Chapter 8
Darcy sat in his study with a book open before him, though he had not turned a page for several minutes and the hour had already grown late.
The fire had sunk low, and the lamps on the desk cast a steady circle of light over papers still waiting for his attention.
Beyond the windows, London lay subdued beneath the winter night.
A carriage passed now and then through the street, its wheels rattling against the cobblestones, but the noise came faintly and did little to disturb the stillness within.
The fortnight that had followed his return to London had passed in a succession of regular, uneventful days that ought to have restored Darcy to himself.
His household moved with accustomed order, the city supplied no want of engagements, and anyone might have thought the distance between Darcy House and Hertfordshire substantial enough to cool any impression formed in a country assembly room.
In fact, it had done nothing of the kind.
When he first returned, Darcy had intended to occupy himself entirely with concerns that would not invite dangerous reflection.
Anyone might have thought there were matters enough for him to attend to.
There were letters to answer, calls to pay, arrangements to settle for Georgiana’s comfort, and the ordinary demands of the Season to be considered.
He had attended to all of them with his usual precision, only to find that precision offered no defence whatever against memory.
Elizabeth Bennet returned to his thoughts with a persistence he was helpless to resist.
Nor did he entirely want to. When separated from the object of his longing, however wisely, even memory could be a pleasure.
Darcy found himself welcoming the recollection of her manner in conversation, quick, observant, and animated without affectation.
Then there was the steadiness with which she had heard him out, and her determination and sincerity as she had promised that Georgiana’s name should remain protected.
Most troublesome of all, however, was the remembrance of that first mortifying moment at Longbourn, when Mrs Bennet had interpreted his request for a private audience in the most extravagant manner possible, and Elizabeth, with equal good sense and generosity, had spared him the worst of the embarrassment.
He could still hear her voice saying, with that calm dryness that seemed to give even absurdity an air of reason, that she had formed no expectation of the kind her mother imagined.
The memory ought to call up a mixture of humiliation and relief. It should not have been thrilling, but it was.
Darcy closed his book and rose from his chair. The room, though handsome and well proportioned, felt narrower whenever his thoughts turned that way. He crossed toward the window and stood looking out into the darkened street, though there was nothing to see that could engage him.
The misunderstanding ought to have been nothing.
In the moment itself, his mortification had been too great to think of much else.
Yet now, in recollection, it had gained a different character.
What had startled him first was Elizabeth’s certainty that he could mean nothing of the kind.
What disturbed him now was not the absurdity of the suggestion, but the reflection that his objection to it had not been so absolute as it ought to have been.
He turned away from the window, impatient with himself.
To indulge such thoughts was folly. Elizabeth Bennet remained what she had always been: a woman whose family connections were unsuitable, whose situation offered every reasonable objection, and whose presence had become far too dangerous to his composure.
Yet reason, though clear enough in its conclusions, had lately grown less effectual in commanding him.
A discreet knock sounded at the door. Grateful for the interruption, Darcy said at once, “Come in.”
His butler entered, walking with his customary silent step. “Mr Bingley has called, sir,” he said. “He asks whether you are at home.”
“At this hour?”
“Yes, sir. He did make an apology for the lateness of the hour.”
Darcy smiled a little at that. “Show him in, if you please.”
He inclined his head and withdrew. A moment later Bingley entered with the easy warmth that was so much of his character. Oddly, it appeared tonight accompanied by a degree of fatigue that not even his customary good humour could wholly conceal.
“Darcy,” he said as he came forward, pulling off his gloves, “I hope I am not disturbing you.”
“Not at all,” Darcy replied, motioning him toward the fire. “You look as though you have escaped from some public trial.”
Bingley laughed as he accepted the chair nearest the hearth. “From Caroline and Louisa, which is much the same thing at present.”
Darcy crossed to the sideboard and poured out two glasses of brandy. Handing one to his friend, he said, “Then I congratulate you on your deliverance, however temporary.”
“Temporary indeed,” Bingley returned, taking the glass with evident gratitude. “If I had not come away tonight, I believe they would have had me exhibited before another three ambitious mothers and their daughters before midnight.”
Darcy resumed his seat and regarded his friend with quiet amusement. “I have never known you to dislike social engagements. You speak as though London society has become a punishment.”
“It is not society in general that annoys me,” Bingley said, warming his hands around the glass before taking a sip.
“It is society managed by my sisters. They carry me from one house to another with a perseverance that would do credit to military planning. I dine where I am told, bow where I am expected, and am made to sit beside young women whose fortunes are recited to me with more emphasis than their names.”
Darcy nodded. “And are the names truly so much less interesting?”
Bingley laughed again. “You may jest, but I assure you the distinctions are worth observing. A lady with ten thousand pounds is called accomplished. With fifteen, she becomes elegant. By twenty, she is universally admired, whatever a more honest judgment of her face, figure, and character might be.”
Darcy raised his glass slightly. “Then London has improved since I last observed it. At least the scale appears to have become scientific.”
That drew from Bingley the fuller laugh Darcy had hoped to hear, though it faded almost as quickly as it came. He leaned back in the chair and looked into the fire with an expression that was thoughtful rather than cheerful.
“Caroline and Louisa mean well,” he said after a moment. “At least they believe they do. But I confess I have grown a little tired of being shown happiness in so many different forms and finding every one of them singularly unpersuasive.”
Darcy said nothing, but only nodded in silence. Something in his friend’s tone had shifted; he knew Bingley too well to mistake it. When he felt deeply, there was a sincerity that no lightness of manner could entirely conceal beneath all his natural ease. He waited.
“I had not thought it would be so difficult to forget Hertfordshire,” Bingley admitted at last, taking another slow sip of brandy.
Darcy watched his friend with a degree of attention that might have surprised anyone less accustomed to Bingley’s easy manner.
But he had known his friend for many years, and Bingley had never possessed much talent for concealment.
“You find London tiresome,” he said at last, turning the glass lightly between his fingers.
“I find London perfectly tolerable,” Bingley replied, though his expression suggested otherwise.
“It is the manner in which I am made to experience it that grows fatiguing. Caroline has determined that the Season shall be spent in the most fashionable houses imaginable, and Louisa appears to consider it her duty to ensure that I do not escape any opportunity of forming new acquaintances.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly. “Acquaintances of a particular description, I suppose — single, well-dowered, and well-connected.”
Bingley laughed and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
“You understand me perfectly. Every evening produces another introduction, and every introduction leads to a lady whose fortune and connections are discussed with a degree of precision that might satisfy a solicitor. I have become very well informed on the advantages of several families whose daughters I could scarcely recognise again tomorrow.”
“You do not appear greatly tempted by these advantages,” Darcy replied.
“Tempted?” Bingley repeated with a mixture of amusement and resignation. “My dear Darcy, if temptation consists of being seated beside a lady whose mother watches one’s conversation as if it were a negotiation for land, then I assure you I have been tempted more than enough.”
Darcy snorted a laugh at that. “I am familiar with the sensation, yes.”
“They mean well,” Bingley continued, though without much conviction.
“Caroline in particular is persuaded that I ought to marry advantageously. She speaks of alliances, connections, and expectations with a seriousness that would persuade anyone that happiness must certainly be found somewhere within them.”
Darcy said nothing immediately. He knew Caroline Bingley’s ambitions too well to mistake their direction. “And have you discovered it there?” he asked after a moment.
Bingley shook his head slowly. “I confess I have not.” He sat back again and looked into the fire with a thoughtful expression that was in marked contrast to his usual brightness.
“I sometimes think,” he said after a pause, “that I enjoyed myself more in Hertfordshire than in any other place I have visited.”
Darcy did not react, though the remark confirmed something he had suspected from the beginning of the conversation. “Hertfordshire,” he repeated evenly, “was certainly quieter than London. And the neighbourhood was sometimes a little confined and unvarying.”