Chapter 22
Bingley
Charles Bingley got up late one morning, feeling as muzzy-headed as he often did, eager to swipe away the mental cobwebbery that lingered from a night of dancing and drinking.
As he enjoyed the ministrations of Fletcher, his new valet, he tried to decide who he should call on that day.
There were two new angels in his orbit, each one equally delectable.
Unfortunately, as he closed his eyes, wishing to compare mental images of the two ladies, a vision of Elizabeth and Jane Bennet came instead. Speaking of delectable…nobody in London had come up to the level of those two.
Bingley flung his eyes open again, angry at his traitorous heart, or brain, or some such troublesome organ.
He felt inclined to hurry Fletcher—who had lately become obsessed with ever more elaborate ways to tie a cravat—but he was relieved that he did not need to say anything, for Fletcher stood back, admiring Bingley’s reflection in the mirror.
Bingley was certainly satisfied, and he hurried downstairs to the breakfast room.
Of course, Bingley cheered up as he placed a mutton cutlet onto a plate already heaped with a cold veal pie, beef tongue, hot sausages, a grilled pork chop, fried kidneys, and poached eggs.
Before he sat down to eat this mountain of hearty foods, he took a clean plate and piled on some toast, hot rolls, Bath buns, and several kinds of fruits.
He nodded at the offer of tea, but he also requested coffee and sherry.
Of course, as usual, the morning newspaper had been laid by his place, and the date brought him up short, with his fork halfway to his mouth.
It was Darcy and Elizabeth’s wedding day.
Suddenly Bingley’s happy mood evaporated.
He should be in Hertfordshire, attending the nuptials of the man who had meant so much to him for so many years.
Who had done more for him than anyone else—even his own father.
Who had stood by him, supported him, advised him.
Bingley felt the crushing regret of how he had treated Darcy—Darcy!
—by dreaming about being with his Elizabeth.
In a moment of clarity, Bingley realised that the thoughts of Elizabeth, the unbidden dreams of her, were all forgivable. It was his actions—especially the action of snatching her arms and attempting to press a kiss on her unwilling lips—that was the problem.
The footman standing sentinel in the breakfast room said, “Sir?”
Bingley did not hear for a moment. But when the footman asked, “Sir, are you well?” he perceived that it was the second time the footman had spoken, and he hurried to respond.
“I am quite well, I just noted the date—it is an important date for a very dear friend.”
He made a monumental effort to bring the forkful of food up to his mouth, to chew, and to swallow. He took a small sip of his coffee, and then a large gulp of sherry. He began to feel better, and he continued to eat and drink and drink and eat.
When Bingley was quite full and feeling much better, he decided to call on Miss Seymour that day and Miss Fletcher the next.
He made no grand resolutions—he knew that such would soon fall by the wayside—but he promised himself to keep his thoughts and dreams, including the wayward ones, quite separate from consideration of his words and actions.
It was the latter that went out into the world, engendering consequences, helping people or hurting them.
He hoped that, little by little, with his focus on keeping his words and actions gentlemanly—no matter his thoughts—he could better emulate Darcy and perhaps, one day, earn the love of a lady as estimable as Elizabeth.
Little by little, he could manage. Word by word, action by action.
Cheered by his full belly, by his firm decision of who to call on, and which day, and of course by his plan of improvement, Bingley smiled eagerly, put on his gloves and hat, took up his walking stick, and set out to enjoy the day.
The End