CHAPTER ONE
“Perhaps the girls in the county of Hertfordshire will turn your head,” said Mr. Charles Bingley to me in my sitting room that afternoon. “Perhaps you will have some mad and alluring love affair, something that comes upon you like the onset of a spring rain, and perhaps you will end up married if you come along.”
I made a face into my tea. “If this speech is intended to convince me to come along, you could not have said something less appealing, Bingley.”
It was October.
Bingley was everywhere that autumn, simply everywhere. He appeared at all the balls I attended. He invited me to dinner constantly. He made eyes at my sister, my very young sister, and his own sister made it clear that she was having a lark of a matchmaking fantasy about the four of us that I had made the mistake of finding amusing. Miss Bingley seemed to think it could come to pass and Mr. Bingley also seemed to think it could come to pass. I knew, however, that it would remain a fantasy.
I did not know what to make of Bingley. I did not dislike him. Truly, he was one of those fellows who was rather difficult to dislike, and I could not entirely say why that was. I suppose it was because he was cheery. He was agreeable. He was also sort of excitable, I suppose, but not in a way that was unappealing. He could become excited is what I mean. He could becomeexcited about nearly anything and once he was excited, he made the activity appear… exciting. He had a way about him, and his excitement and cheer could be quite infectious. I liked being around him, because he made very mundane things seem as if there were not at all mundane but quite fascinating and enjoyable.
Even now, though I had no intention of going along with his scheme, I was feeling rather tempted, I had to admit.
“Besides, I think you must start writing poetry, Bingley,” I said. “That was quite the simile you put together there, about it coming upon me like rain.”
“Oh, posh,” he said, drinking down the rest of his own tea and setting his cup in its saucer with a clatter. “I have not nearly the patience one would need to be a poet. Why, if I should attempt so, I should simply write the beginnings of a number of poems and then never finish a one of them.”
“That’s likely true,” I said to him. “At any rate, I cannot accompany you.”
“No, no, that is not accurate, Darcy,” he said, wagging a finger at me.
“It most certainly is.” I took a measured sip of tea. “I think I know what I can and cannot do.”
“Youcanaccompany me, but you arechoosingnot to,” said Bingley.
“Yes, well, you have arrived on my doorstep not twenty minutes ago and have laid out this mad scheme that requires me to be packed and ready to go in what?” I checked my pocket watch. “Three hours? That happens to be impossible.”
“Oh, it is not.” He waved this away. “Besides, Darcy, I am ever so desirous of your opinion of my estate.”
“It is not your estate, however,” I said. “It is an estate you are renting. What is it called? Nevermore? Netherwhere?”
“Netherfield.”
“Yes, I was quite close,” I said. “You have only told me the name of it once.”
“If a person is renting out an estate, there is quite a chance he will allow me to purchase it, I think, if I should desire so.”
“How long have you even been there?”
“I know not. Perhaps several weeks. The point is, there is a ball.”
“Yes, so you have said.” I leveled a glare at him. “And when have you ever known me to enjoy going to balls where I know absolutely no one?”
“You will know me! You will know my sisters! Besides, I have just come from visiting Danvers and Michaelson, and I think it’s quite likely they will be accompanying us. I have promised many people to bring back twelve ladies and seven gentlemen, so you wouldn’t turn me into a liar, would you, Darcy?”
“How could you possibly promise such a group of people?” I said. “That’s preposterous.” I sipped at my tea. “Is Danvers really going to go with you?”
“Oh, depend upon it,” said Bingley. “It will be such a lark, Darcy, do say you’ll come along. We must have one last hurrah before winter sets in, and we shall have such fun in the country. We can go hunting, think of it!”
He had thiswayabout him, Bingley did.
“I don’t even really enjoy hunting,” I said with a shrug.
“Oh, I don’t know if I do either,” he agreed. “But if one goes in a group and everyone rides horses and there’s a lovely picnic luncheon at the end of it, that’s rather nice. We could just shoot clay pigeons, could we not?”
I found myself laughing. “We could, I suppose. How many people do you reasonably think are going to be coming along?”
“Oh, at least twenty,” he said. “We shall need ever so many carriages.”
