by Jessie Lewis
Worse and worse! She actually liked the starched bastard. Her dreadful taste notwithstanding, he feared she must now believe whatever version of events Darcy had spun. How to undo her faith in him? “You, who so well know my feelings towards Mr. Darcy,” he began, “will readily comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume even the appearance of what is right. His pride in that direction may be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must deter him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by.”
That earned him naught but a raised eyebrow. He was growing excessively tired of her sanctimony. “I only fear,” he pressed, more loudly for the music had struck up again, “that the sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been alluding, is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and judgment he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always operated, I know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his wish of forwarding the match with Miss De Bourgh, which I am certain he has very much at heart.”
She only inclined her head and made to step around him, but with such a glimmer of amusement in her eyes as filled him with alarm. He could not tolerate being at such a disadvantage. If she were privy to information that could ruin his good name, he would discover it. He stepped closer, reaching for her hand. “Madam, we have not finished our conversation. I must insist upon this dance.”
“Miss Elizabeth, I believe this dance is mine.”
He spun around. “Mr. Bingley!”
“Mr. Wickham,” Mr. Bingley replied brusquely, reaching for Miss Elizabeth’s hand himself and leading her away.
Wickham turned and leant against the wall, glaring at their departing backs. For all that effort, he was still none the wiser. He knew neither how much she had been told nor how likely she was to repeat any of it. He must now live on tenterhooks, fearing the chit would out him at any moment. Damn Darcy to hell and back! The man blighted everything!
***
Elizabeth was not sure she had ever seen such a pained expression on her sister’s face as when she took to the floor for a second set with Mr. Bingley. It made her slightly nauseous to be the cause of it. She had assured him she was grateful for his intervention and to dance was not necessary, but he had been insistent upon shielding her from Mr. Wickham’s attentions. There was nothing to be done but complete the set and make her excuses to Jane afterwards.
She was grateful for the liveliness of the dance and Mr. Bingley’s loquaciousness, for both excused her from having to offer much conversation. He chattered on amiably as they came together and whirled apart, apparently content with smiles by way of response. She gave the appropriate felicitations when he mentioned his sister was with child and would soon join him at Netherfield but otherwise said very little. He gained her immediate and full attention, however, when his ramblings touched upon the object of her reflections.
“…and I have yet to hear from Darcy, which is surprising. Still, he was very busy when I left him.”
After a moment’s consideration, Elizabeth enquired, “Do you correspond with him often?”
“Fairly often, yes.”
“I wonder—that is, there is something I would ask of you.” She paused, unsure how to proceed with what he might consider a vastly improper request. An explanation seemed the best way to begin. “When Mr. Darcy and I spoke of Jane, we…well, it became something of a debate.”
“Was it as fierce as those you enjoyed at Netherfield?”
“Rather more so, I am ashamed to say.” They broke apart to perform a figure with several other dancers. When they faced each other once more, she continued quietly. “I wonder, would you be so good as to pass on my apologies in your next letter to him?”
“I should be happy to, but I must say he gave no indication he was affronted by anything you said.”
Mr. Darcy’s discretion only deepened her remorse. A vicarious apology seemed wholly inadequate, yet it was all that was in her power to offer him. Her later apology to her sister was little better received. Despite Jane’s attempts to be gracious, Elizabeth could easily perceive she was dismayed by what must have looked to all their neighbours as Mr. Bingley’s marked attentions to the wrong sister. Between Mr. Wickham’s persistent lies, Mr. Bingley’s overzealous defence, Jane’s jealousy, and her mother and younger sisters’ improper behaviour, she was ready by the end of the evening to forswear assemblies forever.
***
Saturday, 16 May 1812: Hertfordshire
Though happy for the opportunity to recommence his courtship, Bingley vastly disliked the hours he was obliged to spend alone at Netherfield each day. In a bid to pass the time more agreeably, he invited his neighbours to fish with him in his pond. Barring the crayfish that made a hole in Mr. Goulding’s net and the chill Mr. Philips contracted after falling in the water, however, not a thing was caught. Mr. Bennet’s rod was discovered to have woodworm when it split in two, Mr. Hurst’s dog absconded with Mr. Greyson’s tackle, Mr. Long’s best (and only) beaver blew into the lake, and the whole thing was rained off after but half an hour by a sudden storm.
The gentlemen ended ensconced in the comfortable parlour of the Millstream Inn while they waited for the rain to stop. Spirits were high, conversation flowed as freely as the ale, and the fishing party was unanimously declared a raging success.
“It is capital to see you back in our little corner of the world again, Bingley,” Sir William said to him over his second or third flagon. “We had worried you meant to quit the neighbourhood entirely.”
“As did I, at one point,” Bingley replied. “Though I am fond of the country, there was some uncertainty as to whether the country returned my regard. Fear not, though. Darcy set it all to rights for me, and here I am!”
“Darcy, you say?”
“The one and only. Assured me the country was completely in love with me.”
“Capital, capital! I daresay he is correct, too. Will he be joining you at Netherfield?”
“He said not, but he had praise enough for Meryton when he was convincing me to return, so he may yet decide to visit.”
“He is very good,” replied Sir William, preening as though any praise for the neighbourhood must necessarily encompass him.
“He sends his regards, of course.” Bingley placed his forearm on the table and leant forward, adding in a hushed tone, “He did ask me to convey his regrets for his reserve during his last visit, but I am sure you agree with me it is not necessary.”
“Indeed, I do. His manners were faultless—here and in Kent. Capital fellow! Whatever gave him the impression we found him otherwise?”
“I did,” Bingley slurred, grinning. “It was quite unintentional. I was teasing him for squabbling with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. He took it altogether the wrong way.”
Sir William nodded sagely. “He must not blame himself for that. Miss Elizabeth can be rather pert. A good girl, though.”
“No need to convince me of that—or Darcy. He assured me he thinks she is perfectly lovely.”
“Did he indeed?”
“He did! Apparently, he finds her very pleasing company.”
Sir William’s eyebrows began creeping up his forehead. “Indeed! Maria mentioned he called on them often at Hunsford.”
“Not often enough for them to say all they needed to say, for I am still passing messages between the pair of them.” Bingley briefly wondered whether he ought to have said as much when Sir William’s eyebrows all but lost themselves in his hairline, but two more flagons of ale and four rounds of skittles quite put the matter from his mind.
3
The End of Equanimity
Monday, 18 May 1812: London
Darcy accepted the stack of letters from Godfrey and waited until he was alone before permitting himself a small groan. He was tired and in no humour to attend to
correspondence. His mood soured further still when he espied one letter written with Bingley’s unmistakable hand. He knew not that he had stomach enough to read what his friend had to say, but he could not ignore it. Steeling himself, he opened the letter and began to read.
Netherfield, Hertfordshire
May 12
Darcy,
I cannot thank you enough for sending me back to Herts! I have called at Longbourn and received a hearty warm welcome. Miss Bennet is somewhat reserved still, but as you predicted, Miss Elizabeth was encouraging. I have some chance with Miss Bennet, I believe, but I proceed with caution. I am not She is as serene as ever, but I would be sure before I make any
Are you certain you will not come to Netherfield? I have been fishing with the other gentlemen. Caught nothing. Ding-dong of a head on me the next morning though. Sir William was You could, of course, bring Georgiana. If you come, bring your own rod. Lent my spare to Mr. Bennet.
Any luck discovering an attorney to look over my cousin’s proposal? Survey expected within the month—should like to know what to do with it. It was interesting to Great news! The Hursts are expecting a child! They come hither to avoid the London air. Miss Elizabeth was just last evening extolling the benefits of country air, as it happens—hardly surprising to hear she enjoys it, given her fondness for walking. She remains as engaging as ever. Her manner of speaking is delightfully unaffected. She assures me her sister receives my attentions with pleasure, for which I am exceedingly grateful, for I might otherwise begin to think I had no hope. Would that the one conversed as easily as the other! Might have better luck next week. I have decided to put on a picnic for all and sundry. Miss Bennet was anxious it might be too cold, but Miss Elizabeth thought it a fine idea—
Darcy snarled a curse and snapped his gaze away from the page. That it should be Bingley and not him receiving Elizabeth’s warm welcome and enjoying Elizabeth’s unaffected conversation was simply too much to bear. With no desire to read any more of that which was forever denied him, he wrenched open a desk drawer, threw in the letter, and slammed it closed again before surging from his chair and stalking to the window. He leant heavily against the frame. Did Elizabeth know he had confessed his mistake to Bingley? Did she think any better of him? He pressed his forehead against the cold glass.
“Do you know it has all been for you?” His breath frosted the glass, obscuring his view of the world. Of course she did not know. She thought him devoid of every proper feeling. He straightened, adjusted his coat, and strode from the room. Summoning his man, he informed him that he meant to go out, and he was duly provided with the appropriate attire. Then he quitted the house and did not return for many hours.
Portman Square
May 18
Dear Cousin Fitzwilliam,
I beg you would speak with my brother. We were to go to Gunter’s this morning for ices, but he did not come for me as arranged. He sent no note and no messenger. I waited for three hours, then went to Darcy House, only to be told he was from home. I waited another hour there and was about to return home when I heard him in the hall, talking with Godfrey. He had been injured! He had a ghastly cut to his cheek that bled freely and his face was bruised and
Forgive me, my hand cannot keep pace with my thoughts. He would not look at me, and Mrs. Annesley drew me back into the parlour before I could speak to him and warned me it would be impertinent to interfere, but I can no longer overlook his malaise, which has been of many months’ duration now. Please come, for I know not what else to do.
Georgiana
***
Tuesday, 19 May 1812: Hertfordshire
“Oh! There are no officers! Why are there no officers?”
“Lydia! Lower your voice.” Elizabeth took her sister by the elbow and marched her away from the gathered company.
“But it would be much less dull if Wickham and Denny were here.”
“Colonel Forster’s regiment is engaged elsewhere today, Miss Lydia,” said Mr. Bingley behind them. Elizabeth cringed at having been overheard.
Lydia felt no such contrition. “Oh, pooh! Are there games at least?”
Mr. Bingley graciously directed her to where some of the other ladies were playing shuttlecock. Lydia sighed loudly but nonetheless trudged to join them, leaving Elizabeth to apologise for her impertinence.
“Think nothing of it,” Mr. Bingley assured her. “It was a stretch of the truth in any case. I have no idea where Colonel Forster’s regiment is today. I did not invite them.” He leant slightly closer and lowered his voice. “I did not wish to give Mr. Wickham any occasion to importune you.”
“Oh! Why, that is most considerate of you but not necessary.”
“Pish posh!” He offered his arm, and they ambled back towards the picturesque array of beribboned tables and chairs where Jane waited. “Besides,” he went on, grinning, “I am more than tired of being shone down by a hundred red coats at every gathering.”
“Oh, yes! A gentleman ought to be allowed the advantage at his own picnic,” she agreed, drawing an undignified snort of laughter from him.
“Lizzy!” Mrs. Bennet cried, bursting forth from the midst of a nearby huddle of matrons. “Mr. Bingley did not invite us here so you could run on at him all afternoon.” Grabbing her elbow in much the same manner as Elizabeth had grabbed Lydia’s, she tugged her away and hissed loudly, “Leave him alone to speak to Jane.”
With an apologetic grimace, Elizabeth excused herself from her host and went in search of the promised games. At the other side of a little folly, she was delighted to discover a quantity of targets had been set up for archery.
“Do you enjoy the sport, Miss Elizabeth?”
She turned. Mr. Greyson had followed her from the seating area. “Very much, though I cannot claim any skill, and I am quite sure those targets are at least twenty yards too far off for me.”
“That will never do!” he declared, marching to the nearest and hefting it a good deal nearer. “Will that suffice?”
“It most certainly will not!” Mr. Bingley called, coming around the folly with Jane on his arm and a large grin on his face. “I will stand for none of your nonsense, Greyson.” So saying, he walked to another of the targets and brought it level with Mr. Greyson’s—and then an additional two feet forward. Thereafter, the pair took turns shuffling their targets ever closer until they were directly in front of the ladies. Elizabeth raised her arm and poked her target with a finger.
“Bulls-eye!” Mr. Greyson shouted.
“Foul play!” Mr. Bingley replied. “I insist on a proper tournament!”
Thus, the targets were returned to a distance agreeable to all, chairs were set out for the gathering spectators, and refreshments were provided for the ladies. Mr. Bingley paired with Jane, of course. Elizabeth supposed it was fitting Mr. Greyson should remain with her since he had instigated the game, though she could not have said why the arrangement made her so uncomfortable.
It was not much of a contest, for neither sister fired well. Elizabeth’s first three arrows all landed in the grass, much to the amusement of everyone watching. She gave in to laughter when her next hit the target lengthways and bounced off. “I am even worse than I recall!”
“Allow me.”
Mr. Greyson stepped forward and placed a hand around the bow directly below hers, mumbling about how best to grip it. Elizabeth remained very still, intensely aware of his nearness. From the corner of her eye, she regarded his profile. He was a touch taller than she and had straight, light brown hair and elegant features. Indeed, he was not an unattractive man. Neither was he Mr. Darcy, of whom her memory was vivid and in comparison to whom no man fared well.
She flushed hot to have caught herself comparing any man to Mr. Darcy. Mr. Greyson further flustered her by turning his head towards the target, all but resting it on her shoulder. Her fingers twitched and t
he arrow loosed, shooting in a straight line to the bulls-eye—of Jane’s target. Whilst everyone else delighted in the happy accident, Elizabeth stepped away from her companion and drained her glass of lemonade dry.
Jane’s next arrow flew so far off the mark it was lost in the shrubbery.
“Jane, that was terrible!” Kitty cried. “Even Lizzy does better than you!”
“Yes, so it would seem.” To Elizabeth’s great surprise and greater disappointment, Jane then handed Kitty her bow and added, “You had better take my place, for I cannot compete.”
Mr. Bingley’s objection to her withdrawal coincided with Elizabeth’s own, but Jane would not be swayed. Claiming fatigue, she begged everyone to play on without her and went to sit with Mrs. Hurst at the end of the row of chairs. Elizabeth thought she looked more piqued than fatigued but could not fathom why that should be—over a lost arrow! Whatever was becoming of her sweet Jane?
Kitty called everyone to attention, impatient for her turn. Yet, with Jane now sitting down, Elizabeth found herself flanked by both Mr. Greyson and Mr. Bingley, both offering advice and both disturbing her equanimity with their closeness.
***
Mr. Bennet chuckled as Elizabeth’s next arrow landed in the same bush as Jane’s. The two gentlemen flanking her were evidently more hindrance than help, but then, had Mr. Bingley spent more time watching his own partner rather than Mr. Greyson’s, he might not have scared her away, and Elizabeth would not presently be thus encumbered.
“I know not how you can laugh,” his wife whispered heatedly. “You must stop Lizzy flirting with Mr. Bingley this instant.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Nay, my money is on Mr. Greyson. He at least is consistent. Mr. Bingley seems unable to decide whom he prefers. Be not surprised if he offers for Mary next week, my dear.”
“I am in earnest, Mr. Bennet! Mr. Greyson prefers Lizzy and will not have Jane; therefore, Lizzy cannot have Mr. Bingley, for otherwise Jane will have no one!”
