by Jessie Lewis
“So Bingley dithered about a bit? It is not unreasonable to think he was uncertain of his reception, having abandoned the lady once already.”
Darcy clenched his teeth. Each of Fitzwilliam’s objections was sound, yet he could not share his sanguinity. Too many unexplained anomalies were piecing together, though God knew he wished they would contrive to make a different picture. “I asked him recently why he continued visiting Longbourn after he had decided against Jane.”
“And? What reason did he give?”
“Elizabeth.”
“What, just that?”
Darcy nodded. He would much rather his cousin had continued adamant in the belief there was naught troubling afoot. As it was, the doubt flickering over his countenance tied his stomach in knots. “I must get to Pemberley,” he announced, reaching for the bell pull.
“You cannot mean this instant?”
“I can and I do.”
Fitzwilliam stepped in front of him, preventing him from summoning anyone. “Darcy, be reasonable. I grant you, this looks very ill, but all of it could be perceived in a different light. There is no need to do something as foolhardy as rushing off to Pemberley in the dark on the basis of one addled letter and a few spurious suspicions.”
“Only they are not few, and they seem ever less spurious. I cannot think of one good reason for half the occasions Bingley has arrived at my door in the last year. He has followed Elizabeth halfway around the country and back, invariably appearing in places we have told him we will be, always contrary to the plans he has previously claimed and never with any real purpose.”
“He could as easily have been following you about as Elizabeth. You have ever spent a good deal of time together.”
“If that were the case, he would be here and not at Pemberley with her.”
“No, I cannot believe it,” Fitzwilliam said, shaking his head. “Not of Bingley. He would not be so devious as to impose upon your hospitality if it were the case. If, indeed, he was attracted to her at one time, we must assume he has overcome it.”
A dreadful feeling of nausea accompanied Darcy’s next remembrance.
“Even were she to revert to the sweet girl you thought smiled too much, she would not be the woman I want.”
He rubbed a hand over his face.
“You are inclined to think otherwise?” his cousin enquired.
He took a deep breath, for it was strangely difficult to speak. “When I urged him to give the idea of going to Nova Scotia more thought, he replied and I quote: ‘I have done nothing but think on it whilst I have watched you have everything I want, knowing I cannot have it.’ I assumed he referred to my general contentment.”
Fitzwilliam’s eyebrows rose. “I should like to say he might have been, but there is only so long I can continue to defend him without looking a churl,” Fitzwilliam replied. “I suppose we might credit him with some morals for attempting to extricate himself from the wreckage and take himself off to another country.”
Darcy gave a bitter laugh. “Oh, yes, he was all benevolence—until Elizabeth suggested he stay and he abandoned all his plans in an instant. At another word from her, he would probably stay forever.”
“Yes, well, she would never ask it, and you would never allow it, so pray waste no time brooding on it. Besides, did Ashby not say something this morning about him being gone by the time you got back?”
“What does Ashby know?” Darcy strode across the room to snatch up the poker and unleash some of his anger upon the fire.
“That is precisely what he said of you,” his cousin said behind him.
When he said nothing further, Darcy looked over his shoulder, and upon seeing Fitzwilliam’s brow contracted into his deepest frown yet, turned fully to face him. “What is it?”
“Nothing dire—only, now that I recall what Ashby said, I think you have less reason to be concerned.”
“And what did he say?”
“That Jane wrote to Philippa last week to inform her Bingley was taking her to—hold fire, is Jane with child?”
Every sinew in Darcy’s body went taut. “Not to my knowledge. Why?”
Fitzwilliam said nothing, only paled and stared at him in alarm.
“What did Ashby say, Fitzwilliam? Verbatim, if you would.”
“As best I recall he said, ‘He is taking the Hertfordshire chit and decamping to Nova Scotia.’” He swallowed. Darcy waited. “Then he said something along the lines of it making more sense to find a girl who was not already with child when he got there.”
All the air left Darcy’s lungs in one violent exhalation, and a hideous pall fell over them both. Fitzwilliam looked at him with an expression of horror that presumably matched his own.
“Bloody hell, Darcy, I thought he was talking about Jane. He might have been. Are you absolutely certain she is not with child?”
It was possible, Darcy supposed. Yet, it was many weeks since she and Bingley were last in company, and he had not received the impression from him that they were often in the same room before that. Was it possible that since reading Elizabeth’s letter they had reconciled and agreed to go away together? The alternative did not bear thinking about. He tossed the poker aside, sending plumes of ash into the air from where it landed in the grate. “I am for Farley House. I would speak with Jane. Will you accompany me?”
“Try and stop me.”
This time Fitzwilliam rang the bell for Godfrey. While they waited, Darcy, as if to exasperate himself as much as possible against his erstwhile friend, chose for his employment the examination of all the letters Bingley had written to him since his return to Hertfordshire. It was fortunate their horses were saddled as expeditiously as they were, for the endeavour achieved naught but the unchecked escalation of his dread.
***
“But you would have heard, Darcy. I say again, no news is good news.” Much though Fitzwilliam comprehended Darcy’s concern, he remained unconvinced that there was sufficient foundation for any of his worse suspicions, and he was reasonably confident that, if Jane were unable to allay their fears, Ashby’s reply to the express he had sent before they set out would clarify matters for them.
“Still you maintain that?” his cousin said darkly. “After all this, you are content to believe that a complete want of communication is not even a trifle concerning?”
“What do you propose? That Bingley has stolen every sheet of paper and pot of ink in the house that nobody could send for you? Has he also hobbled all the horses and bribed all the staff to prevent their going for help?”
“Bingley has the trust of my entire household. He could take Elizabeth away from Pemberley and tell everybody I had authorised it, and nobody would blink an eye.”
“I think Elizabeth might have something to say about it.” He thought he saw Darcy flinch.
“She also trusts him. They have found an affinity in both being betrayed by Jane.”
“That does not mean she would agree to his bundling her onto a boat! Besides, he does not have my grandmother’s trust. I assure you she would not sit by quietly and allow him to sail off into the sunset with your wife!”
“I do not know what has happened, Fitzwilliam! I do not know what he plans or what lies he has spun to achieve it. What I know is that I have received no letters from Elizabeth in two weeks, and that means something is wrong.” He urged his horse to go faster, forcing an end to the conversation.
Fitzwilliam pushed his own mount to match his pace, not so easily deterred. “You are assuming that a want of correspondence necessarily means Bingley has acted against her in some way. The two matters may be wholly unconnected.”
“Then I have two reasons to be concerned—what has prevented her from writing and what he may yet be planning.”
“For God’s sake, she is heavy with your child! Even
Bingley could not turn a blind eye to that.”
“He is impetuous enough to do anything once the thought to do it occurs to him. I will not allow it. The child is mine and so is Elizabeth.”
It seemed perturbing memories were not solely Darcy’s prerogative, for this remark recalled Fitzwilliam to an incident he had thought passing strange at the time and which in this new light appeared downright damning. Having followed his cousin to Hertfordshire the previous year and waited at Netherfield all afternoon for him to appear, Fitzwilliam’s first question had been whether Elizabeth was truly dead. Darcy had responded that she was “very much alive and very much his,” at which Bingley had inexplicably groaned and excused himself to bed, claiming a wish to be spared Darcy’s raptures.
Was it possible Bingley truly held an enduring romantic attachment to Elizabeth? Lamenting Darcy’s engagement to her whilst sober was a very different matter to scribbling a drunken ode to her tits. He was still frowning over it when Darcy directed them into a row of mews where they were divested of their mounts and escorted through a small passageway between the row of houses opposite and up the steps at the front to Hurst’s door.
“Jane will not be pleased to see you,” he muttered as they were ushered towards the drawing room. “Not if your account of your last meeting was accurate.”
“That is not my concern,” Darcy replied.
It turned out not to be hers, either, for the only two occupants of the room were Hurst and his wife. They both expressed their surprise at receiving such guests at such an hour, but nonetheless assured them they were welcome. Darcy refused their offers of refreshments, wasting no time in explaining his object of speaking with Jane.
“I am sorry to disappoint you, Darcy, but she is not here,” Hurst replied.
“There you are. You see, Darcy,” Fitzwilliam said, feeling inordinately relieved. “It is she who has gone off with Bingley after all.”
“Ah, no…forgive me, sir, but Jane has not gone anywhere with my brother,” Mrs. Hurst said, dashing his reprieve. “She has gone back to Netherfield. Might I enquire where it is my brother is supposed to have gone?”
“Aye,” Hurst added. “We understood he was at Pemberley.”
“Where is Miss Bingley?” Darcy enquired abruptly.
“Why, she escorted Jane to Hertfordshire,” Mrs. Hurst replied warily.
“Is there nobody here who can tell me what is going on?” he growled. Fitzwilliam rather thought the Hursts must be thinking the same, but his cousin gave neither of them any time to enquire before fixing Mrs. Hurst with a steely glower and saying, “When I was here two weeks ago, your sister made a remark about Pemberley not being the best place for Bingley to be. I would know what she meant.”
The lady’s cheeks were instantly overspread with a most dreadful shade of guilt, and she looked to her husband in alarm.
“Best speak up, madam,” he told her. “It seems serious. Tell them everything.”
That did not bode well. Not well at all.
“Well, I…I do not…the fact of the matter is…” She wrung her hands. Darcy looked as though he wished to wring her neck.
“Hurst?” Fitzwilliam prompted.
He took the hint and lay all before them with laudable brevity. “Bingley is in love with Mrs. Darcy. Has been from the off.”
Fitzwilliam shifted to the balls of his feet, taut and alert as he watched Darcy close his eyes and become stock still but for the grinding muscle in his jaw.
“Has he done something stupid?” Hurst enquired.
“Is he likely to?” Darcy demanded, suddenly and fearsomely reanimated by the mere suggestion of it.
Hurst did not quail, though there did not look to be much blood left above his collar. “Caroline seems to think he might cause some trouble. She wrote to tell him to come home, but he never replied. I apologise,” he added when Darcy bared his teeth. “Once Bingley got himself tangled up with Jane, there did not seem any way of mentioning it without causing more harm than good.”
It was a blatant lie. An addle-pate could have guessed their true motivation for silence was the preservation of Darcy’s favour.
“To whom?” Darcy roared, clearly of a mind.
“Darcy,” Fitzwilliam said, gesturing at Mrs. Hurst who was visibly trembling. “There is nothing more to be done here. Let us go.”
With naught more than a quick appraisal of each person in the room and a single nod of concurrence, Darcy turned and left.
“Bad form, Hurst. Bad form!” Fitzwilliam said before following his cousin from the house.
“This does not make it any more likely that he has absconded with her,” he remarked to his mute and unmistakably seething cousin as they steered their horses back across Town. “It is an abhorrent abuse of trust, but he has not acted upon his feelings in a year. There is no reason to suspect he will do so now.” Darcy did not respond. “I had not thought Hurst the sort for such deception,” he continued. “It is reprehensible that he should have concealed this from you. That said, I cannot comprehend why Jane never said anything—to Elizabeth, if not to you.”
“Never mind either of them. I would know what the hell Ashby is about, keeping this from me.”
Fitzwilliam had been hoping he would not raise that issue. “It cannot have been his intention to keep it from you, or he would not have mentioned it to me.”
“Intelligence such as this ought to have been brought to my attention as a matter of urgency, not tossed away in a careless aside half a week after the event.”
“He, too, may have thought the letter referred to Jane. Do not rush to accuse him before we know the facts.”
Darcy scoffed contemptuously. “The facts are that he begrudged my severe words against his wife and thought to punish mine in return. Do not attempt to convince me otherwise. We both know I am right. He must be lost to every feeling of decency and family honour to be so indifferent to Elizabeth’s well-being.”
With his brother’s remark, “good riddance,” and observation that Darcy ought never to have married Elizabeth fresh in his mind, Fitzwilliam was painfully aware of what little regard Ashby had for her. Nonetheless, he was deeply grieved by the possibility that he should prove capable of such casual betrayal. “Will you go to Netherfield to see Jane?” he enquired, changing tack.
“No, I shall go to Pemberley to see Elizabeth.”
“I shall come with you if you will have me along. When do you leave?”
“Had we left when I wished, we might have been into Hertfordshire by now.”
He sighed quietly. “I am sorry, Darcy, but Elizabeth would never forgive me if I allo—”
“First light. Do not be late. I shall not tarry.”
***
Monday, 15 March 1813:
Somewhere between
London and Derbyshire
Darcy awoke with a jolt, his heart thundering in his chest as he tried to dispel the memory of a nightmarish figure that was half Bingley-half Wickham, kissing Elizabeth against her will. All was black but for the feeble light of the torches at the front of the carriage bleeding through the edges of the blinds.
“What time is it?” Fitzwilliam enquired with a yawn.
Darcy took out his watch and peered at it, but it was too dark to make out. It had gone two in the morning when they left the last inn, but the brick in the foot well was still warm, and there was not a hint of dawn on the horizon. “Not past three, I think.”
“Where are we?” Fitzwilliam said, hooking a finger behind a blind and peering out into the night.
“Not near enough.”
Indeed, despite having set out at the break of dawn yesterday and spending the entire day and night on the road, it was not likely they would reach Pemberley until late that afternoon.
“All will be well, Darcy,” his c
ousin said quietly.
“He tried to take her, Fitzwilliam. It is already long past well.”
“Yes, he did but he failed.”
“And who is to say he will fail next time?”
Everything had changed since leaving Farley House on Saturday evening. He had gone to bed that night plagued by fears that Bingley would attempt to steal Elizabeth away with him and awakened on Sunday morning to have all those fears transformed into fact when Fitzwilliam arrived, stony-faced and bearing a letter that had been awaiting him at his barracks.
March 11
Pemberley
Thirson,
Mrs. Darcy has just received a communication from her husband informing her that, despite his aunt being dead at last, he does not mean to arrive home until the middle of next week. I am at a loss as to why this should be. After his lunatic friend’s escapades, he ought to be hastening home to ensure his wife’s well-being, not dallying by her ladyship’s graveside lamenting her long-overdue passing.
You will, of course, have heard from him what has happened, for I know Mrs. Darcy has written to inform him. You will agree this Bingley creature is unhinged. What madness convinced him to impose upon her, I know not—and in her present condition! Somebody ought to see to it that he is actually gone, lest he make another attempt to get her on board a boat. By which I mean I have seen men less set upon a purpose resort sooner to more forceful means to achieve it. One can expect nothing but trouble from a man capable of such preposterous aspirations.
Pray tell your cousin to leave off weeping over Lady Catherine’s corpse and get himself back to Pemberley forthwith. I shall have someone write this out again and send a copy to Knightsbridge, lest this one arrives at Rosings after you have left.
Yours in perplexity,
Mrs. T. Sinclair
They had been in a headlong sprint to Pemberley ever since. He and Fitzwilliam were exhausted. His own horses had long been replaced with post, and his desperation to reach Elizabeth increased with every second that ticked by.
