Upon looking once more around the room, Darcy saw that Bingley frowned, but in a somehow cheerful manner.
Mrs. Hurst had a pinched look when she looked at Darcy.
Bingley said, “Poor Caro, but perhaps she will at last realize that you’ve no interest in her.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Darcy, my dear fellow,” Mr. Bingley said, “evenyoucannot fail realize my sister had set her cap at you?”
“Charles!” Mrs. Hurst exclaimed. “Do not talk aboutoursister in such a vulgar way.”
Bingley shrugged. “I’d have been happy enough if you’d liked her, of course. Surprised, but happy.”
Oh.
Darcy still bounced Emily up and down. She settled against his chest and turned her head to watch the rain and the waving of the trees in the wind. “That gives her no cause to treat mychildunkindly.”
“Hmph.” Mrs. Hurst rose to follow her sister out of the room. “You ought not foist her upon everyone, every day, as though we allenjoythe screaming of brats and their tricks and pranks.”
This left Darcy blinking.
Bingley laughed. “Do not take that serious.Ilike having Emily around all the time. She is darling, are you not, dear? You are darling. They are only upset.”
“I never gave your sister the slightest hint that I might marry her. In fact, I have firmly stated on all appropriate occasions that I would not marry again.”
“Doesn’t matter. The mind of a woman always makes a fantasy of the situation. They hope, even when cause for hope does not exist. Besides…”
“Yes,” Darcy bit off.
He let Emily down, so that she could run towards the sofa to climb on it, as she’d been practicing for the past week.
“I dare say that Caro takes the presence of arivalmore seriously than a declaration of disinterest in marriage.”
“Miss Bennet is not her rival. Because I shall not marry Miss Bennet, because I shall not marry again. Miss Bennet knows this. I have told her that I shall not marry again.”
“Poor girl. It is a wonder she can tolerate you.” Bingley leaned back in the chair, stretched his legs out, and sighed.
“We are friends, and she has no expectations.”
“Upon my honour, it is a sad pity. You’d be happy, the two of you together.”
“That is not my concern.”
“It is a sad, sad pity. You might marry a woman you like very much, but do not because you are — no, not a fool. You are too… certain of yourself to be a fool. It is a pity.” A look of pain and sadness crossed Bingley’s face. “And then I — but it is no use mourning that which never could be.”
“What do you mean?”
Bingley waved that away. “Deuced unfortunate that it’s so cloudy. Dare say it will rain till tomorrow. So much for the planned fox hunt. Tally-no, instead of Tally-ho. I hope the roads will at least be dry enough to not scare anyone away from the ball on Tuesday.”
The next days were difficult for Darcy.
They were not wholly bad, of course; Miss Bingley’s obsequious treatment of him and Emily had been transformed into cold civility and tolerance.
The rain, as it alternated from drenching to drizzling kept them from hunting and riding, but the gentlemen enjoyed truly excellent rounds of snooker, bouts of fencing, and games of cards. A book upon the agriculture of Hertfordshire in the Netherfield library, which he had absently opened, was quite excellent, and it kept him wholly occupied for two evenings after Emily had been put to sleep.
But his mind refused to stop worrying that Elizabeth would marry Mr. Sykes.
Emily grew more difficult and rambunctious as the days of enforced confinement continued.
