Page 3 of A Good Memory is Unpardonable (Frolic and Romance #2)

Two

T he second time I saw her, she was wearing black.

Consumption is considered fashionable if the sufferer be a lady.

It renders the complexion rosy and the constitution famously retiring—in short, all the things fools find “desirable” in a woman.

Poor Andrew, however, only looked sunburnt and feverish those last months of his life. Or, so I was told.

I was regrettably away for some while—an Incident involving some rather delicate matters, which I would rather not detail here. Regardless, it meant that when I finally rejoined society, it was just in time to attend my friend’s funeral.

I called on his widow later that same day, thinking to offer my condolences and then depart for Derbyshire to indulge in my own private mourning. I expected to find a shaken young woman, daintily dabbing her eyes behind a black veil. What I found was... unconventional.

The sounds of wailing greeted me at the door.

I thought surely the bereaved widow was in the arms of her family, lamenting about what would become of her and the great loss she had endured.

I felt that I ought to leave her in peace, but before I could reclaim my hat from the butler, a harried young Charles Bingley rushed out of the parlor.

“Darcy! Thank God it is you. You must come and make the woman see reason.”

I sent a cautious glance over his shoulder as the feminine angst, pouring from the room, escalated to a keening howl.

“I do not feel it my proper place. I have little experience comforting the grieving and no acquaintance at all with Mrs. Bingley.”

“Not Elizabeth,” he said with an exasperated wave of his hand.

“It is Louisa! She is bound and determined to marry some indolent fool from Sussex. Andrew forbade it while he was alive, and Elizabeth is trying to discourage her now but to little effect. Louisa thinks crying will win the day, but Elizabeth is having none of it. Come, man, inject some sense into the conversation!”

I started to back away. “Surely, her family must understand best how to counsel her.”

I little knew Charles Bingley, but my impression, and Andrew’s own assessment of his brother, led me to think him a flighty young fellow.

On this day, however, it seemed that the mantle of seriousness had settled over him at last. Becoming head of the family at age two and twenty has that effect on a man, I suppose.

Whatever it was—perhaps a new iron fixed in his eye that impressed me—I eventually permitted myself to be persuaded. He did not quite take me by the hand, but it was a close thing. The moment I stepped into the parlor, I regretted letting him work upon me.

Elizabeth Bingley was not possessed of fashionable beauty, but she was a striking creature, nonetheless. Or perhaps it was only her manner that was striking, as she stood behind a piece of furniture—a trick I had long ago perfected—and laid down her edict to a woman five years her senior.

“Louisa Bingley, it is beyond comprehension how you could consider that man. He is an utter boor and destitute besides, I shouldn’t wonder. I absolutely forbid you to accept him.”

Louisa, never a sweet woman, positively sneered at her sister in law. “Randolph Hurst is a fine man who moves in society, which is more than I can say for your parentage. An uncle in Cheapside, indeed!”

Mrs. Bingley arched a brow, noteworthy to me because I had never seen a lady so masterfully employ a look of perfect disdain.

“If you choose to ignore the fact that your dowry came from the cotton mills, feel free. I, however, cannot, because your father and brother have left you more than comfortable. There is no need for you to sell yourself so cheaply on the marriage mart.”

“You are a fine one to talk of ‘cheap,’ Eliza,” Caroline Bingley snorted. “Do you not still wear that same ragged pelisse from when you were but a village eccentric in Hertfordshire?”

Mrs. Bingley puckered her rather remarkable lips and shook her head.

“Believe as you choose. I shall not trouble myself to stop you, but I stand by my assertion. The man is not worthy.” She had ignored my entrance until this moment, but Charles was nearly bounding and whimpering with urgency to speak, so she finally settled her gaze on us.

On me, rather.

It took me months to confess that the queasiness that suddenly gripped my stomach was not the twisted effects of grief, nor an undercooked sausage at breakfast. It was something about her.

Something that hummed and buzzed in my being when I finally looked her in the eye, and at the time, I had no definition for it.

Now I have, but I shall explore that later in my narrative.

“Elizabeth, you remember Darcy, of course?” Charles asked.

Her eyes, dark and expressive of something I could not describe, flashed over me again, and I made her a neat bow.

“Oh, yes,” she replied dismissively. “I believe you were at the wedding.”

I thinned my lips in some combination of a smile and somber sympathy. “My condolences on your loss, madam.”

“Yes, yes, thank you. You are very good, sir, and now I relieve you of your duty to comfort the widow. As you can see, I am quite diverted by other matters.”

I straightened, a bit offended and certainly nonplussed. “I had thought to find you in an entirely different state, madam. Forgive me for intruding. I shall take my leave.”

“Oh, pray do not permit your feathers to be ruffled. As you are here, you may as well make yourself useful. What is your opinion, sir, on an unequal marriage?”

On this, I had rather firm opinions, and I expressed them as eloquently as an educated and sensible man possibly could. Mrs. Bingley appeared to bristle, but I thought myself exceedingly well-spoken until Miss Bingley herself protested my lack of understanding.

“But we are not unequal, Mr. Darcy! He is a gentleman, and I am a gentleman’s daughter.

My father’s fortune may have come from cotton, but he lived as a cultured man of good breeding and educated his sons accordingly.

Why, Lord Meriwether himself considered my father a friend, and Mr. Hurst is a man of fine connections and good family. ”

I glanced at Charles. “Is the man as she says?”

He shrugged reluctantly and shot a helpless look to his sister in law. “True, indeed. He is quite fashionable, with a respectable estate, but he drinks to excess and is known to keep one or two ... bad habits. He is not a pleasant man.”

“I should say that the matter of his pleasantness or unpleasantness ought to be for Miss Bingley to decide. She is of proper age to determine her own future, is she not?”

Young Bingley looked squeamish, but he confessed that yes, his sister was five and twenty. At that age, and with the lady’s… ahem… lack of other prospects, he had to have known how this would come out.

“If the man is willing to provide for and respect her,” I continued, “and if Miss Bingley believes her happiness will be better served as mistress of her own home, I would advise her to marry.”

Miss Caroline was swift to second my approval, and Miss Bingley shot her younger sister in law a smug look of triumph.

Elizabeth Bingley’s eyes were astonishing things.

If a man could suffer blistering burns from a mere look, I should have spent months in bandages, for she fixed me with such displeasure and contempt that I felt my skin heating.

Perhaps it was only a blush, the sort I had not endured since boyhood, but I was entirely uneasy in her presence.

I had come to condole, but instead, I had made an enemy.

Bingley pressed me to stay for tea, claiming my company was a soothing balm for the grieving family, but the very air in the room belied that statement. I declined his invitation, on some lame excuse or other, and offered my sympathies once more.

Elizabeth Bingley said not another word to me, but mercifully, she left off glaring at me. I took my hat and beat a hasty retreat. I did not look forward to keeping up the acquaintance.