Page 20 of Penned by Mr Darcy (…By Mr Darcy #3)

Darcy

H is diary was lost forever, that much was plain. He had combed over the grounds of the estate with meticulous care, and had found nothing. Whether it was lost to the elements, or had been discovered by someone else, he did not know.

It was that uncertainty that gnawed at him.

He was a fool to have continued the diary after Ramsgate; he ought to have procured a new one, a fresh start after the horrendous events of the summer.

Like a fool he had continued, and the diary was now almost filled.

The details of the events that had so affected his sister – and he had written in such detail!

– had the capability of destroying her reputation.

More than that, it would be Georgiana herself who would be destroyed, for such a sweet, sensitive soul could not stand the shame that society would undoubtedly thrust upon her.

His melancholy had been noticed by the entire party at Netherfield.

“Darcy, whatever has happened?” Bingley asked one morning as they prepared to ride out. “You have not been yourself.”

“I am quite well.”

“You may wish to tell your face that. You look wretched. Come, man, what has come over you?”

“I…” Darcy inhaled. “I misplaced my diary out on a ride.”

“Oh?”

“I have retraced my steps half a dozen times, and have found no trace of it.”

"Is that why you’ve been out riding so frequently? Honestly, I thought you were either avoiding my sister or mourning the departure of our guests."

“No.”

“The house feels so empty without them, doesn’t it?” Bingley said wistfully. “It’s odd - I barely spoke to Miss Bennet, yet I still miss her presence. I found great comfort in knowing that she was here. And Miss Elizabeth… she’s quite delightful, is she not?”

“I suppose.”

“Imagine if we were to marry sisters, Darcy. We’d be family. I already think of you as a brother, though I know you’ve no interest in Caroline.”

“I have no interest in Miss Elizabeth Bennet either, Bingley. You’re imagining attachments where there are none – including your own. I do not believe Miss Bennet shares your affection.”

Bingley’s shoulders sagged. Darcy regretted his bluntness; Bingley required a great deal of sugar to coat any truth told to him, for he was sensitive in nature.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re letting your hopes run away with you. What proof has Miss Bennet given - beyond a few polite smiles - that she returns your affection?”

“I…”

“I do not doubt she would accept you, but not out of love. Her reasons would lie elsewhere.”

Darcy knew his words were unkind. Bingley flinched as if struck.

“You’re wrong,” he said quietly.

“Am I?”

“Yes. You are angry at yourself, but you take it out on me instead. Your temperament has been atrocious for days, but I have tolerated it in the name of friendship. I have tried to distract you, yet it came to nothing. I am an easy mark, for you know I forgive far more easily than my sisters. You mean to wound, to inflict your anger on others. Your frustration at losing your diary is understandable – but I object to this treatment, Darcy!”

“I am doing nothing of the sort. I speak the truth, that is all. How many women look at you, at us, with designs upon our wealth? They see riches, rather than men; a life of comfort, a husband of means. The Bennets are quite open in their fawning, based on nothing but the size of your house.”

“The Bennets are a distinguished family.”

“In this strange little place they inhabit, yes – but they are lacking in refinement. Do you believe those younger sisters would have any place in London? They are outrageous flirts, with no sense of how to behave amongst company.”

“They are a little wild, yes, but not without charm. And Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth, you cannot deny that they are well bred and eloquent.”

“Miss Elizabeth speaks too freely.”

“You say that only because she challenges you.”

“No, I…”

“What other woman – nay, what other person – has ever spoken to you thus?”

“Is that meant to be some manner of accomplishment, that she speaks to me without reservation?”

“I think so. And there is something about you, when she speaks to you. Something…I do not know, but you do not seem yourself.”

“And that is indicative of affection?”

“I suppose not.”

“Are we to have the same conversation over and over, Bingley? You may harbour this infatuation if you wish, but I would thank you not to hold any delusions that we are united in this baseless adoration for the eldest Bennet girls.”

Bingley said nothing, his smile downturned.

“If you wish,” Darcy said after a while, the silence unbearable, “we may deliver the invitations to this cursed ball you have planned in person.”

“I do not wish to force you to have any part of this,” Bingley sniffed. “I know you think the ball a folly.”

“I suppose you are right; we will return to London soon, and it is a fine gesture of gratitude to those who have treated us well whilst we have stayed here.”

“Tomorrow, then,” Bingley beamed. “The invitations are ready, and I should like the Bennets to be the first to receive theirs.”

“Very well.”

∞∞∞

The following morning dawned grey and mist-laced, the kind of chill that settled into the bones.

Darcy stood by the window in his chamber, watching the fog roll across the lawn, the landscape fading into pale obscurity.

The day mirrored his mind - clouded, burdened by the memory of what he had lost and the knowledge of what could befall Georgiana if that diary were found by the wrong hands.

He had barely slept again.

Still, when Bingley’s cheerful knock came at the door shortly before midday, he was long since dressed, gloves in hand. Darcy had taken no breakfast, remaining in his room as he did nothing but stare at the wall.

“The carriage is ready,” Bingley said, peering in with barely concealed eagerness. “Unless you would rather ride?”

“No,” Darcy said, brushing a speck of lint from his coat sleeve. “The carriage is adequate if it is prepared; I would rather be done with this as quickly as possible and not waste time saddling the horses.”

Bingley, seemingly not hearing his final remark, nodded with a broad smile, leading Darcy out of the room and down the stairs out into the sunlight.

“Excellent! I daresay Mrs. Bennet will be delighted to see us again. Though perhaps not as delighted as she would be to receive a certain announcement instead of an invitation.”

Darcy glanced at him sharply, but said nothing.

They rode in silence, save for Bingley’s occasional humming.

Darcy’s gaze was fixed on the road, though he did not see it.

His thoughts were once again lost to speculation.

Had the diary fallen into the hands of a servant?

Of some local gossip-monger? Or - worse - one of the Bennets themselves?

He had retraced every step, revisited every turning of the trail, every grove, every thicket. Nothing.

And yet, he could not shake the feeling that it was not simply lost. It had been found. It was a suspicion entirely without basis

“Darcy,” Bingley said softly, interrupting his thoughts. “You look ready to face a tribunal.”

Darcy attempted a smile. It came out more like a grimace.

“Do I?”

“I know you did not wish to call today. I won’t linger. Just a few polite exchanges, the invitations delivered, and then we can be away.”

But Darcy was not listening. Netherfield’s carriage had turned into Longbourn’s familiar drive, and the house came into view.

The last time he had been here, Miss Elizabeth had spoken to him with a frankness he was still not accustomed to - an honesty that pierced him more deeply than flattery ever could.

The carriage rolled to a stop, and the footman jumped down to open the door.

Darcy did not move, looking out past the man at the house behind him.

It was adequate, he supposed, for a gentleman of Mr Bennet’s low standing, but when one looked for too long, it was impossible to ignore the paint peeling from the door or the dirt that clung to the stone facade.

“Well,” Bingley said, adjusting his cravat, “no time like the present.”

Darcy stepped down after him, his boots crunching lightly on the gravel. The morning fog had begun to lift, and from somewhere within the house, a piano could be faintly heard.

They approached the door, and Bingley rapped smartly.

A moment later, it opened. It was not, as Darcy had expected, a servant – but rather an occupant of the house.

Miss Elizabeth opened the door, dressed casually in a pretty blue day dress that complimented her colouring, her hair unbound and wild around her shoulders.

She had been in the middle of speaking with someone, for she was still turned away, her face bright with laughter.

As she turned towards them, she blinked with surprise.

“Mr Bingley,” she said with a warm smile. As her eyes flickered to him, he could not help but notice that her smile faltered. “And Mr Darcy.”

He bowed stiffly.

“Miss Bennet,” Bingley said, his face alight. “We’ve come to deliver our invitations for the ball.”

“How delightful,” she said, stepping aside. “Please - do come in.”

Darcy hesitated only a second before following.

The warmth of the Bennet household enveloped him, fragrant with tea and old books and something else he could not name.

It was unusual for a member of the household to answer the door, and it was clear upon entering Longbourn that they had few staff.

It was well enough maintained, he supposed, but it lacked the elegance he would have expected from a family that seemed to pride itself upon appearance rather than substance.

“We are pleased to welcome you. Jane is resting; I will go and get her at once.”

“Has she not yet improved?”

“Her lungs still trouble her, I’m afraid, but she grows stronger every day. The doctor is confident she will soon make a full recovery.”

“I have thought of her often,” Bingley said as they neared what he anticipated to be the sitting room.