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Chapter Twenty-Two

Darcy stood before Bingley’s study door, his hand poised to knock, when the soft rustle of skirts drew his attention and he looked around to see Elizabeth approaching, her expression resolute though her complexion was somewhat paler than usual.

He had not expected her presence at this most difficult of confrontations, yet found himself unsurprised.

His wife’s moral courage had never faltered in the face of unpleasantness, and she possessed a clarity of judgment that, while sometimes uncomfortable in its precision, might prove valuable in the moments to come.

“Fitzwilliam,” she said softly, coming to stand beside him. “I should like to accompany you.”

Darcy studied her face carefully. “I had thought you were with Mrs. Hurst.”

“Louisa preferred solitude,” Elizabeth explained, folding her hands before her in that particular way she did when determined. “She took a draught from the doctor and wished to sleep. And I find myself... unwilling to remain ignorant of what Bingley might say for himself.”

Darcy hesitated, weighing the propriety of including Elizabeth in such a delicate conversation against the undeniable advantage of her perceptive presence.

“Very well,” he conceded finally. “Though I must warn you, Elizabeth, this conversation may prove more distressing than you anticipate. Bingley may react with anger when confronted.”

A slight smile touched her lips, though it held no mirth. “I have faced an angry Mr. Darcy in my time. I imagine I can withstand an angry Mr. Bingley.”

Despite the gravity of their purpose, Darcy felt a momentary warmth at this reminder of their own complicated history. How far they had come since those days when pride and prejudice had stood between them.

“Let us proceed, then,” he said, rapping his knuckles firmly against the polished oak.

A moment passed before Bingley’s voice called out, sounding strained but controlled. “Enter.”

They found him seated at his desk, ledgers spread before him, a quill in hand as though they had interrupted important business.

His mourning attire was immaculate, his cravat precisely arranged, yet Darcy noted immediately the unnatural brightness of his eyes and the slight tremor in his hand as he set down the quill.

“Darcy, Elizabeth,” Bingley greeted them, rising with a semblance of his usual cordial manner, though it seemed a brittle facade. “This is unexpected. I was just reviewing some financial matters that require attention before... before arrangements for Caroline are finalised.”

Darcy observed the careful way Bingley avoided direct mention of his sister’s death, speaking of it obliquely as though maintaining distance from the reality. There was something almost theatrical in his performance of composure that struck Darcy as increasingly discordant with genuine grief.

“Would you care for some refreshment?” Bingley continued, moving toward the sideboard where decanters of various spirits were set out. “I find a glass of brandy helps steady the nerves during difficult times.”

“No, thank you,” Darcy replied firmly. “Our purpose here is not social, Bingley.”

Bingley paused, his hand hovering over the decanter. “I see. Something of importance, then?”

“Of the gravest importance,” Darcy confirmed, refusing the chair Bingley gestured toward. He preferred to remain standing, sensing that the height advantage might prove useful in what was to come. Elizabeth, following his lead, remained standing as well, positioned at his side.

Bingley’s smile faltered, then recovered, though it appeared more forced than before. “Well then, what can I assist you with? I am at your disposal, though I confess my mind is somewhat preoccupied with recent events.”

“Recent events are precisely what we wish to discuss,” Darcy said. He drew a deep breath, steeling himself for what must follow. “Bingley, Elizabeth and I made a discovery this morning that has caused us grave concern.”

“A discovery?” Bingley repeated, his voice carefully neutral though a muscle worked visibly in his jaw. “What sort of discovery?”

“Blood,” Elizabeth said quietly, speaking for the first time since they had entered. “A trail of blood, leading from outside your chambers to the staircase.”

Bingley’s composure fractured momentarily, his eyes widening before he collected himself. “I... I was not aware. The servants must have missed it in cleaning. A most unfortunate oversight.”

“It was not missed,” Darcy corrected him. “It was simply overlooked due to the dark pattern of the wood. But upon close inspection, it is clearly visible, forming a continuous trail from your door to where Caroline was found.”

“I fail to see the significance,” Bingley replied, though his voice had lost its usual melodious quality, becoming flat and tight. “Caroline fell down the stairs. Naturally there would be blood.”

“The significance,” Darcy continued relentlessly, “lies in the direction of the trail. If Caroline had fallen from the top of the stairs, any blood would lead from the top of the stairs downward, not from outside your chambers. The evidence suggests she was already injured before reaching the staircase.”

A silence fell over the room, broken only by the ticking of the mantel clock and Bingley’s increasingly shallow breathing. Elizabeth moved slightly closer to Darcy, her presence a silent support as they watched Bingley struggle to maintain his facade.

“Furthermore,” Darcy added, unable to soften what must be said, “Elizabeth’s maid overheard an argument between you and Caroline in the early hours following the ball. An argument that took place near your chambers, exactly where the blood trail begins.”

“Helen heard raised voices,” Elizabeth elaborated gently. “She recognised both your voice and Miss Bingley’s. She heard Caroline say something about ‘public humiliation’ and being ‘better off without her.’”

Bingley turned away abruptly, moving to the window where he stood with his back to them, his shoulders rigid with tension. “Servants’ gossip,” he managed finally. “Unreliable and prone to exaggeration.”

“Helen is not given to either,” Elizabeth countered. “She reported only what she heard directly, without embellishment. And her account aligns precisely with the physical evidence.”

“What is it you are suggesting?” Bingley demanded, still facing the window, his voice tight with barely controlled emotion. “Speak plainly, Darcy, rather than circling your accusation like a vulture.”

The harshness of this simile, so unlike Bingley’s usual gentle speech, confirmed to Darcy that they were penetrating the carefully maintained veneer of normality. He stepped forward, placing himself directly behind his friend.

“I am suggesting,” Darcy said, his voice low but clear, “that Caroline’s death was not the result of an accidental fall. I am suggesting that something occurred between you and your sister that night which resulted in a tragedy.”

Bingley’s hands gripped the window frame with such force that his knuckles whitened.

For a long moment, he remained utterly still, as though carved from stone.

When he finally turned to face them, his expression had transformed entirely.

Gone was any pretence of composed grief, replaced by a desperate, haunted look that Darcy had never before seen on his friend’s countenance.

“You cannot understand,” Bingley whispered, his voice breaking. “You cannot possibly comprehend what it was like.”

“Help us to understand, then,” Elizabeth said gently. “Tell us what happened, Charles.”

The use of his Christian name, so unusual from Elizabeth, seemed to pierce whatever remaining defence Bingley maintained.

He sank into the nearest chair, his body suddenly bereft of the rigid control that had sustained him since Caroline’s death.

His hands covered his face for a moment before dropping limply to his lap, revealing eyes red-rimmed with unshed tears.

“She controlled everything,” he began, his voice so low they had to strain to hear him.

“From the moment our father died, Caroline determined our course. Which houses to take, which society to cultivate, which connections to pursue. I was merely the figurehead, the name on the accounts, while she wielded the true power.”

Darcy listened in growing discomfort, recognising elements of truth in this assessment while still struggling to reconcile it with the violence that had apparently followed.

“When we came to Hertfordshire last year,” Bingley continued, his words coming faster now, “I found genuine happiness for the first time. Jane... her sweetness, her gentle nature, so different from Caroline’s sharp ambition and constant criticism. I began to imagine a life of my own choosing.”

He looked up at Darcy then, accusation mingling with the anguish in his gaze.

“And then you convinced me her feelings were indifferent, that the connection was unsuitable. Caroline seized upon your opinion, reinforced it daily during our time in London. How often did I express a wish to return to Netherfield? And each time, she would remind me of your advice, suggest that I would appear ridiculous in pursuing a woman who did not return my regard.”

Darcy felt the weight of his own culpability in this matter. His misjudgement of Jane Bennet’s feelings, his interference in Bingley’s affairs, had contributed to the circumstances that eventually led to tragedy.

“When you revealed the truth,” Bingley continued, “that Jane had indeed cared for me, that Caroline had deliberately concealed her presence in London... I forgave you, Darcy. Your motives, however misguided, were born of concern. But Caroline...” His voice hardened.

“Her manipulation was calculated, designed to maintain her control over me, over our fortune.”

“And so you returned to Netherfield,” Elizabeth prompted softly when he fell silent.