Chapter Twenty-Two #3
He turned to find Miss Bingley standing just within the threshold.
She had changed gowns since the outing, exchanging the deep blue gown she had worn on the picnic for a pale silk trimmed with lace.
It suited her, lending gravity to her appearance and tempering her usual air of studied brilliance. Her expression was unsettled.
“Miss Bingley,” Darcy said evenly. “Is something amiss?”
She hesitated, fingers twisting together briefly before she seemed to gather herself. “May I speak with you? Privately.”
Darcy inclined his head and gestured toward the small seating area near the window.
“Of course.” He was wary, though less suspicious of her intentions since their conversation a week or so prior.
They seated themselves opposite one another.
For a moment, neither spoke. Miss Bingley stared at her gloved hands, then looked up at him with an expression that was—astonishingly—earnest.
“My brother,” she began, then stopped, reconsidering her approach. “Charles has…lost his senses.”
Darcy did not interrupt.
“He told me this evening before supper,” she continued, her voice tight, “that I must convince you to marry me. As soon as possible.”
Darcy stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”
She huffed out a short, incredulous laugh.
“You may imagine my reaction. I told him that even I am not so blind as to believe that ship has not already sailed. I reminded him—quite pointedly—that you are officially courting Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “And his response?”
“That it does not matter,” she said flatly. “That there are ways to convince a man and that affection can be…encouraged.”
Her cheeks went red.
Darcy felt something cold settle in his chest.
“I was scandalized,” Miss Bingley said sharply. “Utterly. I told him that such thinking was beneath us both—and beneath you. I will not be a party to manipulation, nor will I continue to make myself ridiculous by pursuing a gentleman whose regard lies elsewhere. You have made your decision.”
She lifted her chin.
“I left the room after that.”
For a long moment, Darcy could not speak. The implications of her words unfolded slowly, each more troubling than the last.
“Thank you,” he said at last, quietly. “For telling me—for putting me on my guard.”
Miss Bingley’s shoulders eased a fraction, as if she had been bracing for reproach.
“I thought you ought to know. Whatever my faults, I will not take part in such a devious plot, especially after our…discussion.”
Darcy regarded her with new eyes.
Caroline Bingley had long irritated him—her vanity, her barbs, her transparent designs. Yet now, confronted with her composure and clear-eyed rejection of her brother’s scheme, he felt a strange new respect for the lady.
He knew then that she was no danger to him.
She rose.
“I believe I shall play. Music is preferable to silence when I am troubled.”
And with that, she crossed the anteroom and went into the drawing room, seating herself at the pianoforte. Moments later, the opening notes of a restrained, melancholy piece filled the space—something measured, elegant, and entirely unsuited to idle display.
Darcy remained where he was, his thoughts in disarray. If Charles believed marriage—any marriage—could resolve his difficulties, then matters were far worse than Darcy had feared.
“Extraordinary,” drawled a familiar voice.
Hurst appeared in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back, eyes sharp with interest.
“You look like a man who has just been handed a particularly unwelcome truth.”
Darcy did not bother to dissemble. “I have.”
Hurst crossed the room and lowered himself into a chair opposite him without waiting for an invitation.
“Then you will appreciate this.”
He leaned forward slightly.
“I went prying.”
Darcy closed his eyes briefly. “I suspected as much.”
“I overheard my brother speaking with his valet before supper,” Hurst continued. “And then I asked a few careful questions of my own. It seems our friend learned something in town that did not please him.”
Darcy’s attention sharpened. “Go on.”
“He cannot access Caroline’s dowry.”
Darcy exhaled slowly. The situation was precisely what he had expected.
“Whatever arrangements were made,” Hurst said, “they were more restrictive than Bingley believed. Her portion is settled firmly—beyond his reach. And his own funds…”
Hurst’s mouth curved faintly, without humor.
“They are dwindling. Considerably.”
Darcy’s thoughts raced. “How badly?”
“Badly enough that creditors are pressing. Severely enough that he sought relief where he believed it must exist—and found it denied.”
Darcy stared toward the pianoforte, where Miss Bingley played with impeccable control, her face composed, her posture elegant.
If she knew anything of her brother’s difficulties, she gave no sign of it. Indeed, she still behaved as if all were well, and so Darcy believed she knew nothing.
“He believes marriage will save him,” Darcy murmured.
Hurst gave a short, soft huff.
“Or delay the inevitable.”
His gaze fixed on Darcy, keen and unmistakable.
“And he knows precisely whose sense of honor he may rely upon.”
Darcy’s hand curled into a fist.
Bingley had always been generous—too generous. He had spent as though fortune were inexhaustible, trusted as though no one would ever betray him, believed as though consequences were a distant abstraction.
Now they had arrived.
“His behavior is becoming erratic,” Darcy said. “He speaks impulsively, acts without reflection. And now this.”
“This attempt to force you into matrimony?” Hurst snorted. “Yes, I overheard. Desperation will do that to a man.”
Darcy rose and began to pace. “This cannot continue. Netherfield is no longer safe. Not in the sense of peace or propriety. Even though Miss Bingley has declared she will not force me, I shudder to think of what other mischief your brother-in-law will create.”
Hurst watched him closely. “You are thinking of leaving.”
“I am,” Darcy admitted. “At least temporarily. Richard and I could take a house—somewhere nearby, but not here. It would remove us from the worst of this turbulence.”
“And keep the Misses Bennet,” Hurst added dryly, “close at hand for courtship.”
Darcy halted, a wry smile spreading across his face. “Yes.”
He pictured Elizabeth as she had been that afternoon—watchful, thoughtful, weighed down by worries she did not voice.
She did not deserve to be drawn into Bingley’s collapse, nor subjected to schemes born of panic.
Nor did her sister. Miss Bennet deserved to know the truth about the man who courted her.
“I cannot abandon him,” Darcy said quietly. “But I cannot enable this behavior either.”
Hurst stood. “Then distance may be the kindest thing you can offer.”
Darcy nodded, resolve settling at last. “If I am close, he may still call upon me for aid. Perhaps if I am not in the same household, he will finally be willing to speak with me.”
Across the room, Miss Bingley’s music reached its final cadence and faded into silence. Richard and Mrs. Hurst clapped politely as she rose, inclined her head to no one in particular, and withdrew.
Darcy remained by the window long after the others left, staring out into the darkened grounds of Netherfield. The lights glowed steadily, but beneath their warmth lay fracture lines that could no longer be ignored.
Elizabeth Bennet was the future he wished to claim. This house—once a place of promise despite its deficiencies—had become a crucible. Darcy knew that if he did not act soon, the damage would spread far beyond Netherfield’s walls.