That was as much as Darcy could bear. He stood, thrusting his hand out of the window to reach for the handle. The door flew open and he leapt out, hitting the ground at a run, taking the steps two at a time. As he neared the top, the front door finally opened, and he almost stumbled, for through it walked the last person in the world he expected to see. Cold fury flooded his veins. With a roar, he leapt the remaining steps and charged at Bingley, slamming him into the wall and pinning him there with a forearm to his throat.
“Where is my wife? I know you mean to take her! Tell me where she is!”
Bingley did not fight him or look afraid or even ashamed. With a stirring of horror, Darcy realised he was crying.
“You are mistaken,” he croaked past Darcy’s stronghold. “She is not with me. She is dead.”
MISTAKEN
Wednesday 3 March 1813, Pemberley
His fifth tourof the lake brought no more relief than the previous four. Bingley remained wretched, still utterly befogged as to how he had wound up in such a hellish bind. No man intends that his every choice should lead to calamity, yet it seemed that, at every juncture where he might have acted prudently, external influences had steered him into misadventure.
Had his sisters not been so adamant Jane neither loved him nor was worthy of his love, his heart might never have been laid open to the charms of another. Had Darcy not encouraged him to return to Hertfordshire, assuring him of a warm welcome and successful suit, or had Wickham not assaulted her, putting her in need of his rescue and protection, it might never have been Elizabeth to whosecharms he succumbed. Had Jane not forced his hand, had Darcy not claimed Elizabeth for himself, had Jane not grown bitter and cold…the list of obstacles to his felicity was endless.
He cuffed a low branch from his path. It rebounded to slap him on the back of the neck as he stomped past, sending him tripping forwards and doing naught to improve his humour.
Even his decision to leave had been thwarted. No sooner had hebooked passage on the next ship from Liverpool than he had been prevailed upon to stay. Though he risked forfeiting the vast sum laid out for a first-class berth if Darcy did not return within a fortnight, he had agreed to the delay, for he was not prepared to leave Elizabeth alone in such a delicate state, even if Darcy was.
He required no instruction to look to her wellbeing. His first thought upon waking each day was to attend to her happiness and to provide the appreciation and companionship she did not receive from her husband. With that in mind, he undertook to spend every available moment in her company. And how well they did together! Always, they found something about which to converse. Always, she was interested in what he said, never with any of the ridicule he had come to expect from his sisters or the indifference he so often perceived in Jane.
It was the cruellest form of torture being trapped here, admiring her in such close neighbourhood yet forbidden from expressing or, God forbid, acting upon his feelings. Likewise, it would be torture to leave, knowing he would never see her again.Thatmight be less painful if only he could be sure of her happiness. Yet he would leave full in the knowledge that her husband did not respect her, and she was as miserably allied as he.
The deplorable affair marked the death of his good opinion of Darcy. For above a year, he had struggled with conflicting notions of respect and disappointment, but the latter had finally triumphed. Deep as their connection ran, Bingley could no longer excuse the pride that overshadowed any concern his erstwhile friend ought to have felt for his wife’s happiness. Over and again, he watched Darcy put duty before any thought to her. Familial obligations, estate business, spurious social commitments—anything with half a chance of gratifying his need to be indispensable seemed sufficient grounds for neglect. Presently, it was the draw of a reviled and dying relative justifying his absence.
Resentment gave haste to Bingley’s ramblings. He gave up the narrow path and stormed onto the lawn, railing at how the rest of the world rode roughshod over his life. But for Darcy and his blasted jaunt to Kent, he might have been in Liverpool by now. Damn him and his self-serving conceit, ever directing people hither and thither to suit himself. Where was it written that all lesser mortals mustdance to the tune of the Titan’s whims? What right had he to look to his own pleasure when all around him were so damned miserable?
He had not the time to draw any conclusions. As he walked towards the house, the mistress of it herself suddenly came forward from the path that led behind it to the orangery. So abrupt was her appearance that it was impossible to avoid her sight. “Lizzy! I did not expect to see you.”
“I live here now, you know,” she replied, amusement dancing in her eyes—eyes that, despite how distractingly beautiful her teasing rendered them, Bingley could not but notice were tinged with red.
“Have you been crying?”
Her amusement ebbed. “Oh, pay me no mind, I am being silly.” As she said it, she folded a piece of paper he had not noticed was in her hand and slipped it into her pocket.
“Upon my word, I am sorry if I embarrassed you, but I shall not ignore it if something has upset you. Come now, what are you crying about?”
She smiled sadly and looked away as though embarrassed. “Just a little note from Darcy.”
“What has he said?”
“Very little. Indeed, he seems to have given up his search for words of four syllables and has writtenjustfour syllables.”
That was all the man could spare her—four syllables? Such flagrant indifference to Elizabeth’s happiness stirred Bingley’s indignation into a furnace of resentment. “It is too much!” he cried. “I cannot bear to see you—you,loveliest, fairest Lizzy, condemned to this misery and disregard! It is the hardest thing in the world to watch you suffer so!”
She stared at him and said nothing, which left his mind unfettered to make its next improbable leap of reasoning.
“Come with me! By God, why did I not conceive of it before? You can escape this insufferable oppression if you come with me to Nova Scotia!”
Her countenance was the dearest picture of confusion—part frown, part smile. “This is a strange sort of joke, sir.”
“Indeed it is not a joke!” He stepped forwards and reached for her hands. “Come with me, Lizzy.Bewith me!”
She snatched her hands from his and stepped backwards. “Why would you ask such a thing of me?”
It seemed the whole world ceased what it was doing to watch. Never had Bingley thought this moment would come. Yet, here she was, lovelier than ever, anxiously awaiting his assurances. He regarded her earnestly, willing her to comprehend his sincerity. “Because I love you.”
She made a little noise but after that seemed unable to catch her breath. She looked somewhat horrified, though he supposed that was to be expected, for what he proposed was seriously audacious. He was somewhat horrified by it himself, yet he could not find it in himself to retract it. “I love you!” he said again, giddy with exhilaration for being finally at liberty to declare it.
