The Darcys and the Bingleys

by Marsha Altman

  “Oh, Mr. Bennet,” his wife said, not in a shriek but in a melancholy tone. “Our house will seem so empty.”

  “Indeed, Mrs. Bennet, I’ve given this matter much thought and decided that if Kitty and Mary do not do their fair share, we will have to have some more daughters to liven up the place.”

  “How can you talk such rubbish?” she said, but she was not at all mean. In fact, she was sort of smiling, in a sad way. “At your age, you could hardly take another fall, and we cannot always rely on Mr. Gardiner to catch you when you swoon!”

  Chapter 9

  Union

  “Dearest Elizabeth,” Darcy said as he took hold of her arms, “you are the love of my life, and I never wish to be parted from you again. I have been looking forward to this day since I first laid eyes upon you. And yet, I must tear myself away from those lovely eyes for a brief moment because I fear that I will die very shortly if I do not eat something.”

  Elizabeth decided that this was a perfectly logical explanation. In fact, the passion with which he said it was outright amusing. He had had every opportunity to consume something at the festivities, but they both had their minds on the solitary idea of getting out of there as soon as possible, with no love lost to their relatives. In Darcy’s London house, which was vacant except for the servants absolutely necessary for their night’s stay, they now had what they only had a few minutes of in Bingley’s closet yesterday—privacy. And without speaking, they both knew what the other was thinking: that it was worth its weight in gold.

  The few servants available were asked to cook up—to quote the noble and upstanding Mr. Darcy of Pemberley—“whatever is around.” He gave Elizabeth a kiss and let her be led to her dressing chamber to finally escape the very complex dress and its hazard of a long train. She was unaware of what the protocol was now—was she just supposed to lie and wait for him? But her stomach made its own decision, for she had eaten little since the night before, and she shooed away the attendants and dressed herself in a pretty but simple frock—she supposed he would like it all the same, now that he had no choice in the matter—and returned to the dining room to find a dish of mutton waiting for her across from him. She did not need any further enticement to devour it whole and anything else that was quickly put in front of her.

  By the time they were both finished and tea was served, their impromptu feast had cost them most of their energy, and they were left languishing in their respective chairs, quite unwilling to be anything but upright at the moment, basking in an easy and satiated silence.

  It was only then that she noticed Darcy had stripped himself of most of his wedding costume and was down to his shirt and breeches. He did look very fetching, but she felt odd saying it. “I must confess, Mr. Darcy . . .”

  He looked up when he heard “Mr. Darcy.” “You thought I was going to pounce on top of you like a feral cat when we entered the apartment?”

  There was the significant temptation to wrinkle her nose because Darcy’s laid-back composure was positively unnerving compared to the pillar of respectability he had been throughout the wedding—minus some very loving and almost sultry glances during the ceremony. But she decided instead to treat it in jest, because he seemed so inclined. Perhaps this was his true nature, hid behind the curtain of propriety that he so readily displayed in open society. “Yes . . . I suppose.”

  “Then I have disappointed you, and I should never be forgiven. Or I have greatly relieved you and should be forever looked on with great respect.” The table was set for two and not very long, and he sat straight up enough to reach over and put his hand over hers. His touch had a tingling sensation, perking her up just a bit. “Some things deserve just the right . . . planning.”

  “Which involves a full stomach?”

  “Apparently. I confess that you have driven me to such distraction over the last few days that I have lost whatever I attempted to ingest.”

  “That and your wild stag party last night.”

  “If you would call being cornered by Mr. Collins and Mr. Hurst a wild stag party, then you are much mistaken about the affairs of men,” he said, and kissed her knuckles, “my dear Lizzy.”

  “So there was no drunken debauchery?”

  “There was some drunkenness and tales of debauchery that came from men from whom I have never desired to know their intimate secrets, however keen they were on telling them. Then your father called us out of the room and saved both of us; I lost my stomach many times and went to sleep. There, you now have the full account of my wild stag night, minus the spoken details that I never want to think of again in my life.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “How ridiculous! All I had was a pillow fight with my sister.”

  “Then in some respect, this ‘woman’s lot’ that I hear so much of is not so terrible.”

  “You are omitting a few things from a woman’s lot, Darcy.”

  “Oh yes. There is also having to endure the total devotion of your husband, to be the mistress of a great estate, and to drive me insane trying to satisfy your every unconscious want and need.”

  “And to produce an heir,” she could not help but mentioning.

  “Lizzy,” he said, and his eyes were quite honest, “if it was just you and me until the day we died, I would be the most satisfied and complete man in England.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly.”

  She did not know the protocol. She tended to her own toilette and put on her nightgown, but the servants had mysteriously disappeared from sight, perhaps partially because she had shooed them away earlier, unaccustomed as she was to being so attended. Being unlaced by someone else was helpful, but beyond that, she was uncomfortable in such luxury.

  In actuality, she was uncomfortable about a lot of things, but she was not terrified. He had not, as he so eloquently put it, pounced on her like a feral cat. In the washroom she had to smirk at the phrase. He certainly had a way with words, whether he meant to insult or to reassure. Still, he hadn’t said he wasn’t about to jump her.

  Not that it was so daunting a prospect. However brief they had been, their closeted kisses the night before had incited her to the idea that perhaps the more amorous accounts of marital rites were not so far gone. So now whatever fears she had were mixed with a perceptible anticipation—but not of the bad sort.

  When she emerged into what was to be their bedchamber, at least in the London estate, he was still dressed, perhaps not to terrify her. “Elizabeth . . .” was all he said as he kissed her. She tasted brandy.

  “You drank?”

  “It was that or the mutton taste. Which would you prefer? It was merely a mouthwash,” he said. “And I will now tell you a dark secret if you wish.”

  “Yes, I wish to know all of your dark secrets, Mr. Darcy.” She said the last bit mainly because she knew it made him turn his head. They sat down on the bed, casually, like old friends, even if they were anything but.

  “Very well,” he said. “I am, it seems, a cheap drunk.”

  “A man of your countenance?”

  “Yes. Being formal and daunting has nothing to do with susceptibility to intoxication. And it has caused me no end of troubles.”

  “So you are saying,” she said, as she took his hands in hers, “that if I ever wish to take you down off your high horse—which you may, I will venture to say, dear husband, occasionally be on—I merely need to spike your usual wine with something stronger?”

  “Precisely. You now know my weakness. Let us leave it at that.”

  “We certainly shall not! I must hear at least one story of your drunken escapades, if you can find one becoming enough.”

  “Or if I can remember one becoming enough,” Darcy said, frowning in the candlelight. “I suppose your sister told you the one about the duel in the tavern.”

  “She did, just this morning.”

  “Am I to have no secrets, then?”

  “Of course you are. But we were not married just then,” she said with a smile. “Now you m
ay tell me all you want in confidence, and I will not tell my sister, and she may tell me all she wants in confidence, and I will not tell you. That seems only fair. And you may have your own confidences with Mr. Bingley.”

  “I am not a gossip with Bingley,” he said. “You surely realise that. Everything untoward he knows of me is something he was present for.”

  “So you have no confidant.”

  “I have you, Lizzy.”

  “Then tell me something confidential.”

  He laughed. This was not the Darcy she met at the Meryton Assembly, so haughty and of ill demeanour. It had taken her months—nearly a year—to learn that this was his public face, one that was required of him, like a mask that he retreated behind because of his insecurities. Yes, it was cruel to think of her husband as having insecurities, but he had openly admitted it to her at Rosings, even if she did not understand it with proper gravity at the time. And yet here they were, and he was completely at ease and not hidden behind a social mask, and the real person that was Fitzwilliam Darcy was quite happy and charming. “Hmm. I suppose I should tell the story of my sister’s pianoforte.”

  “The one you bought for her?”

  “Yes, precisely that one. How it came about that I felt she needed a new, nicer pianoforte when Pemberley had a number of perfectly good ones has everything to do with my making a fool of myself and attempting to cover it up.”

  She found herself stroking his arms as she begged him, “Then you must tell me.”

  “I must, though there is some sadness in the tale, as it happened right after the incident at Kent in which you told me some things that I needed to hear.”

  “You mean, when I soundly and cruelly rejected you?”

  “Yes, precisely. So, as you know, I left Rosings and went home to Pemberley almost immediately, where I stayed for several months despite pressing business in Town. On the first morning home, I did what any man would do after being rejected by the loveliest woman in the entire world. That is to say, I drank a fine single malt straight from the bottle to the point where the room was spinning. My plan was to remain locked in my study all day, wallowing in self-pity, but it was about then that Georgiana heard of my sudden arrival and burst into the room, wanting to know all of the particulars of my visit to Rosings. As you may know, she is a great friend of Anne, if from a distance and mainly by letter. I barely had time to hide the bottle under my desk, but there was no way I could have a coherent conversation with her at that moment and disguise my inebriation. Eventually, I devised a plan, which was to beg her to play the pianoforte for me, as I was tired from the journey and much desired to hear it. She was of course very willing and went straight ahead to play what I assume was a very beautiful piece of music.”

  “You assume?”

  Darcy nodded. “I did what any drunken fool would do when in a very comfortable chair and with wonderful music playing—I fell asleep during the fourth or fifth bar. She did not notice this for some time, apparently, and her attendant later told me she played the whole piece before turning to ask what I thought and finding me out cold. Being the dear sister that she is, she did not disturb me at all, and when I awoke several hours later with a blinding headache, I found a blanket draped over me. She never demanded an explanation, but over dinner I did my best to reassure her that I was just very, very tired and that her playing was very lovely indeed. Though she seemed to accept this as an answer, I felt so guilty that I immediately began my research to find her the best pianoforte I could acquire to assure her of her musical talent.” He added, “And that must be a secret between husband and wife.”

  “Surely,” she said, and kissed him. “But that cannot be your only secret.”

  “I do not have the sordid past you may be imagining,” he said. “All I have to my credit are a few cases of inebriation that led to untoward behaviour and some duels with Wickham that were hardly verbal.”

  “But you are a far more disreputable character than a simple country girl. I have nothing to compare. But you still haven’t told me of your trip to Town.”

  He rolled his eyes playfully. “And I did promise, didn’t I? I needed to procure a certain book.”

  “That’s it? A book?”

  “Well, not the kind of book you would find in your father’s library, Lizzy. It was more of a . . . reference book.”

  “On?”

  “No, no.” He put a finger to her lips. “I promised to show you, not tell you.”

  She was about to put up some kind of objection to this, because what he said made very little sense on a logical level, but he kissed her in the sort of way that was not a quick peck that could be easily interrupted, nor did she desire for it to be interrupted.

  Fortunately, for all of her worries, the wedding gown was long discarded and the nightgown was easily removed. Was this the way it was all supposed to work?

  Elizabeth decided she was quite eager to find out.

  ***

  The sun was rising in London, and the servants at the Bingley townhouse were beginning to rise for their morning chores, unawares that they were the only ones in the house who had any significant amount of sleep. The morning light was creeping in through the curtains, leaving little lines on the bed as Bingley finally fell into an exhausted doze. Jane was beside him, her head nestled on his shoulder, trying to remember what she was going to say and if it was worth disturbing him, but she was finding herself a bit muddled in the head herself. Something about the servants? Breakfast? Opening the curtains? Was there some formality of wealth that was going to interrupt them to announce a new morning? Yes, something like that, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it. Instead she stroked his auburn hair, considerably more mussed than it usually was—which for Charles Bingley, was saying quite a lot. He had that dashing young “I am so exciting, my hair is trying to escape from my head, and it is a hopeless cause” unintentional style that was so adorable. Maybe it was his wild but hidden Irish heritage that no good English family would admit to. His hair was very soft, and she was very content to ruffle it further as she drifted into her own half-sleep, still very aware of her position but not willing to move from it.

  “Are they going to wake us for breakfast?” she finally asked, breaking a considerable silence.

  Bingley, facing away from her, didn’t seem to mind, his voice blissfully relaxed. “Only if they can pick the lock on the door.”

  Somehow, she still had the energy to giggle, and he had the energy to join her in this new endeavour. He flipped over to face her, at least partially awake, or unwilling to drift off entirely at this moment. This consensus was reached without words, even though they were both exhausted and barely capable of doing anything other than holding hands.

  “I do not believe I have ever been so happy,” Jane said. “The day of your proposal will now have to be relegated to second place.”

  “I the same,” Bingley said. “Third would be the Meryton Assembly.”

  “Really?”

  “Really, my love.”

  “It was not marred by your sister’s and Darcy’s glowering looks all night?”

  “I do not remember a single other thing about that night,” he said, “except that Darcy refused to dance, insolent man that he was. And remember, she is your sister now.”

  “So now I have seven sisters. Oh dear, this will be confusing.”

  “And when the rest of them marry—”

  She covered her mouth, but she was giggling. “Charles, don’t!”

  “Very well, I will torment you no longer. I am sure Pemberley at Christmas will hold us all.” He kissed her, which was meant to be an affectionate peck but quickly turned into something more.

  “Charles,” Jane said when they finally broke apart, at least for the necessities of breathing, “I have to confess a very naughty thought to you.”

  “Then I must confess that I am in great anticipation to hear it,” he said, but his cheeks started to match his hair.

  “I assume, of course—o
r I did assume—that you came into this marriage with only the purest, loveliest innocence. However, considering—”

  “Yes, that third thing was a little odd. I don’t even know if it has a name.”

  “Considering,” she said, also blushing now and trying to stay composed, “that I have heard such differing tales of marital rites, but none of them have quite been on the level of—”

  “Jane, I assure you, at this time yesterday, I was as pure as snow. With that said, I am a very well-read man when I care to be.”

  She raised an eyebrow as if not completely convinced.

  “What I mean to say is—” But he didn’t want to say what he wanted to say. Instead, he laughed. “It is too embarrassing.”

  “Charles, we are husband and wife in basically every possible way at this exact moment. There is nothing that is too embarrassing that I can imagine.”

  “I will not fault your imagination, because I could never bring myself to fault anything in you,” he said, “but um . . . well, there is this book—”

  “Surely not!”

  “I was as surprised as you were when it was given to me as a gift, but apparently it is available by import.”

  “A gift? Pray, by whom?”

  He considered his answer before giving it in an answer. “Must you ask?”

  Jane erupted in a fit of giggles, which he was content to let pass, as it prevented him from having to answer any more awkward questions. Finally she asked, “Does Lizzy know?”

  “This is something that I will never inquire of her.”

  “An excellent idea.”

  They fell into another silence, punctuated only by the early morning sounds of London coming to life. Jane, again, broke it with her announcement. “I must see this book.”

  “Oh no!” It was not a refusal as much as a cry of unfairness. “’Tis ungentlemanly for me even to own it.”