Charles Bingley wished he could be more like Darcy. To have his caliber of self-assurance. To meet Caroline’s taunts with cool indifference. Maybe then she would respect him more.
She rose from her chair, pretending a casual air when everything about Caroline was calculated. “I should make certain the servants are managing my plans for the ball to the best effect. There is so much to be done, and all without the advantages of living in town.” She accented her complaint with an arched brow at Bingley. As if he himself had not arranged for the music, the decorations, and some of the food to be brought from London! What else would she have him send for—the entire town?
“We shall not detain you then.” Darcy said the perfect thing to encourage her to quit the room and promptly returned to a letter he had been composing. Darcy was always writing letters. Letters to Miss Darcy, letters to Colonel Fitzwilliam, letters to his steward and housekeeper and secretary. So many letters. Bingley despised correspondence. His thoughts came too quickly and changed too frequently for his hand to pen them down.
He imagined that Jane Bennet had lovely handwriting. Everything Miss Bennet did was graceful and refined. She calmed everyone around her. Even Caroline and Louisa behaved nicer when she was near.
Bingley settled into his chair, content to contemplate Miss Bennet’s fine qualities. She was beautiful—an angel with golden hair, porcelain complexion, and sapphire blue eyes. She was genuinely kind. Even when she had fallen ill at Netherfield, she had been the most delightful patient. Bingley had not heard one complaint cross her lips, though she must have been miserable. It had been a pleasure for him to see to her comfort—send for the apothecary, ensure the maids plumped her pillows several times a day, and consult his housekeeper and cook about remedies—anything to ensure Miss Bennet felt welcome and properly cared for.
Even in illness, she was steady and composed. Precisely what Bingley was not and wished he could be.
Being a romantic at heart, he had often imagined his ideal wife. Jane Bennet exceeded his every hope. It hardly seemed fair to offer for a lady who surpassed his best imaginings when he did not feel so certain about where he stood in her estimation. Was he the husband of her dreams? He would very much like to be, but as he was in everything, uncertainty plagued him.
With a sigh, he came out of his dreamlike cloud and turned to Darcy. His friend would know what to do. “Do you think Miss Bennet would accept me if I made her an offer?”
The tip of Darcy’s quill broke, and he swore under his breath.
Bingley did not understand his friend’s reaction, which distressed him as much as every other conflict did. He quickly changed the subject. “How is Miss Darcy?”
“Very well. She speaks of little more than Serafina and her kittens.”
“I love kittens. And puppies. Baby animals in general. How old are they?”
“Nearly six weeks.”
How could he forget? Miss Darcy had written to Darcy about their birth shortly after they had arrived at Netherfield Park. Truth be told, Bingley had forgotten all about them until now. “I always wanted to have a cat as a pet, but Caroline does not approve. She says that their hair ruins her gowns.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed. “You seem more suited to dogs.”
Bingley supposed he was. He certainly had the temperament of a dog: friendly disposition, eager to please, enthusiastic to greet friends and meet new people. Not an unpleasant image, certainly, but not very flattering for a man. He would never think to compare Darcy to a dog.
No—Bingley knew he grinned, but he could not prevent it—Darcy’s disposition was more comparable to that of a cat. He did not need or even desire the approval of others and only granted his notice to a select few. He sulked in corners at public assemblies and glared at anyone who dared approach him. Definitely a cat.
Darcy broke the silence, startling Bingley from his diverting musings. “Are you certain you wish to marry now?”
“I have a house, I am of age, and I would like the company. Why should I not marry now?”
Bingley did not know what was wrong with his reply for Darcy to inhale so deeply. He did that when his patience was being tried. “Speak plainly, Darcy. I cannot read your mind.”
Another deep breath. “Are you confident that Miss Bennet’s attachment is as strong as you claim yours to be?”
“Yes.” Bingley’s certainty wavered. “No.” But that was not the answer he wanted at all. “Maybe? Oh, if only I knew, I would not have to ask you.”
“Until you know your own mind, how can you know what qualities you most admire, what traits you seek in a lifelong companion?”
“I shall be whatever she wishes me to be.”
“And you expect her to be as yielding as you? Who would run your household? Who would make decisions?”
Bingley understood Darcy’s point, but Miss Bennet was much stronger than his friend gave her credit for. “Miss Bennet is soft-spoken, but she knows her mind. Only, she is modest—”
“Or is sheindifferent?” The way Darcy emphasized the vile word gave Bingley pause.
He sank back into his chair, feeling limp and numb. “I—I do not know. Is that what you believe?”
“You possess a trusting nature and see only the best in everyone. As a result, you are more easily swayed than you ought to be.”
That was nothing new to Bingley. “So long as I surround myself with good friends who are smarter than me, then I hardly see the deficiency. I have learned a great deal in the past weeks—thanks to you.”
