Chapter 7
SEVEN
AN OBSTINATE, HEADSTRONG MAN
Having left Elizabeth behind in Gracechurch Street, with promises to return with Bingley, Darcy set out to find his friend.
Surprisingly, he was not in his rooms at the Albany, and his man was uncertain of where he had gone.
“Perhaps you will find him at your club, sir,” he suggested.
Darcy agreed that it was most likely and set off to White’s.
The afternoon sky over London had turned the colour of pewter, low clouds sinking over the town in a manner that Darcy hoped was not portentous. As he walked along the streets, his vexation at his friend began to build.
Bingley, who had pressed his suit at Netherfield with every appearance of devotion, who had whispered promises in gardens and corridors that the eldest Miss Bennet had been trusting enough, innocent enough, to believe inviolable, had quit Hertfordshire in November without a word.
Yes, Darcy, Miss Bingley, and Mrs Hurst had their fault in that matter…
But why had he never said the matter was settled?
That he had made promises, both verbal and physical, that were no longer debatable, even then?
Bingley passed the winter months in London appearing entirely at ease.
Darcy had seen him at numerous parties over the Festive Season, perhaps slightly subdued…
but only slightly. And perhaps not. It was entirely likely he might have imagined a downcast air when in fact Bingley was merely tired from all the parties and events.
Darcy had then gone to Pemberley and had only seen Bingley once in March; at that time, his friend had seemingly put any thought of Jane Bennet behind him, speaking of balls and parties and angels he had lately met.
Had it never occurred to Bingley that there might have been consequences to his actions?
Had he never enquired after Miss Bennet or made certain she was in good health?
To Darcy’s knowledge, he had not. Indeed if he had, he might have learnt she had spent her winter in London.
Was Bingley truly so callow? Or perhaps it was not his callowness but a general callousness that prevailed.
But he could not excuse himself in the matter.
He had done very ill by his friend in interfering in his romance.
If Jane Bennet’s understanding of things was true, Bingley would have married her by now.
The child in her womb would be a matter of joyful anticipation, not dread and fear.
Darcy had not known—could not have imagined—what had already passed between them by that point.
He had assumed he was guarding his friend against a foolish entanglement.
He could not have anticipated that the entanglement had progressed to a stage that rendered his counsel not merely unhelpful but actively catastrophic in its consequences.
Or perhaps he could have. Perhaps he ought to have enquired more carefully before he spoke. Never again, he swore to himself, shall I insert myself into anyone’s romantic affairs.
The club appeared before him. Darcy climbed the steps, surrendered his hat and gloves, and enquired of the porter whether Mr Bingley was within.
“I believe you shall find him in the reading room, sir,” the young man answered. Darcy replied with a nod and set off.
Bingley was indeed found in the reading room, though he was not reading.
When Darcy entered, he was leant back in a chair, laughing at something his friend must have lately said.
His appearance, that of a man whose affairs were entirely in order and who had not a single blot on his conscience, made Darcy’s jaw clench angrily.
Bingley rose immediately upon seeing him, his face arranging itself into the open, delighted expression that had always been one of his most appealing qualities and which now struck Darcy with peculiar force. “Darcy! When did you return to town? You were in Kent, yes?”
“I was,” Darcy replied in short syllables, taking a seat at Bingley’s table. He nodded a greeting towards the other man who had been seated with him. Sir Bernard Singleton, he believed, a young fellow still at university.
The younger man rose, taking one last swallow from his tankard before he left them. “My papers will not write themselves, I fear, so fare-thee-well, good sirs!”
Bingley laughed again. “Better you than me, my boy, but just remember…this too shall pass and then you may while away your days in leisure like the rest of us.”
His nonchalance nearly set Darcy’s blood to boiling. He does not know, he reminded himself. His easiness is about to come to a quick end.
“I did not know you were in town,” said Bingley warmly. “When did you arrive? You look frightfully serious. Have you walked here? Shall I order a bottle of something for us?”
“I thank you, no. Um, yes I do look serious—”
“Ah, but when do you not?” Bingley chuckled and leant over to punch Darcy lightly on the arm. “You quite make me fear estate ownership sometimes! It seems a weighty business.”
“Yes, well, it is true, most of us have responsibilities that go further than reaching the bottom of the bottle each day.” The words emerged far more harshly than Darcy had intended, and Bingley was, unsurprisingly, taken aback.
“I hope all is well?” his friend enquired delicately.
He did not answer directly. “I wonder if I might have a private word with you, Bingley. There is a matter of some delicacy I must discuss with you. Perhaps we can go upstairs to one of the smaller rooms.”
“There he is! Bingley, you rascal!”
The voice came from across the room, carrying the particular volume of young men who have already had far too much to drink and feel the world is improved by their contribution to its noise.
Darcy turned to see three gentlemen advancing upon them with the purposeful energy of those bearing what they considered excellent news: Hartley, he thought, Cavendish, and Cavendish’s younger brother, whose name he could not immediately recollect.
All of them wore the conspiratorial grins of men who are determined to tease a friend.
“Thrice,” Hartley pronounced. “We heard it was thrice.”
“Thrice? I assure you it was not,” Bingley said, his countenance reddening even as his smile broadened. It seemed he was being careful to not meet Darcy’s eye.
“Well, it was at least twice,” Cavendish said. “I myself can attest to that. It will get you banned from Almack’s, you know.”
“Heaven forfend!” Bingley cried out dramatically and threw his hands up to much amusement.
“Have you called on her yet?” asked Cavendish’s brother.
“Poor dear has likely been sitting in her mother’s drawing room all morning,” said Hartley.
To this Bingley only shook his head ruefully, draining the drink in front of him. “As if I should inform you lot of my romantic leanings.”
“Ah, keeping it all secret, then?” Cavendish teased. “No matter. Hartley’s sister is good friends with the lady. I daresay we will hear it all from her.”
“What is it that American fellow said once?” his brother asked heartily. “Two men will keep a secret, but only if one of them is deaf!”
“Not deaf, you idiot,” said Cavendish. “Dead!”
“I daresay it is you who are the idiot,” his brother retorted. “How might a dead man keep a secret?”
“How might a deaf one?” Cavendish asked.
“Because he would never hear it told,” Hartley inserted.
“What if it was a written secret?” Cavendish asked.
“In any case,” said Bingley, “dead or deaf, there is no secret. A dance is all it was, but…”
“But what?” Cavendish asked slyly.
“There shall certainly be more, I grant you that,” Bingley said. He had still not looked Darcy’s way.
His admission was greeted with chuckles and bonhomie, but frustratingly no one saw fit to mention who, exactly, they spoke of.
Darcy watched the foolish jostling of the men, the cold weight in his chest settling into something harder and more cold, the memory of Elizabeth’s despair a sharp contrast to the joviality before him.
“Darcy is very quiet even for him,” Cavendish said eventually. “Do you disapprove, sir? From your countenance, I should think you must.”
“In fact, I can neither approve nor disapprove,” said Darcy, keeping his voice entirely level, “for I have not yet had the pleasure of knowing what you speak of.”
Bingley turned to him then, and his expression was filled with undeniably heartfelt delight. Darcy recognised it at once—it was the very same expression he wore leaving Netherfield on November 27.
“Miss Sophie Abernathy,” said Bingley with rapture in his voice. “A delightful, charming young lady, lately out—”
“An excellent family,” Cavendish opined. “And I have heard she has twenty-five thousand, yes?”
Bingley nodded at him.
“Enough to make any man fall in love,” Cavendish declared.
“Certainly a man like our friend who falls in love with regularity and for far lesser sums,” Darcy said, having lost the wish to be careful with his words.
Bingley cut his eyes towards him, and the other men stopped laughing. There was an unmistakably painful silence that extended too long until Cavendish said, awkwardly, “Join us for cards later, men. We will be in the back room.” With that, the three men were off.
The silence persisted for an interval after their departure.
Turning a countenance that was undeniably sulky upon him, Bingley said, “All that I heard last autumn was the importance of fortune and connexions. Are the Abernathys to be termed unsuitable now? Do they too meet your disapproval?”
“Of course not,” said Darcy. “Sir Frederick has a fine family, an excellent fortune, and an irreproachable reputation—”
“Then what is it?”
“Have you reached some sort of understanding with her?”
“Not really.”
“What does ‘not really’ mean?” Darcy asked sharply.
“Why do you seem angry with me about this?” Bingley shot back. “Who is it, exactly, that meets with your approval?”