CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The Gentlemen at Netherfield
At Netherfield, the gentlemen were not asleep either.
Bingley had opened a bottle of excellent brandy. Mr. Hurst had opened a second. Richard had confiscated the second on the argument that neither groom ought to arrive at church unable to stand. Darcy sat in the library with one leg stretched before him, his cane beside the chair.
Bingley paced.
“Stop,” Darcy said.
“I am not nervous.”
“You have crossed the carpet eighteen times.”
“I am thinking.”
“You think in circles?”
Bingley stopped. “Are you nervous?”
“No.”
Richard laughed.
Darcy glared at him.
“Darcy,” Richard said, “you were nervous at dinner last week. You were nervous mounting Apollo. You were nervous when Miss Elizabeth took five seconds to answer your second proposal. You are certainly nervous tonight.”
Darcy looked at the fire. “Yes.”
Bingley sat down in relief. “Good.”
“Why is that good?”
“I thought I was the only one.”
Mr. Hurst raised his glass. “Marriage terrifies sensible men.”
Richard said, “You married Louisa.”
“Exactly.”
Bingley laughed. Darcy allowed himself a small smile. The Earl of Matlock entered with Mr. Gardiner and Mr. Bennet, who had been invited for one glass and somehow remained for two hours.
The Earl looked at the bottle. “Are we becoming sentimental?”
“Bingley is pacing,” Richard said.
“Darcy is lying about nerves.”
“I admitted them.”
“Progress indeed.”
Mr. Bennet took the chair opposite Darcy. “You may still escape.”
Darcy said, “No.”
“I was speaking to Bingley.”
Bingley grinned. “Also no.”
“Then I have done my duty.”
Mr. Gardiner poured a small measure of brandy.
The conversation drifted from weddings to estates, from estates to hunting, from hunting to a story about Richard at seventeen attempting to ride a horse through a garden gate too narrow for the saddle.
“It appeared wider from a distance,” Richard protested.
Darcy said, “You were drunk.”
“I was optimistic.”
“You broke the gate.”
“And my collarbone.”
Mr. Bennet looked at Darcy. “A family tradition, then.”
Darcy sighed. Later, after the others went to bed, Bingley remained with him. “Darcy.”
“Yes?”
“I have not thanked you.”
“For what?”
“For coming back.”
Darcy frowned. Bingley sat opposite him. “After the accident. You told me you were wrong about Jane.”
“I barely remember it.”
“I do.”
Darcy looked down. “I was wrong before I fell.”
“Yes.” Bingley smiled slightly. “You were.”
Darcy looked up.
Bingley held his gaze. “I do not want us to pretend it did not happen. I listened because I trusted you. You spoke because you thought you were protecting me. We were both wrong.”
“Yes.”
“But when you knew more, you changed.”
Darcy was quiet.
Bingley said, “That matters.”
Darcy thought of Mr. Bennet. Of Elizabeth. Of Georgiana. Apparently everyone in Hertfordshire had conspired to teach him the same lesson.
“Thank you,” he said.
Bingley smiled. Then he stood and held out his hand. “Tomorrow?”
Darcy took it. “Tomorrow.”