Chapter 4
On the Road to London
The Next Morning
“Darcy?”
Fitzwilliam Darcy, who had been huddled in the corner of the carriage, looked up with a frown. “Yes, Richard?”
“A penny for your thoughts?” the colonel asked.
Darcy shifted and turned a cold eye on his cousin. “I daresay you know who I am thinking of.”
“Miss Bennet?”
“Of course,” Darcy said resentfully.
Richard shook his head gravely. “I had thought, perhaps, that you might be contemplating Wickham.”
Darcy moaned aloud and shifted to gaze out the window. The particular piece of road they were on was rather dull, with dark forests and only the occasional flash of wildflowers in all their glory. If there was one thing even more painful to contemplate than his lost love, it was George Wickham, the villain, the reprobate, the…
“I intend to deal with him once and for all,” Richard declared.
This provoked alarm in Darcy’s breast, and he turned an anxious eye on his cousin. “Richard, for all that Wickham is a villain, he is not worth you being hanged for murder or having to flee to the Continent.”
Richard cast his eyes heavenward and said, “I have no intention of physically attacking him. I think we should throw him in debtors’ prison.”
Darcy blinked, considered, and said, “But if we do, he may well speak of Georgiana’s folly, which would be a catastrophe.”
The colonel huffed indignantly. “Darcy, I admire and respect you, but you have a tendency to be overly direct in your actions and words. Now I am a military man, but also capable of a little finesse. Tell me about the officer in charge of Wickham’s regiment. What is he like?”
Darcy leaned back and said, “His name is Colonel Forster, and he is some fifty years of age. He is a sensible and intelligent man.”
“Do you think Forster would wish for a rascal like Wickham to run up countless debts and sire bastard children in Hertfordshire?”
“No.”
“Well, then, if you are willing to hand over some of Wickham’s debt receipts, I will arrange for our enemy’s quiet departure from … Meryton, was it?”
Darcy was always anxious about Georgiana’s reputation, but this was reasonable enough. Moreover, he was very tired of having to worry about Wickham carelessly tarnishing the Darcy name during a drinking binge with his fellow officers.
Yes, it would be wonderful if Wickham were permanently dealt with.
***
Darcy House
London
Monday, 13 th April, 1812
Charles Bingley climbed the familiar steps of Darcy House and knocked on the door, which opened a few seconds later. The butler, a respected retainer of some forty years of age, took his hat and cane and guided him to the study, where he found Darcy sitting behind a desk, surrounded by paperwork.
“Bingley!” the master of Pemberley exclaimed, rising to his feet and holding out his hand. “Thank you for coming so quickly!”
Bingley had been feeling gloomy for weeks now, but such a cheerful and enthusiastic welcome lifted his spirits considerably. “It is my pleasure, of course. I did not even know you were in London.”
“I returned Saturday,” his friend explained, walking over to the fireplace and gesturing. “Sit down, please. Would you care for some brandy?”
“I would, thank you.”
Darcy poured the brandy slowly, his brain whirling with uncertainty about the upcoming conversation. Should he hint at Bingley’s former admiration of Jane Bennet and discover whether his friend still cared for the lady?
No, he would be blunt. There had been enough beating around the bush.
“Bingley,” he said, handing over the brandy and taking a seat across from his friend, “I was wrong about Jane Bennet.”
Charles Bingley had been lifting his glass to his lips, but at these direct words, he paled and lowered the brandy onto a nearby table. “What do you mean?”
Darcy sighed deeply. “I was wrong that she did not care for you. She loved you dearly. I was entirely incorrect in my analysis of her serenity in company with you. She is a quiet lady, and a refined one, and no doubt…”
He was, he realized, rambling rather badly and forced himself to close his mouth with a snap.
Bingley stared at him, and he stared at Bingley, and finally the younger man croaked, “How do you know?”
Darcy sighed again, a deep pang of sorrow blossoming in his chest. This would be difficult, because it reminded him that the lady he loved more or less despised him in return.
“I recently returned from Rosings in Kent, which is the estate of my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and her only daughter, my cousin Anne.”
“Yes?”
“I met Miss Elizabeth Bennet there, who was a guest of Mr. and Mrs. Collins, the rector of Hunsford and his wife. Mrs. Collins was previously Miss Charlotte Lucas, eldest daughter of Sir William and Lady Lucas back in Hertfordshire.”
“Yes?” Bingley repeated again, and while the man was always courteous, Darcy could see that his friend’s face was eager with anticipation and, perhaps, irritation at how slowly he was explaining the matter.
“Miss Elizabeth discovered that I was instrumental in separating you from her elder sister, and she was absolutely furious. She said that Miss Bennet adored you and was heartbroken when you left her behind.”
Hope lit up on Bingley’s face, followed a few seconds later by bewilderment. “Miss Elizabeth told you directly that Miss Bennet loves me?”
“No.” Darcy admitted and blew out a morose breath. “No, she told my cousin Richard, who had just made the mistake of telling her that I was the one who convinced you to abandon Netherfield and stay in London. You see, Richard knew I had a hand in separating you from a woman, but he did not know her identity. Miss Elizabeth was so furious that she told Richard that she wished to challenge me to a duel. I truly did not … I thought, truly, that Miss Bennet did not care … but I was wrong, and I understand why Miss Elizabeth is so angry with me.”
The end of this sentence was full of such sadness, such sorrow, such grief, that Bingley was shaken loose from his own distress to reach out his hand to grasp his friend’s arm. “Darcy, whatever is wrong?”
Darcy gently shook himself free and drained the glass of brandy down his throat, which provoked him to cough hard. When he had recovered, he rose and poured himself another glass of brandy and then turned to face his friend. “I am in love with Elizabeth Bennet. And she loathes me.”
Bingley rose to his feet as if he were a puppet jerked up by a string. “What?!”
“I am in love with Miss Elizabeth. I adore her. I … I want her to be my wife and … and … she hates me.”
Bingley was usually a cheerful fellow, but these words caused a most unaccustomed look of ferocity on his countenance. “You are in love with Miss Elizabeth? You, who told me that the Bennets are little above shopkeeper in status, that Mrs. Bennet is vulgar, and the younger girls hoydens? You, who used your considerable powers of persuasion to keep me from returning to the woman I truly adore? And now you tell me that you are in love with another of the Bennet ladies? How … how…?”
He sputtered off into silence, and his fury gave way to bewilderment, which gave way to sympathy at the stark misery on Darcy’s face.
“I am sorry,” he said softly. “I forgot myself.”
“No, I am sorry,” Darcy said wretchedly. “I am the one who ran away from Hertfordshire to escape Miss Elizabeth, not that I knew how much I adored her, but I was running away, and I fear part of me encouraged you to stay away from Netherfield because I was afraid that if you were in residence, I would be tempted to return. I am an idiot, and a fool, and a great lummox. But you … Bingley, Miss Bennet has a gentle and loving and forgiving character and might well accept you back, if you wish it.”
“I do, with all my heart. These last months have been a nightmare. I will ride for Netherfield this very day.”
He turned and marched toward the door with these brave words, only to halt in place at Darcy’s next sentence. “Miss Bennet is not at Longbourn. She is here in London – well, in Cheapside to be exact – and has been since January.”
Bingley froze for a moment and then spun around to stare at his friend, his mouth now gaping open. “What?!”
“Miss Bennet has been here for months, visiting her aunt and uncle on Gracechurch Street. She called on Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley shortly after her arrival in Town, and Miss Bingley made it very clear that their former friendship was at an end.”
Bingley choked, and swallowed, and coughed and when he rose to his full height, his back ramrod straight, he snarled, “My sisters did what?!”
“I am more to blame,” Darcy said, willing to plumb the depths of his roiling misery by taking all the responsibility. “I am the one…”
“No, you are not, Darcy,” Bingley interrupted and began marching up and down the floor of the office. “No, I am at fault, for not trusting my own instincts about the lady I love. And my sisters are at fault for lying to me and treating Miss Bennet so poorly. You are not blameless in this affair, but I am confident you gave me your advice because you truly believed Miss Bennet to be indifferent.”
“I did,” Darcy said quietly.
“Then I will call on Miss Bennet, and ask her forgiveness, and I will deal with my sisters. I do not know how, but I am angry. I am very, very angry.”
Bingley stalked toward the door, opened it, and then looked back to face his friend. “I wish you good fortune in your pursuit of Miss Elizabeth.” Then he turned and disappeared with the sound of footfalls.
Darcy could only nod mutely, though he had little hope that he would ever win the most fascinating, most wonderful woman in all of England. And he did not know how he would survive without the woman he adored as his wife.