Monday 8 February 1813, Derbyshire
Elizabeth looked up from her breakfast as the door opened and triednot to appear impatient when her sister entered. She and Darcy both wished her good morning.
“Has Mr Bingley been down yet?” Georgiana enquired as she seated herself at the table.
“Not yet,” Darcy replied.
“I do hope he is not ill.”
The door opened again, but it was only Maltravers with a letter just arrived for Elizabeth. She took it, feeling some apprehension upon perceiving her mother’s hand, for the previous two from that quarter had borne little in the way of good tidings.
According to Mrs Bennet, Bingley had removed to Town after a disagreement with Jane and had sworn never to return, leading to all manner of unpleasant rumours circulating about Meryton. Having witnessed first-hand the ugliness of Jane’s recent behaviour, Elizabeth and Darcy could not fault Bingley for wishing to escape it for a while, but they were nonetheless grieved by the apparent severity of their squabble.
Darcy had written to his friend, enquiring if there was aught they could do to assist. They had not heard a whisper in response until he appeared at their door the previous evening, unannounced and in a vast discomposure of spirits, begging that he be allowed to retire directly and promising to explain all in the morning. Thus, they were all on tenterhooks to hear what he had to say.
“He is not unwell. My man confirmed it with his this morning,” Darcy informed them, replacing his cup in its saucer and enquiring with a raised eyebrow and a nod as to the provenance of Elizabeth’s letter.
“Mama,” she replied, breaking the seal. She very soon after refolded it and set it aside in disgust.
“What news?”
“My Uncle Gardiner called on Mr Bingley and was told he was travelling here. My mother has dedicated three whole sides to her displeasure.”
“Nothing more about the nature of their disagreement?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Only a demand that we send him back directly.”
“Then we shall have to wait for Bingley to enlighten us. Regrettably, I can wait no longer. Peterson is expecting me at eleven.”
A quarter of an hour after Darcy’s departure when Bingley stillhad not appeared, Elizabeth encouraged her sister to attend to her pianoforte practice and went out for a walk—not five minutes into which, she came upon her errant houseguest. “Mr Bingley! We thought you still abed.”
“Er, no, I beg you would forgive me, I?—”
“Do not make yourself uncomfortable, I meant not to upbraid you. We were only concerned.”
He inclined his head but seemed no less ill at ease.
“I was about to walk around the lake. Will you join me?”
He readily accepted, and as she hoped, the pursuit lost him a little of his awkwardness, though not enough to persuade him to speak. “You will have to satisfy my curiosity at some point, sir,” she said at length. “Are we ever to know why you have come?”
“I came to see you,” he said wretchedly. “I wished to see a friendly face.”
“I can understand that. I am glad you know you will always receive a friendly welcome from us, though I am exceedingly sorry you do not feel there would be one at Netherfield.”
He looked glummer than ever.
“Will you not tell me what you and Jane have quarrelled about?”
He gave her a strange look, then sighed and frowned at the ground. “You.”
Elizabeth’s heart sank. No wonder Jane resented her still. “I thought you agreed to forgive her for what she did to me? She and I will never be able to forget it if you will not.”
“I did. At least, I endeavoured to, but something else has since come to light that I cannot forgive.” He looked at her, then away, several times. Then he removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “Would that I could avoid speaking of it, for I know it will give you pain.”
“I am afraid you cannot escape speaking of it now.”
He shoved his hat back on and sighed deeply. “It cannot be avoided anyway. You need to know. But is there somewhere we might sit?”
