Chapter 11
The Gardiners’ carriage was long gone from the Pemberley drive, and after a convivial dinner and farewelling his other guests, Darcy had spent the better part of the evening at the window, looking at the place where it was not.
It was an absurd way for a grown man to pass an evening, and he knew it.
If he turned to the left, he could see the lawn sloping down to the line of the river. It appeared almost exactly as it had that morning, before anything had happened.
That was the trouble. The place had returned to itself. He had not.
Earlier this evening, Mrs. Gardiner had given him an opening as plainly as a woman could do without appearing to give one.
And he had stood there and failed to say anything in response.
He had come to the very edge of saying he would come, but no farther.
He, who had spent the whole day priding himself upon doing the necessary thing the moment it wanted doing, had bowed and said it had been a great pleasure to have them at Pemberley, as he would have to any ordinary guest after an ordinary visit.
He had had a great deal of practice that day in usefulness. Somehow it seemed to have taken the place of his courage.
For that was the truth of it. There was no more time—she departed on Monday. Just two days more, and the Gardiners’ carriage would turn south, and he might never see Elizabeth Bennet again.
When that happened, any chance he might have had would be over.
Her appearance at Pemberley had offered him the second chance he had no right to expect. She had known the worst of him, and yet she was here, her look saying she might still be persuaded to think better.
Darcy had proposed once and been refused. A proper gentleman did not press a lady twice. But if he let her leave Derbyshire without acting, propriety would do what it always did. It would close the door gently, correctly, and for good.
He tore himself from the window to seek his chambers, but as he passed the half-open door of the drawing room, he heard muffled voices within.
He meant to ignore them and continue upstairs.
But Richard was sitting on the floor beside the door, arms folded, boots stretched before him, as comfortable as if seated in one of the library chairs.
His cousin laid a finger to his lips and tipped his head towards the gap.
“Richard,” Darcy whispered. “What are you about?”
“Reconnaissance.”
“This is not Spain; this is my house.”
“All the more reason to know what passes in it.” Richard patted the floor beside him.
“I am not sitting on the floor outside my own drawing room.”
“Then stand. Only mind you don’t give us away by eclipsing the moon.”
Darcy opened his mouth to order his cousin off the floor and out of the passage when Miss Bingley’s voice wafted out to the hall.
“—after all we endured today, Charles, I cannot comprehend how you continue to take their part. To sit down with Miss Eliza Bennet was trial enough, but to have her aunt and uncle imposed upon us—”
The words remained unspoken as he turned one ear to the gap. The impropriety of listening was grave. But leaving, he found, was impossible.
“You will not speak so of the Gardiners or Miss Bennet,” Bingley said. “They are all three of them estimable people.”
“My dear Charles,” Mrs. Hurst put in faintly, “Caroline only means the visit was unexpected.”
“I know precisely what Caroline means, Lou. Do not attempt to improve it.” Bingley’s voice remained even. “And I should be careful with the word imposed, Caroline. You and Louisa have been very willing to consider yourselves included wherever Darcy invites me.”
The gasps from the ladies were audible. Darcy, who had endured that very arrangement for several years, found the plainness of the remark both regrettable and deeply satisfying.
He had the satisfaction under command almost at once.
Not, however, before Richard saw it. His cousin gave one strangled wheeze, bent double, and struck his shoulder against the leg of the hall table.
The little porcelain vase upon it gave one alarming click, rocked, and tipped into a slow slide towards the edge.
Darcy moved—not a lunge, for a lunge would have been undignified—but one swift, silent step across the floor.
He bent his knee, his arm shot out, and the vase settled into his hand barely an inch from disaster.
For a moment there was nothing but the tick of the hall clock and the creak of the boards under Richard’s weight.
Darcy set the vase back in its place without a sound and glared at his cousin.
Richard smiled up at him, unrepentant. Meanwhile, Miss Bingley had recovered.
“—I speak from concern,” Miss Bingley was saying. “For you, for Mr. Darcy, and for the consequence of this house.”
“Good heavens, Caroline. You are at once offended for me, anxious for Darcy, and concerned about the consequence of Pemberley, a house that has stood two centuries without your assistance. It must be exhausting.”
“You mean to slight Miss Bennet,” Bingley said. “To accuse her of setting herself at Darcy.”
“I mean only that certain young ladies are not indifferent to a gentleman of Mr. Darcy’s rank and fortune.”
“No. Though it is a curious sentiment, coming from a lady who is currently pursuing Darcy for precisely those reasons. You cannot set your cap at a man and then cry scandal when another woman owns a bonnet.”
“Charles!” Miss Bingley’s voice came lower, uglier.
“What is intolerable is watching Miss Eliza Bennet feign modesty while taking care every gentleman observes her. The paltry wit, the admiration for the grounds, that business with the boy—really, there was not the least chance of his being injured. She has improved her tactics since Hertfordshire, and I would not wish Mr. Darcy to be taken in, that is all.”
Richard’s amusement vanished, and he began to rise. Darcy did not wait—he pushed the door open.
“That is enough.”
The three within turned. Bingley came a step towards him. “Darcy—I apologise. I was trying—”
“You were defending my guests. You need not apologise. I am obliged to you.”
Richard sauntered into the room and assumed a place by the mantel.
Mrs. Hurst stared. “Colonel Fitzwilliam. Were you and Mr. Darcy—”
“Passing,” said Richard. “Slowly.”
Darcy shared one brief look with Miss Bingley and turned to address Bingley.
“Your sisters cut the acquaintance of Miss Jane Bennet in town this winter, while she stayed with the Gardiners. I knew of it. I did not tell you because I believed it when I said she did not care for you. Her sister has since told me I was wrong. If you still care for Miss Jane Bennet, reopen Netherfield and judge for yourself.”
Bingley let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “If I still care for her? I have been trying not to care since November, and I am no nearer it now than I was then.”
“A difficult battle,” Richard observed.
“A hopeless one.” Bingley stared at Darcy for a time before he turned back to his sister. “I mean to return to Netherfield, Caroline. Every argument against it has begun to sound remarkably like you.”
Mrs. Hurst clutched her handkerchief. “Charles.”
“You can take Caroline with you, Lou. I am certain Hurst will not mind.” He paused. “He may not even notice.”
Darcy faced Miss Bingley. “I will say this clearly—Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner and Miss Elizabeth Bennet did not force themselves upon this house. My sister and I invited them, received them, and were glad of them. Yet you have disputed my decisions since you arrived.”
“I am sure you mistake me. I only wished to point out their connection to trade—”
“Which are known to me. Did you somehow think I was unaware? That I had forgotten your comments on the subject last autumn?” The coolness of his reply stopped her.
“The Gardiners and Miss Bennet have shown nothing but good sense and kindness. The only want of breeding I have witnessed today was not theirs.”
Mrs. Hurst half rose. “Mr. Darcy!”
He turned to her. “Yes, Mrs. Hurst? Do you wish to tell me now that every guest with ties to trade ought to be run out of Pemberley?”
She met his eye, paused, and sat down again.
“You are severe,” said Miss Bingley.
“No. I have been negligent. That ends tonight.”
Miss Bingley’s mouth parted. She looked at her brother, expecting him to intervene.
Bingley did not shrink away. “Caroline. I think you should retire.”
For a moment she only stared at him. The words might as well have been spoken in some foreign tongue. Then she seemed to realise that her brother would not be coming to her rescue.
“Come, Louisa.” She rose, swept to the door, and paused. “I hope you will all be satisfied with the outcome of this evening.”
Richard was already at the door, opening it wider for her. “I, for one, am already satisfied.”
She shot him a look that would have felled a weaker man, but Richard simply smiled. Mrs. Hurst followed her sister out, and their footsteps retreated down the passage until distance swallowed them.
For a moment no one spoke.
Then Bingley dropped into the nearest chair. “My sisters lied to me. Months I have been unhappy, believing Miss Bennet indifferent—and she was in town, wishing to see me.”
“Your actions were founded on faulty intelligence,” said Richard, gentler now.
“Faulty intelligence?” Bingley let his hands fall. “I had no intelligence. I was outnumbered by falsehood, vanity, and” here he waved at Darcy, “excessive height.”
Richard chuckled. “A formidable alliance.”
“A doomed one, fortunately.” Bingley looked at Darcy. “I mean to go. I know I cannot expect much of a welcome, but I intend to go.”
“Good.”
It was not eloquent, but it seemed to settle something between them.
The door swung wide and Hurst stuck his head into the room. He took in the charged silence, the rigid faces, and asked the question nearest his heart.
“Is there any brandy?”
“Your wife,” said Bingley, “has just gone upstairs in a temper.”
“I saw,” said Hurst, making for the decanter. “Why do you suppose I came down?”