This in itself would have been bearable, but the fact that I then became little more than a prize bull at a market of heifers was intolerable. Women regularly sidled up to me, bumped me accidentally, dropped things in my way, invited me to call on them, or to routs, or to musical performances, and even, with unnerving frequency, to some secluded alcove where, presumably, my baser nature would overwhelm my good sense. Even marriedwomen apparently lusted after me, a circumstance that mortified me and my cousin Richard found hilarious. My reserve only deepened, as has my general resentment at being little more than a commodity, and worse, thought so stupid I would fall prey to such schemes.
This thought brought me directly to Bingley’s sister Caroline. Miss Bingley was the worst of the worst, believing that since I was her brother’s friend, I was also necessarily destined to be her husband.
“Carsten,” I said, my eyes flying open. “When I am fit to be seen, discretely find Bingley and ask him to come to me.”
My valet knew what was required. He had become an ally in the war to protect me from manipulation of all kinds.
Half an hour later, sleepy, warm, and wrinkled as a dried apricot, I met Bingley in my dressing gown.
“Darcy!” he cried. “We have been in the parlour waiting for you to come the entire afternoon!”
“Forgive me. I had to stop to help a lady. She fell into the river, and I fished her out, but I was too filthy and chilled to arrive at your front door.”
“Rescued! Gracious, Darcy. What was she doing in the river and at this time of year?”
“Never mind that. The point is I do not want it touted about. Do you suppose it is possible that I can justgo down for dinner and make your sisters believe they missed my arrival?”
Miss Bingley gaspedas I came into the salon just as the dinner gong sounded. I bowed to her in acknowledgement.
“Mr Darcy! But—” she spluttered, almost at the volume of a screech. “I—we have been waiting all afternoon to greet you properly! How did I miss your arrival?”
I temporarily ignored her to greet her sister, Mrs Hurst, and her husband. I then returned my attention to the horrified countenance of my hostess, and said as meekly as I could, “I do not rightly know, madam.”
As the hours of the evening progressed, this mild deception began to strike me as something of a tremendous prank. Miss Bingley must have been glued to her chair, determined to receive me. How I entered the house without her knowing confounded her to a vexatious degree. She could not cease to remark upon it.
I began to suspect that she was no particular favourite of the servants of the house. From the butler to the lowliest maid, I detected a closed rank. No one was the least bit sympathetic to Miss Bingley’s quandary. When questioned as to when I arrived, as they invariably were, they collectively feigned confusion,ignorance, or to have been elsewhere at the precise moment in question.
She had requested the butler to look over the wine for dinner, she had sent her footmen out to the stables to assure the grooms’ readiness to receive visitors, and she had sent Mrs Nicholls upstairs to look over the rooms. All manner of excuses were serenely provided as to why no one could tell her the particulars of my arrival, and her distress seemed to entertain them almost as much as it did me.
Even Bingley, who is not the sharpest blade in the armoury, blandly looked upon his sister’s bewilderment and said, “Pish, Caroline. Give over. The man is here, as you see.”
