Chapter Six The Importance of Being Earnest （and the Unimportance of Being Bingley） #2
"Well, that is a relief! No hard feelings, then. That is splendid." He tapped his fingers on the table. "You know, Darcy, since they are in town, maybe we should call? For old times' sake?"
"You wish to call?"
"Certainly! It would be the polite thing to do. Maybe... oh, I don't know. The calendar is so full right now with Christmas and the New Year balls. Maybe at the end of January? When things calm down? We could pay a morning visit. Keep it brief. Civil."
The end of January.
Darcy stared at his friend. He saw the shallowness of him, the easy charm that covered a lack of any real substance. He saw the man he had idolized for his easy temper, and realized that easy tempers often meant easy detachments.
"The end of January," Darcy repeated. "Yes. That sounds appropriate."
"Excellent!" Bingley beamed. "Now, tell me, have you heard about the new alto at the King's Theatre? Miss Ellington says she is divine."
Darcy stood up. He couldn't do this. He couldn't remain here and listen to Bingley chatter about sopranos while Jane Bennet was nursing a heart this man didn't deserve.
"I must go, Bingley," Darcy said abruptly. "I have a headache."
"Oh. Bad luck, old man. Lemon water helps. Or so Caroline says."
"I shall try it. Goodnight, Bingley."
"Goodnight! And do give my regards to... well, to everyone!"
Darcy walked out of the club and into the cold night air. He felt sick. He felt vindicated. And more than anything, he felt a desperate need to apologize to Elizabeth Bennet—not for separating them, but for thinking so little of her sister that he believed she was the one who didn't care.
Darcy House was quiet when he returned, the frantic energy of the morning replaced by the heavy silence of a sleeping household. He handed his coat to a footman and made for the stairs, intending to go to his study and drink a very large brandy.
"William?"
He looked up. Georgiana was standing at the top of the stairs, wrapped in a dressing gown, a candle in her hand.
"You are awake," he said, climbing the steps heavily.
"I waited for you. You looked distressed when you left." She studied his face as he reached the landing. "It did not go well?"
"It went," Darcy said, "exactly as it should have, which is to say, it was illuminating and entirely depressing."
"Come," she said, taking his hand. "The fire is still lit in my sitting room. Mrs Annesley has gone to bed, but I have tea."
Darcy let himself be led. He felt incredibly old. He sat in a chintz armchair in his sister's private sitting room—a room full of soft colours and music scores—and put his head in his hands.
"Tell me," Georgiana said softly, pouring him a cup of tea.
And he did.
He told her everything. He told her about Netherfield. About watching Bingley fall in love, or lust, with Miss Bennet. About his own observations of Jane Bennet's serenity, which he had mistaken for indifference. About his interference and the alliance with Bingley's sisters.
And he told her about the meeting at the club. About the Shepherdess. About the "end of January."
When he finished, silence filled the room. The fire crackled. Georgiana sat opposite him, her hands folded in her lap, looking not like a child, but like a judge.
"So," she said finally. "You were right."
"I was," Darcy admitted bitterly. "Jane Bennet does not love him anymore—or at least, she shouldn't. And he certainly does not love her, never did. I saved them from a mistake."
"You saved her," Georgiana corrected. "Mr Bingley seems to be saving himself quite happily for the next pretty face."
"I feel like a scoundrel, Georgiana. I meddled. I played God with their lives. And even though the outcome is fortunate, the act itself was arrogant."
"It was," she agreed. She didn't offer platitudes. She didn't say 'you meant well.' She looked him in the eye. "You decided you knew better than they did. That is your great failing, William. You always think you know best."
Darcy flinched. "I know."
"But," she softened, reaching out to touch his knee. "You are also the man who ordered lemon biscuits because a lady liked them once. You are the man who is agonizing over this because you have a conscience."
"What do I do?" he asked. "Miss Elizabeth blames me. She thinks I broke her sister's heart out of malice. If I tell her Bingley doesn't care... it will crush her. It will confirm that her sister is weeping for a man who is currently debating the merits of a Shepherdess costume."
"You cannot protect everyone, William," Georgiana whispered. "You tried to protect me from Wickham, and you succeeded, but I still had to learn the truth. You tried to protect Bingley, and he didn't need it. You tried to protect yourself from Miss Elizabeth, and look where that got you."
"Miserable," he supplied.
"Exactly. So, stop protecting. Start trusting."
Darcy looked at his sister. When had she become so wise? When had the frightened girl from Ramsgate turned into this calm, clear-eyed young woman?
"What would you have me do?" he asked, surrendering his pride to her judgment.
"Do not duel him," she said first, a small smile touching her lips. "I know you are angry with Mr Bingley for being fickle, but violence is not the answer."
"I wasn't planning to duel him. I was planning to shake him."
"Also inadvisable. He is your friend, for better or worse. Accept him for what he is: a pleasant, shallow companion. He is not a villain. He is just... light."
"And Miss Bennet?"
"Miss Bennet," Georgiana said thoughtfully, "seems to be in excellent hands. Did you not see Cousin Robert today?"
Darcy groaned. "I saw him. He was practically sitting in her lap."
"He was attentive. And she was smiling. Robert is a rake, yes, but he is not fickle. If he sets his cap at her... she could do far worse. He has a title, a fortune, and despite his nonsense, a good heart. And he seems to truly see her."
"So I should leave it?"
"No," Georgiana shook her head. "You should do the hardest thing of all. You should talk to Miss Elizabeth."
"Talk to her?"
"Tell her the truth. Not about Bingley's Shepherdess—that is cruel—but about your part in it. Tell her why you did it. Tell her you were wrong about her sister's feelings, but right about your friend's constancy. Give her the truth, William. And let her decide what to do with it."
"She will hate me."
"She might," Georgiana conceded. "But she respects honesty. I saw it in her eyes today. She challenges you because she wants you to be real. So be real."
She stood up and walked over to him, placing a kiss on his forehead. It was a gesture of benediction, of absolution.
"We have the Opera tomorrow," she reminded him. "A box. Music. Darkness. It is the perfect place for secrets."
"Or for disasters."
"Usually both," she smiled. "Now go to bed, Brother. You look like you need your rest."
She left him there, staring into the dying fire.
Darcy sat for a long time. He thought of Bingley and his carefree resolutions. He thought of Miss Bennet and her quiet dignity. He thought of Robert and his determined courtship.
And he thought of Miss Elizabeth.
He would tell her. He would lay it all out—his pride, his interference, his mistakes.
He would hand her the weapon that could destroy him, and he would trust her not to use it.
It was reckless. It was entirely contrary to every rule of the Darcy playbook.
He stood up, extinguished the candle, and went to bed, feeling a strange kind of peace. The manoeuvring was over.