near enough that he could hold the thought like a promise.“
Yes,” Darcy said, more quickly than he intended. He cleared his throat and steadied his tone. “One o’clock will do.”
Mrs. Hurst nodded at once, already rising. “Then I shall send word to my maid,” she said briskly. “If we are to call, I must ensure my appearance is not…too rural.”
Hurst gave her a languid look. “You will be perfectly tolerable even without London’s approval, my dear.”