Chapter Twelve
“What a tedious way to spend the evening.” Mr. Hurst poured himself a glass of port—a singular action, considering it was but ten o’clock in the morning.
The decanter caught the light as he lifted it, and the rich liquid glowed a deep garnet before it disappeared into his glass.
Darcy was not certain he had ever seen the man sober.
“A lot of hustle and bustle, and not a single engaging game of cards in sight.”
The breakfast room at Netherfield was, for all its pleasant proportions and airy windows, heavy with the aftertaste of last night’s discontent.
The curtains had been drawn back to admit the pale autumn sun, and a fire crackled with practiced cheer, yet the warmth did nothing to soften the general temper.
Silver clinked, porcelain chimed, and servants moved with careful silence—as if any unnecessary sound might provoke the company further.
While Darcy had guarded the wall at the assembly, Hurst had found the card room, abandoning his wife and the rest of his party in search of his own amusements.
Hurst liked to play for high stakes—Darcy doubted the gentleman found anything of the sort at the country ball.
If he had, Hurst would be in a far better humor now, and the port would have been accompanied by a triumphant recounting of winnings rather than complaint.
“I cannot agree more, my dear.” Mrs. Hurst carefully buttered a scone, her expression a mix of superiority and contempt. She took a bite as though performing a duty rather than enjoying a meal. “There was no elegance or refinement in sight.”
The words were delivered with the ease of rehearsal. Louisa Hurst spoke of elegance in the manner of a woman who had studied it as a language and believed herself fluent, though Darcy privately suspected she could not have defined refinement without first thinking of what she wished to exclude.
“It was a country assembly, Louisa. What more did you expect? You have attended many such events when you stay with Hurst’s family.
Was it truly so different?” Bingley glowered over his cup of strong tea.
The tea was dark enough to rival ink, and he drank it as though willing it to supply backbone.
He did not appear to have slept very well—hardly surprising, considering his sisters had spent the better part of an hour haranguing him after they returned to Netherfield. Darcy had wisely made himself scarce.
Bingley’s good nature endured much, but even he had limits. The faint shadows beneath his eyes and the tightness about his mouth suggested his patience had been taxed more than once before breakfast.
Miss Bingley glided into the room, dressed in attire wholly unsuitable for a morning at home.
Her gown was of fashionable cut and expensive fabric, her hair arranged as though for a call upon a duchess rather than a quiet breakfast with family.
It was an announcement—of energy, of superiority, of intent.
Her glance at Darcy, seen out of the corner of his eye, betrayed her purpose.
He did not meet her gaze but kept his own firmly on his plate.
“We told you last night, Charles, how terribly foolish it was to expect us to attend such an event. Why, poor Mr. Darcy was exhausted from his travels. Have you no consideration?”
The appeal to Darcy’s comfort was too practiced to be sincere. It was meant to shame Bingley, to flatter Darcy, and—perhaps most importantly—to place herself as Darcy’s defender, as though she might thereby secure his gratitude. Darcy felt only fatigue.
“If you mean to repeat any of what you threw at me last night, you had best save your breath to cool your porridge. I have no intention of being so maligned in my own home again. And, if you lot wish for more refined company, feel free to depart for London as soon as your trunks are packed.” Bingley stabbed a forkful of eggs and put the bite in his mouth.
His tone was sharper than Darcy was accustomed to hearing from him, and it did Darcy a strange kind of good. Bingley had always been too ready to please; it was a relief to see him defend his own choices, even if the effort left him flushed and bristling.
Miss Bingley tittered, as though the reprimand were charming rather than cutting. “We could not possibly leave you alone. Why, you would find yourself engaged to some country mouse the moment we departed.”
“I resent your implication that I cannot care for myself.”
His sisters laughed. “Oh, Charles, you danced two dances with Miss Bennet. She is entirely unsuitable.” Mrs. Hurst shook her head. “There was not a single soul of any particular importance in attendance last evening.”
The disdain was not merely for the company, but for the implication that Bingley’s admiration might be genuine.
Darcy watched the exchange with a familiar unease.
It was always thus: Bingley’s heart moved quickly, his sisters’ judgment moved quicker, and the truth of a person was treated as less important than the stamp society might place upon them.
“You know nothing about Miss Bennet.” Bingley’s cheeks turned pink.
So, he has already formed a tendre for his latest angel.
Darcy knew what would happen now. Bingley would lavish attention on the poor lady, engaging her affections and portraying every intention of an attachment, but something new would draw his gaze, and the poor lady would be left alone.
Bingley is his own man. It was not for Darcy to interfere, poor though was the behavior.
And yet Darcy could not help thinking that there had been nothing fickle in Bingley’s attentions last night.
His friend had been struck—not by flirtation, but by gentleness, by beauty unaccompanied by artifice.
If Bingley’s regard endured, it would be because it had roots.
Darcy told himself it would not—because to hope otherwise would be to invite complications he did not wish to manage.
“I shall know Miss Bennet’s true worth within a fortnight,” Miss Bingley vowed. Her eyes glittered with the satisfaction of a woman who believed herself cleverer than everyone present. “You know I have a…particular gift…for discovering pertinent information.”
She smiled as she spoke, and it was the kind of smile that belonged in a drawing room—bright, graceful, and faintly predatory. It made Bingley look away in discomfort, as though he could not decide whether to be amused or ashamed.
She means, I suppose, the Runners she employs.
Darcy’s man had discovered this last season when Miss Bingley’s gossip had ruined a young woman.
The information discovered could only have been unearthed using extreme methods.
Thankfully, no one had traced the rumors to the Bingley household, or Charles would have been ruined.
Darcy did not approve, but if Miss Bingley wished to spend her dowry eliminating her perceived rivals, that was her decision.
The memory pricked at him: the murmurs in London, the sudden chill that had fallen over a once-respected girl, the way reputations could be ruined not by proof but by insinuation whispered to the right ears.
Miss Bingley had possessed no scruple about it, only a cold satisfaction that her rival had been removed.
Darcy had nearly confronted her then—had nearly demanded to know what pleasure she found in such cruelty—but he had held his tongue for Bingley’s sake.
Bingley had been mortified when he learned of it; Miss Bingley had merely laughed.
Miss Bingley’s powers of discovery, however, extended no further than what could be purchased or pried loose by insinuation.
She could listen, inquire, and pay for whispers; she could pursue rumors until they were worn thin and reshaped to her purpose.
But she could not conjure wealth where none announced itself.
The Bennet sisters presented nothing to invite suspicion or ambition—no ostentation in dress, no indulgence in display, no hint of that careless expenditure by which concealed fortunes so often betrayed themselves.
Their gowns were well made but unremarkable, their manners easy without affectation, and their confidence owed more to character than to consequence.
To Miss Bingley’s eye, trained to recognize advantage only when it was proclaimed, such restraint could mean only one thing: that there was nothing worth uncovering.
Whatever secrets these young women possessed lay beyond her reach—not because they were cleverly hidden, but because she never thought to look for what did not first announce its value.
Darcy’s fork paused midway to his mouth.
The thought was uncomfortably apt. Miss Bingley could not imagine a virtue that was not performed for effect, nor a reserve that was not evidence of want.
She would see modesty and assume poverty; see restraint and assume insignificance.
That blindness was, perhaps, her greatest limitation—and her greatest danger to others.
“Besides, Charles, your fortune and position—even your connections—allow you to do more than settle for the daughter of a country gentleman.” Mrs. Hurst’s remonstrations joined her sister’s, piling one argument atop another as though volume might substitute for truth.
“If a person is good, amiable, and sensible—what more should I require? What care I for fortune or connections? I have ample of both.” Bingley’s voice rose, then softened as though he were embarrassed by his own passion. He set down his cup with more force than necessary.