Indeed not. Bingley would never forget the sight of Elizabeth lying prone on the ground. Or the feel of her in his arms, so fragile, so delicate.
“Speaking of Wickham’s crimes,” Forster went on, “I received a letter from your friend, Mr Darcy this morning. He has written to warn me about Wickham. All too late of course, but we cannot blame him for that.”
“Darcy wrote to you about Wickham?”
“Aye. Offered to pay his debts. Think you he would object to my asking for assistance with the search for Wickham?”
“Gads, no! I cannot imagine why I did not suggest it.”
Why had he not thought to contact Darcy himself? Resolving that instant to write to him, Bingley fared Forster well and rode post-haste for home. He would write and beg Darcy to come, for never had he needed him more.
Mary chose to walk about the room as she read, for she could scarcely bear to look at the frightful bruise marring her sister’s cheek. She knew not what passages she chose, only that Elizabeth showed no sign of hearing any of it. When tears blurred the words on the page, she dropped her hands and succumbed to her sorrow.
With her head bowed thus, her eyes were drawn to the corner of a letter obtruding from beneath the dresser. Further inspection revealed it to be addressed to her Aunt Gardiner in Elizabeth’s hand. How it came to be there mattered not a whit to Mary. She could think only that her beloved sister might be about to die, and this letter seemed the closest she might ever again come to speaking to her. Without further thought, she tore open the seal.
Reading it only made her cry harder, for the letter was more wretched than Mary would ever have imagined possible. Elizabeth was lonely—grieved by the change in her relationship with Jane, mortified by accusations of flirtatious behaviour and struggling to suppress her natural inclination to playfulness. She was wary of appearing too familiar with Mr Bingley, terrified of being forced to marry Mr Greyson and, most surprising of all, she held a tender regard for Mr Darcy!
“The worst of it,” Mary read aloud, giving voice to her incredulity, “is my contrary and treacherous heart. I have come to understand Mr Darcy so much better and deeply regret my unjust behaviour towards him. What pain I must have inflicted with my accusations! And now my heart seems attuned to the very mention of him and races at the thought of him. Though I have tried and tried again, I cannot laugh myself out of it. If I am honest, I do not think I wish to, though it would be for the best, for I shall never see him again. I have lost the only chance to allow this little skip, upon which my heart insists, to run into a full reel. I regret him, Aunt. There, I have written it. I regret Mr Darcy. Would that he could forgive me and come back, but?—”
At that moment the letter was forgotten, for Elizabeth abruptly groaned and opened her eyes, thus proving that indeed she was attuned to the very mention of Mr Darcy.
Longbourn
25thMay
Mr Bingley,
Elizabeth awoke at a little after four. She is vastly weakened and in pain, but compos mentis.
Yours,
Mr Bennet
Thursday 28 May 1812, Hertfordshire
Mr Bennet halted his amble to the library mid-stride, leant backwards and peered around the parlour door. No, he had not been mistaken. Mr Bingley was, indeed, engrossed in an apparently diverting tête-à-tête with Elizabeth—his third call on as many sisters in as many days. Mr Bennet could not but marvel at the man’s indecisiveness.
Tuesday’s choice had been Jane, with whom the young man had spent the better part of the day exchanging naught but protracted silences and mawkish smiles. The appeal of such a dull courtship eluded Mr Bennet entirely, and he was not surprised when on Wednesday, Mr Bingley had diverted his attentions to Mary. They had at least managed a dialogue of sorts, and one that must have been more engaging than it seemed, for in spite of Mr Bingley’s appearance of ennui, he had yet stayed the entire day.
This morning, it seemed nothing would do but to sample the company of a third Bennet, and very well pleased with his experiment he seemed, too. Whatever it was Elizabeth was saying had him leaning almost out of his seat—so far, in fact, that Mr Bennet was tempted to engineer some sort of commotion to see whether the pup toppled into her lap in fright.
Jane looked on with ill-concealed vexation—never had she looked so much like her mother—and he considered that, for a girl heretofore unwilling to frown at a fart, her elevation to jealousinamoratawas laudable.
With a shake of his head, Mr Bennet continued on his way to his library. He wished his young neighbour luck and hoped he would not take overlong shedding his ambivalence, for he would prefer it if Mrs Bennet remained ignorant of such vacillation lest he be called to intervene.
Friday 29 May 1812, Hertfordshire
Jane felt a little thrill when the housekeeper announced Mr Bingley’s arrival, though her father’s greeting made for an awkward beginning to the visit.
“Good morning, sir,” he said, folding his paper as he arose from his chair. “You have come for Kitty today, I suppose? I am sorry to disappoint you, but she is not at home.” With an impish grin, he tucked his paper under his arm and excused himself, leaving Mr Bingley looking thoroughly bewildered.
Jane was saved from attempting to explain a joke she understood no more than he by the announcement of a second visitor, Mr Greyson. She felt a pang of guilt upon observing Elizabeth close her eyes and sigh. It was only the second day her sister had felt well enough to come downstairs, and she likely did not feel equal to so much company.
“Shall we walk about the lanes?” she asked Mr Bingley, already on her feet, more than happy to relieve Elizabeth of this particular visitor’s company.
“Had we not better remain?” he replied. “I do not think your sister ought to be left unattended.”
“What am I, Bingley—a candlestick?” Mr Greyson said, smiling—a little thinly in Jane’s opinion. “I believe I shall be company enough for Miss Elizabeth.”
