Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE NEXT MONTH passed away, peppered with a number of activities involving Mr. Bingley. He called upon her at least twice a week, sometimes thrice, always with one or both of his sisters in tow as a chaperone.

Unfortunately, it seemed as if she and Mr. Bingley grew less comfortable in each other's presence as the time went on. Instead of feeling closer to Mr. Bingley as he became more and more familiar to her, she felt as if their association shone a light on a gap between them, one that was quite wide.

It wasn't as if it were widening, so that was something. It had always been there, she felt, and now it was just obvious.

They did not have much in common. They did not enjoy the same things. They did not have similar philosophies of life. Well, it was fair to say that she had some philosophy of life and that Mr. Bingley simply reacted to life as it happened without giving it much thought.

He admired her, that much stayed the same.

But she felt embarrassed by the things about her he seemed to find admirable. She would make what seemed to her as obvious observations about a verse in the bible, and he would be amazed by it, saying he would have never thought of it in that way.

Would have never thought at all, she found herself thinking, uncharitably .

But all this as it was, she thought it was perhaps a balance between them. He had better connections than her, more wealth, and she had a sharp wit. They each brought something to the relationship. She was not dissatisfied with it.

Except, well, there were moments, bad moments, that kept occurring, and they always involved Mr. Darcy.

He would sometimes be at the balls they attended, or even out in the park when they were walking. She would see him. He would see her. They would never speak, but they would look at each other.

Every time, she would have the sensation that the world went entirely still around her, and that he and she were all that existed. She'd be aware only of him and of her blood rushing in her veins, her breath in her lungs, her heart pumping in her chest. He seemed similarly affected.

But as he always looked away or fled after one of these looks, she told herself to ignore them. It was foolish to think that it meant anything at all. Caroline was still convinced that Mr. Darcy had some feelings for Elizabeth, but everyone else thought it was foolish.

Well, by everyone else, she meant Mrs. Hurst.

She didn't discuss it with Mr. Bingley and he didn't discuss it with her.

One day, in late February, while they were on a walk together, Mrs. Hurst and Caroline several paces ahead, the air brisk and stinging the tip of her nose, Mr. Darcy happened by them on horseback. He was with his sister, to whom Elizabeth had not yet been introduced. However, she'd seen Miss Darcy enough times now to recognize her. Miss Darcy was not out in society and did not attend balls, but might be out and about in other capacities from time to time. There was another man there, too. He was apparently a Fitzwilliam, a younger son of Lord and Lady Matlock and he had rank in the army, too, but Elizabeth didn't remember it. She'd seen him across the room at a ball the week before, and Caroline had talked about how positively ugly he was, which Elizabeth thought was cruel. This Major-or- Lieutenant-or-Colonel Fitzwilliam wasn't handsome, true, but he was not ugly.

Both of them looked at her, the major-or-colonel and Mr. Darcy.

It was so bad that both men started to steer their horses towards where they were walking on the path, and Mr. Bingley could not help but notice.

And for her part, she was somehow caught in it, too, gazing back, her heart thudding against her temples.

"Miss Bennet," said Mr. Bingley.

She snapped her attention back to him, shaking herself. "I'm so very sorry, sir. I did not mean to—"

"We need to talk about it," he said. "I thought perhaps we didn't, but I have been lying to myself."

"Talk about what?" said Elizabeth, resisting the urge to turn her head and see if Mr. Darcy was still there, to look and see if he was looking back at her .

"I'm beginning to think this isn't a good match."

She turned to him in horror, letting out an audible gasp.

He cringed. "Oh, don't be that way. You see it, too. I see the way your face tightens after I am amazed at something you think is obvious."

"I don't… feel that way." Now, it was her turn to cringe. She hadn't realized she was being so transparent.

"It would be one thing, if it weren't for that ." He gestured behind him.

She turned, unable to help herself. Mr. Darcy and his cousin and sister had all stopped riding their horses and they were all staring at her and Mr. Bingley. She turned her head back immediately, jolted by that. "Oh, for heaven's sake, why does he do that?"

"Oh, I thought Caroline told you," he said.

"Told me…?" She let out a noise of disbelief. "Mr. Darcy is not attracted to me."

He laughed. "You don't think so? How can you doubt it?"

She stopped walking, her heart in her throat.

He stopped, too, glancing at her. "Well, then. That answers that. "

"Answers what?" Her voice was insubstantial.

"Unless that's a reaction of horror because you are so very disgusted by him."

"I…"

"Didn't think so," he said in a tight voice.

She forced herself to walk again. She walked very quickly. Mr. Bingley matched her pace.

They were quiet.

"I'm very sorry to have strung you along for such a time," he said. "I know that you find me acceptable for a number of reasons. I know you would likely accept me if I proposed at this exact moment. But I am convinced, every time that you lay eyes on him, that whatever you feel for me isn't what you feel for him, and I can't marry a woman who feels something so intensely for some other man. I have my pride, after all."

"I don't feel anything for him," she protested. "I barely know him."

"And yet, whenever he is anywhere near us, you can't tear your eyes away from him."

"That is not true," she said stoutly.

"You seem to be as in as much denial about it as he is," muttered Mr. Bingley. "No, yours is worse. He at least admits he fancies you. You pretend not to like him."

"I never said I didn't like him."

"There we are, then."

"What I have said is that I don't know him," she said. "I have certain reservations about his character. I have questions I should put to him if I were to be determining to form some kind of friendship with him, which is all I could consider forming with him, even if I did not feel as I have some obligation of faithfulness to you, sir, because such are the reservations."

"What reservations?" said Bingley. "That he said that you were only tolerable or that—"

"No, it seems he makes enemies rather easily," she said. "Your own sister? Mr. Wickham? And I could deem him an enemy, I suppose, if I found that his behavior was condemnable."

"In the case of Wickham, he is entirely innocent," said Bingley. "As for my sister, she is too severe on him."

"You cannot deny he can be a difficult man to like, Mr. Bingley."

"If you don't know him, I suppose, he might seem…" A long pause.

"Seem what?"

"Off-putting, I suppose."

"Yes, indeed," she said. "Quite off-putting, in fact."

"You're trying to convince me you don't like him, because you don't wish me to end this between us," said Mr. Bingley. "In truth, there is nothing to end. I have not proposed. We are not connected in any official way. I certainly have not spoken to your father. There is nothing here, Miss Bennet, and we have no obligations to each other, despite what you think."

She flinched, as if he'd struck her. "It has not felt that way to me, sir," she muttered. "But perhaps men see these things differently."

"If you really mean that, explain why you stare at him."

"I don't," she said, but without any real force behind it. She knew that she did.

"You do."

"I don't mean to."

"Well, that's rather worse, I think," he said.

"I just see him, that's all. And then, I get sort of stuck ."

"Oh, for heaven's sake."

"No, I don't mean it that way," she said ruefully.

"How do you mean it?"

She was silent.

"Shall I tell you what I think you might mean?" he said. "I think that you are primarily attracted to me because of necessity."

"Necessity?"

"I'm not unaware of your situation, Miss Bennet. You have little in the way of prospects. You will live much more comfortably as a wife to a man like me than otherwise. I imagine that's enticing, regardless of the fact that you think that I am impulsive, a bit stupid, and not very well-read."

"Mr. Bingley, I think none of those things!"

He just laughed.

She did, in fact, think all of those things about him. He was right, entirely right. She hung her head. "I definitely don't think you're stupid."

"A bit stupid," he said. "You forgive me it, I see that. You are surrounded, often, by people you find a bit stupid, and you are used to it. Whatever you think of him, you don't think he's stupid."

"Mr. Bingley—"

"I knew this at the start of it all, and I didn't mind it," he said. "We bring things to the pairing, each of us, things that the other lacks. I don't mind that. But what I do mind, I find, is if you want him . I thought I could stand it, and I can't."

"I do not want him."

"Think of how much more comfortably you could live with him, though, with all his wealth," said Bingley.

"Oh, that is an awful thing to say to me."

"I don't think that's why you stare at him, though," said Bingley. "My assessment is that you would settle for me, but you want him against your will and better judgment. You can't stop yourself from staring at him. He can't stop himself from staring at you. He's sworn up and down that he could never marry you, but he's obsessed with you."

"He's not obsessed with me!"

"Depend upon it, Miss Bennet, he is. I told myself, you're better off with me. If I set you free, he won't marry you. He can't marry someone as deprived of the proper connections as you are, you see. I do think you would be better off with me. The thing is, I would not be better off with you. If I marry you, you're going to cuckold me with him at some point. It's just a question of when. I won't—I can't—"

"No I would not ." She was horrified. "How can you accuse me—"

"I cannot do this with you, Elizabeth," he said. "I have been trying, trying very hard, but I simply cannot. My sincere apologies. You are likely the most fascinating woman I have ever met and you are beautiful in a way that beggars beauty. I wish like anything that I could. You don't know what it is to give up on this. It hurts me. I am very, very sorry."

She stopped walking, stunned, hearing the finality in his tone.

He stopped walking, also, taking both of her hands in his. "I'm sorry. I didn't know it was going to happen like this. I was still trying to talk myself into trying with you. I really was. Are you all right?"

"Perfectly fine," she managed.

"Let me get you home," he said. "It's frightfully cold out here. You'll hate me for all this, I imagine, and I cannot blame you for that."

"I don't hate you, sir," she said. "But it is frightfully cold out here."

They were both silent on the drive home, entirely silent. Caroline Bingley seemed to sense that things had gone wrong, and Elizabeth expected her to protest loudly, but she only seemed resigned to it. She was silent, too.