The Darcys and the Bingleys

by Marsha Altman

  Fitzwilliam sighed and put his pool cue down. “Darcy, I spent most of my childhood keeping you and Wickham from each other’s throats. However good natured your relationship with Bingley may be, I will not spend my adulthood doing the same thing with another person.”

  “Fine, fine, a coin it shall be. Does anyone have a sovereign?”

  Fitzwilliam produced a coin, and Bingley took it from him. “Heads, Pemberley. Tails, Chatton.”

  “Agreed.”

  He flipped it and covered it with his hand. Before the outcome could be revealed, however, there was a rough banging at the door. “Darcy!” It was undoubtedly Mrs. Darcy. “What have you done now?”

  Darcy shushed him with a look and opened the door. “Darling—”

  Elizabeth crossed him and entered the gentlemen’s sanctuary, her hands on her hips, and stood before Darcy and Bingley. “Did you or did you not make a bet on who would deliver first?”

  “No.”

  “No,” Bingley backed him up.

  “Of course not.”

  “Never.”

  Elizabeth gave her husband a look of smouldering rage.

  “A small bet.”

  “Very small,” said Bingley.

  “A few pence.”

  “Very few.”

  “Nothing significant.”

  “Ten pence.”

  “Maybe a pound . . . at most . . . absolute most.”

  Elizabeth focused her intense eyes on Bingley.

  Finally he croaked out, “Maybe four . . . f-five pounds?”

  She turned back to Darcy.

  “It really was five pounds,” he said in a voice that could not be denied as truthful. “That is all.”

  “Four.”

  “Stop lying to her, Bingley. It’s not worth it.” He approached his wife and cupped her cheek. “Dearest—”

  “There will be no such bet,” she said, but her voice was softening.

  “Of course not,” he said, and kissed her on the forehead in an unusual display of affection for Darcy in front of other gentlemen, even his relatives.

  “All right, I will leave you to your game,” she said, apparently much relieved. “Oh, and the confinements will take place at Pemberley. Sorry, Mr. Bingley.”

  “Quite all right,” he assured her, waving as she closed the door behind her.

  As soon as she was gone, Darcy said, “I do adore the Gardiners, but it is perfectly clear that I cannot trust them with a secret.”

  “Indeed,” said Bingley.

  ***

  Jane had long retired when Bingley made his way into her bedchamber. In theory, he had his own adjoining one, but it was not in his habit to use it when unnecessary. In fact, she was soundly asleep. Jane liked to sleep on her stomach, but in recent months, that had become increasingly difficult and against the midwife’s advice. He took great care at sliding into bed next to her, keeping a respectful distance so as not to wake her. Falling asleep after a long night and a few glasses of port was not exceptionally difficult.

  He did wake several hours later, as would happen occasionally in the night, especially after some alcohol. He woke to find Jane partially on her side, leaning her head on his shoulder. Her movement indicated that she was not entirely asleep, and he kissed her gently to see if this would elicit some response. She did smile but squirmed uncomfortably.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “’Tis nothing.” When she realised that wouldn’t satisfy him, she added, “My feet are a bit sore.”

  Without hesitation or request, he wandered down to the foot of the bed and began to rub them. Her ankles were swollen, which he supposed was not to be unexpected.

  “Mmm . . . how do you always know exactly what to do, husband?”

  “I am a good guesser.”

  Jane gave a contented sigh. “You’re not upset that we chose Pemberley, are you?”

  “It is the most logical choice,” he said. “And with our absence, they can do the renovations.”

  “Chatton is suitable as it stands. We have had this conversation.”

  “It could be better. It should be perfect.”

  She didn’t seem in the mood to argue with him, but then again, she never did.

  ***

  When Darcy, with all of his hosting duties, finally slid into bed, he was a bit drunker than he wanted to be but certainly not tumbling over. He crawled in next to Elizabeth and kissed her softly on the cheek before turning on his own pillow. So far, minus abstentions for periods of indisposition and his being out of Derbyshire on business, they had not missed a night of marital pleasure. She was asleep and probably exhausted, and he was very eager to be the same (the former at least). He was nearly there when he felt the tremors of Elizabeth wiggling her toes and turning over to face him—a considerable feat on her part at this point in her condition.

  “Yes, darling?” he mumbled.

  “Five pounds.”

  He put the pillow over his head.

  “Is that really all I’m worth to you? Five pounds?”

  Darcy blinked and removed the pillow. “I am confused. Are you unhappy with the betting itself or do you want me to bet more? Because they are contradictory notions.”

  “I was just wondering how you came to the decision of five pounds—how the number value was reached.”

  “We felt compelled not to exceed it,” he said, “lest our wives discover us.” He looked over his shoulder, and Elizabeth’s look in the light from the fire was not total disapproval. In fact, she looked amused. “What?”

  “I find it rather silly,” she said. “Men and your need for cockfights.”

  It took Darcy a considerable moment to decide whether he wanted to interpret her usage of the noun with its obvious intention or with the proper definition. “Now I think you’re just insulting me.”

  “Well, someone has to knock you off your high horse.”

  “No more animal allusions! Please!” He buried himself in his pillow, but Elizabeth was giggling. “One man can only take so much.”

  “And my father has taken a great deal more than you. You should consider yourself lucky.”

  “I will not for long if you continue to torment me as such!”

  “Really? Have I been so terrible a wife to you?” She ran her finger along his backside. “I must say these past months must have been positively dreadful for you.”

  He turned over to face her. “Absolutely dreadful.” And he kissed her. Perhaps the conventional midwife would have some objection to their continued dalliances, but if they were to have this conversation with her, they had not one but two sources to back up their assertions that everything would be quite all right.

  ***

  The celebrations on Christmas Eve could not have been more perfectly planned according to Pemberley’s guests, and many congratulations went to Elizabeth, who took them with gratitude but felt that they were undeserved. There were many toasts to everyone’s health and happiness (and a certain two people’s health and happiness especially). Mary Bennet thought spirits made one loose of tongue (and no one was willing to contradict her), and Mr. Darcy, as was his custom, stopped at the first glass. The Gardiner children ran to and fro along the long table, and no one felt compelled to stop them for the sake of decorum, as it was Christmas Eve and everyone seemed to be in a particularly delightful mood.

  There was much after-dinner entertainment in the parlour, and fortunately, Mary’s pianoforte abilities had much improved in a calmer Longbourn setting. She was happy to play a duet with Georgiana. Mr. Darcy was briefly seen, by those who were inclined to be eavesdroppers, arguing with his wife in the hallway, not about whether she was to play, but whether she should retire immediately out of concern for her health.

  “Is this to be my last social engagement? Then surely you will allow me Christmas.” And she said allow me with every indication that she was not inclined to let him have his proper husbandly say in the matter, however inclined he was to give it.

&nbs
p; “Elizabeth—”

  “I am perfectly well, Mr. Darcy.”

  He scowled but said nothing when she rejoined her guests.

  Someone else was scowling on the other side of the door. “She should not aggravate her husband so!” Mrs. Bennet said.

  “I don’t know how you have not observed this,” Mr. Bennet said in a hushed voice, “but I do believe it is the entire foundation for their very stable and loving marriage, so I am not inclined to give any advice that might dissuade it.”

  “Oh, Mr. Bennet!” and she swatted him, but very playfully, and he smiled and took her by the arm.

  Though celebrations continued into the night, Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Bingley did respectfully retire, not so much at their husband’s inclinations as their own. Mrs. Gardiner put her overexcited children to bed, and eventually the company whittled down to the Bingley sisters playing cards and the various gentlemen of strong countenances. Darcy, as host, was obligated to remain with his guests, though he did make no less than two trips upstairs to check on his wife. Eventually the gentlemen retired to the smoking room where Mr. Hurst partook of a large cigar and not his first brandy of the night.

  “And how is Mrs. Darcy?” Mr. Bennet asked, because he was not afraid of the intimidating figure of a very private Mr. Darcy, now considerably less at ease without his wife by his side.

  “Resting,” he said, hoping that would suit his father-in-law.

  “Delightful evening,” Mr. Hurst said from his position slumped in the lounge chair—for him, a rare compliment.

  “Indeed,” said Bingley, raising his glass and looking at the grandfather clock. “I believe it is the hour at last. Happy Christmas!”

  “Happy Christmas,” they said, raising their glasses, except for Darcy who looked out the window and was very content to do so until approached by Mr. Gardiner.

  “No white Christmas for us this year, hmm? I suppose it does not matter.”

  “It rarely snows this early in the season,” Darcy said, a long sentence for him, even in good company.

  “Well, it has certainly been a delightful evening, I must say. Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Darcy. Especially considering—”

  “Yes,” he interrupted. He liked his new uncle well enough, but that did not mean he wanted the matter to go any further. Something of a suspicious tremor was crawling up his back, making him less sociable than he wanted to be with his relatives, some of whom he was actually quite fond of. Maybe this would be a good time to check on Lizzy again.

  “If I may be so bold, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Gardiner continued in that very pleasing way of his, which was no great comfort to Darcy, “as this may be one of the last times we could corner you—”

  And Darcy suddenly realised in that room he was cornered.

  “I know you are inclined to be to the point about things, so I will indulge you and do the same. You are about to enter, God willing, into fatherhood, something that requires much care.”

  Oh God. Where was his ability to curse this man with the legendary Darcy stare of indifference? Why was it failing him now? “And?”

  “Having some experience on the matter, if I could, perhaps, offer some advice—”

  Darcy looked at Mr. Bennet, who actually stood up and seemed to be joining Mr. Gardiner in this well-meaning but horrible endeavour. Mr. Hurst, as usual, was half conscious and would be of no use. Now desperate, Darcy turned to Bingley who was holding up two glass bottles. “Whiskey or brandy?”

  Without hesitation, Darcy answered, “Both.”

  Chapter 14

  Heir to a Great Household

  Not only did Jane and Elizabeth spend their confinements at Pemberley, but Mr. Bennet was a welcomed guest as well, even when the Bingley sisters and Mr. Hurst retired to Chatton Hall. He seemed to know when best to make himself scarce, which was easy enough in the halls of Pemberley, especially in the tremendously intimidating library. He occasionally got a letter from his wife, who had returned to Brighton and was wintering with the officers. Kitty had apparently made friends with one of the officers, this one of considerable standing and reputation, and would he be so kind as to inquire into his credentials? Of course he would. When not distracted by the marriage possibilities of one of his two remaining unmarried daughters, Mr. Bennet busied himself with a glass of brandy and a book in one of the many reading rooms, or observing his two sons fret endlessly. Bingley paced until there was some actual concern on the housekeeper’s part for the carpets, which the master of the estate dismissed with an unusually reserved word. Mr. Darcy, when not with his wife, spent much time staring out the window. He was not unpleasant but unusually quiet, a bastion of reserve—so much so that Mr. Bennet commented to his daughter, “I fear if you do not deliver soon, your husband may well explode.”

  “Or spontaneously combust,” she laughed. “And then poor Mr. Bingley will catch on fire as well, run around the house, and all Pemberley will be ablaze.”

  “To lose such a large house!” Jane said. “All because of the natural order of things.”

  “It is no surprise then that wives often outlive their husbands,” Mr. Bennet said. “We have solved that great mystery at least.”

  It was at that point that Mr. Darcy had the misfortune to poke his head into his wife’s sitting room. “What is it?” He seemed concerned at the noise.

  “Nothing,” Elizabeth said, making no effort to control herself. “We are merely laughing at your expense.”

  “Oh,” he said with no particular surprise. “Well, I should hardly interrupt you, then.”

  “What was it?” came Bingley’s voice, from somewhere down the hall.

  Darcy turned back and shouted, “They were laughing at your expense, Bingley!”

  “What?”

  “I did not say that!” Elizabeth said in her defence.

  “Yes, but if it distracts him for at least five minutes, it will be worth the deception,” Darcy said with a smile as Bingley crashed his way into the room.

  “What did I do?” he demanded breathlessly, and his wife merely bade him to come over and kissed him on the cheek, which required quite a bit of bending over and manoeuvring on his part around her considerable girth.

  “Nothing, Charles,” she said, “except given me a child that is kicking rather relentlessly.”

  “Much like its father,” Darcy said, and then ran straight out of the room to escape Bingley’s exasperated ire as he followed him.

  “I must admit that I have never seen two unrelated men take to being squabbling brothers so easily,” Mr. Bennet observed, and his daughters could not do anything but agree.

  ***

  The thaw came early in March, but Georgiana did not retire to London as usual, not only for the obvious reasons that another female influence was desperately needed around the place, but because she had to plan for her coming out. Assuming that all went well with Elizabeth’s condition, the Darcys would be unable to make the London season, and so she would have to come out at a ball held at Pemberley sometime in the summer season. To this idea, Darcy was most disagreeable but not in front of his sister.

  “She is seventeen,” Elizabeth gently pointed out.

  “She’ll be seventeen when I damn well say she is!” her husband said, facing out the window in indignation. There were so many obvious reasons for his unusual outburst—stress concerning his upcoming fatherhood, his usual overprotectiveness of his sister, the fact that there had been no marital relations in two months—at which Elizabeth could only laugh in reply. Darcy was in a perpetual foul mood, and having to hide it from everyone merely made it worse.

  Unfortunately, on that very day Colonel Fitzwilliam arrived.

  “If he asks for a friendly duel, refuse,” Elizabeth said to the colonel in private. “He nearly ran his coach through last week.”

  “And the reason for his discord?”

  Not having any inclination to enlighten him on her husband’s source of frustration—at least the one usually relieved by ferocious duel
ling—she merely feigned innocence in response and gave the usual reason of nerves concerning the confinement.

  It was at dinner that night that Fitzwilliam broke the dual news: first, that he was affianced to Miss Anne de Bourgh, second, that she would be joining him—if permitted by the master of Pemberley—shortly in Derbyshire, for she had much desire to see her relatives. Coming with her, he pointed out, would be Mrs. Collins and her eight-month-old daughter, carrying special instructions on Anne’s every care, lest the Pemberley staff be ill equipped to handle her delicate condition. (Mr. Darcy did not point out that this was hardly Anne’s first trip to Pemberley.) Lady Catherine would, of course, not be journeying anywhere near Derbyshire, and Mr. Collins had his own responsibilities in his vicarage and would have to weather his wife’s brief absence.

  Despite his disinclination to visitors with the current state of affairs, Darcy heartily agreed and politely excused himself to tell his wife, who was no longer joining them for dinner and rarely left her chambers. (On this matter, she had relented to his considerable will and concern for her health.)

  With several great carriages arrived Miss Anne de Bourgh, looking well by her own set of standards, and she was eagerly embraced by Colonel Fitzwilliam before being formally greeted by Darcy, who quickly ushered her in from the cold. Whether Darcy had occasion yet to quiz Fitzwilliam on the nature of how this came about was anybody’s guess, for he gave no indication, only a mildly approving eye. The affection between them, everyone else admitted, was obvious.

  Charlotte Collins came behind her, carrying her eight-month-old daughter, Amelia Collins, whose presence was no end of delight to both confined ladies, as she was a pleasant and energetic baby, who thankfully seemed to take mainly after her mother in looks. She liked very much to have her mother hold her up and attempt to stand on her knees, as sort of play walking that as was amusing to everyone as it was fun to her. That Charlotte was beaming with motherhood brought great relief to Elizabeth, who shared this separately but privately with her sister and her husband.

  “It seems I did Charlotte a great favour in rejecting Mr. Collins,” she said, and to Darcy’s look added, “I am surprised as you are.”