Page 27 of Mr. Darcy and the Mysterious “Miss B”

Darcy

D arcy settled into the familiar leather chair opposite his dearest friend, noting how Bingley could scarcely contain his excitement. Tea sat untouched between them, the delicate China cups growing cold whilst they spoke of weightier matters than refreshment.

“I can scarcely believe it myself,” Bingley said, his face alight with a joy that Darcy had not witnessed in months. “Jane has agreed to marry me, Darcy. Actually agreed! Not because of obligation or necessity, but because she… she loves me.”

The wonder in his friend’s voice struck something deep within Darcy’s chest. When had he last seen Bingley so thoroughly content? Not since before their hasty departure from Netherfield, certainly. Not since Darcy had convinced him that Jane Bennet’s affections were mercenary rather than genuine.

“I owe you an apology, Charles.” The words emerged, weighted with months of regret. “A most sincere and heartfelt apology.”

Bingley’s expression shifted, surprise replacing joy. “Whatever for?”

“For my interference. For my presumption in deciding what was best for your happiness.” Darcy leaned forward, his hands clasped tightly. “For separating you from the woman you loved based upon my own prejudices and faulty observations.”

“Darcy, we have discussed this—”

“No, we have not discussed it properly.” Darcy’s voice carried a firmness that brooked no interruption. “I convinced you that Miss Bennet’s feelings were insincere. I planted doubts where none should have existed. I nearly cost you the greatest happiness of your life.”

Bingley studied his friend’s face with growing concern. “You acted from friendship. You thought you were protecting me.”

“I acted from my own failures of character.” The admission tasted bitter, but necessary. “I allowed my judgement to be clouded by circumstances I misunderstood and prejudices I should have overcome long ago.”

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the ticking of the mantel clock. Finally, Bingley’s expression softened into something approaching understanding.

“You have been forgiven these many weeks, my friend. Jane harbours no resentment, and neither do I.” He paused, then added with a slight smile, “Though I confess I am curious about this sudden urgency to discuss matters we have already resolved.”

Darcy rose and moved to the window, gazing out at the bustling London street below.

How could he explain the tumult in his own chest?

The way Elizabeth Bennet’s presence had begun to colour every thought, every moment of his days?

He still had not spoken to Elizabeth, thought his conversation had made him realise what had been clear all along. He loved her.

Yet, each time he was with her, something inside would not let him tell her the truth. It was silly, really. He knew it.

“I have been reflecting,” he said, “upon the nature of judgement. How easily we convince ourselves we see clearly when we are, in fact, blind to what stands before us.”

“Ah.” Bingley’s tone carried new understanding. “And what, precisely, stands before you now?”

The question hung in the air like a challenge. Darcy turned back to face his friend, knowing his expression would betray more than his words might conceal.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

Bingley’s grin was immediate and brilliant. “Finally! I wondered when you would acknowledge what has been apparent to everyone else for months.”

“Months?” Darcy’s brow furrowed. “Surely you exaggerate.”

“Do I?” Bingley settled back in his chair with obvious delight. “My dear fellow, I observed your fascination with Miss Elizabeth even at Netherfield. The way your eyes followed her at dinner. How you seemed to forget yourself entirely when engaged in conversation with her.”

“I was merely being polite to my host’s guests.”

“Polite?” Bingley laughed outright. “You spent an entire afternoon teaching her chess strategy when you despise instructing others in games. You volunteered to partner with her in cards when you typically avoid such social frivolities altogether.”

The memories rushed back unbidden. Elizabeth’s delighted laughter when she successfully executed a chess move he had suggested.

The way she bit her lip in concentration during their card games.

How her eyes sparkled with intelligence and mischief as they debated literature during their garden walks.

“I thought…” Darcy’s voice trailed off as he recognised the truth Bingley spoke. Even then, even when he had told himself he was merely being courteous, Elizabeth had captivated him in ways he had refused to acknowledge.

“You thought you were immune to her charms,” Bingley finished. “Just as I thought you were immune to any woman’s charms. Yet here we both are, thoroughly conquered by the Bennet sisters.”

“The circumstances are hardly comparable,” Darcy protested, though without much conviction. “Your attachment to Miss Bennet was immediate and honest. What I feel for Miss Elizabeth has been built upon deception—our false courtship, this charade we have been performing.”

“Has it?” Bingley’s question was quiet but pointed. “Or has this charade provided the opportunity for you to discover what was already there?”

Darcy sank back into his chair, the weight of realisation settling upon him like a familiar coat.

The seeds of his regard for Elizabeth had indeed been planted during those days at Netherfield.

Every shared glance, every spirited debate, every moment of unexpected understanding had been building towards this moment when he could no longer deny the truth.

“I find myself in an impossible situation,” he admitted. “Our arrangement is temporary. When the scandal dies down, we are meant to part ways as though nothing of significance has occurred between us.”

“And do you wish to part ways?”

The question pierced through all his careful defences. “No,” he said. “I do not.”

“Then perhaps it is time to stop hiding behind arrangements and charades and speak with the lady herself.”

Darcy looked up sharply. “What if she does not return my feelings? What if, for her, this truly has been nothing more than a convenient fiction?”

“Then you will have your answer and can move forward accordingly.” Bingley’s expression grew more serious. “But Darcy, if you do not speak, you will spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been. Is that truly preferable to the risk of rejection?”

Before Darcy could respond, the study door opened and a footman appeared. “Mr Bingley, sir? Your presence is requested in the morning room. The Gardiners and the Miss Bennets have arrived.”

Darcy smiled. Their party was to attend Vauxhall Gardens that evening and were planning to take tea first. It had been Georgiana’s idea, and for once, Darcy had taken his sister’s advice without hesitation.

They walked towards the morning room in contemplative silence. As they approached the door, the sound of Elizabeth’s laughter drifted towards them—bright, musical, and utterly enchanting. Darcy’s steps slowed involuntarily.

“You see?” Bingley murmured with a knowing smile. “Even now, the mere sound of her voice affects you. The question is no longer whether you care for her, my friend. The question is what you intend to do about it.”

Darcy straightened his shoulders and followed Bingley into the room where Elizabeth sat beside Jane, her face animated in conversation.

When she looked up and their eyes met, the smile she offered him was warm and genuine—not the practiced courtesy of their public appearances, but something softer and infinitely more precious.

Perhaps Bingley was right. Perhaps it was time to stop hiding behind arrangements and speak from his heart. The risk of rejection seemed suddenly small compared to the possibility of winning Elizabeth Bennet’s hand—and her love—honestly and completely.

As he took his seat and accepted the tea Elizabeth offered him, Darcy allowed himself to hope that the feelings growing within him might, perhaps, be reciprocated.

The afternoon stretched before them, full of potential and promise, and for the first time in months, he felt truly optimistic about the future.

***

The evening air carried the scent of roasted meats and sweet pastries as their party approached the gates of Vauxhall Gardens. Darcy watched Elizabeth’s face transform with wonder as they passed beneath the grand archway, her eyes widening at the spectacle before them.

Thousands of coloured lamps hung like jewels amongst the trees, casting dancing shadows across the gravel walks.

The main avenue stretched ahead, lined with elegant supper boxes where fashionable society dined al fresco.

Musicians played from hidden alcoves, their melodies weaving through the gentle hum of conversation and laughter.

“Oh my,” Jane breathed, her arm linked through Bingley’s. “I had heard descriptions, but this exceeds every expectation.”

“It is like stepping into a fairy tale,” Elizabeth added, her voice filled with delight. “Look how the lights reflect in the water!”

Darcy followed her gaze to the ornamental canal, where hundreds of lanterns created shimmering patterns on the dark surface.

He had visited Vauxhall countless times throughout his life but seeing it through Elizabeth’s eyes made it feel entirely new.

The pleasure gardens, with their winding paths and hidden grottos, their orchestras and firework displays, suddenly seemed magical rather than merely fashionable.

“Shall we secure a box for supper?” Mr Gardiner suggested, ever practical. “The evening is fine, and we can enjoy the musical entertainment from there.”