Page 12

“Bingley,”

said Richard.

“where are the Hursts? Why did they not accompany you to Netherfield?”

Bingley, already settled in his usual chair, turned toward him with an air of mild perplexity.

“Hurst chose to remain in town,”

he replied, with studied indifference.

“I must confess myself surprised,”

said Richard.

“The Hurst I know would not readily forego the sport to be had in the country.”

Bingley hesitated, then gave a brief, deliberate shrug—one that bespoke quiet resolve—and leaned forward.

“To tell the truth,”

said he.

“Caroline was quite determined I should not return to Netherfield—still less to Miss Bennet. Louisa sided with her. Hurst said nothing for some time, but then rose, fixed his gaze upon me, and, with a force wholly uncharacteristic, declared that it was high time I should learn to conduct myself as a man.”

and Richard exchanged a glance of undisguised astonishment. That Hurst should exert himself in such a manner was wholly unexpected.

“He told me,”

Bingley continued.

“that the decision rested solely with me—that I was not to heed a word of my sisters’ counsel. I do not believe I have ever seen him so angry. Louisa, rather unadvisedly, attempted to contradict him, but he cut her short and insisted she gather her belongings at once. They removed to their house in town that very evening. As he departed, he informed me—in no uncertain terms—that Caroline was no longer welcome beneath his roof, and that I might do with her as I thought best.”

“Remarkable,”

murmured Richard, his expression alight.

“And then?”

“I spoke to Caroline,”

Bingley replied with composure.

“I made it clear she had but two courses open to her. I could not permit her to remain at my house in town without proper chaperonage, for I was resolved to return here and renew my attentions to Miss Bennet. She might accompany me—provided she offered her full and unreserved support in that regard; otherwise, I would see her suitably established in a separate residence.”

He turned to the Countess with a faint smile.

“Though I daresay, my Lady, your presence on the journey greatly eased her decision.”

leaned forward slightly. “Bingley,”

said he.

“may I ask—what are your intentions towards Miss Bennet?”

Bingley turned to him, a look of surprise passing over his face.

“I had rather expected Mr. Bennet to put that question to me, not you.”

At this, Richard gave a short, unabashed laugh.

“Well said, Bingley. A fair hit! Yet humour us, if you please. Suppose, for argument’s sake, that may one day possess a certain… right to ask it.”

There was a brief pause. Bingley’s gaze narrowed ever so slightly, and for a moment—just a moment— fancied he glimpsed the shadow of a smile before it vanished.

“To speak plainly,”

said he at length.

“I wish to make her my wife. Should she be willing to accept me, I mean to make an offer without delay.”

Turning more fully to , he added.

“, I know you have ever acted with my best interest at heart—and I am grateful—but on this point, I am resolved. I should have returned to her regardless of Hurst’s outburst. Indeed, I might have wished to avoid discord among my relations, yet I would have come back all the same.”

turned briefly to Richard, who inclined his head in silent assent, before presenting the letter to Bingley.

“Read it,”

said Richard.

“Then give us your opinion.”

Bingley accepted the letter with a look of confusion. He unfolded it slowly, and as he read, his countenance changed. His brow furrowed; his mouth grew stern. By the time he reached the end, his indignation was unmistakable. With an affected calm, he laid the letter upon the table and rose.

“Gentlemen,”

he began, then turned to the Countess with a respectful bow.

“My Lady, you must excuse me—I must speak with my sister at once.”

“No, Bingley,”

said Richard.

“Though you are, of course, at liberty to address your sister in private, I must remind you that my cousin’s name has been mentioned in that letter with little consideration of the consequences. Whether you choose to speak with her alone is your decision—but speak with her we shall, with or without your presence.”

He paused to let his words take effect.

“If you are truly intent upon a resolution—one serving both your interests and ours—you would do well to permit us to remain.”

Bingley opened his mouth, faltered, then began again. “But—but—”

“Mr. Bingley,”

said Lady Matlock, who, until that moment, had observed the exchange in silence.

“it may interest you to know that William is calling upon Miss Elizabeth Bennet. I advise you not to speak of it to Mrs. Bennet—not yet. Should matters proceed as we hope, you and your sister may soon have every prospect of a nearer connection with our family.”

She fixed him with a steady look—neither unkind nor yielding.

“Permit me to be perfectly plain: we cannot receive into our family one who has conducted herself as your sister has. If she is to be admitted amongst us, she must be brought to a proper understanding. We shall assist her, most certainly—but she must make herself worthy of the connection.”

Bingley looked from one to the other and, after a moment’s pause, gave a brief nod.

“Very well,”

said he, with quiet resignation.

“I shall have her sent in.”

And so, shortly thereafter, Miss Bingley entered the study with evident reluctance. Whatever her faults—be they her unrelenting efforts to assume a character not her own, or her inability to perceive truths plain to others—her intelligence was never in doubt. The moment she beheld the assembled company, her brother’s anger so openly displayed, and a letter upon the table whose hand she clearly recognised, she understood everything.

“Charles,”

she said, in a voice scarcely audible.

“you wished to see me?”

“Yes, Caroline,”

said Bingley, affording her no protection.

“You may begin by explaining this letter—and your mention of Miss within it. No, not to me, but to them.”

Miss Bingley cast a wary glance toward the two gentlemen seated before her—, the object of her cherished expectations, and Richard, to whom she might have shown some interest, had her ambitions not been so resolutely fixed elsewhere. Yet neither gentleman now received her with kindness; their expressions betrayed unmistakable displeasure—perhaps disappointment, even contempt.

Her eyes then sought the highest-ranking lady present, the Countess of Matlock—the sole lady of true consequence whose approval might yet determine her acceptance into, or exclusion from, the circles of high society. In that countenance alone, cool though it remained, Caroline perceived the faintest trace of understanding—if not forgiveness, then at least a tacit permission to speak in her own defence.

She turned to the Countess with as much composure as desperation would allow.

“My Lady,”

she began, her voice low.

“I feared my brother had formed an imprudent attachment to Miss Bennet—that he was ensnared by Mrs. Bennet’s designs. I wished only to caution Miss Bennet against encouraging her hopes. I see now—I see all too clearly—that the mention of dear Georgiana in that letter was a lamentable indiscretion, for which I deeply regret. I can offer nothing but my sincerest apologies.”

There was a pause. When the Countess spoke, her tone was firm.

“Miss Bingley,”

said she.

“did my niece ever grant you leave to address her with such familiarity?”

Miss Bingley cast down her eyes.

“No, My Lady.”

“Then she is Miss to you,”

the Countess replied, cool and precise.

“Yes, My Lady,”

murmured Miss Bingley.

“You were educated at one of the finest seminaries in the country,”

Lady Matlock continued.

“Surely you cannot be ignorant of the delicacy of a young lady’s reputation—or how easily it may be stained beyond repair. Can you conceive the mischief had that letter fallen into less principled hands?”

Miss Bingley’s cheeks paled; she could only nod in silence.

“I trust you comprehend the extent of my influence within society. One word from me, and every drawing room in London would be closed to you. No invitation would be sent to your direction, nor would any respectable lady so much as acknowledge you in passing.”

Miss Bingley’s eyes widened in horror, and saw tears welling.

“I beg you, my lady,”

she whispered, voice scarcely steady.

“grant me but one more chance.”

“Why should you be granted one?”

asked Richard.

“What have you done to earn it? You have shown yourself capable of coldness and calculation. You penned a letter that might have done lasting harm to an innocent young lady’s reputation. You sought to detain your brother in London, fully aware where his heart lay. And all for what? Your own social advancement?”

Miss Bingley remained silent. The quiet was condemnation enough.

“I have seen Charles in love before,”

she said at length.

“It never lasted—no more than a month at best. I thought—foolishly—that this would be the same.”

spoke then, surprising even himself.

“Miss Bingley, can you truly claim your brother’s regard for Miss Bennet was like those fleeting infatuations of the past? Tell me honestly—did you not see only what you wished to see?”

There was another pause. Even Bingley looked up then, his expression surprised.

“I ask,”

continued, his tone gentler.

“because I too was guilty of seeing only what suited me, of believing what was convenient. It was only later I understood I had been selfish.”

From the corner of his eye, he caught his aunt’s faint, approving smile.

Silence lengthened, as though none dared speak. At last, Miss Bingley lowered her gaze and murmured.

“You may be correct, Mr. .”

“Well then,”

said the Countess, taking the matter firmly in hand.

“your brother told me you were given two choices in London. I shall now give you two of my own.”

Her voice, though calm, bore the unmistakable weight of consequence.

“The first is a choice of kindness. Should you accept it, I shall extend my patronage, guide you in the proper ways of society, and, if it be truly your ambition, assist your entry into the world you so desire. My acknowledgment shall carry weight—sufficient to grant you the consequence you seek. The second choice, however, is no true choice at all. I shall pen the very letter I mentioned earlier, and with it ensure no drawing room in London will open its doors to you again. Your name shall become a cautionary tale, and we, as a family, shall at least be spared further trouble from your direction. No one heeds the voice of a social outcast.”

Miss Bingley stared in astonishment. The first offer promised all she had ever desired—status, approval, consequence. Yet surely it could not come so freely, without some cost.

As though divining her thoughts, the Countess continued.

“As you have no doubt surmised, the first offer carries conditions. At the earliest opportunity, you shall deliver a sincere apology to Miss Bennet. What you did was not merely unkind, but cruel. Perhaps, one day, you may understand it—should you be fortunate enough to fall in love yourself.”

Lady Matlock fixed her gaze upon Miss Bingley until the latter yielded.

“I shall apologize to her at the earliest opportunity, my Lady.”

“Very well,”

Lady Matlock continued.

“Secondly—from this moment forth, you shall cease all pursuit of either my nephew or my son. That course has ever been hopeless. Had either gentleman entertained the least inclination toward you, they would have declared themselves years ago.”

This time, Miss Bingley nodded with little hesitation, fully aware that she stood no chance with either or Richard after this.

“Third, and most importantly—you will no longer preside as mistress of this house. For the duration of my stay, that responsibility rests with me. You shall watch and learn how a lady of true breeding conducts herself, both among equals and those beneath her station. If you are wise, you will observe closely and take note of what is required.”

Lady Matlock paused, then fixing Miss Bingley with a piercing look, asked.

“Now, Miss Bingley—what is your choice?”

In truth, it was no choice at all, and all present knew it—none more than Miss Bingley herself.

“I shall accept the first, my Lady,”

she said, voice low and strained.

The Countess inclined her head slightly.

“Very well. You shall observe and learn. Let this serve as a reminder: until now, you have not understood what it means to be a gentlewoman. You lacked the substance to take your place in society. You sought only access by association. That path bears no fruit. You must rise by merit—by character, conduct, and the strength of your own self.”

“I shall make every effort, my Lady,”

murmured Miss Bingley, subdued.

The Countess turned to Bingley.

“Mr. Bingley, if you have anything further to say to your sister, this would be the time. We shall afford you privacy, should you desire it.”

Bingley merely shook his head.

“No, my Lady. I have nothing further to add. My sister is already well aware of my intentions towards Miss Bennet; and as for this,”

he gestured to the letter upon the table, his expression firm.

“I could not have addressed it more clearly or more justly than you have. I can only seek your forgiveness, as the head of my family, for Caroline’s lapse in judgment. And I must also thank you, my Lady, for the unexpected kindness you have shown her, in spite of it.”

He then turned to face and Richard.

“, Richard,”

said he, earnestly.

“I never—not for a moment—regarded Miss in the manner implied in that letter. I trust you will believe it.”

“We do, Bingley,”

replied, meeting his gaze with quiet assurance. Richard gave a brief, resolute nod.

“I also assured Miss Bennet of the same,”

added.

“It was necessary to dispel Miss Bingley’s insinuations about Georgiana before they spread further.”

“I am glad to hear it,”

said Bingley with evident relief.

For a moment, none spoke. At length, Lady Matlock rose.

“Well,”

she said.

“let us see what Miss Bingley has arranged for dinner.”

She turned with an arched brow to Miss Bingley.

“Shall we?”

Miss Bingley curtsied and followed the Countess from the room. No sooner had they gone than Bingley crossed to a cabinet and drew forth three crystal glasses and a bottle of fine port.

“None of us indulge before dinner,”

he said, uncorking the bottle with practiced ease.

“but after such an ordeal, I daresay we have earned a restorative. What say you?”

“I shall join you, Bingley,”

said Richard, leaning back with a look of weary amusement.

“I always require one after enduring a sitting with both my mother and my commanding officer—worse yet when they are one and the same.”

“Pour one for me as well,”

said , rising. Then, taking the letter from the desk, he moved to the hearth.

“I gave Miss Bennet my word that it would be burned,”

he said quietly, dropping the letter into the flames.