Darcy said nothing, but only nodded in silence. Something in his friend’s tone had shifted; he knew Bingley too well to mistake it. When he felt deeply, there was a sincerity that no lightness of manner could entirely conceal beneath all his natural ease. He waited.
“I had not thought it would be so difficult to forget Hertfordshire,” Bingley admitted at last, taking another slow sip of brandy.
Darcy watched his friend with a degree of attention that might have surprised anyone less accustomed to Bingley’s easy manner. But he hadknown his friend for many years, and Bingley had never possessed much talent for concealment. “You find London tiresome,” he said at last, turning the glass lightly between his fingers.
“I find London perfectly tolerable,” Bingley replied, though his expression suggested otherwise. “It is the manner in which I am made to experience it that grows fatiguing. Caroline has determined that the Season shall be spent in the most fashionable houses imaginable, and Louisa appears to consider it her duty to ensure that I do not escape any opportunity of forming new acquaintances.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly. “Acquaintances of a particular description, I suppose — single, well-dowered, and well-connected.”
Bingley laughed and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “You understand me perfectly. Every evening produces another introduction, and every introduction leads to a lady whose fortune and connections are discussed with a degree of precision that might satisfy a solicitor. I have become very well informed on the advantages of several families whose daughters I could scarcely recognise again tomorrow.”
“You do not appear greatly tempted by these advantages,” Darcy replied.
“Tempted?” Bingley repeated with a mixture of amusement and resignation. “My dear Darcy, iftemptation consists of being seated beside a lady whose mother watches one’s conversation as if it were a negotiation for land, then I assure you I have been tempted more than enough.”
Darcy snorted a laugh at that. “I am familiar with the sensation, yes.”
“They mean well,” Bingley continued, though without much conviction. “Caroline in particular is persuaded that I ought to marry advantageously. She speaks of alliances, connections, and expectations with a seriousness that would persuade anyone that happiness must certainly be found somewhere within them.”
Darcy said nothing immediately. He knew Caroline Bingley’s ambitions too well to mistake their direction. “And have you discovered it there?” he asked after a moment.
Bingley shook his head slowly. “I confess I have not.” He sat back again and looked into the fire with a thoughtful expression that was in marked contrast to his usual brightness. “I sometimes think,” he said after a pause, “that I enjoyed myself more in Hertfordshire than in any other place I have visited.”
Darcy did not react, though the remark confirmed something he had suspected from the beginning of the conversation. “Hertfordshire,” he repeated evenly, “was certainly quieter than London.And the neighbourhood was sometimes a little confined and unvarying.”
“Yes,” Bingley said, with a faint smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “It was that. And you know I am fond of society. Yet it possessed some advantages which London has not yet managed to reproduce.”
Darcy took a measured sip of brandy.
“I suppose,” Bingley continued, “that I expected the recollection of it to fade once I had returned to town. One forgets many things when they are removed from sight. I have forgotten several acquaintances before in exactly that manner.”
Darcy knew the truth of that statement. Bingley’s attachments had often been lively while they lasted and easily surrendered afterward. It was one of the qualities that made him agreeable company and, at times, an object of gentle concern among his friends.
“But this time,” Bingley said quietly, “the experiment does not seem to succeed.”
Darcy looked at him sharply. “You are thinking of Miss Jane Bennet.”
Bingley met the observation without embarrassment, though there was a gravity in his manner that Darcy had rarely seen in him. “I am,” he admitted.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Darcy had once believed, with complete confidence, that the distance between Netherfield and London would accomplish exactly what Bingley himself had expected. Removed from daily acquaintance, Miss Bennet’s gentle manners and quiet beauty would fade into memory, leaving little more than the agreeable recollection of a pleasant country acquaintance.
Yet the tone in which Bingley spoke now suggested something very different.
“You have thought of her, then, since leaving Hertfordshire?” Darcy asked.
“Every day,” Bingley said quietly.
Darcy nodded. “And you have heard nothing from the neighbourhood?”
“Very little.” Bingley turned his glass slowly in his hand before continuing. “Caroline received one note from Miss Bennet, but apparently she wrote nothing of much consequence. I cannot persuade myself that such silence improves matters. Indeed, it seems only to make them more difficult to forget.”
Darcy studied him in silence. He had not doubted Bingley’s admiration for Miss Bennet while they remained at Netherfield. What he had doubted was its durability. Bingley’s disposition, though warm, had seldom fixed itself permanently on any object.
Now, however, he began to wonder whether he had judged his friend too hastily.
“There is nothing extraordinary,” Bingley said with an attempt at lightness, “in remembering a lady who possesses every quality calculated to recommend her.”
