Chapter 21
The fire in Netherfield's study had burned low by the time carriage wheels sounded upon the gravel.
Darcy rose from the chair where he had spent the past hours with a book in his lap, his thoughts fixed upon Longbourn and what might be transpiring there whilst he sat waiting for news he could not seek himself.
He had planned to remain at Pemberley but had not been able to bring himself to do so. Thus, he had accompanied Bingley to Hertfordshire, which he had left so very recently.
He met Bingley in the entrance hall, searching his friend's face for some indication of how the morning had unfolded. What he found was a curious mixture of gravity and elation, two states so at odds that he could not immediately reconcile them.
“Well?” He kept his voice level. “Did they believe you?”
“They believed me.” Bingley handed his hat and gloves to the footman and gestured toward the study. “Come. I shall tell you everything, but I require brandy first. Possibly the entire decanter.”
They settled into chairs before the dying fire, and Bingley poured two generous measures before launching into his account.
The shock of the Bennet women when he presented the evidence.
Mrs Bennet succumbing to vapours and requiring salts.
The tense interval whilst Jane played at the pianoforte and Miss Elizabeth examined the documents.
And then McLeod's return from Meryton to find his world crumbling around him.
“He denied it at first,” Bingley said, swirling the amber liquid and watching it catch the firelight.
“He actually had the audacity to speak of powerful connexions in Scotland who would take a dim view of slander against a Highland laird. Then, he implied he would see me ruined.” He took a long swallow.
“I confess there was a moment when I wondered whether we had made some terrible mistake.”
“But he confessed, did he not?” Darcy asked urgently.
Bingley nodded. “Completely. Once Miss Elizabeth confronted him directly, the fight went out of him.” Bingley shook his head.
“It was not what I expected. I had prepared myself for a calculating deceiver who would bluster until the magistrate clapped him in irons. What I found instead was a man undone by his own conscience, weeping before women he had wronged.”
Darcy said nothing. The reports regarding McLeod's charitable works had prepared him for complexity, but hearing it confirmed brought no satisfaction. There was no triumph in unmasking a man whose sins were born of tragedy rather than malice.
“He spoke of watching his friend, the real Malcolm, die,” Bingley continued, his gaze fixed beyond the fire. “Ten years he has carried that guilt, trying to make amends.” He paused and looked at Darcy. “Miss Elizabeth refused to press charges.”
Darcy's head came up. “She refused?”
“For the child's sake.” Bingley set down his glass. “She gave McLeod until tomorrow to quit Longbourn.”
Something shifted within Darcy's chest. Even with her engagement in ruins and her family's future uncertain, Elizabeth had thought first of a child's welfare. Even when she possessed every right to demand justice, she had chosen mercy.
This was Elizabeth Bennet at her finest.
“That was well done of her,” Darcy said quietly.
“It was. Though I confess I was prepared to write to the magistrate myself had she wished it.” Bingley reached for the decanter and poured another measure.
“The family is in quite a state, as you might imagine. Mrs Bennet took to her bed after the confession, and the younger sisters had to be told something of what had occurred, though I gather they were spared the worst details.”
“And Miss Elizabeth? How did she bear the revelation?”
Bingley considered the question. “With more composure than I could have managed in her place.” He shook his head in evident admiration. “She is a remarkable woman, Darcy. I have always thought so but today confirmed it beyond any doubt.”
Darcy turned his gaze to the fire, unwilling to let Bingley see whatever might be showing in his expression. A remarkable woman. Yes. He had known that for some time now.
“As for Miss Bennet...” Bingley paused, and that mixture of gravity and elation returned to his features. “There is something else I must tell you. Something I did this morning that I am not certain I ought to have done.”
“Go on.”
Bingley set down his glass and ran both hands through his disordered hair, a gesture Darcy had come to recognise as a sign of considerable agitation. “I proposed to Miss Bennet.”
Darcy stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“I proposed. To Jane.” The words tumbled out in a rush.
“I had meant to leave when my business was concluded. Truly I had. I climbed into my carriage and set off down the drive, fully intending to return here and report what had transpired. But I was not halfway to the turning before I found I could not do it.”
He rose and began to pace before the hearth, his boots marking a restless path across the carpet.
“All those months of separation, Darcy. All that wasted time when I might have been courting her properly.
And there I was, driving away again whilst she stood in that house dealing with the wreckage of her sister's hopes, with her mother prostrate and her family's future in ruins.” He stopped and faced Darcy, his expression caught between joy and shame.
“So, I asked Mrs Bennet for permission to pay my addresses, right there in the entrance hall.”
Darcy lifted an eyebrow. “Not an hour after they had received such devastating news.”
“I know.” Bingley winced. “It was ill-timed. Wanting in propriety. One might argue I took advantage of their distress.” He resumed his pacing. “I have been castigating myself for it ever since I departed. What must they think of me? What must Jane think?”
Darcy could not conceal his grin. “What did Miss Bennet say when you proposed?”
“She accepted.” Bingley’s cheeks flushed. “We are to marry in the spring, once a proper interval has passed.”
Darcy rose and crossed to where his friend stood. He clasped Bingley's shoulder firmly. “Then I congratulate you. Sincerely and without reservation.”
“You do not think I behaved abominably?”
“I think you behaved impulsively, which is hardly a novel occurrence where you are concerned.” Darcy allowed himself a smile.
“I also think Miss Bennet has been waiting for you to recover your senses for the better part of a year. I doubt very much she is inclined to quibble over the precise timing of your proposal.”
Bingley's countenance split into a grin. “She looked so beautiful when she accepted. Even with everything that had happened, she looked at me as though I had brought her the sun and moon.”
“I am glad for you both. This has been a long time coming.”
“Too long. And I have only myself to blame for the delay.” Bingley's grin faded into something more rueful.
When Bingley spoke again, his tone was hesitant.
“There is one more thing. As I was leaving the first time, before my impulsive return, Miss Elizabeth enquired after you.”
“She asked whether I had news of you,” Bingley continued, watching his friend's face with undisguised curiosity. “Whether you were keeping well.”
Something kindled in Darcy's chest, and he found himself leaning forward slightly before he caught himself and forced his posture to remain neutral. Elizabeth had asked after him. It might mean nothing. Courtesy demanded such enquiries. And yet...
“What did you tell her?”
“That you were well. I nearly said more.” Bingley's gaze sharpened. “There was something in her expression when she spoke your name. I cannot quite describe it. Almost wistful, if I were forced to put a word to it. As though she were thinking of more than she was saying.”
Darcy felt hope stir within him, felt it stretch and uncurl like some creature waking from a long slumber.
He suppressed it ruthlessly. He had spent weeks disciplining himself against such foolishness.
Elizabeth had made her feelings clear when she failed to meet him at the pond.
To read more into a polite enquiry would be the height of self-delusion.
“You wondered wrongly.” His tone came sharper than he intended. “Miss Elizabeth was observing the courtesies, nothing more. I shall thank you not to construct elaborate fancies upon such a slender foundation.”
Bingley looked as though he wished to argue, to press his observation further. Something in Darcy's face must have warned him off, for he subsided with a shrug and reached for his glass instead.
“Very well. If you insist upon being stubborn about it.”
“I do insist.”
The fire needed tending. Darcy busied himself with the poker and fresh logs, grateful for a task that allowed him to turn away from Bingley's too-perceptive scrutiny.
The flames caught and crackled, sending shadows dancing across the walls, and by the time he returned to his chair his composure had been restored.
“The Scottish estates,” he said, steering toward safer waters. “What becomes of them now that the fraud has been exposed?”
“I had not considered that.” Bingley frowned into his glass. “I suppose they revert to whatever legitimate heirs can be found, if any still exist. Hamish did say MacKinnon had no surviving relatives, something that I believe was confirmed by the minister?”
“Indeed.” Darcy nodded. “There may still be very distant relations with valid claims. Cousins in cadet branches who survived.” Darcy filed the matter away for future enquiry. His solicitors could look into it when time permitted. “And what of Longbourn? What becomes of the Bennets now?”
“That is what torments me.” Bingley's expression grew troubled. “They find themselves precisely where they started. The entail remains in force, and with the Scottish inheritance revealed as fraudulent, there is no one to succeed after Mrs Bennet except that insufferable clergyman.”
“Collins.” Mr Darcy’s face grew thunderous. “Are you perhaps acquainted with him?”
“Once, last autumn, when he came to Longbourn proposing marriage to any Bennet daughter who would have him. A more ridiculous, pompous, self-important little man I have never encountered.” Bingley shuddered.
“He spent half the visit praising his patroness Lady Catherine and the other half cataloguing the furniture he meant to retain when he inherited. The notion that their right to remain in their own home might one day depend upon his charity is insupportable.”
Darcy noted his friend's genuine distress, the furrowed brow and agitated manner. Yet Darcy himself remained composed, a fact Bingley did not fail to observe.
“You do not seem particularly troubled,” Bingley said, studying him. “I should have thought you would be more alarmed for the family's welfare, given the circumstances.”
“I am concerned. But perhaps not so alarmed as you might expect.”
“Why?” Bingley leaned forward. “What do you know that I do not?”
Darcy allowed himself a small, satisfied expression. “My solicitor and I have been working on something these past weeks. A possible solution to the Longbourn difficulty.”
“Solution? What manner of solution? The entail is ironclad, everyone says so. Mr Bennet himself attempted to break it years ago and was told nothing could be done.”
“Perhaps Mr Bennet did not have access to the same resources I possess.” Darcy rose from his chair and moved to the window, looking out over the frost-silvered grounds of Netherfield.
“I shall need to meet with Mr Collins to discuss the particulars. Can you arrange a carriage for tomorrow morning? Early. I should like to reach Hunsford before noon.”
Bingley gaped at him. “You mean to call upon Collins? At Hunsford? Under Lady Catherine's very nose?”
“I do.”
“Whatever for? Surely you cannot mean to appeal to his better nature, for I am not persuaded he possesses one.”
“I mean to present him with a tantalizing offer.” Darcy moved toward the door, then paused and glanced back. “But if all proceeds as I hope, the Bennets may find their situation considerably improved before the new year arrives.”
He left Bingley staring after him, questions clearly burning on his tongue, and made his way upstairs to review Hartley's correspondence once more.