Page 31 of Darcy’s Guarded Heart

Darcy

Darcy House, London

“G eorgiana, I am about to call on Bingley. Would you care to join me?” Darcy asked his sister.

Georgiana glanced up from her book, a frown creasing her brow as she caught his gaze before turning back to the pages. The drawing-room of his London townhouse where she had retreated, appeared to offer her far more solace than his company.

“Shall I take this as a no?” he ventured, patiently awaiting her response. Yet, instead of words, she chose silence, facing the back of the chaise longue, thus presenting him with naught but the expanse of her back.

It had been a month of this cold treatment. Ever since he had compelled her to leave, Georgiana had not smiled upon him, choosing to speak only with restraint to Bingley’s sisters, and with noticeably more warmth to Bingley himself. Mr Darcy had become the recipient of nothing but frost.

He had anticipated her displeasure. Endeavouring to protect her from the Bennets and their influence was a decision rooted in his concern for her reputation. Affection for young Mr Bennet, he believed, threatened her very virtue.

He steeled himself, convinced he had made the right choice. In time, she would understand.

Leaving his sister to her melancholic musings, he stepped into the brisk London afternoon.

How vastly different it was to return to the city, compared to life in the countryside.

He had always preferred the tranquillity and beauty of rural retreats.

Of all the places he had travelled, none could rival the serenity he found in Pemberley and the rolling hills of Derbyshire.

The thought of returning there tugged at his heart.

How he wished to whisk Georgiana away. But alas, Bingley remained consumed by the shadows of his recent sorrow over Jane Bennet’s absence, his usual affable demeanour supplanted by gloom.

Darcy felt an obligation to support him, having played a role in altering Bingley’s once-jovial disposition.

As he strolled down the cobbled streets, unbidden memories of Elizabeth Bennet danced in his mind.

Their conversation at the stables had stirred something profound within him.

Might different circumstances have led them down another path?

If not for Georgiana’s entanglement with the Bennets, he wondered, could he have pursued a tenderness for Elizabeth beyond mere admiration?

Yet he chastised himself. Those days of possibility had slipped away. Hertfordshire seemed a faraway dream—a distant echo along with all its associated heartaches.

Arriving at Grosvenor House, he knocked and was swiftly admitted by the butler. After relinquishing his hat and jacket, he made his way to the parlour, where Bingley sat slumped beside a glass of wine, a newspaper cast aside at his feet.

“I have come to urge you to join me at the club for a light luncheon,” Darcy announced in the most buoyant tone he could muster.

Bingley looked up at him, and Darcy’s heart sank at the sight. His friend appeared drained, with weary eyes that hinted at sleepless nights and sunken cheeks.

“I’m not hungry,” he replied, “but you are welcome to partake of a drink—whiskey, sherry, even wine.” He gestured weakly towards the sideboard, where numerous bottles stood half-empty.

Concern rippled through Darcy. Bingley, usually so temperate, had taken to drink after his separation from Jane. “Are you quite well? You ought to steer clear of too much liquor, it will worsen your spirits,” he admonished gently.

“Can you lift me from this guilt?” Bingley asked forlornly. “Guilt for abandoning Jane and entrusting Caroline with my letter, which I fear conveyed none of my remorse.”

Darcy opened his mouth, closed it again, and found no words to soothe his friend’s torment. “I cannot, my friend.”

“Well then. It appears you cannot aid me at all. I have made an unfortunate mistake, one that was foolish to heed your counsel or that of my sisters. Have any of you known love?” Bingley’s voice was laced with bitterness.

This pointed critique stung. Normally, Bingley refrained from such barbs.

“Have I been wrong?” Darcy pondered for the hundredth time that month. Both Bingley and Georgiana were wretched, while Caroline and the Hursts revelled in their perceived triumph of saving Bingley from an ill-fated match. Perhaps, Darcy mused, they erred in their judgement.

“Shall I take my leave?” he offered tentatively.

“I cannot provide entertainment at this time, Darcy. Unless you wish to sit in silence and sip your drink, I suggest it is best you proceed to the club alone.”

“Actually, I had hoped to avoid lunch with my aunt today,” he confessed. “She is in town, residing at Hartley House. I would have preferred to send her a note stating I had other engagements.”

“Then you need not lie,” Bingley murmured, despondently.

Darcy’s heart ached at the realization that Bingley harboured resentment towards him. To be blamed cut deeper than self-reproach. He had not intended to inflict such pain.

“Well, I shall take my leave then.” With that, he departed, making his way to Hartley House, his aunt’s residence in London.

***

Upon arrival, he found Lady Catherine de Bourgh seated at the dinner table, an eager smile dancing on her lips.

“Fitzwilliam! How delightful to see you! Do sit. How are you?”

“Well enough, thank you,” he replied quietly.

“And your sister?”

Lady Catherine’s enquiry about Georgiana prompted a flicker of concern. He feared she would broach the delicate subject of Georgiana’s unfortunate friendship with the Bennet sisters or that boy, but thus far she remained silent.

“Georgiana is, as well as can be expected. I daresay a return to Pemberley will restore her spirits.”

“Excellent! I must invite you to Rosings Park first. My vicar is to be wed, and I believe you know the bride.”

Darcy’s heart clenched. Who could it be? His thoughts immediately turned to Elizabeth. He had observed the way Collins favoured her company, both at the ball and in conversations around town. Jane had shared whispers of the odious little man’s attentiveness to Elizabeth with Bingley.

This troubled him greatly, and he silently prayed the bride was not Elizabeth.

“A young lady named Charlotte Lucas,” his aunt pronounced. “She’s the daughter of a knight.”

“Oh,” Darcy exhaled, relief pouring over him. “I am familiar with Miss Lucas—a commendable young woman.”

“Indeed, though perhaps not quite so young. She is seven-and-twenty, considered somewhat past the marrying age. I did caution Mr Collins to ensure she is fit for motherhood.”

Darcy frowned. “How is he to gauge that?”

“He can enquire as to her mother’s age when she bore each of her children; it serves as an indicator. You ought to understand such matters, Fitzwilliam.”

Darcy nodded without further comment, placing his napkin on his lap.

“And how fares your unfortunate friend, Mr Bingley?”

“He remains as he was,” he replied thoughtfully.

He had not confided in his aunt regarding Georgiana’s involvement with the Bennets, nor had he shared the deeper reasons for Bingley’s disquiet.

To Lady Catherine, he credited their parting as a righteous measure.

She had lauded him as a hero for rescuing Bingley from a dreadful match.

“He is quite miserable. I am beginning to doubt the wisdom of my actions.”

“My dear nephew, what trouble could possibly arise from separating from a family of such lower station?” she asked, exuding confidence in her opinions. “If anything, Bingley is beneath the Bennets. He is not yet a true gentleman, lacking an estate.”

“But he shall, in due course,” Darcy interjected. “Do not let his present woes stain your conscience, you did the right thing. He shall soon express his gratitude.”

Darcy had little faith in this forecast but his aunt offered no time for reflection.

“We must always safeguard our status, Fitzwilliam. One cannot lower themselves by marrying beneath their station; we must always marry upwards or at least on par.”

“But what if such decisions lead to unhappiness?”

“Happiness blossoms from respect and financial stability, not from the fleeting allure of a handsome visage or a clever retort. You ought to have grasped this by now.”

While he conceded that physical beauty may fade, he maintained that a partner’s intellect was of considerable importance.

His aunt snorted. “I hardly presume Bingley seeks much intellectual challenge. He strikes me as one unconcerned with matters of profundity.”

Darcy pursed his lips, acutely aware that, while Lady Catherine might favour Bingley, she also harboured a certain disdain for him. She misinterpreted Bingley’s warm disposition as folly, a perspective Darcy found inequitable.

“Mr Bingley is my closest friend, Aunt Catherine. I wish you would refrain from such disparagement.”

“Disparage? I recall the night he almost allowed himself to be ensnared in that wretched match. You performed valiantly, Fitzwilliam, and I will assert it a thousand times over. You must learn not to emulate your father,” she cautioned.

“He mistakenly elevated that detestable Wickham to your equal standing, and we all know how that concluded.”

With that, she resumed her meal, forcing Darcy back into the depths of his thoughts.

He should have drawn strength from her words, yet they only deepened his uncertainty.

Throughout his life, he had often found himself at odds with Lady Catherine’s perspective, particularly concerning the nature of love.

Had he truly erred in separating Bingley from Jane Bennet?

And what of Thomas? Lady Catherine’s remarks regarding social status, the importance of remaining within one’s sphere, made him uneasy.

He was haunted by the scrutiny with which she viewed Bingley, who had yet to rise in society, despite being one of the finest friends he had ever known.

He reflected on Lady Catherine’s final sentiments, remembering his father’s failure to see beyond social standing when he took George Wickham into their home and treated him as a son.

Those memories bore a weight of anguish, for Darcy had never felt more cast aside than when his father embraced Wickham so warmly.

Had he allowed those harrowing experiences to darken his perception of the Bennets and their ilk?

How often he allowed the spectres of his past to taint his judgements. Yet now, only upon witnessing the consequences of his actions did he fully comprehend what he must do.