Chapter Twenty-Two #2
“Deeper,” Bingley insisted. “If there is anything of value, it will not lie so near the surface.”
A few obeyed.
Others did not.
And for the first time, something like resistance entered the air.
A few bronze coins. Broken pottery—nothing that justified the frenzy. But the damage had been done. Feverish searches for Roman gold would continue for who knew how long.
At least until the populous grew bored—or until something more dangerous took hold.
Darcy could only hope that some other diversion might soon seize the attention of the locals.
But hope, he suspected, would not be sufficient.
Darcy found himself walking beside Elizabeth later that afternoon.
The others had drifted ahead in small clusters, their conversation carrying easily on the mild air, but he was aware only of Elizabeth at his side—the unhurried cadence of her step, the lightness with which she moved over uneven ground.
“You have said very little this afternoon,” she observed, glancing at him.
“I have been listening.”
“To my sister?” she asked, with a hint of teasing.
“To you.”
The answer seemed to give her pause. She looked ahead again, though not before he caught the faintest shift in her expression—something quieter than amusement.
“I cannot think I have said anything of consequence.”
“On the contrary,” he returned, “you have said a great deal that is worth attending to.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved, though her gaze remained forward. “You are very determined to improve my opinion of you, sir.”
“I had not thought it required improvement.”
She glanced at him then, properly this time, and there was something in her look that held—longer than politeness required.
“No,” she said softly. “Perhaps not.”
Jane Bennet had never disliked a picnic before, though she quickly discovered that she disliked this one very much.
From the moment the first spade struck the earth, she had sensed the tension beneath the laughter—the strain of expectation pressing against every smile.
She had tried, as she always did, to soothe, to listen, and to offer gentle conversation whenever excitement threatened to overtake civility.
It had not been enough.
She watched Bingley carefully as the afternoon unfolded.
His cheerfulness possessed a brittle edge, and his laughter rang a little too loudly.
Each small discovery brought a spark to his eyes that faded almost as quickly as it appeared.
By the time the final guests lingered over the remains of luncheon, his disappointment had become impossible to miss.
Worse still, his attention—once so constant in its focus upon her—no longer rested there.
Instead, it moved with restless calculation, following every report, every rumor, and every suggestion of where the next discovery might lie.
Jane felt the change keenly.
She had been speaking with Colonel Fitzwilliam near the trees when Mr. Bingley approached, his expression darkened.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, his tone sharp. He reached for her hand as he spoke, not waiting for her leave, his grasp tightening just enough to be noticed before he released her again with a laugh that did not quite ring true.
“Yes,” Jane replied honestly, though cautiously, for her conversation was enjoyable. “It has been…interesting.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam excused himself with tact, leaving them alone. She felt the loss almost immediately.
Bingley did not look after him kindly. “You appear very much at ease with him,” he said.
Jane stiffened. “Colonel Fitzwilliam has been most agreeable.”
“So I have observed.” His mouth tightened. “Perhaps you prefer a man who speaks of battles rather than compliments?”
Jane met his gaze steadily. “I prefer a gentleman who speaks with respect.”
The words hung between them.
Bingley flushed. “I meant no offense.”
“Intent does not erase effect,” Jane said gently, though her heart pounded. “You spoke ill of him—it was unkind.”
Bingley looked away. “You have changed.”
Jane’s chest tightened. “No. I have not.”
Silence stretched.
At last, Bingley said, more softly—but with something strained beneath it, “I had thought the matter already understood between us.”
Jane’s voice trembled despite her efforts to keep it steady. “If you wished to claim my regard, you ought to have asked for it.”
Mr. Bingley’s face closed.
For a moment, she thought he might speak again—might soften, might apologize.
Instead, something hardened.
He said nothing more, turning away abruptly.
Jane watched him go, a knot forming in her chest. Had she hurt him? The thought distressed her deeply. She disliked pain—particularly when she might be the cause of it. Still, she could not regret speaking honestly.
Before she could retreat far into her thoughts, Colonel Fitzwilliam rejoined her, his expression lighter than the moment perhaps warranted, though his eyes were attentive.
“I hope I did not abandon you too thoroughly,” he said with an easy smile. “Though I confess, I thought it best to give you the field.”
Jane returned the smile, though faintly. “You were quite right.”
His gaze darted, just briefly, in the direction Bingley had gone, then back to her. “A crowded field can be more perilous than a battlefield, in its way,” he said lightly. “One never knows when one might be taken unawares.”
Jane laughed softly, the sound a welcome release of tension. “I cannot imagine such danger at a picnic.”
“No?” he said, amused. “Then you have been fortunate indeed. Still, a soldier learns quickly what it is to be seized unexpectedly.”
At her look of mild surprise, he added, with playful courtesy, “You must allow me one small demonstration—purely in the interest of your continued safety, of course.”
Jane hesitated only a moment before inclining her head. “If it is so very necessary.”
“It is, I assure you, a matter of the gravest importance,” he said, though his tone was warm with humor. He reached for her hand—this time with deliberate gentleness—and positioned it lightly. “If someone were so ungentlemanlike as to take hold in this manner—”
He paused, allowing her to follow the placement, then guided her through the motion.
“It is not strength that frees you,” he continued, his voice quieter now, more instructive than teasing. “Only direction.”
With a small, controlled movement, he showed her how easily the grip might be broken.
Jane’s brows lifted. “That is…surprisingly effective.”
“I am gratified to have your approval,” he said, releasing her at once. “Though I hope you will never have cause to employ it.”
“So do I,” Jane replied, though something in her expression had shifted—not alarm, but thoughtfulness.
Colonel Fitzwilliam inclined his head. “Shall we return before our absence is remarked upon?”
Jane nodded, and together they made their way back toward the others.
As the afternoon dwindled, Jane sat quietly with Elizabeth, who had spent much of the picnic with Mr. Darcy, the sounds of departure fading around them.
“Did I do wrong?” Jane asked softly as she explained what had occurred.
Elizabeth took her hand. “No.”
Jane breathed out slowly, though doubt lingered.
She did not wish to wound Mr. Bingley, but she could not ignore the quiet truth settling within her: admiration was not enough. Kindness without understanding left her lonely.
And as she glanced toward Colonel Fitzwilliam—who stood nearby, speaking earnestly with Mr. Darcy—Jane wondered whether affection, when grounded in mutual respect, might yet find its proper course, even if the path toward it proved painful for others along the way.
The lamps in the drawing room were lit earlier than usual, though the hour scarcely required it.
Outside, the lingering warmth of the day had given way to a restless dusk—too mild for autumn, yet too heavy for comfort.
The windows stood slightly open, but the air within Netherfield remained close, the house itself seeming to hold its breath.
Darcy felt the oppressive atmosphere keenly, and nowhere more acutely than at supper.
Bingley arrived late, his apology delivered in haste and without his customary warmth, giving the impression of a formality rather than a genuine courtesy.
He took his seat with little ceremony and ate with even less appetite.
His attention wandered in fits and starts, never settling upon his companions for long.
When replies were required, they were clipped.
When smiles were attempted, they possessed a brittleness that did not escape notice.
The others at table were largely ignored, though Richard’s easy levity drew more than one sharp glance from him—quickly suppressed, but no less revealing for its brevity.
Even Miss Bingley’s efforts to animate the table—so often equal to the task—proved unequal to the evening.
She spoke too brightly, laughed too quickly, and cast repeated glances toward her brother that went unanswered, each one lingering a moment longer than the last, as if she might yet coax him back into himself.
Darcy watched it all with growing concern.
Charles Bingley had always worn his emotions openly; it was one of his most appealing qualities.
Yet now there was something unmoored in his manner—an edge that hinted at desperation rather than disappointment.
He rose from the table almost as soon as the last course was cleared, muttered something about fatigue, and left the room without waiting for the ladies to rise.
Miss Bingley’s gaze followed him, her eyes narrowing.
“Well,” Hurst murmured, draining his wine, “that was delightful.”
Mrs. Hurst shot her husband a warning look, but said nothing.
Darcy excused himself soon after, claiming a need for fresh air.
In truth, he wished only to distance himself from the oppressive atmosphere that had settled over Netherfield like a fog.
He had not gone far—only to the small anteroom adjoining the drawing room—when he heard his name spoken softly behind him.
“Mr. Darcy.”