Chapter 13
Bingley
Bingley had to pack his own bags. None of the servants knew what had happened—not even Carter or Mrs Nicholls knew, and they seemed to know everything—but everyone knew that something had occurred.
His valet, Conrad, seemed to guess that Bingley was leaving in some shame.
Conrad quit with no prior notice and said he would leave Netherfield within the half hour.
“If you leave me today, without helping me pack, I will not give you a written character!” Bingley said.
“Even if you gave me one, no one would be able to read it,” was Conrad’s answer. Those words really stung since the newly-hired secretary had decided to remain at Netherfield rather than go back to London with Bingley..
Conrad added, “Plus, Mr Darcy said that he would provide me with a written character, and that is worth far more than one from you.”
Darcy! Always Darcy!
Bingley wished he could hate Fitzwilliam Darcy, but now that he had lost the friendship he had counted on for the better part of a decade, he could only feel regret.
Of course, it had always been an unequal relationship.
Darcy was not only five years older, he had a much greater fortune and was much, much more elevated in his family’s name, reputation, and connexions.
He did far better in school, he fenced and played billiards better, he knew more about every topic under the sun… .
He suddenly remembered the Stoddards’ ball, several months ago; Darcy had liked Bingley well enough—and had trusted him enough—to ask him to help safeguard Elizabeth from the men who would use the excuse of a dance to attempt to importune her.
At the time, he had little thought about the very great honour that a widely esteemed gentleman had bestowed on him: being one of five trusted men hand-picked to dance with the love of Darcy’s life.
Regret needled him again.
Bingley’s stomach growled, and he trotted down to the kitchen. All the servants looked at him with wide eyes and carefully blanked expressions, but none of them dared to comment on his rummaging around for food to put on his swiftly overburdened plate.
He went back to his room to eat. And in response to the excellent jellies, tongue, and fresh white bread, his spirits began to rise again.
He downed a cold veal pie and ate a large slice of pound cake, and he began to feel downright optimistic.
He finished off the bottle of madeira, and he became cheery.
After all, he could hire a new valet easily enough.
He retained his carriage driver and one footman, and that was enough to carry him to London.
He still had the one hundred thousand pounds prudently invested, ready to be used to purchase an estate, and he had not yet reached his majority, so there was no rush to move on that yet.
He could likely live at the Hursts’ town home, and he could start over with making friends. He made friends quite easily.
Retaining friends is not your strong suit, he lectured himself.
Bingley studiously ignored his own lecture. Darcy might have more long-standing friends than he, but there had been at least two house parties in which Bingley had easily made three or four new friends within a fortnight, during which time Darcy had made exactly none.
Autumn was not the most entertaining season to live in London, but the members of the ton who were forced to remain in Town often became quite desperate for new diversions, and at least some of those desperate folks would be young ladies…
. Bingley became very motivated to begin the journey, so he hastily dispatched the food, flung the rest of his clothes into his trunks, and rang for the one loyal footman who chose to stay with him.
He almost bounced as he requested that his trunks be taken down and the horses hitched. “We are off to Town today, Reynolds!” he said, sounding quite joyful.