Page 25 of Five Gentlemen at Netherfield (Pride and Prejudice Variations)

Darcy’s Bedchamber

Netherfield

Midnight

No bed could be warmer or more comfortable than his own at Pemberley, but the one in his guest chamber at Netherfield was excellent, and Darcy welcomed it with a sigh of pleasure as he pulled the sheets and blankets up against the chill.

He appreciated his bed most after a long hard day of riding, but the comfort was also extremely welcome after tedious or dull days, such as this one.

It had not been a diverting day, but it had been a productive one.

Darcy had spent his morning at a desk in the library, writing out a list of the current tenants of Pemberley, with particular consideration of the two families with aging fathers and no sons to take over the farms.

After luncheon, he had ventured out of doors, hoping the weather might have taken a pleasant turn from that morning, and was blown half off his feet for his trouble.

Deciding that these were not, in fact, optimal riding conditions, he had prudently retreated inside and hunted up Bingley, intent on furthering the younger man’s education regarding the running of an estate.

The following interlude had gone only reasonably well.

Bingley expressed no reluctance, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere, continuously wandering and having to be recalled with some difficulty by Darcy.

It was not difficult to guess that Bingley’s mind was intent on the plight of Miss Bennet and her family. He fancied himself in love with the lady, and consequently her troubles lay heavily on his soul.

Darcy frowned up at his ceiling. For his own part, he had met with reasonable success that day in putting the Bennets’ unfortunate situation out of his own head.

It was nothing directly to do with him, and it would be odd and even burdensome for him to extend anything more than unobtrusive courtesy to the struggling family.

It did no one any good for him to brood on their plight, so he had not for most of the day.

But now, in spite of himself, he found his mind drifting to Miss Elizabeth and how she must be suffering.

It was not his business, he told himself firmly. He had no responsibility to the family, as he was neither a relative nor a close friend. It was natural and right that he should feel sympathy for them, but any more than that was unnecessary and even absurd.

All of this cold logic did not stop his heart from twisting as he thought of those beautiful merry brown eyes with their spark extinguished, sorrow eclipsing the usual joy that danced there.

It was not a vision Darcy relished, and he thought uneasily that he was not sure he could bear seeing it in person.

Not that all hope was yet lost! Mr. Bennet, by all reports, still lived.

But apoplexies were nasty things, and the verdict was rarely good.

When – if – he passed, his wife and daughters would have to leave their home, as the new heir took over.

Not that they would be consigned to the hedgerows, for the girls could live on their dowries, and Miss Mary was certainly wealthy enough in her own right that she could assist her mother and sisters as needed.

Still, to lose their home … Darcy took a minute to imagine what it would be like to have to pack up and leave, to see a stranger in his own rooms as master, to walk out those tall doors for the last time and not even have Darcy House to go to, to struggle to find a new home from the dubious comfort of a hotel as he grieved for the land where he had run free as a child, the last in a long line of Darcys.

It was an agonizing thought, and for a moment, he was nearly overwhelmed with sympathy for the dreadful sorrow the Bennet ladies were facing, that Miss Elizabeth was facing.

Another moment and he shook it off, huffing at his own sentimental foolishness.

He rolled over and pulled his blankets up to his shoulder.

It was certainly sad, but there was nothing he could directly do about it, and he was being ridiculous fretting over it.

All he could do was consign the Bennets and Miss Elizabeth to God’s capable hands and stop worrying.

A quick prayer doing just that, and with all his long years of practicing mental discipline, he recalled the recent treatise he had read on crop rotation, mentally reviewing the information.

Within just a few minutes he was drifting off to sleep.

***

Netherfield Hall

Billiard Room

The Next Morning

10 O’clock

The clatter of the billiard balls in the otherwise deserted room was a soothing sound to Bingley’s troubled soul.

The Netherfield balls were merely wood, but the clacking sound of them was more pleasing, at the moment, than ivory.

Bingley made another shot and straightened, frowning down at the baize of the table, his mind in turmoil.

His thoughts dwelt at Longbourn, some few miles hence.

The lady of his heart was facing calamity in the form of her father’s apoplexy and subsequent illness, and Bingley was powerless to help her.

Yet how could he stand idly by as Miss Bennet and her sisters struggled? That would make him callous indeed.

Bingley could think of only one way he could aid her and her family, but it was a drastic step.

He loved Miss Bennet, he did, but on the other hand, he and the lady had not known each other all that long, and if he were to make an offer of marriage now, she might, quite reasonably, consider it to be premature.

As for himself, Bingley was entirely sure in his own mind.

Miss Bennet was all that he desired in a wife, beautiful, kind-hearted, honorable, gentle in temperament and words.

The problem was that he did not want to risk offending her by extending an unwelcome offer of marriage during a difficult time and adding to her burden.

So he was caught in his own indecision, dithering and unsure as to what he should do, and uncertain whose advice to ask.

His first thought was Darcy, but Darcy had already made his feelings about the Bennets plain.

He considered them quite ineligible as brides, connected to trade as they were.

Bingley privately dismissed this concern on his own behalf.

His own father had been a tradesman, after all, and his inherited fortune was amassed at his father’s business-stained hands.

Were he to marry Miss Bennet, he would be reaching above himself.

She was a gentlewoman, daughter of a gentleman, and with a five thousand pound dowry besides.

She was not wealthy, but it was a reasonable amount, enough for her to live quietly but respectably if she should choose not to marry.

The door opened and Bingley looked up, forcing himself to smile at the sight of Sir Quinton.

“Good day,” he said with a nod of his head.

“Good day, Bingley,” Sir Quinton said, stepping inside to close the door behind him.

There was an odd silence and then the older man said, “I wonder if I may speak to you on a matter of some delicacy.”

Charles Bingley was startled by this. He liked Sir Quinton well enough, but the baronet was a full decade older than he was and not a close friend.

However, there was no question of turning him down.

“Of course,” he said, gesturing to a pair of wingbacked chairs by the fire. “Would you care for some brandy?”

“Very much so, yes,” Sir Quinton said, taking the chair on the right side of the fireplace.

Bingley poured liquor into two glasses and handed over one to his guest before taking the other chair and waiting.

Sir Quinton took a sip of brandy, nodded his appreciation, and said, “I believe I am correct in thinking that you are attracted to Miss Bennet of Longbourn?”

Bingley nodded enthusiastically. “I am very much. Indeed, how could I not be? So handsome and charming and kindly, not to mention sensible.”

“I agree that she is all those things,” his companion said, “though I will confess that I am more attracted to Miss Elizabeth.”

“She is also an admirable young woman,” Bingley said.

“Indeed, and according to my personal valet, she was recently the recipient of a marriage offer from Mr. Collins, who is heir to the estate of Longbourn.”

“Oh!” Bingley said, a rush of relief filling his chest at the news that Miss Bennet had not been Mr. Collins’s choice. “I am sorry, though I do not know whether you were truly thinking of offering … that … but it is…”

“She refused him,” Sir Quinton said blandly.

“Oh!” Bingley said in some confusion. “I see. Well, that is good, I suppose?”

“It is good,” Sir Quinton agreed. “And then, only yesterday, according to my valet, who is gifted at learning the latest news, Mr. Collins asked for the hand of Miss Mary, the third Bennet daughter, and was likewise refused.”

Bingley scrunched his forehead in confusion. “The heiress?”

“Yes.”

“Why is he?” Bingley began and then shook his head and said, “I suppose I do understand, as Mr. Bennet will likely die, and the ladies would be able to stay at Longbourn if one of them married the heir. But given that the daughters have only recently met Mr. Collins, it seems odd. Would it not have been better to wait until they knew one another more?”

“I daresay he wished to wed before entering a mourning period,” the baronet explained.

“Oh yes, that would be awkward if they were in deep mourning and…”

He trailed off, his chest suddenly tight. “If Mr. Bennet does die…”

“They will be in mourning, and it will make it difficult to enter an engagement. Not impossible, but difficult. Given the situation, I intend to ask for Miss Elizabeth’s hand in marriage now. She may well refuse me, of course, which is her right.”

“Now?” Bingley interrupted.

“Yes, now,” Sir Quinton said gravely. “I am not madly in love with the lady, but she is clever and intelligent and charming and would be an excellent wife. I am confident she would be a good mistress of Greenview.”

Bingley was renowned for his hasty decisions.

“I will offer for Miss Bennet as well, then,” he declared. “I am not certain if she cares for me enough to agree to an engagement, but I cannot wait, not with the specter of Mr. Bennet’s death hanging over us all.”

“I quite concur,” Sir Quinton said, draining the last of his glass and rising to his feet. “By the by, Bingley, I think it would be wiser to avoid telling anyone of our plans, as your sisters, and probably Darcy, will attempt to discourage you.”

Bingley scowled and said defiantly, “I do not care what they say.”

“Of course,” Sir Quinton said with a courteous nod. “Do you care to call to Longbourn now or wait until tomorrow?”

Bingley hated waiting.

“Let us go immediately!”