Chapter 10 Their Share of Conversation #2
“You know him also, Miss Bennet?”
Elizabeth felt a rogue wish to say something injudicious, but said instead, “Yes, Mr Darcy speaks the truth. Mr Bingley let a house but three miles from my father’s estate.”
As Mr Darcy coolly sipped his tea, Elizabeth decided to test him.
She said, ostensibly to Miss de Bourgh: “Yes, Mr Bingley seems a man of many good qualities. My family was rather fond of him. My elder sister, Jane, in particular, liked him very much indeed and was saddened when he quit the neighbourhood.” She sighed a little.
Mr Darcy took the bait. “Yet my observation had convinced me that your mother was much more taken with Bingley than your sister.”
His meaning could not have been clearer to Elizabeth, but Miss de Bourgh appeared confused.
“Miss Bennet’s mother? Taken with Bingley? How awkward.”
Elizabeth chuckled bitterly. “My mother did think highly of Mr Bingley, and to be sure, my father also liked him. But neither of them liked him as much as my sister Jane. Ours is a small neighbourhood, and Jane had never admired any gentleman nearly as much as Mr Bingley.”
Miss de Bourgh’s pale blue eyes fixed on Elizabeth. “How sad for her. Did he trifle with her?”
Mr Darcy hissed, “He did not! He was called away to London on business.”
Elizabeth hoped that Jane would forgive this indiscretion, but it was imperative for Mr Darcy to know what an enormous mistake he had made.
“I would not accuse him of trifling with Jane, exactly, and neither would she, as she is the most forgiving soul in the world. But he gave every indication of admiring her and paid her every attention, raising her hopes, until he was called away, as Mr Darcy says. He told us his trip to London would be temporary, and that he would be back within a few days, but the very next day, his sister wrote to say that they were closing up the house and expected never to return. So perhaps, whilst acknowledging that he is in many ways a fine man, we can reasonably accuse him of inconstancy, even if his intentions were good.” She locked eyes with Mr Darcy, daring him to speak.
“I may have mistaken your sister’s feelings.”
Although tempted to laugh, Elizabeth could not. “Indeed, yet anyone who observed them together could not possibly have mistaken Mr Bingley’s feelings. I cannot believe that he did not care for Jane.”
“I am sure he did,” Mr Darcy muttered, looking down at his teacup.
Anne de Bourgh’s eyes were alight with interest. “I once read a novel with a story like this. It was terribly sad. How awful to hear of it happening to a beloved sister. Darcy, it seems your friend has made a mistake. Are you going to do anything?”
“What an excellent question.” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow in challenge. “Well, Mr Darcy? What shall you do? Anything at all?”
He worried his bottom lip, evidently deep in thought. Finally, he said, “Perhaps I need to have a conversation with him. I shall call upon him when I return to London. Or better yet, invite him to dine at Darcy House, sans his irksome sisters.”
Elizabeth had not been expecting him to express any intention quite so overt.
“And what will you say, Darcy?” Miss de Bourgh was fascinated.
“It seems I should say”—he looked at Elizabeth—“that Miss Bennet cared for him and was disappointed when he failed to return from London.”
Elizabeth shook her head gently. “I think I have a better idea, Mr Darcy.”
He raised a brow at her, mirroring her own habit.
“I would suggest that you tell him that Jane is in London, visiting our aunt and uncle, and that you have reason to believe that he would be received there with pleasure. And then leave the rest to him. I feel there has already been quite enough interference, do you not agree, Mr Darcy?”
He cleared his throat but did not speak. His countenance presented a blend of dread and defiance that she had never seen before.
“Interference, Miss Bennet?” Miss de Bourgh wrinkled her brow. “Who could have interfered?”
“Mr Bingley’s sisters did not support a match with Jane, and I have it on good authority that Mr Bingley’s particular friend”—she regarded him intently—“took measures to separate him from her.”
“Darcy?” Miss de Bourgh scrutinised her cousin, and for the first time, Elizabeth perceived the family resemblance between daughter and mother.
Something like sheepishness crept into Darcy’s expression. “It is a complicated matter.”
“Complicated, Cousin?”
Elizabeth leant forward. “I am all anticipation….”
“I observed Miss Bennet closely and saw no evidence of any particular attachment to my friend. Having said that, she is a reserved person, I now realise, and as her behaviour was always proper, I interpreted her serene demeanour as indifference to my friend, who was decidedly smitten with her, and who believed his feelings to be reciprocated. I judged that he was wrong, and I told him so, because I wished to spare him a marriage devoid of love or joy. It appears that I was entirely mistaken, and when I make a mistake, I endeavour to rectify it as quickly as possible.”
Miss de Bourgh beamed.
Elizabeth pressed her advantage. “This is excellent news, Mr Darcy. How soon do you expect to inform Mr Bingley?”
He twisted his signet ring before looking up at her.
“I feel this communication is too delicate to commit to a letter. My original idea was to see him when I returned to London. But I expect to be in Kent for another fortnight at least, and perhaps longer, and that seems a long time, so I might propose meeting him at a posting inn halfway along the London road. In that way, I would not have to cut short my stay here, and inconvenience Colonel Fitzwilliam, but I could get the information to Bingley more quickly.”
The colonel, thinking he might have heard his name, excused himself from the card table and pulled up a chair next to Mr Darcy. “Are you speaking of me, Cousin?”
Mr Darcy sighed. “Only for a moment. I must make arrangements to see Bingley, just for an hour or so, to give him some information, and instead of going all the way to London, I will write to ask him to meet me at an inn.”
“If you are going to write to him, why can you not simply convey information within?”
“It is of a sensitive nature.”
“Is it related to the great favour you did for him recently?” The colonel waggled his brows at Elizabeth.
Her expression was more sombre. “Colonel, I must apologise for not confiding in you earlier, but the young lady that your cousin rescued Mr Bingley from was my elder sister.”
“No.” Elizabeth suspected that Colonel Fitzwilliam did not shock easily, but shocked he was. “That cannot be. There must be some mistake.”
“Yes, Cousin,” said Mr Darcy, “and the mistake was mine, for interfering between two people who sincerely cared for one another. I will rectify that as soon as possible. In fact”—he stood up—“I am going to find a map that will show posting inns between here and London that might be suitable.”
“Let us all go,” the colonel suggested.
Miss de Bourgh turned towards the card table. “We are for the library, Mother,” and when the great lady acknowledged her with a terse nod, the four left the room.
Mr Darcy pulled a map folio from the shelves, and Miss de Bourgh unfolded a few pages covering the area between Rosings and London.
Elizabeth hung back, knowing she could not be particularly useful in this task. The colonel seemed anxious to speak with her, and she could only surmise he meant to apologise.
“Miss Bennet, I regret—”
She stopped him. “Do not say another word, Colonel. You had no way of knowing what you were telling me, and your intentions were good.” She ran her hand along the books on the shelves, reading the spines. “You are forgiven. Nothing that happened to my sister is your fault.”
“Please do not despise Darcy. He truly believed he was doing the best for his friend.”
“I know that, and while I cannot excuse his officious interference, I am heartened by his willingness to tell Mr Bingley the truth. Now I am simply impatient for him to do it quickly, because I hope it will bring an end to Jane’s melancholy.”
She pulled a book off a shelf.
“What have you got there?”
“A novel I do not know, by an author I do not know. Possessing Equal Frankness by Natasja Rose.”
“What of Evelina? Belinda?” The colonel gestured at the shelf.
“I have already read them. After an evening of such unexpected developments, no familiar story could hold my attention.”
He snickered. “Then I shall leave you to your book,” and joined his cousins.
But Elizabeth was not attending, already amused by the absurd coincidence of the first line: It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of a skull-splitting headache is not in want of visitors.