Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Darcy was in the library when the carriage was heard.
Mr Bennet had gruffly told him he could seek refuge there if he wished, which Darcy recognised as a gesture of goodwill.
He had eagerly accepted; the library was quiet, whereas the rest of Longbourn was consumed by Mrs Bennet and her daughters fiercely debating the relative merits of silk versus muslin for a journey to Derbyshire.
The discussion had raged for three days with no sign of concluding.
The sound of the carriage was distinct. It was not a farmer's cart or a hired post-chaise, but a private, well-sprung carriage driven at a reckless speed. Darcy and Mr Bennet exchanged a loaded glance.
“That will be Mr Bingley,” Mr Bennet noted quietly.
“Yes.”
“You wrote to him?”
“Twice,” Darcy confirmed. “The second letter included a comprehensive account of my dreadful interference, and my unqualified admission of fault.”
“A difficult admission for a proud man.”
“It was necessary,” Darcy said firmly. “I am attempting to correct my mistakes, sir.”
The carriage stopped, and the front door opened. Mrs Bennet's voice instantly achieved a piercing pitch, greeting the immensely eligible visitor with her characteristic, overwhelming enthusiasm.
Darcy remained in the library. He had wrongfully managed Bingley's departure; he would not interfere with his return.
He heard Bingley's voice, pitched slightly higher than usual. The words tumbled over each other with eager, breathless joy. Darcy had once viewed his friend's open, unguarded heart as a vulnerability; he now recognised it as courage he himself had lacked.
He heard Jane's quiet voice in reply. He could not make out the words, nor did he need to.
Mr Bennet turned a page of his book with theatrical slowness, making it obvious he was listening rather than reading.
“He sounds terrified,” Mr Bennet observed.
“He is,” Darcy agreed.
“Should he be?”
“He should. Between the two of us, we robbed your daughter of seven months of happiness, and the fault was primarily mine.”
Mr Bennet slowly removed his spectacles, cleaned them on his handkerchief, and replaced them, carefully considering his words.
“You are unlike the man I expected, Mr Darcy.”
“I have changed, sir.”
“You are uncommonly honest about your own failings,” Mr Bennet noted quietly. “I find that unexpectedly reassuring.”
Bingley's animated voice drifted from the drawing room, chased by Mrs Bennet's excited chatter and Lydia's sharp laugh. Beneath it all, Darcy heard the soft, unmistakable warmth returning to Jane's voice—a gentle joy he had not heard since Netherfield, before he had ruined it.
He had caused this terrible damage, and now he had facilitated the repair. It did not erase his guilt, but it was a beginning.
Elizabeth watched from the hallway, hiding behind the tall clock. She accepted the total lack of dignity because she desperately wanted to observe without interfering.
Bingley stood in the centre of the drawing room, staring at Jane with naked, desperate devotion. He was attempting to make polite conversation, but his words stumbled over themselves in his anxious rush to speak. His utter lack of artifice made Elizabeth's throat tighten.
Jane sat in her usual chair, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She was fighting to maintain her serene composure, though the effort was visibly costing her. Sitting across from the man she loved without breaking down required a heroic strength of will.
“Miss Bennet,” Bingley stammered. “I hope—I wanted to say—I have been a perfect fool.”
“You have not been a fool, Mr Bingley,” Jane said softly.
“I have! I should never have left. I was told... I was informed wrongly, but that is no excuse. I should have trusted my own heart.” His face was deeply flushed, his hands gripping his hat as if it were a lifeline.
Jane's composure finally slipped. Her mouth softened, her eyes brightened with unshed tears, and she leaned slightly towards him.
“Mr Bingley,” she whispered. “Please sit down.”
He practically collapsed into the chair beside hers, his eyes never leaving her face.
Mrs Bennet was chattering with manic, triumphant energy, her shrill voice dominating the room.
“Mama,” Elizabeth said, stepping from the hallway. “I believe Kitty requires your assistance in the breakfast room.”
“Kitty requires no such thing,” her mother retorted.
“She does, Mama,” Elizabeth insisted, fixing her mother with a fierce, commanding stare that brooked no argument.
Mrs Bennet finally yielded, herding Lydia and Mary out of the drawing room. Jane and Bingley were left alone. Across the hall, Darcy stood in the library doorway, offering Elizabeth a quiet nod of approval.
Elizabeth quietly retreated.
Bingley came every day. He called on Friday, and again on Saturday. He even called on Sunday, cheerfully ignoring the conventions of polite society in his desperation to be near Jane.
On Monday, he brought wild flowers plucked hastily from a hedgerow. The sweet, informal offering proved he had been thinking of her while walking, too eager to see her to wait for a formal bouquet.
Jane arranged them in water with tender care, her flushed face turned downward. When she finally looked up at him, her love was naked.
On Tuesday, Bingley took Jane walking. The short distance to Lucas Lodge somehow required an hour and a half. Elizabeth tactfully intercepted Mrs Bennet in the hallway to prevent her mother from commenting on their lengthy absence.
On Wednesday, Bingley and Jane talked in the drawing room for three hours. Mrs Bennet worked at her embroidery and, by some miracle, refrained from saying anything foolish enough to break the spell.
On Thursday — one week after his arrival — Bingley asked Darcy to walk with him.
They walked the quiet lane towards Meryton. Bingley's usual brisk pace was replaced by slow, deliberate steps as he carefully arranged his thoughts.
“I am going to ask her,” Bingley said.
“I know.”
“Today. This afternoon. If she will see me. If she — Darcy, do you think she will have me?”
The question was painfully earnest. Bingley's hope was so naked that Darcy found it difficult to look at him. He had nearly destroyed this man's happiness; he felt he had no right to predict its fulfilment.
“I am the last man in England qualified to judge Miss Bennet's feelings,” Darcy said heavily. “My blindness nearly cost you everything. But Elizabeth assures me that her sister never stopped loving you during your absence. I owe you an apology for my arrogant interference, Charles.”
Bingley was quiet for a moment.
“You have already delivered it,” Bingley said warmly. “You wrote to me with honesty. I could not ask for a better friend.”
“I proved a very poor friend to you last winter.”
“That is in the past,” Bingley insisted, clapping Darcy on the shoulder. “Now, tell me, should I wear the blue coat or the grey?”
“The blue,” Darcy said immediately.
“You did not even consider it!”
“The blue coat fits you perfectly, Charles. It will lend you the confidence you currently lack.”
Bingley ran a hand through his hair. “I have been pacing my room for a week trying to compose a speech.”
“Then you certainly need the blue coat,” Darcy offered a rare, genuine smile.
Bingley laughed, the sound nervous but happy. Darcy felt a surge of affection for the friend he had nearly lost, humbled by Bingley's easy grace.
They walked back to Longbourn in companionable silence. Bingley was preparing to change his life, and Darcy knew from recent experience that no amount of preparation would be adequate.
Elizabeth was in the garden when she saw them come through the gate. Bingley wore the blue coat, his face pale with determination. Darcy walked beside him like a steadfast second.
Bingley hurried into the house. Darcy crossed the lawn to Elizabeth.
“He is going to ask her,” Darcy said.
“I know,” she smiled softly. “He has been gathering his courage all week.”
“He asked me whether I thought she would accept him.”
“And what did you say?”
“I told him I was unqualified to judge her feelings, and advised him to wear the blue coat.”
“The blue coat was an excellent choice.”
“I thought so.”
They stood quietly in the warm September garden. The drawing room window was open. They could not hear the words, but they heard the cadence of the voices change. Bingley's nervous chatter ceased. He spoke again, his tone low, steady, and far more serious than Elizabeth had ever heard it.
A long silence followed.
Then came Jane's voice. Elizabeth could not distinguish the word, but she knew the joyous, weeping tone.
“Yes,” Elizabeth whispered into the quiet garden.
Darcy took her hand, threading his fingers through hers. They stood together, grateful that they had managed to repair the damage they had caused.
Mrs Bennet's triumphant voice suddenly erupted from the house, startling the birds from the garden hedge. The volume of her joy was extraordinary, and for once, appropriate.
Elizabeth laughed aloud. Darcy smiled, a deep, genuine expression of relief.
“Two daughters married,” Elizabeth mused. “My mother will be unbearable for a month.”
Inside the drawing room, Bingley and Jane were finally beginning the life they should have started seven months ago. It was late, but they were together.
Elizabeth leaned against Darcy's shoulder, and he pulled her close. The garden smelled of late roses and cut grass. Darcy's hand was warm in hers.
She was going to have to write to Georgiana.