Breakfast was an exercise in endurance.
The dining room buzzed with cheerful chatter—servants clearing dishes, Caroline issuing commands, Mrs. Hurst making languid observations about the previous evening's successes. Darcy heard none of it. He sat with his coffee growing cold, his thoughts fixed on a woman who was miles away, probably not thinking of him at all.
Bingley, in contrast, was incandescent.
He practically floated into the room, his face alight with a joy so pure it bordered on comedic. He helped himself to eggs with the enthusiasm of a man who had discovered the meaning of existence, humming snatches of a country dance under his breath.
“Was it not the most wonderful evening?” he asked no one in particular. “The music, the games, the company—everything was perfect. Absolutely perfect.”
“The candelabra would disagree,” Caroline said acidly. “That Bennet girl nearly burned the house down.”
“An accident. Could have happened to anyone.” Bingley waved away the objection with cheerful dismissal. “And Miss Bennet was so gracious about the whole thing. Did you see how she calmed her sister? Such composure. Such kindness.”
Caroline's jaw clenched. “I saw a great deal of the Bennet family last night. Rather more than I might have wished.”
Bingley did not appear to hear her. He had drifted into a reverie, his toast forgotten, his expression that of a man contemplating heaven.
Darcy watched his friend and felt something loosen in his chest. Bingley was happy—truly, profoundly happy—in a way Darcy had rarely seen him. Whatever reservations Darcy had once harbored about Jane Bennet, they seemed foolish now. The woman clearly adored Bingley. Her every look, her every gesture, spoke of genuine affection.
Who was Darcy to stand in the way of such happiness?
Bingley caught his eye and leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Darcy. I must ask you something. In confidence.”
“Of course.”
“Do you believe—that is—” Bingley's ears reddened. “Do you think Miss Bennet returns my feelings? Truly returns them?”
Darcy thought of Jane Bennet's serene composure, her gentle smiles, the way her eyes had followed Bingley across every room. He thought of Miss Elizabeth's obvious delight in her sister's courtship, her certainty that Jane's affection was genuine.
“Yes,” he said, without hesitation.
Bingley's face split into a grin so wide it threatened to crack. “You truly think so?”
“I do.”
“Then I shall—that is—I have been considering—” He stopped, took a breath, and squared his shoulders with the gravity of a man about to charge into battle. “I intend to propose. Today, if I can arrange a private moment. Tomorrow at the latest.”
Something warm spread through Darcy's chest. “I am glad to hear it.”
“You approve?”
“You would know if I did not.”
Bingley looked as though he might embrace him across the breakfast table. Caroline, who had been listening with mounting horror, made a strangled sound.
“Charles, surely you cannot mean?—”
“I can and I do.” Bingley's voice held an unusual firmness. “Miss Bennet is everything I have ever wanted. I will not let her slip away.”
He returned to his breakfast with renewed enthusiasm, leaving Caroline to fume in silence.
Darcy barely noticed. His thoughts had already drifted elsewhere—to Miss Elizabeth, to Wickham, to the impossible tangle of truths he needed to unravel.
Mrs. Hurst expressed mild shock at the Bennet sisters' evident popularity, but Darcy was only half listening. He found himself watching the door, some foolish part of him hoping Miss Elizabeth might somehow appear, knowing she would not, knowing she was at Longbourn and that he had no right to wish for her presence.
He wished for it anyway.
After breakfast, Darcy retreated to the library under the pretense of writing letters.
