Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
“Mr. Darcy, good morning.” Miss Bingley’s saccharine smile was the last thing Darcy wished to see first thing in the morning.
Her perfume wafted toward him—overly sweet, cloying—and it was all he could do to suppress the look of distaste that threatened to betray him before he had fully fortified himself with food.
“Good morning,” he replied with practiced civility as he filled a plate from the sideboard.
Good heavens—it was nearly midday. He rarely kept such hours.
Town habits crept in like weeds when one was not vigilant, and Miss Bingley and the Hursts positively encouraged them.
Darcy had requested a light repast in his chambers when he rose shortly after six, but the morning’s restlessness had left him in need of something more substantial.
He selected eggs, cold beef, and bread with deliberate care, grounding himself in the familiar ritual.
Bingley wandered in moments later, looking as though he had not long been awake. He was impeccably turned out, as always—coat brushed, cravat perfectly arranged—but there was a hollowness beneath the polish, a faint shadow beneath his eyes that suggested a restless night.
“Charles! Goodness, have a little more care for yourself. You look dreadful.”
Darcy winced inwardly. Miss Bingley’s agreement with his own private assessment did nothing to improve his mood.
“I thank you, sister, for your concern,” Bingley replied mildly, though his tone lacked its usual warmth. “I am well.” He added food to his plate with uncharacteristic slowness and deliberately chose a seat as far from Miss Bingley as the table allowed.
Almost as soon as he had settled, Miss Bingley spoke again, her voice bright with anticipation.
“I imagine you will be interested in knowing what I have discovered about the Bennets.” She smiled with unmistakable satisfaction, as though the information were a prize she had hunted down and now displayed.
Darcy paused with his fork midway to his mouth. Bingley’s shoulders stiffened.
“You will not rest until you have had your say,” Bingley observed dryly. “Speak.”
The surliness was unusual. Darcy glanced at his friend with mild concern. Charles is not so easily provoked, he thought. Something weighs upon him more heavily than he will admit.
Miss Bingley ignored the rebuke entirely.
“The Bennets are a family of little wealth or standing,” she declared, as though pronouncing judgment from a tribunal.
“This insignificant backwater is their greatest claim to consequence. Mr. Bennet’s estate is entailed upon a distant cousin, and the ladies have no great fortune to speak of—only modest dowries.
And Miss Elizabeth Bennet is not their daughter at all, but a niece—a dependent relation—forced to divide her time between her mother’s family and her father’s. ”
Darcy had, of course, become aware of Miss Elizabeth’s position only recently. Even so, he failed to see why her birth or guardianship should be discussed with such relish.
“And what,” Bingley asked curiously, “has any of that to do with Miss Bennet’s worthiness?”
Miss Bingley scoffed. “Everything. She is everything agreeable because she has been trained to be so. She knows precisely how to engage you, how to draw you in. How can you not see it? The connection would be detrimental to our standing.”
Miss Bennet bestowed her serene smile upon all alike, without preference or artifice. She did not glow with particular warmth when Bingley addressed her, though she clearly enjoyed his company. It was not love—at least, not yet.
It would not be a terrible match, Darcy admitted privately, if affection were to follow. The family was not vulgar, whatever their limitations. Their manners were correct, their conversation sensible, their behavior restrained. Miss Bennet was, undeniably, a gentleman’s daughter.
So is Miss Elizabeth, a quiet, unwelcome thought intruded.
Darcy dismissed it at once. Absurd. Though Miss Elizabeth Bennet possessed wit enough to provoke interest—more than interest, at times—she was hardly suitable as a bride for one in the first circles.
Fascination was not destiny. He enjoyed her lively discourse, yes, and her fearless intelligence was…
arresting. But after their encounter while riding, he had wondered whether she thought too well of her own discernment.
Confidence, when untempered, could become presumption.
She raised sculpted brows. “Guard your heart, Charles. Miss Bennet seeks only to elevate herself.”
Darcy remained silent, but his thoughts churned. Miss Bingley’s belief in her superiority compared to Miss Bennet was laughable.
From where does she draw these conclusions?
He knew Miss Bingley’s sources well enough—listening servants, paid informants, whispers coaxed into shape and repeated until they sounded like fact.
Yet, the Bennets did not comport themselves as a family driven by desperation.
Their clothing spoke of restraint, not poverty; their ease suggested security, not want.
Even Lady Catherine de Bourgh—so fond of proclaiming her own consequence—behaved with less true decorum.
Still, in one regard Miss Bingley was correct. Her brother could make a far grander alliance than one with a country gentleman’s daughter. His connection to Darcy opened doors few others could even approach.
Darcy’s gaze drifted, unseeing, toward the window.
Worth, he reflected, is not always announced by lineage alone. And though he would never have admitted it aloud, there lingered in his mind the unsettling certainty that Miss Elizabeth Bennet—dependent niece or not—possessed a self-command and intelligence that could not be so easily dismissed.
The thought troubled him more than he cared to acknowledge.
Later, Darcy found Charles in the billiards room.
He stood by the tall window, cue in hand, staring out over the formal gardens as though the clipped hedges and orderly gravel paths might supply answers he could not yet articulate.
The afternoon light slanted in at an angle, catching the green baize of the table and throwing long shadows across the floor.
One corner of the table bore the evidence of neglect: balls scattered without method, a game begun and abandoned.
When Darcy shut the door behind him, Bingley turned, his expression brightening reflexively before settling again into something more subdued.
“Ah. Darcy. Would you care for a game?”
Darcy examined the table with a practiced eye. “Are you through?” he asked mildly. “Shall I ready the balls?”
Bingley hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, yes, I think I am done with this game.”
Darcy did not miss the faint emphasis, nor the distracted tone. Indeed, he thought, this has nothing to do with billiards at all. He said nothing, however, and moved to gather the balls, arranging them carefully in the center of the table. The familiar order soothed him more than he expected.
“Shall we begin?” he asked.
Bingley waved his hand vaguely, his attention still half on the window. Darcy positioned his cue, bent, and struck with controlled force. The sharp crack echoed in the room as the balls scattered.
“How can one tell if a lady fancies him?” Bingley asked abruptly.
Darcy straightened at once, the cue resting lightly in his hand. He did not pretend surprise. “You refer to Miss Bennet, I suppose?”
Bingley nodded, a touch of earnestness softening his usually buoyant features. “She is an angel,” he said simply. “Beautiful, kind, generous—but I cannot readily understand her feelings.”
Darcy circled the table, surveying his next shot with more deliberation than necessary.
“Ladies have ways of making their sentiments known,” he said at last. How often had women of the ton deployed smiles, glances, and studied chance encounters with himself?
The memory left him faintly irritated. Such forwardness offended his sense of propriety.
Bingley made a thoughtful sound. “I know Miss Bennet enjoys my company.”
“How?” Darcy asked, glancing up. He saw no distinction between Miss Bennet’s manner toward Bingley and her manner toward any other polite acquaintance.
“Well, she engages me in conversation,” Bingley replied. “Our discussions are enthusiastic and extend beyond mere civility.”
“Does she approach you?” Darcy asked pointedly.
Bingley paused, brow furrowing as he reconsidered past interactions. “No…I usually approach her. But is that not the polite way of things?”
“It is socially acceptable, yes,” Darcy allowed, lining up another shot. “But a lady who is interested does not rely solely upon convention. She contrives opportunity. She ensures she is seen—that she is accessible.”
Bingley blinked. “So, you say that though propriety dictates a man address the lady first, it is not always observed? That Miss Bennet ought to approach me?”
“That is my belief,” Darcy replied. “Your sister, for example—she places herself at my side whenever I enter a room or speaks to me before I can so much as acknowledge her presence. While that is rather too forward, it leaves one in no doubt of her interest.”
Bingley looked genuinely perplexed. “But you have said on more than one occasion that Caroline ought not to behave in such a manner.”
“Just because a thing ought not to be done,” Darcy said dryly, “does not mean it is not done with alarming regularity.” He struck the ball cleanly into a corner pocket.
“Watch her next time we are in company. Miss Bennet may find you agreeable, but she finds society itself agreeable. Her manner toward you differs in no material way from her manner toward others.”