by Jessie Lewis
What manner of imposition she had suffered at Bingley’s hands was not revealed in the letter, only that he had not succeeded, and Elizabeth was evidently well enough to be writing to him about it. There was small mercy in knowing she had indeed sent at least one letter, though the mystery of why he had not received it, or any subsequent ones, gave him an entirely new reason to be alarmed.
One-and-twenty hours’ travel with nothing to do but agonise over things he did not know had left Darcy sick to his stomach with worry and angrier than it was sensible to be in such a confined space. Sleep brought him no relief. It only tortured him with the same picture of Elizabeth in Bingley’s arms over and over again. He feared he would go out of his mind if they did not begin to make better time.
“He cannot succeed,” Fitzwilliam said, “for they are forewarned this time. He will not be able to get within fifty miles of her. Besides, we cannot be sure he will make another attempt.”
Darcy did not respond. This was a topic they had abandoned more than once, for it offered nothing in the way of hope. Mrs. Sinclair’s letter was dated March 11. Having received no response from Ashby to the express sent on Saturday evening, they had no option but to treat his remarks in Kent as fact—and he, based on information received well after the first attempt to abduct Elizabeth, had averred in the future tense that Bingley meant to take her to Nova Scotia. No matter which way they looked at it, this only seemed to confirm Mrs. Sinclair’s concerns that he meant to attempt it again.
Darcy let his head drop back onto the cushions. He stared into the pitch-black interior of the carriage, wishing for the thousandth time that he had never sent Bingley back to Hertfordshire. Brooding over how soon the cur’s feelings must have changed after he got there proved an endeavour of pure torment.
“Hurst is right. He has always admired her,” he said into the darkness. Fitzwilliam did not reply. Darcy was not entirely sure he was still awake, but he did not wish to sleep or dream himself, thus he continued. “I reread all the letters he sent me from Hertfordshire. They were all about Elizabeth. They hardly mentioned Jane at all but to say she was reserved.”
The carriage rolled on. “It was his suggestion that we all marry on the same day. I never did get a straight answer from him as to why he wished it.” He clenched his fists. “And I knew he thought her handsome. I have often heard him compliment her. It was he who first recommended her to me.”
The horses clattered through the lightless countryside, but he saw nothing of their inexorable progress. He knew only smouldering resentment. “He even kept a crayon sketch of her on his desk that one of the Gardiners’ children drew. I can still remember Jane’s expression when I discovered it. I could not understand why it vexed her so.” He closed his eyes. He thought he might as well, for the image of Elizabeth in Bingley’s arms now haunted him whether or not they were open. “How could I have been so blind?”
“We all were.”
Not asleep then.
“If he hurts her—”
“Stop torturing yourself, Darcy. All will be well.”
He pressed a fist to his mouth lest the dread constricting his throat escape. He knew not what he would do if it were not.
***
Pemberley’s driveway had never seemed so tortuous. They wove in and out of woods, around crags, over streams, and for the first time in his life, Darcy found himself envying Rosings’ contrived and formal avenue.
He could feel Fitzwilliam’s eyes on him. He let him watch and continued staring from the window. They crested a rise and the roof reared into sight. Pemberley still stood at least. He pulled the window down and leant out to call to the driver. “Not the stables! Go directly to the front!”
He returned to his seat but kept his hand on the edge of the lowered window, drumming his fingers on the frame. As though in a dream, they scarcely seemed to advance despite the cracking of the whip and thundering of hooves. Trepidation filled his heart and crowded his mind, every hope of seeing Elizabeth instantly superseded with the sickening thought of finding her in Bingley’s arms.
There was no one to be seen. The windows were empty and dark. The gardens were devoid of workers, the lawn devoid of visitors. There were not even any cursed ducks on the lake. No one opened the front door as they rolled through the gates and began to slow. That was as much as Darcy could bear. He stood, thrusting his hand out of the window to reach for the handle. The door flew open and he leapt out, hitting the ground at a run, taking the steps two at a time.
As he neared the top, the front door finally opened, and he almost stumbled, for through it walked the last person in the world he expected to see. Cold fury flooded his veins. With a roar, he leapt the remaining steps and charged at Bingley, slamming him into the wall and pinning him there with a forearm to his throat.
“Where is my wife? I know you mean to take her! Tell me where she is!”
Bingley did not fight him or look afraid or even ashamed. With a stirring of horror, Darcy realised he was crying.
“You are mistaken,” he croaked past Darcy’s stronghold. “She is not with me. She is dead.”
13
Mistaken
Wednesday, 3 March 1813: Pemberley
His fifth tour of the lake brought no more relief than the previous four. Bingley remained wretched, still utterly befogged as to how he found himself in such a hellish bind. No man intends that his every choice should lead to calamity, yet it seemed that, at every juncture where he might have acted prudently, external influences had steered him into misadventure.
Had his sisters not been so adamant Jane neither loved him nor was worthy of his love, his heart might never have been laid open to the charms of another. Had Darcy not encouraged him to return to Hertfordshire, assuring him of a warm welcome and successful suit, or had Wickham not assaulted her, putting her in need of his rescue and protection, it might never have been Elizabeth to whose charms he succumbed. Had Jane not forced his hand, had Darcy not claimed Elizabeth for himself, had Jane not grown bitter and cold…the list of obstacles to his felicity were endless.
He cuffed a low branch from his path. It rebounded to slap him on the back of the neck as he stomped past, sending him tripping forwards and doing naught to improve his humour.
Even his decision to leave had been thwarted. No sooner had he booked passage on the next ship from Liverpool than he had been prevailed upon to stay. Though he risked forfeiting the vast sum laid out for a first class berth if Darcy did not return within a fortnight, he had agreed to the delay, for he was not prepared to abandon Elizabeth in such a delicate state, even if Darcy was.
He required no instruction to look to her well-being. His first thought upon waking each day was to attend to her happiness and to provide the appreciation and companionship she did not receive from her husband. With that in mind, he undertook to spend every available moment in her company. And how well they did together! Always, they found something about which to converse. Always, she was interested in what he said, never with any of the ridicule he had come to expect from his sisters or the indifference he so often perceived in Jane.
It was the cruellest form of torture being trapped here, admiring her in such close neighbourhood yet forbidden from expressing or, God forbid, acting upon his feelings. Likewise, it would be torture to leave, knowing he would never see her again. That might be less painful if only he could be sure of her happiness. Yet, he would leave full in the knowledge that her husband did not respect her, and she was as miserably allied as he.
The deplorable affair marked the death of his good opinion of Darcy. For above a year, he had struggled with conflicting notions of respect and disappointment, but the latter had finally triumphed. Deep as their connection ran, Bingley could no longer excuse the pride that overshadowed any concern his erstwhile friend ought to have felt for his wife’s happiness. Over and again, he had watched
Darcy put duty before any thought to her. Familial obligations, estate business, spurious social commitments—anything with half a chance of gratifying his need to be indispensable—seemed sufficient grounds for neglect. Presently, it was the draw of a reviled and dying relative justifying his absence.
Resentment gave haste to his ramblings. Bingley gave up the narrow path and stormed onto the lawn, railing at how the rest of the world rode roughshod over his life. But for Darcy and his blasted jaunt to Kent, he might have been in Liverpool by now. Damn him and his self-serving conceit, ever directing people hither and thither to suit himself. Where was it written that all lesser mortals must dance to the tune of the Titan’s whims? What right had he to look to his own pleasure when all around him were so damned miserable?
He had not the time to draw any conclusions. As he walked towards the house, the mistress of it herself suddenly came forward from the path that led behind it to the orangery. So abrupt was her appearance that it was impossible to avoid her sight. “Lizzy! I did not expect to see you.”
“I live here now, you know,” she replied, amusement dancing in her eyes—eyes that, despite how distractingly beautiful her teasing rendered them, Bingley could not but notice were tinged with red.
“Have you been crying?”
Her amusement ebbed. “Oh, pay me no mind. I am being silly.” As she said it, she folded a piece of paper he had not noticed was in her hand and slipped it into her pocket.
“Upon my word, I am sorry if I embarrassed you, but I shall not ignore it if something has upset you. Come now, what are you crying over?”
She smiled sadly and whispered her admission to the ground. “Darcy.”
It was but one word, yet it was enough to stir his indignation into a furnace of resentment. What the devil had the man done now—written to her with his disapprobation lest she become complacent in his absence?
“It is too much!” he cried. “I cannot bear to see you—you, loveliest, fairest Lizzy, condemned to this misery and disregard! It is the hardest thing in the world to watch you suffer so!” She stared at him and said nothing, which left his mind unfettered to make its next improbable leap of reasoning. “Come with me! By God, why did I not conceive of it before? You can escape this insufferable oppression if you come with me to Nova Scotia!”
Her countenance was the dearest picture of confusion—part frown, part smile. “This is a strange sort of joke, sir.”
“Indeed it is not a joke!” He stepped forwards and reached for her hands. “Come with me, Lizzy. Be with me!”
She snatched her hands from his and stepped backwards. “Why would you ask such a thing of me?”
It seemed the whole world ceased what it was doing to watch. Never had Bingley thought this moment would come. Yet, here she was, lovelier than ever, anxiously awaiting his assurances. He regarded her earnestly, willing her to comprehend his sincerity. “Because I love you.”
She made a little noise but after that seemed unable to catch her breath. She looked somewhat horrified, though he supposed that was to be expected, for what he proposed was seriously audacious. He was somewhat horrified by it himself, yet he could not find it in himself to retract it. “I love you!” he said again, giddy with exhilaration for being finally at liberty to declare it.
“Did you fall and hit your head while you were on your walk?”
“No!” he cried, almost laughing at her sweet disbelief. “I am in complete earnest! Indeed, it cannot be wholly surprising. You must have suspected, for I know I have made a poor job of concealing my feelings.”
Her expression was now all frown and no smile.
“Pray, be not angry with me for not declaring myself sooner. I know it would have brought you comfort had you known you were loved properly by somebody all this time, but I could never perceive any advantage in it. I never thought we would have such an opportunity as this to act.” He stepped towards her, closing the space she had put between them. “But that does not mean I did not feel it. Every moment of every day, almost since the beginning of our acquain—”
“Stop!” She threw her arms in the air and turned to stride away from him towards the house. “I cannot listen to any more of this!”
He hastened after her. “I have shocked you. Forgive me! Only I have so long despaired of ever being happy that, now I see there is hope for us, I cannot but rejoice.”
She neither slowed nor looked at him. “You have lost your mind, sir. I beg you would stay away from me.”
“Nay, Lizzy, I am of sound mind! I comprehend what I suggest is scandalous, but we need not care for that! We would be gone to where nobody would know what we had left behind. We might even be able to marry!”
She stopped abruptly and turned to him, agape. “Are you proposing to me?”
He gulped. “Well…yes. Yes, I suppose I am.”
“He was right!” she cried. “I shall never walk alone in a garden again!”
***
Elizabeth stormed through the house, growing angrier with every door through which Bingley pursued her.
“Wait, I beg you,” he pleaded.
“I insist you cease this madness this instant!” She slammed another door closed between them and stood still, breathing hard. Her furious march had brought her all the way to Darcy’s study. Though not consciously done, she was relieved to be able to put his vast desk between herself and Bingley when he ignored her plea and followed her into the room. “Come no nearer or I shall scream.”
“Lizzy, I—”
“Do not call me that. I am Mrs. Darcy to you and shall never be anything else!”
He had the nerve to look unhappy about that. “I comprehend that you are apprehensive of what Darcy will do, but—”
“I know precisely what my husband will do, and believe me it is you who ought to be apprehensive. I am more concerned with what you intend to do.” She stepped towards the bookcase to pull the bell for someone—anyone.
He held up his hands. “Pray do not summon anybody! I have gone about this very ill, I know, but I beg you to consider! This may be our only chance to be together.”
The bell was forgotten. Elizabeth came out from behind the desk that she might direct her fury without impediment. “You are gravely mistaken if you suppose the mode of your declaration is all that prevents me from consenting to be together with you, here or anywhere.”
“I agree there is a great deal at stake, but the reward would be worth the sacrifice.”
“I see no reward in it, sir!”
“Because you will not believe that I love you.”
“No, I will not, for it opposes every feeling of decency I possess.”
“To blazes with decency! I love you!”
“Cease saying that! You cannot justly claim any regard for me and, in the same breath, prevail upon me to betray my husband! And while I carry his child!”
“I would love the child as my own. You must not concern yourself in that regard.”
“Upon my word, you are speaking of incest and child abduction! I think my concerns perfectly justified!”
“When you put it like that, I grant you it is not an ideal situation, but it is the only chance we are ever likely to have.”
“What is?” This most welcome interruption came from Mrs. Sinclair. She bustled into the room and perched with decided purpose on a sofa.
“He says he loves me!” Elizabeth cried.
“Indeed,” Mrs. Sinclair replied, fixing Bingley with a dubious look. “Although I cannot presently think of any good way of declaring such a thing, I am quite convinced that chasing Mrs. Darcy through the house, bellowing at her for the whole world to hear, was a dreadful one.”
“I know!” he said, running his hands through his hair. He turned to Elizabeth. “Forgive me! I have no excuse but that I love you.”
>
“But I do not love you!” Bingley stared at her, evidently astonished, and she growled with vexation. “I shall not pretend to be surprised that the possibility of my indifference never occurred to you. I have come to expect that men will presume they can command a woman’s affections at will.”
“But everything in your manner has—”
“Nay, do not blame my manner, sir! I shall not have the blame for this!”
“But you are always pleased with my company!”
“I am pleased with many people’s company. It does not mean I am in love with them.”
“But have we not shown these past few days how well we do together?”
Elizabeth felt nauseous. “Yes, I have ever thought of us as dear friends. But if you have been imagining yourself my lover every time I so much as laughed at one of your jokes, then I can no longer think of our acquaintance with anything but abhorrence.”
“But you asked that I stay.”
“And you imagined I did so because I desired that we have a criminal conversation?”
He had the wherewithal to look abashed, but he did not deny it.
“I suggested you stay because you seemed hesitant about leaving.”
He stepped towards her, a disconcertingly intense look on his face. “I did not wish to leave you.”
“Your obduracy in this matter is most alarming, Mr. Bingley,” said Mrs. Sinclair. “Might I suggest a return to the caprice for which you are renowned and allow Lizzy to disabuse you of your fascination before any further damage is done?”
“If I have misunderstood your feelings, I am sorrier than I can express,” Bingley continued, heedless of her warning. “Yet, I beg you would not squander this opportunity for a want of the deepest love. We have been friends, I am certain of it, and I would be willing to live as such. Surely, you could tolerate the arrangement if it meant escaping Darcy’s disesteem?”
