16. Past and Present
sixteen
Past and Present
Darcy sat alone in Bingley’s library with a blank sheet before him and the disagreeable reality that honesty, once delayed, became more difficult by the hour.
The room had been arranged with more enthusiasm than judgment.
Bingley had brought down half the books from town, purchased several more from a bookseller who had praised their bindings, and placed them wherever shelves would receive them.
A volume of sermons leaned against a treatise on drainage.
A novel had been abandoned beside a ledger.
On the desk before Darcy lay his own paper, still unmarked, while the morning post waited in a small accusing pile near his elbow.
He dipped his pen.
My dear Georgiana,
Then he stopped.
No letter to his sister had ever required so much caution.
He had written to her from Pemberley, from London, from inns where rain battered the windows and servants neglected fires.
He had written of tenants, music, ribbons she had forgotten, books he thought she might like, and once, when she was twelve, a very solemn report upon a litter of puppies because she had demanded particulars.
Those letters had been easy. Affection had not then needed to pass through guilt, fear, and the remains of his own temper.
He began again.
My dear Georgiana,
I had hoped, when I came into Hertfordshire, that you might join me here once Mrs. Annesley judged the change agreeable to you. I must now tell you, with regret, that this cannot be.
The pen hesitated over the page. Outside the window, Bingley’s stable lad led a horse across the yard, whistling with an indifference Darcy envied.
He forced himself to continue.
I am compelled to be honest with you. Mr. Wickham is in this neighborhood. He is employed in the office of Miss Bennet’s uncle, Mr. Philips, who practices as an attorney in Meryton.
There. The worst had been placed upon the page.
No. Not the worst. The worst had occurred in Ramsgate, in his own absence, under his own arrangements, while Georgiana had believed herself beloved and protected by people who had meant to use her.
Darcy pressed the nib too hard, blotting the next word. He set down the pen, took up a fresh sheet, and copied the lines again with greater control.
It is best, he wrote, that you do not encounter him.
I would not have unfortunate memories awakened, nor would I place you in a position where you must suffer any embarrassment or distress.
You are safe in London with Mrs. Annesley, and Richard will continue to call as often as his duties permit.
I know this news may pain you. I would spare you every pain if I could, but concealment has served us badly enough already.
That was true, though he disliked how much it condemned him as well.
He added a few lines asking after her health, her music, and Mrs. Annesley’s comfort, then signed with more tenderness than the first half of the letter deserved.
Your affectionate brother,
F. Darcy
He sanded it, waited, folded, sealed, and wrote the direction. Express. It must go express. Georgiana ought not to hear of Wickham through some careless line in Richard’s next note or, worse, through Miss Bingley, should that lady ever discover enough to sharpen into conversation.
His Elizabeth had questioned him.
The memory took hold with no courtesy whatsoever.
Not when your accounts differ so spectacularly.
She had been right to say it. He could admit that now in the privacy of a library where no one demanded that he be more reasonable than he wished to be.
He had not told her the whole truth. He had given her facts stripped of their most painful shape and expected her to accept conclusions without evidence.
Elizabeth Bennet, who possessed too much intelligence to be managed and too much spirit to be commanded, had refused him.
It wounded him.
It also, inconveniently, increased his admiration.
Darcy rose and crossed to the bell. When a servant came, he ordered the letter sent express to London, then stood motionless after the door closed.
He trusted Elizabeth. That was the fact beneath all his frustration.
He trusted her compassion, her discretion, and her justice, though her justice had lately been focused in a direction he found intolerable.
Then trust her with the truth.
His hand clenched the back of a chair.
Very well. He would.
First, Mr. Bennet.
He had postponed that conversation one day too long. If he meant to court Elizabeth openly, he would do so with her father’s permission. If there was to be unpleasantness concerning Wickham, he would not use that unpleasantness as an excuse to delay honorable conduct.
By the time he entered the hall, Bingley was already there, hat in hand and spirits in open rebellion against the mood at Netherfield.
“Darcy! I was just coming to find you. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. I have decided I shall call at Longbourn with you today.”
Darcy paused. “Yesterday you thought that too eager.”
“Yesterday I had known Miss Bennet for one evening. Today I have known her for one evening and part of my own imagination. That is a considerable expansion of acquaintance.”
“You are absurd.”
“I am also sincere. Besides, if you mean to ask for Miss Elizabeth, someone must distract the ladies.”
“I had not intended to tell you that.”
“You wore the expression of a man going to be judged by a father. I recognized it from every young gentleman I have ever pitied.”
Darcy opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Bingley grinned. “Come. Let me be useful.”
They found Miss Bingley in the breakfast room, where she had apparently been waiting to object to anything that might occur.
“You are both going out?” she asked.
“Yes,” Bingley replied. “We mean to call at Longbourn.”
“So early in the acquaintance?”
“It is a morning call, Caroline. They are often made in the morning.”
Mrs. Hurst hid a smile in her coffee.
Miss Bingley addressed to Darcy. “I hope you do not find the society there too fatiguing, Mr. Darcy. Country families can be excessively eager when honored by attention.”
Darcy took up his gloves. “I have found the Bennets very hospitable.”
“Indeed?”
“Very.”
Hurst, who had been examining a dish of ham with greater seriousness than he gave most matters, said, “If they feed you, Bingley, ask whether they have a decent cook.”
“Thank you, Hurst. I shall conduct inquiries for your peace of mind.”
Miss Bingley’s lips thinned. “I suppose we are to be left all morning.”
“You have Louisa, Hurst, the house, the grounds, and every servant in it,” Bingley said cheerfully. “I trust you will endure.”
“Your confidence is touching.”
Darcy bowed and escaped before politeness demanded more of him.
The ride to Longbourn restored some of his composure.
Bingley talked for the first mile, chiefly of Miss Bennet’s sweetness, then fell into a happier silence as they approached the house.
Longbourn’s windows stood open to the pleasant morning, and the garden showed signs of industry recently abandoned: a basket near the path, pruning shears upon a low wall, two young ladies’ bonnets visible through the shrubbery before they vanished with a burst of laughter.
The servant admitted them.
Mrs. Bennet received Bingley with enough pleasure to satisfy even his appetite for approval.
He was carried into the parlor, where Miss Bennet rose with that gentle smile which explained his friend’s sudden devotion better than any description could have done.
Darcy bowed to the ladies, exchanged one brief glance with Elizabeth, and then requested an audience with Mr. Bennet.
Mrs. Bennet’s eyes widened. Elizabeth’s color rose. Bingley, bless him, began speaking about Netherfield’s shrubbery with admirable energy.
Mr. Bennet was in his library. The housekeeper led the way.
The room suited him: books in use rather than display, a desk bearing papers in irregular order, a window open toward a patch of lawn, and one comfortable chair placed where a man could read while remaining unavailable to household disturbances.
“Mr. Darcy,” he said, rising. “To what do I owe the honor of a private call? I hope you have not come to complain of my daughters. I have found it best to endure them in groups.”
Darcy bowed. “I have come to speak of one daughter in particular.”
“Ah.” Mr. Bennet’s brows rose, though his eyes remained kind. “Then sit, sir. Such conversations are best conducted with furniture beneath us.”
Darcy sat.
He had faced tenants in distress, solicitors with bad news, men who wanted money, men who had lost money, and Lady Catherine when contradicted. None had produced quite this peculiar tightening in his chest.
“I became acquainted with Miss Elizabeth Bennet while she was in town with Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner,” he said. “My sister and I had the honor of receiving them several times. During that acquaintance, my admiration for Miss Elizabeth grew into a serious attachment.”
Mr. Bennet did not interrupt.
“I have reason to believe she is not opposed to my addresses. I would therefore ask your permission to court her properly, with the hope that, should her feelings continue to be favorable, I may in time request a greater blessing.”
Mr. Bennet leaned back in his chair and regarded him for a few seconds too long.
“Lizzy has mentioned you.”
Darcy was unsure whether to take comfort from that. “I hope not unfavorably.”
“Not unfavorably, no. Though she has occasionally described you as solemn, which I consider less an insult than a warning.”
“I can give no defense.”
“That is wise.” Mr. Bennet tapped one finger against the arm of his chair. “You understand that Elizabeth is not a young woman to be managed.”
“Yes.”
“Or dazzled into obedience.”
“I would not wish her to be.”
“Good. I should dislike to see you disappointed so soon.” A hint of amusement entered his face. “You have my permission, Mr. Darcy. Lizzy’s heart is her own, and if she chooses to entrust it to you, I shall hope you deserve the distinction.”