Chapter 6
Six
Having left Marbury to find his own way to debauchery, Darcy and Fitzwilliam took the former’s coach back to Darcy House. They were silent along the way, allowing Darcy to stare ponderously out into the dark cobbled streets.
Elizabeth was in London. Elizabeth is in London!
Miss Bingley had made no mention of her joining her elder sister, had betrayed no consciousness of withholding the fact from him.
He had always suspected that she was a practised liar—she could not honestly agree with each and every one of his opinions, could she? —and this settled the matter.
How does it feel to be the dupe? his cousin had flippantly queried. Darcy could honestly say that he did not care for it. Not in the slightest.
What should he do now, knowing that Elizabeth was so near?
He ought to do nothing, yet he longed to go to her and explain himself.
Her mocking demeanour, her pointed barbs—she was angry with him, and he could not blame her for it.
He had treated her shabbily in leaving the neighbourhood without paying proper leave, but he had discerned his own weakness for her by that point and could not risk seeing her again lest he further entangle himself in his unwanted infatuation.
Still, to know that she was alive in the world and thinking ill of him rankled.
He wanted to be in her good graces, to be fondly remembered by her even if they could be nothing more to one another than friendly acquaintances. He should find her address in town and—
Steady on, man. Do not do anything rash.
The cousins arrived at Darcy House in good time and retreated immediately to the study where they could enjoy a nightcap before bed. They had each settled into a leather chair by the fire only moments before Fitzwilliam launched into his interrogation.
“So, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, eh?”
Darcy groaned and let his head fall back against his chair. “Leave off, Fitzwilliam, I beg you.”
“I must be allowed to tweak your nose occasionally. If I do not, your head will swell too big, and you will not be able to keep it upright.”
“I am not in the mood.”
“She is a lovely creature,” Fitzwilliam persisted, leaning back and crossing his ankles as if settling in for a long panegyric.
He raised his glass in Darcy’s direction as a salute.
“I meant what I said at the theatre—you have impeccable taste. If the elder sister is even half as enchanting as the younger, I can better understand Bingley’s heartsickness. ”
“Desist.”
After swallowing a mouthful of brandy, Fitzwilliam’s next observation emerged as a hoarse rasp.
“I can see why you are so enamoured of her. She is exactly your type—petite, dark hair, light and pleasing figure—” With his drink splashing about in his glass, Fitzwilliam pantomimed a crude hourglass shape in the air.
“Fitzwilliam!”
“—and those eyes are bewitching. No doubt they sparkle when she says something witty or amusing. She drew you in like a bee to a flower.”
“Leave off, would you?”
Fitzwilliam sipped at his drink, observing Darcy thoughtfully over the rim of his glass. At length, he tipped it in his cousin’s direction, commenting, “You are in love with her.”
Darcy felt the force of this statement in his chest. He rubbed at the spot, directly above his heart, as he denied, “I have nothing to confess as regards Miss Elizabeth Bennet, or any other lady.”
“You need not confess it, for I see it clearly for myself. Further, I begin to suspect that your escape from Hertfordshire was less for Bingley’s benefit and more for your own.
You always were fastidious about duty, and a woman like Miss Elizabeth, for all her charms, is not the sort of bride you have been taught to seek.
Marrying a gentlewoman of no particular note would be far less of an evil to Bingley than to you, so your reasoning becomes more clear. ” He lifted an accusing brow.
“I have been entirely transparent regarding my reasoning,” Darcy snapped, sitting stiffly upright in his chair. “Miss Bennet did not love my friend. She was mercenary. I saved him from a miserable situation.”
“Or you saved yourself from making what ‘good society’ would consider a mistake.”
Darcy sank back into his seat, troubled.
He wished to disregard Fitzwilliam’s conjectures, yet he could not.
Am I really so selfish? Have I hurt my friend just to preserve myself?
In recalling Miss Bennet’s placid acceptance of Bingley’s attentions, he was able to shake off the notion.
No, convincing him to depart was for the best. A mercy, really.
There is no point in marrying for love if your wife does not love you in return.
“That is preposterous.”
“Is it?” Fitzwilliam surveyed him sceptically, a knowing smile playing about his mouth. “Then I suppose you will be visiting Bingley tomorrow to inform him of Miss Bennet’s being in town?”
Scoffing, Darcy replied, “And why should I do that?”
“Because you would be the worst sort of hypocrite if you did not,” said Fitzwilliam, his relaxed grin now flattened into a forbidding line.
“Think of how you felt when you realised Miss Bingley had misled you, how insulted you were. She treated you like a child who could not be trusted to abstain from a sweet, and the pair of you have conspired to treat her brother in the same way. Bingley deserves to know that Miss Bennet is near and decide for himself, without the interference of others, whether he wishes to marry her or not. Hiding her from him is beneath you.”
Darcy had never considered his interference in that way before. Had he wronged his friend, treated him like a witless infant? There was some truth to what Fitzwilliam said, he was forced to admit. If someone had managed him in such a way, he would have been insulted and furious.
He recalled Miss Bingley’s convenient lapse in mentioning Elizabeth’s being in town with her sister and realised that he had been managed, just like Bingley.
Never had he been so incensed by the lady’s pretensions, nor felt so impotent in arranging his own affairs.
What right did he, or anyone, have to determine the course of another’s life in such a fashion?
Fitzwilliam’s voice, gentled, brought him back to the present. “I know you meant well. You always do. However, this habit of yours of protecting others against their own inclinations has got to cease. Begin by confessing all to Bingley and letting him choose his own destiny.”
After wrestling with his conscience through the night, Darcy came to the inevitable conclusion that he must follow Fitzwilliam’s advice and reveal his deception to Bingley.
He would stand by his objections of the lady, but his cousin was correct in his estimation that concealing her presence from Bingley had been beneath him.
He ought never to have colluded with Miss Bingley in the first place, as finding himself on the wrong side of her machinations had illustrated to him.
So decided, Darcy sent a note to Bingley at his lodgings inviting him to meet at his club that afternoon.
He phrased it in such a way as to indicate that it was really more of an urgent summons so that his friend would not find an excuse to cry off, as he had done frequently of late.
He received a simple, if barely legible, acceptance in response.
Darcy spent the intervening hours practising what he ought to say.
He could not claim to be a great orator, nor even a passably erudite one, and often made a hash of what he wished to convey.
He was far better at expressing himself in writing, but his friend deserved the chance to admonish him in person.
He would not heighten the disrespect he had already shown by cowering behind correspondence.
Having been assiduously watching the door, Darcy rose immediately to his feet upon Bingley’s entrance.
His friend was properly attired, but that was the best Darcy could say of his appearance.
His shoulders were stooped, his skin somewhat sallow, and his mien practically sagged with melancholy.
If Darcy had not known better, he would have assumed Bingley were only just overcoming a physical ailment.
He stuck out his hand for his friend to shake, a gesture that was returned limply. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course,” replied Bingley, throwing himself into the second chair at Darcy’s table. He beckoned the waiter towards him and was obeyed with alacrity. “Brandy, please. What was so urgent that you required my immediate attendance?”
Settling back into his own chair, Darcy hesitated. He told himself it was because he did not wish the servants to overhear, but he knew deep within that it was more than that; he disliked admitting to any fault, but most especially when said fault might cost him a treasured friendship.
“Coffee for me,” he said to the waiter. To Bingley, he replied, “It is a rather sensitive subject, and I would prefer to wait for more privacy.”
Bingley shrugged. “As you like.”
Their beverages were duly delivered, then Darcy was out of excuses to stall.
Knowing it was always best to simply come out with disagreeable news instead of dithering about it, he inhaled deeply and launched straight to the heart of the matter.
“Miss Bennet is here in town. She paid a call upon your sisters about a month ago, which was belatedly returned, and I intentionally kept this from you.”
Bingley merely blinked at him, mouth agape.
“I fully understand that what I did was wrong,” Darcy continued, words spilling from him like water from a pitcher, “but I promise you that I was only acting in your best interests. It has been pointed out to me, however, that my meddling was officious and that you deserve the opportunity to make up your own mind as to whether you would like to see Miss Bennet again.”