Not fair, Darcy, his conscience reminded him. Neither Elizabeth nor her elder sister ever showed any sign of flirtation or untoward behaviour. Still, he felt his original point was a valid one.
“Nevertheless, had she displayed anything remotely akin to affection, one ought to be able to see it, oughtn’t one? I have been on the receivers’ end of marriage mart pursuit for years, and believe me, it isnotdifficult to tell when a young lady has an interest beyond acquaintanceship. I studied Miss Bennet, searching for that interest, Bingley, I vow it—and I saw nothing!”
Bingley slumped, leant his head back, closed his eyes, and sighed gustily. “Have you ever been in love, Darcy?”
Darcy opened his mouth to reply, ‘No, and neither have you’ but a strange paralysis held his tongue. A couple of days ago, he might have said it, but the hours spent reflecting on Elizabeth’s best qualities made it seem almost…insulting to his feelings for her. Instead of his well-rehearsed lecture on the subject, he heard himself asking a strange question rather than answering Bingley’s.
“How is it different this time, Bingley? You have claimed to be in love before—I have heard you. Is it only that she does not love you in return? The challenge of it?”
Worse still, he very much wanted to hear his friend’s answer.
Bingley leant forward, suddenly eager. “It is precisely the difference between what I have felt in the past and my current feelings that reveal my love to me. My former sentiments were but a pale imitation of what I feel now. Before, it was interest and curiosity and—” He paused, blushing a little. “And desire, I shall admit it. A beautiful female is a fascinating prospect, don’tyou think? I hope I always find it so—not for lovemaking, you understand. Beauty for beauty’s sake.”
Darcy had been pursued by beauties for so long, he almost could not remember when the first had coyly dropped her handkerchief at his feet; he could admit that before meeting Elizabeth, he had expected their deference, their attention, as his due. Because Elizabeth was not beautiful in the classic, portrait-perfect sense of manytondiamonds, he had overlooked her. Even insulted her.
Remembering, it was his turn to blush. Had he ever apologised to her for that? With effort, he turned his attention back to his friend.
“Bingley, there is a certain hardness to most great beauties. I do not say it is all their fault—practically from birth, their looks have drawn uncommon attention, until they cannot appear anywhere without being assaulted by it. Early on, they learn to push back against it—usually with dismissive conceit. Their beauty obscures character, fortune, address, and a host of other desirable traits, for it is what their admirers want most. They are viewed more than anyone, yet seldom seen. Can you understand me?” He ran his hand through his hair, searching for the right words. “One cannot trust the practised words they use, the practised charm they exert, because an essential part of them is not really participating. There is no real connexion.”
Bingley’s expression grew thoughtful. “Do you think I learnt nothing from my previous experiences? Why do you believe naught came of any of them? I am not the most perceptive man, certainly, but neither am I stupid. Even I can sense when I am alone in my feelings. I tell you, Miss Bennet is the genuine article.” Abruptly, he stood. “Do you know, Darcy, I do not think we are speaking about beauties. We are talking ofyou.”
“Me?” Darcy sat back, frowning up at his friend.
“You.Uncommon attention since you were a lad. Distrustful of everyone. Dismissive conceit, and a refusal to truly participate—in love, certainly, but neither much in life itself, because true enjoyment of life requires you to put yourself forward, to take risks in knowing others. The world has disappointed you too often, I suppose.”
Darcy gaped at him.
“Others have disappointed me—there is no question. Miss Bennet, however, has not. It seems wrong of me to treat her as though she has. You say she feels nothing for me, and you may well be correct. I have been mistaken before. Forgive me, however, if I find it difficult to put my sole trust in the word of a man who feels nothing for anyone.”
For a moment they stared at each other incredulously. Then Bingley bowed, mumbled “Forgive me” once again, turned on his heel, and hastily made his exit.
The door shut behind him before Darcy could respond. He rose and paced, furious. How dare Bingley accuse him of conceit, of refusing to ‘participate’ in life! The mediocre society presented to him in Meryton had made of Sir William Lucas its leading citizen. “Should I converse easily with such a person, one who relinquished whatever trade brought him his wealth in the first place so he might pretend he is my equal?” he asked aloud to the empty room.
Did I refuse to ‘participate’ in the work of finding a suitable estate to lease in the first place?Who was the one Bingley turned to for nearly every important decision he’d had to make since his father’s untimely death a few years past? Had heever been turned away?Or did I make great sacrifices of time and effort in order to see myfriendsettled and prospering! Participate indeed!
As was the case in most surprising confrontation, these suitable, cutting ripostes only occurred to him long after Bingley’s departure, adding yet another layer to his resentment.
A second tap on the door interrupted his bitter thoughts.
“Enter,” he commanded.
His cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, strode into the room.
Surprised, Darcy rose to greet him, somewhat alarmed at his presence; he had thought him established at Matlock for a few weeks—where Georgiana currently resided. Had something occurred?
“What brings you back to London so soon? Is Georgiana well?” Darcy asked, once tea had been ordered.
But the colonel smiled easily, seating himself before the fire. “Georgiana is fine and happy. She and my mother are planning Christmas celebrations and village fetes and the like. Fair warning, your presenceshallbe required. Childers said you have just returned from a visit to our lady aunt and in none too happy a mood.”
“That isnotwhat he said,” Darcy remarked repressively, taking the chair across from him. Childers was the soul of discretion.
Fitzwilliam shrugged. “It was implied. Something in his posture. Anyway, to answer your question, I decided to return to town after receiving your latest letter, that I might remove myself from all planning committees. I say, if you have gone to Kent and back since you wrote it, it was an extremely brief visit. I am fortunate to find you at home.”
Quickly, Darcy explained their aunt’s ludicrous actions regarding her refusal to release monies for the pruning of herorchards. “She does it apurpose, in order to force me to visit. I will not be subjected to her ham-handed manipulations. I will not reward her for such behaviour by doing exactly what she desires. I told her I wouldnothire her another steward if she loses this one, nor will I rescue her financially again.”
He had expected Fitzwilliam to express sympathy or outrage—or even recollect past humorous absurdities, as he did so well, turning his own indignation into reluctant laughter. Instead, his cousin steepled his fingers. “This brings me to my other reason for returning to town.”
Darcy raised his brows.
