CHAPTER SIX
Mr. Bingley Comes Home
Netherfield Park had been shut for scarcely three days when its master returned at such speed that the housekeeper, Mrs. Nicholls, believed at first there must be a fire.
There was no fire. There was Charles Bingley, muddy to the knees, windblown, and shouting instructions from the entrance hall.
“Open the east rooms. Colonel Fitzwilliam may use whichever bedchamber he pleases. Send a man to Longbourn with my card and ask whether Mr. Darcy requires anything from here. Have someone find his valet. I believe Jenkins went to London with the baggage. No—better send to London for him immediately. And Mrs. Nicholls?”
The housekeeper paused. “Yes, sir?”
“Please have something hot ready. I have not eaten since breakfast.” That, at least, sounded like Mr. Bingley.
By two o’clock he was at Longbourn.
Mrs. Bennet received him with mixed emotions so powerful that they seemed to compete visibly across her face. Joy at seeing him warred with outrage over his departure; anxiety for Mr. Darcy battled with the irresistible satisfaction of having a wealthy young gentleman in her drawing room again.
“Oh! Mr. Bingley! You have returned. And not a moment too soon, for your poor friend has been in the most dreadful state, and Jane has scarcely slept, though I tell her she must, and Lizzy is forever upstairs because Mr. Darcy grows calmer when she is near him, which I suppose is natural if half of what everyone says is true—”
“Mama.” Elizabeth’s warning came from the doorway.
Bingley turned. “Miss Elizabeth.”
She smiled despite herself. “Mr. Bingley.”
“Darcy?”
“Still feverish. Dr. Morrison believes the next two days important.”
Bingley’s good humour disappeared. “May I see him?”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam is with him now. I am sure he will allow it.”
Jane entered behind Elizabeth carrying a tray. Bingley forgot every other person in the room.
Jane stopped too. For one quiet second neither moved.
Elizabeth saw his face change. Whatever doubts had been planted in him in London, whatever arguments Darcy and Caroline had made, they were not enough to disguise the fact that Charles Bingley looked at Jane Bennet as a man looked at a home he had feared lost. “Miss Bennet.”
“Mr. Bingley.” Jane’s voice was serene, but colour climbed into her cheeks. “I hope you are well.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“And your family?” Jane glanced around the room, where most of her family was visibly present.
Elizabeth bit her lip. Bingley went pink. “Yes. Of course. I see that they are. I meant—”
“I know what you meant.”
Jane smiled.
He smiled back. Mrs. Bennet’s eyes filled with tears.
Elizabeth moved quickly. “Mr. Bingley, perhaps you would like to see Mr. Darcy before Mama faints from happiness and requires the other guest chamber.”
“Lizzy!”
Bingley laughed.
Jane did too. Something in the room eased.
Upstairs, Darcy slept under the influence of laudanum. Richard sat beside the bed with a newspaper open and unread across one knee. Bingley stopped at the threshold. Darcy’s face, too still against the pillow, frightened him more than Elizabeth’s words had.
“Good God.”
Richard stood. “Bingley.”
“How is he?”
“Stubborn enough to annoy two physicians, which I take as encouraging.”
Bingley approached the bed. “I should have been with him.”
Richard gave him a level look.
“Why?”
“I left Hertfordshire. He rode alone because—”
“Because he is a grown man with a horse. Unless you frightened the fox yourself, I cannot see that you bear responsibility.”
Bingley looked down. Richard studied him.
“There is something else.” Bingley lowered his voice. “Darcy persuaded me to leave.”
“So I gathered.”
“He thought Miss Bennet did not care for me.”
“Did you?”
Bingley glanced toward the open door as though Jane might materialize there. “I thought she did. Then I thought perhaps I had only wanted her to.”
Richard’s expression became less teasing. “Darcy is an excellent judge of land, horses, accounts, and men who are trying to cheat him. Women are less certain territory.”
Bingley huffed a laugh.
“At present,” Richard continued, “he believes himself engaged to Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Bingley’s head snapped up. “Believes?”
Richard’s mouth twitched. “That is a longer story.”
Before he could explain, Darcy stirred. “Bingley.”
Charles leaned close. “I am here.”
Darcy opened his eyes with effort. “You came back.” “Of course I did.”
“Jane.”
Bingley stiffened.
Darcy’s brow furrowed as if arranging a difficult thought. “I was wrong.”
Richard’s brows went up.
Bingley stared. “What?”
“About Jane.” Darcy’s eyes drifted closed again. “Elizabeth says Jane feels deeply.”
“Darcy, Elizabeth has said nothing of the sort in my hearing,” Richard observed.
Darcy ignored him. “Bingley.”
“Yes?”
“Do not be an idiot.”
Then he slept again.
Bingley looked at Richard.
Richard folded his newspaper. “Remarkably lucid, considering.”
That afternoon Bingley remained at Longbourn.
He carried messages for the physicians, sent a servant to Netherfield for wine, and allowed Mrs. Bennet to feed him enough cold beef for three men.
He also found Jane alone for five minutes in the small breakfast room.
She was arranging flowers that had been sent by a tenant’s wife for Mr. Darcy.
Bingley hovered in the doorway. “Miss Bennet.”
Jane turned. “Mr. Bingley.”
“I owe you an apology.” Her hands became still among the chrysanthemums. “I left without saying goodbye.”
“Yes.”
“I thought— That is, I was led to believe—” He stopped and made himself begin again. “No. That sounds cowardly. I allowed myself to be persuaded that my attentions were unwelcome.”
Jane looked at him for a long moment.
“Were they?” he asked.
Her voice was quiet. “No.”
Bingley exhaled.
“But,” Jane continued, and he looked startled, “I do not think I should be made to answer for feelings I never had an opportunity to express before you disappeared.”
He swallowed. “No.”
“Nor do I think your sister should write to me of your plans as though you have none of your own.”
Bingley’s face changed. “She told you?”
“She told me Mr. Darcy was in London.”
He shut his eyes. Jane watched him with compassion, but she did not rescue him from discomfort.
When he opened his eyes, she said, “You are kind, Mr. Bingley. I have always thought so. But kindness without judgment may leave other people to bear the consequences.”
It was the sternest thing Jane Bennet had ever said to him. Bingley looked as if she had struck him.
Then, slowly, he nodded. “You are right.”
Jane returned to the flowers.
After a moment he asked, “May I begin again?”
A smile touched her mouth. “You may try.”