Page 55

Caroline Bingley observed the tableau from her position near the card room entrance, her rigid posture and tightly gripped fan betraying the struggle for composure beneath her outwardly controlled demeanour.

Throughout the evening, Darcy had noticed her growing agitation as the attachment between Jane and Colonel Fitzwilliam became increasingly apparent to the assembled company.

Caroline’s attempts to engage the colonel’s attention had met with polite but firm redirection, while her brother’s evident distress seemed to fuel her own discomposure rather than elicit sympathy.

When Caroline suddenly straightened and began moving with purpose toward Bingley, Darcy felt a prickle of apprehension.

The determined set of her shoulders, combined with the high colour in her usually pale cheeks, suggested an impending confrontation that would benefit no one, least of all her increasingly inebriated brother.

With quick decision, Darcy moved to intercept the situation, but the determination of several locals to congratulate him meant he did not reach Bingley before his sister.

“Charles, darling, you must instruct the footmen to replenish the punch. Lady Lucas mentioned it is growing rather depleted.” Caroline’s gaze slid meaningfully toward Jane and then back to Bingley.

“Though perhaps you are too occupied with your own refreshment to attend to the needs of your guests?”

Bingley’s smile tightened perceptibly. “Thank you for bringing it to my attention, Caroline. I shall see to it directly.”

Caroline’s hand on his arm prevented his departure.

“Before you go, brother, I noted with interest that Miss Bennet has favoured Colonel Fitzwilliam with two dances this evening. How fortunate that you are so amiable in disposition as to bear such a development with equanimity. Not every gentleman would display such... accommodation when a lady’s affections prove so easily transferable. ”

Darcy observed with growing alarm the subtle transformation in Bingley’s countenance.

The normally cheerful features tightened, a muscle working visibly in his jaw as he struggled to maintain his composure.

Most telling was his right hand, which clenched suddenly at his side with such force that the knuckles whitened.

“Caroline,” Bingley said, his voice lowered but carrying a note of warning that would have given a wiser person immediate pause, “this is neither the time nor the place for such observations.”

Caroline, either oblivious to the danger signals or deliberately ignoring them, continued with increasing intensity.

“On the contrary, I believe it precisely the correct moment to acknowledge what has become obvious to everyone present. You have been made a fool of, Charles, not once but twice by the same lady. First when she initially accepted your attentions with such calculated composure, and now as she discards you for a gentleman of superior connections despite his more limited fortune.”

For the briefest moment, a flash of genuine rage distorted Bingley’s pleasant features into something almost unrecognisable, a glimpse of raw emotion so powerful that Darcy instinctively stepped closer, prepared to intervene physically if necessary.

Just as quickly, the expression vanished behind a mask of rigid control, though the effort it cost was evident in the trembling of Bingley’s hand and the audible breath he drew through clenched teeth.

“You go too far,” he said, each word precisely measured and controlled.

Caroline laughed, a brittle sound entirely devoid of genuine amusement.

“I merely state what others think but are too polite to say. You allow yourself to be led by the opinions of others, to have your course determined by whoever speaks with the most authority or possesses the prettiest face. First Darcy persuaded you to abandon your attachment, and you complied without question. Now he has changed his mind, and you dutifully return, only to find the lady’s affections engaged elsewhere.

It is a pattern most unflattering to a gentleman of your position. ”

The exchange, though conducted in voices low enough to maintain some pretence of privacy, had nevertheless attracted the attention of nearby guests.

A small circle of awkward silence spread around them as conversation faltered, replaced by the strained politeness of those pretending not to overhear while missing nothing of what transpired.

Darcy, acutely conscious of both Bingley’s precarious emotional state and the growing social discomfort, intervened with deliberate firmness.

“Miss Bingley,” he said, “I believe Mrs. Hurst was seeking your assistance regarding the arrangement of the final dance sets. Perhaps you might attend to her?”

The transparent dismissal, coming from a man whose good opinion Caroline still desperately coveted, achieved what brotherly warning could not. She hesitated, caught between her desire to continue her attack and her unwillingness to openly defy Darcy in public.

“Of course,” she managed finally, her smile a grimace of forced politeness. “How remiss of me to neglect my duties as hostess. We shall continue our discussion later, Charles.”

As Caroline moved away, Darcy turned to find Bingley already retreating in the opposite direction, making his way toward the doors that led to the terrace with the careful deliberation of a man determined to exit without drawing further attention to himself.

Conversation around them resumed with the slightly heightened animation that always follows an uncomfortable social moment, everyone present tacitly agreeing to pretend nothing untoward had occurred.

Darcy followed Bingley outside, concerned by both his emotional state and the potential ill effects of the night air on a man who had consumed significant quantities of spirits.

He found his friend standing rigidly at the stone balustrade, staring out into the darkness of Netherfield’s gardens with unseeing intensity.

“Bingley,” Darcy began, approaching with caution, “Caroline spoke inappropriately and without justification. You have conducted yourself with perfect propriety throughout.”

Bingley did not turn, his profile outlined sharply against the faint light spilling from the ballroom windows.

“Did she speak without justification?” he asked.

“Or merely without tact? The substance of her observations, however poorly expressed, contained a certain truth that I cannot entirely dispute.”

Darcy moved to stand beside him at the balustrade, allowing a moment of silence before responding. “If you refer to my interference last autumn, I have already acknowledged my error and expressed my deepest regret for actions that caused pain to both you and Miss Bennet.”

“I do not blame you,” Bingley said, his gaze still fixed on the distant darkness. “Not anymore. You acted according to your understanding at the time. The fault lies with me, for allowing your judgment to supersede my own, for lacking the courage to trust my own perceptions.”

“That is too harsh an assessment,” Darcy countered. “You valued the counsel of a friend, as any reasonable man might do.”

Bingley turned then, his expression composed though his eyes betrayed the depth of his struggle. “I valued the counsel of a friend above the evidence of my own observations and the dictates of my own heart. That is not reasonable; it is weak. And now I pay the price for that weakness.”

“You cannot know with certainty that the outcome would have been different had you remained at Netherfield last autumn,” Darcy said carefully.

Bingley nodded slowly, a gesture of acknowledgment rather than agreement. “A philosophical perspective, Darcy. Most admirable in theory, though somewhat more challenging in practical application, particularly when one has consumed rather more brandy than is strictly advisable.”

This flash of Bingley’s characteristic self-deprecating humour, however tinged with melancholy, suggested some restoration of his equilibrium. Darcy allowed himself to hope that the worst of the evening’s emotional storm had passed.

“Perhaps we should return inside,” he suggested gently. “Your absence will soon be noted.”

“In a moment,” Bingley replied. “I require a few more minutes to compose myself fully. The cool air is most beneficial in restoring one’s faculties.”

“Then I shall wait with you,” Darcy said simply.

Bingley glanced at him, a flicker of his old warmth briefly illuminating his features. “Ever the faithful friend. Even when I make it difficult to be so.”

They stood in companionable silence for several minutes, the muted sounds of music and conversation from the ballroom creating a backdrop to their private thoughts.

When they eventually returned to the ballroom, Bingley had regained much of his usual demeanour.

He resumed his duties as host with commendable composure, avoiding both Caroline and the vicinity of Jane and Colonel Fitzwilliam with equal determination.

The remainder of the evening passed without further incident, though a subtle tension lingered in the atmosphere, perceived by the more sensitive guests if not acknowledged openly.

As the final dance concluded, Bingley stood at the entrance, bidding farewell to departing guests with perfect correctness, his smile firmly in place despite the shadows in his eyes.

Watching him, Darcy could only hope that time, that most effective of physicians, would eventually heal the wound his friend now bore with such dignified composure.