Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MR. DARCY WENT home and composed a letter to his cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, who was in France. He did not know if Richard had any ability to get away, but he did know that Richard was also Georgiana's guardian. If Georgiana was in danger, Richard would wish to know of it.

They'd spoken before of measures they might take if necessary, if Wickham started telling tales. Mr. Darcy hadn't wished to carry out any of the measures, which was why none of them had been implemented. But if he had to, there was nothing he wouldn't do for his sister.

He'd consider speaking to his aunt, Lady Matlock, if necessary, also. He thought that if the Bingleys thought to spread rumors, there were ways to silence them, and his aunt would know all of those ways. He hadn't gone to her with this before because he rather knew what she'd say. She would wish to marry Georgiana off at once, and she would make a match that would protect Georgiana's reputation but that would do little to ensure her happiness. His aunt was not one to value love. She'd had a number of not-very-hidden affairs herself, but then, so had his uncle. They were of that generation who had seen marriage as something one does for children and duty, and love as a fleeting thing that is found with extramarital escapades. Love was petty and brief to that way of thinking. It had nothing to do with marriage .

Mr. Darcy was no bleeding heart romantic himself, he supposed. He had seen firsthand how fickle lovers could be, how quickly the tide turned from love to hate or even to indifference.

As a young man, he'd once nearly gotten himself into an affair with a married woman, Lady Traifal. She was nearly ten years his senior but still a remarkably beautiful and poised woman. He enjoyed her company, and he liked the look of her, and he'd been tempted, quite tempted.

Her husband wasn't even remotely interested in his wife's activities, since he was devoted to his mistress—so devoted that they had seven children and that he essentially lived with her all the time in some country house in Devonshire.

There was something about Lady Traifal, a certain sadness that seemed to gather around her. She had everything she could have wanted. The respect that befit her station and the dresses and the status and the husband who appeared when she needed him to host a ball or accompany her to various events.

But she didn't have love.

And he had watched her go through a slew of men like him, young men, some not even yet twenty. She paraded them about and they strutted like peacocks and then—

Well, it was fickle and brief, love. She would tire of the young man or the young man would tire of her. Lady Traifal seemed sadder still in the wake of each of these affairs.

He had a conversation with her once at the intermission during an opera. The conversation started out airy and casual.

"Yes, that was the end of that one. I suppose he got quite tired of looking into my lined and ancient face," Lady Traifal had said, laughing, leaning in and setting up his compliment.

He was supposed to tell her that she didn't look old. Instead, he said, "I think when one is accustomed to a person's visage, even the imperfections become beloved."

She had looked away, that sadness of hers writ on her countenance too sharply for just a moment. "You wouldn't stay long enough to become accustomed. Young men want a young woman, eventually."

You, she had said. You . Not a theoretical question, then, but a true negotiation, and they were hashing out the end of this affair before it had even begun.

"I don't know what all young men want," he said. "I only know that I want…" He drew in a breath and fixed his gaze on her, very pointedly. "You wouldn't be mine."

"I could be," she said.

He thought about it. He knew what she meant. The mistress was Traifal's, in the end, and Lady Traifal didn't belong to her husband, not in any strict sense of the word. Mr. Darcy could take up with this woman. He could fall in love with this woman. (Truly, he had been half in love with her already. It was easy to fall in love then, when he was young and when all of it was so new and exciting.) He could fall for her, and he might marry some other woman someday, for status or wealth, but he could be with Lady Traifal. He could erase that sadness in her expression and love her the way she should be loved.

And he didn't do it.

He distanced himself from her after that, all with civil apologies, even though he could see that he hurt her. It was only that he couldn't do it. It would have perpetrated the problem, to his way of thinking.

If Traifal could have simply married his mistress and set his wife free to find a man who truly appreciated her, that would have solved things.

If Traifal had not married someone he didn't care for, if he'd waited until he found the person he could be devoted to, that would have solved things.

Darcy wanted to marry someone he truly loved.

In a perfect world, one in which Georgiana's reputation was not on the line, he would want Georgiana to be loved as well, not treated the way poor Lady Traifal had been treated.

Of course, he tried to push aside this entire thought process and concentrate only on the letter he was sending to his cousin, because it was reminding him of Miss Elizabeth Bennet in a rather maddening way.

He'd looked at Elizabeth before, and she'd looked at him.

So, he didn't know why they'd had that odd moment, gazing into each other's eyes, right then and there, at that ball last night. Why, he'd been moments away from kissing her. Right there, in the middle of the room, in front of everyone, when she was as good as Bingley's.

It was madness.

He thought, however, that she'd felt it, too. That was the difference, perhaps. He'd been drawn to her all along, but she hadn't been drawn to him. And then, now, one moment, and they'd both felt something powerful.

She was attracted to him as well.

It doesn't matter, he told himself. I cannot marry that woman.

But he wondered if he was being ridiculous. What if he married someone else, and he ended up like old Traifal, chasing after Elizabeth with single-minded devotion, ruining her just to have her. It would be better to marry her than to force her and their children into ignominy.

Oh, so you're already getting children on her, is that it?

He set down his pen and imagined Elizabeth heavy with his child, and he felt—well, whatever he felt, it was shameful.

"Bloody hell," he said out loud.

There was no help for it at this point. Before, he could tell himself little half-truths—that he was interested in Jane Bennet, or that he simply wanted to show those women, both of them, that they were worth more than they seemed to think they were worth. There had been a time when he could convince himself his interest was simply in bettering the women, out of the goodness of his heart.

And it wasn't that he didn't wish Jane Bennet all the best, or that he didn't think well of her.

Whatever he thought of Elizabeth Bennet, however, it couldn't be boiled down to a word like "well."

He wanted her.

Rather ruinously, he thought.

"Bloody hell," he said again .

The letter! He must write the letter and stop thinking shameful things about Elizabeth Bennet. He picked up his pen and set about writing.

He sent off the letter. No sooner was it gone that he was making ready to go to the Bingley household, as he had promised he would the evening before.

He presented himself at the door and was admitted inside, a servant taking his hat and coat. He was shown to the sitting room to wait for Bingley.

But then, moments later, a servant appeared and said she would escort Mr. Darcy to Mr. Bingley's study.

Bingley met him at the door. "All right, attend to me, Fitzwilliam, attend to me closely."

Mr. Darcy was barely inside. "I am listening," he managed to get out.

Bingley slammed the door shut behind him. "What did you do to her last night?"

"I didn't do anything to anyone last night," said Mr. Darcy.

"You can't marry her, that's right?"

Mr. Darcy blinked at him. "What?"

"Is that right or have you changed your mind?" said Bingley, angry now.

"Are we speaking of Elizabeth?"

" Obviously. " Mr. Bingley practically shouted it.

Mr. Darcy took a step back. He nearly collided with the door.

Bingley glared at him.

A long moment passed.

And then Mr. Bingley deflated, hanging his head. "I don't like the way she looks at you," he said eventually, sounding crestfallen. "She doesn't look that way at me."

"I don't think she looks at me in any particular way," said Mr. Darcy.

"Would you marry her?" said Mr. Bingley. "Yes or no, Darcy?"

Darcy should say no, but nothing came out of his mouth.

Mr. Bingley went to sit down behind his desk. He dragged his hands over his face.

"This is not why I came," said Mr. Darcy. "I came because of Caroline, because of my sister. We need to speak about that."

Bingley did not respond.

"But Elizabeth has come between us, as you predicted," said Mr. Darcy. "You're angry with me for…" Looking at her? Gazing into her eyes? "You're angry with me. So, you'll let your sister do as she pleases to destroy me, because that will mean that you don't have me to compete against for Elizabeth's hand."

Bingley sighed.

"What if I go?" said Mr. Darcy. "What if I quit London entirely? I shall take my sister with me, and I shall leave Elizabeth to you. I have said before that she is yours. She will be. And, in turn, you will make sure that Caroline does not hurt Georgiana." Of course, Mr. Darcy was not entirely sure he could trust that Mr. Bingley was capable of keeping his sister in hand. He'd like it if Bingley would send Caroline away somewhere. It was too bad the Bingleys did not have any handy country relatives.

"Not but moments ago, I asked you if you can marry her, and you will not say that you cannot," said Bingley. "Now, you say you will leave to her me?"

"I shall."

"Forgive me if I don't believe you," said Bingley.

Mr. Darcy sat down in a chair in front of Bingley's desk. He began to speak. He was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince Bingley. "There really isn't anything between Miss Bennet and me. I have danced with her but once. We have barely spoken. It's foolish to think that she would ever consent to anything with me, especially marriage. You have said before that she doesn't like me, and I suppose this is likely true. I suppose I have done little to recommend myself to her. So, the truth of the matter is, I am no threat to you—"

"No threat?" Bingley shot straight up behind the desk. "Oh, Darcy, how dare you? "

Darcy looked up at him, swallowing. "Apologies?" He was confused.

"Ask any woman on earth who they'd pick if they had a choice between us, and every single one of them will pick you."

"That's not true," said Darcy.

Bingley scoffed.

"Maybe because of money," muttered Darcy. "But you wouldn't want a woman like that—"

"All women are like that!"

"No, they are not. Not everyone cares about such things."

"You mean, some people are resigned to being lesser. Some people have decided it's too painful to dream of having abundance. Some people think there is no hope of worrying over such things—"

"Some people realize it is as much a burden as a blessing!"

Bingley laughed. He threw back his head and laughed and laughed. Then he collapsed into his chair again. "Oh, damnation, you really believe that." He laughed some more.

Mr. Darcy was feeling more and more annoyed here. "I didn't come here to speak about Elizabeth Bennet. I came to speak about how you are going to stop your sister Caroline from inflicting pain upon my sister."

"Go and ask her, then," said Bingley. "If you think that she would choose you over me, go call upon her at her aunt's and uncle's house in Cheapside and ask for her hand and see what it is that she says."

Darcy allowed that scenario to play out in his head a little too vibrantly. He imagined her shy acceptance. He imagined taking her into his arms. He imagined asking for permission to kiss her. "I have said that I can't marry her," he muttered gruffly.

"Yes, because you know she'd accept you."

Darcy didn't say anything.

"Any woman you asked would accept. You can't even dream of being turned down."

"I don't know why we're harping on this same subject. I wish to speak about Caroline."

"Yes," said Bingley. "Yes, indeed." He shrugged. "Well, you needn't worry about that. I had a long talk with her after we returned home last evening. I told her that if she ruined you, she ruined us by extension, for nearly all of our connections were made through you. I told her that you would weather it. Your sister wouldn't, but you would. And we would not. It would paint us with the brush of scandal, and we would never escape it, but you would shake that stain off in time. I told her she was mad to do any of it, and that I would not allow her to destroy everything we'd built."

"She simply saw reason?" Mr. Darcy knew Caroline better than that.

"She said I was destroying everything we'd built going after a woman you wanted for yourself. She hadn't known that wrinkle before, you see. And she said that it was one thing to be your friend, but it was quite another to marry your ruined sister. Of course, I pointed out that I couldn't marry both of them, which she didn't like. But I shouldn't worry about that conversation, for a man called on her today. He left just before you arrived, in fact. Mr. Higgins. He danced with her last night and he's intrigued and she is entirely distracted by that. I doubt she'll spare you a thought until he jilts her. And maybe he won't. Maybe someone will find Caroline charming. Or, failing that, perhaps she'll manipulate him into marrying her. We can only hope for such a thing."

"Higgins," murmured Mr. Darcy. "Not the elder Higgins."

"The elder Higgins is Lord Thatchley."

"So, the younger Higgins."

"No one calls the elder Higgins by his last name."

"I suppose not." Darcy didn't like Higgins very much. Darcy might go so far as to call him a dandy. He had inherited some land from his late father and he was well off enough. He might do for Caroline, he supposed. He thought she would be distracted by the idea of a prospective suitor, but he wasn't sure that was the end of the matter .

"You must leave my sister to me," said Bingley.

Darcy didn't know if he could trust Bingley to keep Caroline in line.

"And if you are serious about relinquishing any pursuit of Elizabeth to me, then I suppose our business here is concluded."

Darcy lifted his gaze to Bingley's. "I'm being dismissed, am I?"

Bingley had the decency to look abashed.

"We're not friends anymore?"

"I don't know," said Bingley. "You… if I marry her and the two of you make eyes at each other like that? I can't be married to a woman who looks at you in that way ."

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Darcy. "She didn't look at me any way at all." He was firm on this. If he denied it enough, perhaps it would become true.

Bingley eyed him, considering this. "You swear this? Maybe I was mistaken. Maybe I saw something that I thought…"

"I swear," said Darcy.

Bingley dragged a hand over his face again.

ELIZABETH WELCOMED MISS Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, who called upon her early the following day. Morning calls were actually usually conducted at the polite time of afternoon. At some point, perhaps morning calls had been made in the actual morning, Elizabeth did not know. But in town, everyone was up until all hours of the night and slept most of the morning. Afternoon was morning if you were at a ball until three in the morning the night before.

It was polite to come after one in the afternoon.

Miss Bingley arrived at half past noon, and there was nothing on hand in the house to serve her. She hardly cared at the lack of tea or biscuits nor paid any attention to Mrs. Gardiner's apologies. She had barely acknowledged Mrs. Gardiner when she had been introduced. Instead, she paced in the drawing room, outlining a plan for the maximum suffering of Mr. Darcy, one that included Elizabeth marrying her brother and flaunting her love for Mr. Bingley in Mr. Darcy's face.

"You don't like Mr. Darcy, do you?" said Miss Bingley. "My brother says you do not."

"I-I suppose I don't know him very well," said Elizabeth.

"No, no, no reason to be polite, Eliza," said Caroline. "Please do tell us how you truly feel about him. I don't like him either, as you well know."

Mrs. Hurst was simply looking on during all this, saying nothing.

"Well, there is the business with his denying that living to Mr. Wickham," said Elizabeth. "I don't know what to make of that. He seems very proud. He is not exactly tactful. So, I suppose I have… objections to the man, but I don't know that they entirely add up to dislike."

"You wouldn't marry him, though," said Caroline.

"Well, that's preposterous," said Elizabeth. "He would never marry someone like me."

"He wishes to marry you," said Caroline.

At this, Mrs. Hurst spoke up in a tired voice. "I agree with Miss Bennet."

"Oh, I already have heard what you think, Louisa," said Caroline.

"You clearly have not," said Mrs. Hurst. "You had a caller yesterday, a very fine gentleman who is obviously interested in you, and we are here so early because we must hurry back to meet him on the promenade. You might simply be happy with your good fortune. You might do nothing but concentrate on what good is befalling you. Instead, you must scheme to destroy a man who did nothing other than point out that it was very annoying that you would not stop interrupting his writing of a letter!"

Caroline drew back. "Louisa, how dare you?"

Mrs. Hurst groaned. "Oh, never mind. You never listen to me, anyway. "

Elizabeth blinked at the both of them. "You have a suitor, Caroline?"

Caroline beamed. "Yes, it's ever so exciting." She sat down, then, and left the topic of Mr. Darcy entirely. She spoke at length about Mr. Higgins, recounting every single thing he'd ever said to her, dwelling for some time on the way he formed letters when he'd written his name on her dance card, for he'd insisted on doing it himself, apparently. There seemed to be great significance in the way he formed the letter ‘G.'

When Caroline finally left, Elizabeth was reeling.

She'd had two days since the ball with no word from either Mr. Bingley or Mr. Darcy. She thought that men did not understand how long an hour seemed when a woman was in love and had no word from the man she was interested in.

Dash Mr. Bingley from a far height!

In that time, she'd gone over and over the entire experience and convinced herself that she'd imagined it.

Nothing had happened. The world had not stopped when she looked into Mr. Darcy's eyes, and he had not felt it, too, and it had all been nothing, nothing at all. Mr. Darcy did not and could not have any regard for her. All of his behavior said otherwise.

To hear something different from Caroline Bingley was distressing.

Her aunt, who had stayed quite silent in the sitting room, only observing the Bingley sisters and Elizabeth, was nevertheless willing to find all of it amusing when they were alone again, after the sisters had departed.

Mrs. Gardiner laughed about it, long and loud. "But Mr. Darcy doesn't fancy you."

Elizabeth didn't laugh.

Mrs. Gardiner stopped laughing. "Does he?"

Elizabeth hesitated for a very long time. "No," she said, with finality. "No, he cannot."

After an interminable interval of three days, Mr. Bingley and Miss Bingley arrived at Gracechurch Street together to tender an invitation to take Elizabeth on a drive.

Miss Bingley sat on the other side of the carriage, making a show of reading a book, saying the two could do anything they liked.

The two then conducted a stilted conversation wherein they went through all of their possible topics in moments. They ended up talking about The Scottish Chiefs again, but they had both said everything each had to say about the book, and so it was just a rehash of previous conversations.

Eventually, they lapsed into silence. Elizabeth inquired after Mr. Higgins, and Caroline put her book away and talked about him eagerly for the rest of the drive.

Before he left, Mr. Bingley invited her to another ball, and she accepted the invitation, determined not to take any more dresses from Caroline. If her best clothes were not good enough for the occasion, and Mr. Bingley was too ashamed to be seen with her, perhaps he best not marry her.

Thus determined, she found herself looking forward to the activity.