Chapter I
It is a truth less universally acknowledged, yet held with no less conviction, that the happiness of others is best secured by those who believe themselves capable of managing it. Such persons seldom doubt their own judgment, nor do they pause long to consider whether their assistance is desired; for where affection and propriety are concerned, confidence frequently passes itself off as wisdom, and interference mistaken for concern.
Such thoughts were the furthest from Darcy’s mind. He could not even claim reflection on his behavior, wisdom, or any other such concept. No, dissatisfaction was on his mind.
The calendar had just turned to December, and he was still in London instead of his estate in Derbyshire. It was all because of his recent residence at Netherfield Park, when he would usually be ensconced in his estate for the winter by this time.
There were several reasons that rendered retreat to Pemberley desirable. Distance from Bingley and his long face, the lure of comfortable surroundings, distance from certain of his acquaintances he did not wish to endure. These were all high on Darcy’s list. Yet he remained in London for some reason beyond his understanding.
The previous months in Hertfordshire had not been at all comfortable for a reticent man—not only had his position in society and wealth made him the target of more attention than he wished, but a young woman of the neighborhood had proven far too tempting for comfort. That was as much a reason for his decampment as any distaste for the neighborhood.
Darcy did not wish to considerher, so he turned his thoughts to Bingley. It was Darcy’s firm opinion that Bingley might have done something irreversible had he stayed in Hertfordshire. Justas Darcy was tempted by the younger sister, so did Bingley find the elder agreeable. It had taken some persuasion, but he had managed it.
That, of course, led to thoughts of Bingley’s sister. Miss Caroline Bingley was... insufferable at the best of times. Darcy had never been unaware of her ambitions as they pertained to him, but he had ignored it for Bingley’s sake. Since they departed Hertfordshire and persuaded Bingley against returning, Miss Bingley’s behavior had told Darcy she was not only satisfied with their success but considered his retreat from Miss Elizabeth the true victory.
Darcy wished he had never told her of his appreciation for Miss Elizabeth’s fine eyes. Now that he was not before her, away from the temptation, Miss Bingley seemed to believe his surrender was inevitable. Darcy longed to tell her that he would rather marry his horse—if she became many degrees worse, he might do just that.
A knock pulled Darcy from his thoughts. When he called permission to enter, Gates, his butler, opened the door, seeming uncertain.
“Mr. Darcy,” said he, “Miss Bingley has presented herself at the door, insisting on her need to speak to you.”
Speak of the devil—for a moment, Darcy entertained the amusing notion that the mere thought of her had summoned her to his door.
“Did she say what it concerned?”
“No, sir.”
Darcy sighed—he did not want to deal with Miss Bingley, but he would not send her away either. Someone might see it; if society learned that he had denied Miss Bingley entry, it might spawn gossip of a rift between him and his friend.
“Very well. You may show her in, but ensure a footman is posted outside the door and do not close it.”
Gates appeared faintly offended by the instruction—as a senior employee of many years, he knew what to do. “Of course, Mr. Darcy,” was all he said.
In the interim, while he waited for Miss Bingley to appear, Darcy sat, hands steepled on his desk, wondering what stratagem had brought her to his house. If he knew Miss Bingley—and he did all too well—the woman was here to promote herself, though she had never been so blatant as to speak to him alone.
The moment she entered the room, Darcy’s suspicions fell away—or she was a far more accomplished actress than he had ever thought. She presented the very picture of distress, bordering on sheer panic. Gates escorted her in as requested, then left the door half open for propriety’s sake; Darcy caught a glimpse of the footman’s form just outside.
“Mr. Darcy!” cried Miss Bingley with only the barest attempt at a curtsey. “You must act now, for Charles will ruin us all!”
For several moments, Darcy did not know how to answer—one did not enter a room in such a state and blurt a plea without giving context. Darcy had not the faintest idea of what Bingley might be doing that would prove the ruin of all his family.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Bingley,” said Darcy when she appeared on the verge of another outburst, “for I have not the pleasure of understanding you. What is the matter with your brother?”
“Oh! It is Netherfield! How I wish we had never gone to that place!”
Though she was still incoherent, Darcy now thought he understood something of her distress. “Netherfield? Are you telling me that Bingley has returned to Hertfordshire?”
“Yes!” The woman’s cry was nearly a screech. “He would not listen to anything I said. I am certain he plans to return to thatlittle speck and propose to Miss Bennet. A connection to that odious family will ruin us all forever!”
“I thought your brother was firmly fixed in London,” said Darcy, not understanding the sudden change.
“Oh...!” The woman struggled for words. “Charles left late yesterday, vowing to return to his leased estate.”
“Miss Bingley,” said Darcy, knowing she was in a state, “please sit so we may talk rationally.”
The woman appeared ill at ease, strange considering how often she had been a tower of confidence, warranted or not. Though she little appreciated it, she sat at his direction, looking at him through pleading eyes, an overt demand in her gaze. Darcy sat back and regarded her.
“Now, tell me what has happened to change your brother’s mind. The last I heard, Bingley was resigned, though perhaps not precisely happy. How did this happen?”
