The Darcys and the Bingleys

by Marsha Altman

  Darcy nodded.

  “I don’t see,” Georgiana said, refusing to be removed from the affairs. “Is it not the most efficient means to pay for something? Any landlord would take cash, and if he was meaning to be expedient, it would be the best way.”

  “Yes, but that amount . . . it would be unwieldy.”

  “But he had it—he made it in Australia!”

  “Georgiana,” Darcy said, “it is not as if he came on a ship with a bag of gold stuffed under his mattress. The only way to insure the safe return of the wealth would be a check of some sort written up in the capitol—”

  “Sydney, isn’t it?” said Mr. Gardiner.

  “And then the funds would be ready for him here. But surely, to pay for the lodging he would pay by check for convenience’s sake. One does not walk up and down the streets of Town with a bag of coins looking for a place such as that to live.”

  “Unless—unless he didn’t want the money to be traced,” Mr. Gardiner said, taking a sip of his tea. “Then he would want to pay in cash.”

  “You mean if the money was ill gotten?”

  “Or nonexistent,” his uncle explained for Georgiana’s sake. “Suppose for a moment he had no money, only a reputation for having money, if we must assume the worst. He could go to a bank, perhaps a less reputable one, and say that the funds were in transfer and he needed some spending money, and he could take out a considerable loan. But a landlord on a square such as that would not take a note on an obvious loan, so he would go to another bank, redeem the note, and then have all the money to present himself as a wealthy man—for a time.”

  “Until he found someone suitable to pay off his debts,” Darcy suggested.

  “Precisely. Of course, this is all just conjecture, but I could make considerable inquiries into the banks I do regular business with . . . and the ones I do not. For the family’s sake, of course.”

  “If you would, we would be most grateful. I have not had much luck. And it may all be for nothing, of course, and Lord Kincaid may be a most eligible bachelor.”

  “Indeed, he may be. But you don’t believe it, do you, Darcy?”

  Darcy could not reply with anything but that he didn’t.

  ***

  When they were back in the carriage, Darcy turned to his sister. “Georgiana—”

  “What is it you want me to do?”

  “You realise you should not be involved in these—”

  “Most indelicate matters?”

  He shook his head. “Definitely from Elizabeth.”

  “Why is she not here? Because of Jane?”

  “Perhaps she will join us if the need arises. But until then, yes. So you will have to be my Elizabeth and have the very daunting task of distracting Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst for a while.”

  “Brother! It is not so very daunting,” she said confidently. “I have been doing it for years.”

  He never should have doubted her, but he was wont to say it. They were relatively silent until they reached the Bingley house. It was now early afternoon, almost time for high tea. Darcy was fairly sure Bingley was out on some business with his steward, but he was not his objective. They were greeted by the servants and then by the Bingley sisters doing needlepoint in the drawing room, where Georgiana eagerly joined them and Darcy bowed, then disappeared up the steps.

  If his timing was correct, Mr. Hurst was in the middle of one of his treatments. A knock on the door confirmed it. There was some muffled discussion and then a loud Mr. Hurst calling, “Come in!”

  Darcy entered to perceive Mr. Hurst at a chair, his left foot soaking in a basin filled with coloured water. Beside him was Dr. Maddox, who bowed stiffly and then continued fiddling with his various tinctures and equipment. “Doctor, if I may have a moment—”

  “Of course,” Dr. Maddox said, and scampered out. “Of course.”

  It was only when the door was closed and he was gone that Mr. Darcy turned to Mr. Hurst who for once did not look so soundly drunk or in pain. In fact, he looked quite comfortable and coherent. “Brilliant man. Done wonders for this blasted foot.”

  Darcy did not gaze at the exposed ankle in the water. “So I hear. Tell me, how long has Dr. Maddox been in your employ?”

  “Oh, I would say . . . just over a month now.”

  “And his credentials?”

  “Looking for a suitable doctor for Pemberley? You’ll have to steal him from me.”

  “Perhaps I shall,” Darcy said with a false but necessary smile. “How did you come to know him?”

  “Recommendation. I went through several city doctors. Their treatments were all rubbish, of course, so I applied to a friend of mine, one with tumours, and he gave me a private recommendation. Dr. Maddox, as you may have heard, was trained at Cambridge; your alma mater, is it not?”

  “Precisely the one.”

  “He’s quite a scholar, you know. Speaks five languages. Caroline even gets to practice her Italian around him. She gets such little opportunity—perhaps what she sees in this Kincaid fellow.”

  “So Miss Bingley has had a chance to talk with your doctor?”

  “Well, he’s here so often, and of course, I’m not about to let him run off to another patient while my foot is soaking in . . . this.” He temporarily lifted his foot out of the murky water, and Darcy got to see the full extent of the poor man’s gout. Only years of training in maintaining composure in all circumstances prevented him from turning away in disgust. “So he talks to Caroline. Or he used to.”

  “Used to?” He added quickly, “If I’m not intruding. It is just that I am not accustomed to hear of Miss Bingley making conversation with servants.”

  “I think they had a bit of a falling out around the time Kincaid showed up,” Mr. Hurst said. “You can probably guess why.”

  “You are mistaken. I have no idea.”

  “Come now, Darcy. You’re much smarter than I am; you’ve been here but three days and you’re already in my room talking to me about Caroline and Dr. Maddox. When have we ever had a conversation such as this?”

  When had they ever had a conversation at all? Mr. Hurst was usually in a drunken stupor by the dinner bell. But Darcy kept his cool composure. “What are you implying?”

  “You know and I know that Dr. Maddox, despite being of rather distinguished birth, is no match for Caroline. His elder brother inherited everything and lost it on a venture in East India or something, leaving him nothing. And perhaps Caroline will not stand to live on Bingley’s pounds any longer. I don’t know. The woman’s a mystery to everyone.”

  “I had no idea of his circumstances.”

  “You wouldn’t. But I do. And Caroline does.” He took a sip of his tea, which had been resting on the bed stand. “So now I think we have a perfect understanding of the situation.”

  “I wouldn’t say perfect, but yes.” It was taking a lot of energy to maintain his cool composure, so taken aback by Mr. Hurst’s bizarre behaviour. “I confess it seems I have not given you proper credit in the past, Mr. Hurst.”

  “We are very different; I am a fat old fool, and you are a wealthy young man of stature. So we will continue these roles because it puts everyone at ease. I will be drunk and oblivious—which, I admit, after a couple of shots I might well be—and you will maintain your position as an impartial observer on this whole matter—which can hardly be why Mr. Bingley called you into Town so suddenly.”

  To this, Darcy could only say, “Quite right.” He bowed and eagerly left the room.

  This was all more complicated than he thought.

  ***

  When Mr. Bingley did return home, it was with a glorious expression that could only mean he had just been designated Prince Regent or he had good news from Jane. “She says she is well, Darcy,” he said, not reading the long letter in its entirety. “Her mother and sister have arrived and are keeping her company while Elizabeth is in the north.”

  “What?” It was not said in anger but in surprise. “She’s in the north?”
>
  “So it says, with Mr. Bennet. I’ve no idea why. I haven’t gotten that far. Why don’t—” But before Bingley could finish, Darcy grabbed the letter out of his hands and began to scan it himself, even though a letter from wife to husband was the most private kind. This was Elizabeth they were talking about.

  She had gone north with Mr. Bennet; they were to visit the lowlands and see the Kincaid lands themselves. There were many assurances from Jane that she had tried to dissuade them and that they would be returning shortly, but Darcy had to hold back his instincts to crumble the letter—which was not his property—in disgust. “It seems Lizzy will not be idle. She’s gone to the Kincaid estate in _____shire with our father-in-law.” He handed the letter back to Bingley.

  “Well,” Bingley said, “you can’t be all that surprised.”

  When Darcy was done imagining all of the horrible things that could happen to her on those terrible Scottish roads, he had to admit Bingley was correct. This was exactly something Elizabeth would do; he had to expect it, even be amused by it. “I could go after her.”

  “I would not stop you. However, by the time you catch up, she’ll probably be on her way back. We must post to Jane to keep us updated. Or perhaps you will get a letter from Mrs. Darcy herself.” He was trying to be assuring. “Darcy, you cannot be angry at her for this.”

  “I am not angry,” he said. “I am just . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to say, worried. “We should never have told them.”

  “Are you joking? When they found out they were left in the dark, we’d never have heard the end of it. And I’m sure Elizabeth will handle herself. Besides, she is under her father’s care.”

  Yes, as if an aged Mr. Bennet as her knight protector was any comfort to Darcy. “Fine,” he grumbled, seeing as how nothing useful could be done. “You will excuse me. I must dispatch a courier or two . . . or three . . . or ten thousand.”

  “Of course.” Bingley put a hand on his shoulder. “She will be fine, Darcy. I’m sure of it.” How he was able to go from the obliviously revealing idiot to the great comforter was truly impressive. Unfortunately, Darcy did not have time to be impressed. He had business of the most urgent kind that, for the first time in several days, did not involve Miss Bingley.

  ***

  Darcy was barely in the door of his own apartments when Georgiana greeted him bearing a letter. “From Elizabeth.” It was still sealed. Without explanation, he frantically tore it open.

  Dearest Husband,

  By now Jane has probably told Mr. Bingley that we’ve gone north, and Mr. Bingley has unwittingly told the last person he should have told, which of course is you. Not meaning any deception on my part, but I will not have you riding all the way to Scotland from Town on my behalf when you have perfectly good business there (or perfectly bad business there—you have been rather lax about writing how matters are progressing).

  Papa and I are well and have located the estate of Lord Kincaid, Earl of ______shire, which is currently occupied by his younger brother. It is not terribly far from the border, and our appearance there will be brief. Papa insisted that if you are to be involved in clandestine affairs in Town, then it is only fair that I should have my own secret investigations elsewhere, if this is to be a true and equal partnership, and is it not a sin not to honour one’s parents?

  Be assured that we have taken several men with us, and we shall be perfectly fine, though I am sure you will hole yourself up in your home now so you can secretly fret about where no one can see you. I am sorry to miss it because it is rather amusing.

  I will write as soon as we have more news. Please do the same.

  Know that I love you most dearly and do mean only to aid you in your investigations in the best avenue available. Geoffrey is well within the walls of Chatton, and he has definitely not said his first word, and it was definitely not a hilarious pronunciation of his name—just so you know.

  Your Loving and Always Very Obedient Wife,

  Elizabeth

  “Well?” Georgiana said somewhat impatiently. “What does it say?”

  It always amazed him that Elizabeth had the ability to annoy the daylights out of him and yet make him love her all the more because of it.

  ***

  When Mr. Bennet and his daughter finally arrived at the castle of the Earl of Kincaid, the scheme had been cooked up and properly spiced and was ready on a serving platter. It relied on Mr. Bennet getting past the butler, but he could be exceptionally charming when he wished to be, and very soon they had an invitation to see the grounds and the home and even meet its master, Lord William Kincaid, a charming young man with a thick lowlands accent that was not quite the Highlands burr of most of his servants, who were in kilts while he was in pantaloons, but different in speech tones from their own. He was so overwhelmed by the idea that anyone would want to visit his estate (which was a drafty castle with the insides converted into something more modern and suitable for living) that he decided to provide the tour himself.

  Mr. Bennet was addressed as he had introduced himself to the servant, which was as Mr. Darcy’s steward. “We only regret that Mr. Darcy himself cannot be present, but he is busy with business in Town—London. That and he trusts his wife’s opinions implicitly.” Mr. Bennet bowed to his daughter who had trouble keeping a straight face.

  “Of course. Though to be perfectly honest, I cannot recommend this area as the ideal place for the construction of a summer home, but I will not be too harsh on my ancestral lands,” said their host.

  He went on for a bit, which was proper for a tour, and they saw most of the public rooms, which did not take very long, as the castle was no Pemberley and was full of mainly old furniture and knickknacks and even some weaponry that did not look as if it had been used in some time. Their gracious host took some delight in showing them a drinking horn, which he said his family was no longer in the practice of using. “And thank goodness.”

  “Why is that?”

  “In the wild Highlands, they have a custom—I think they got it from the Vikings. When a man is to become chief of the clan—I, by the way, am not chief of mine—he must fill in a drinking horn with whiskey and consume it all in one chug. Whether he then succumbs to unconsciousness I think is irrelevant, but I would surely not be up to the task.” Now intimidated by his own artifact, Lord Kincaid put it down.

  They eventually arrived at the room that served as a portrait gallery where the Earls of Kincaid were pictured in the English style of portraiture. “And here is my father, the former earl, Lord James Kincaid. He gave his name to my older brother, of course.”

  “Who is to inherit, is that correct?” Elizabeth asked.

  “No. We may be lowlanders, but my father insisted on the old clan custom that the next ‘chief’ be chosen among his sons, instead of the honour being granted to the eldest, to my brother’s great dismay and to my delight. Of course, James—I mean, my brother James—could not have been all that surprised.”

  “Why ever not?” Mr. Bennet said.

  Lord Kincaid sighed and turned to another portrait. “This is my brother, James Kincaid.” The man pictured there, very handsome, did resemble him greatly. “He is in Australia now, or somewhere.”

  “Or something?” Elizabeth said. “I’m sorry, but are you in search of your brother?”

  “I am not in search. I merely mean to say he went to Australia, and his correspondences have been more irregular than we have cared for.”

  Seeing the time was right and that this Lord Kincaid was not inclined to gossip and would be eager to move on if Mr. Bennet did not say something to continue the topic, he announced, “I believe your brother is in Town.”

  “You mean London?” the gentleman asked, spinning around to face them proper instead of turning to the next portrait. “What? How do you know this?”

  “There is some talk,” Elizabeth said quickly. “He is even affianced.”

  William Kincaid was obviously dumbfounded. “That is impossible, Mrs. Darcy.
”

  “I believe it is true.”

  “No, it is certainly impossible. Of that, I am sure.”

  “But you just said—and I do not mean to intrude on a family matter—that you did not even know his location.”

  “Yes, that is true, but I do know that even if he is returned to Britain, he cannot be affianced to any woman, English or otherwise. My brother is married.”

  In unison the Bennets shouted, “Married?”

  Chapter 5

  The Earl Kincaid

  If there was one thing Darcy detested—and he did admittedly detest a great many things—it was being caught unawares. He attributed it to fuming over Elizabeth’s departure and his overwhelming concern for her safety (and his inability apparently to do anything about it) that he was almost entirely distracted when he made his next visit to the Bingleys and was easily trapped in the billiards room alone with Caroline Bingley. “Miss Bingley,” he bowed quickly when he finally noticed her entrance.

  “Mr. Darcy,” she curtseyed. “I’m sorry, but I refuse to carry on this charade anymore. If I know anything about you, I doubt you can stand it as well.”

  “What charade?” he answered honestly, because he could think of a dozen that were simultaneously occurring.

  “Your presence here, Charles’s refusal to grant his consent despite my repeated pleas—I can only assume there is some conspiracy here, and since I also know you detest disguise, you will not deny it now.”

  She did know him. And since she was in the perhaps unknowing position of victim in this whole situation, he felt compelled to be kind. “Very well. You are correct that my business in Town is directly related to surmising Lord Kincaid’s character, but that does not mean you must assume the worst in me or your brother. As you are well aware, a proper suitor must present his credentials, and they must prove to be more than just smoke.”

  “Why does it upset you so that I may have found happiness, Darcy?”

  If it were anyone other than Miss Bingley, it would have been a rather low blow with its implications. It was, however, Miss Bingley. “Because I have yet to judge that you have found happiness—not with Lord Kincaid, anyway. I will admit he is a pleasant fellow and a good fencer and that you think he is suitable, but a marriage should preferably be something that is more than just suitable.”