When he did finally make it downstairs, he found Bingley already in the breakfast room, chewing desolately on a piece of buttered toast.
“I was thinking of riding to Longbourn,” he said, by way of greeting.
Bingley looked shocked. “We cannot call on them at eight o’clock in the morning.”
They both looked at the clock on the mantle-piece, where the time was a few minutes past eight.
The irony did not escape Darcy. That Bingley should be urging control showed how far-gone Darcy was.
“Though I must admit I have been thinking the same thing myself this past half-hour.” Bingley sighed. “If only society did not have quite so many rules!”
“Without those rules,” said Darcy blandly, “we would be little more than savages.”
Bingley sighed, his gaze flicking once again to the clock. “I suppose so.”
“It is no use staring at the clock. You know what they say. A watched kettle never boils,” said Darcy.
Bingley gave a lopsided grin. “I have never had the privilege of watching a kettle boil.”
“Neither have I,” said Darcy.
The two gentlemen fell into silence. Just for something to do, Darcy went to the side-table and helped himself. He was not in the least hungry, and he did not care what he ate.
“I thought you disliked kippers,” remarked Bingley, when Darcy came back to the table.
Darcy looked down at his plate. He had indeed served himself a pile of kippers.
“Well spotted, Bingley. Clearly I was too preoccupied.”
He pushed the kippers to the side of the plate and picked up the buttered toast. He did not know what the day would bring, and it would be good to be fortified, just in case.
The food turned to sawdust on his tongue. He tossed down the rest of the toast in disgust.
“I have been meaning to talk to you, Bingley. What the devil did you mean yesterday by offering to have another ball?”
Bingley looked shamefaced. “I was carried away, Darcy. I felt that it would be a good distraction, under the circumstances, something for everyone to look forward to.”
“And how do you imagine Miss Bennet will feel when you do not follow up on your promise because you have left for London?”
“It was not a promise, Darcy, just a possibility.”
Darcy shook his head, but today he was more understanding of Bingley’s impulse. Darcy would have done anything if he could help Elizabeth feel better, but he was not the kind of person that sugar-coated anything. He could never promise anything he could not fulfill, as Bingley had done. It seemed too much like a lie, and he had a horror of lies. Disguise of every sort was hisabhorrence.
Still, strictly speaking, Bingley was not lying, and he meant no harm.
“Do you think Mrs. Bennet is likely to improve?”
It was a question Darcy had asked himself multiple times.
“I have no idea. I have not seen her, so I cannot make any judgement.” He could only hope that nothing worse had happened since yesterday.
The two gentlemen fell into silence, contemplating the possibilities. For several minutes, the only sound in the room was the clink of silverware against China, interspersed with the sound of coffee being sipped, and the monotonous ticking of the clock.
Darcy’s mind drifted to Elizabeth and the way she had looked when he was there. She was always so pert, so sure of herself, always with a ready answer on those bold lips. It shook him to find her so agitated and distracted. In normal circumstances, she always met his gaze directly, her fine eyes vivacious, bright with laughter or defiance. Yesterday her expression had been restrained, as if she had drawn a curtain to conceal her feelings.
The image of Elizabeth sitting anxiously at her mother’s bedside was imprinted on his mind. Darcy wished he could be there, holding her hand and consoling her, but it was not in his power to do so.
“If only we could do something,” said Bingley.
