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CHAPTER EIGHT

A t tea the next day at Netherfield, Mr Bingley asked Jane if he might show her a new sculpture he had acquired and had placed in the music room. “Surely Darcy and your sister can amuse themselves for a short while?”

Elizabeth felt faintly ill as she agreed, watching Jane’s delighted countenance as Bingley led her away. She decided to announce her engagement since they were alone and did so with as much speed as was seemly.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, “You are a fool.”

His words were so like a slap she nearly touched her face.

“You cannot be happy for me?”

“Happy? Why should I be?”

“Because I like him. He is amusing, and I must marry.” She paused. “And no one else has offered for me.”

When Mr Darcy looked up, her stomach did a little flip.

She had not, of course, meant him! Or had she?

The thought had crossed her mind, certainly, but she had reminded herself that they were friends and he was too high for her.

He would need an accomplished wife with a suitable fortune and connexions and a place in Society.

A little defiantly, she added, “My family is very happy for me. They like Mr Wickham too.”

Her words seemed to snap him directly out of the reverie he had sunk into. His eyes looked dark and his tone was enraged when he spoke, although she had no idea why.

“Your family? Of course they are happy. They have no sense. Not one of them, save your eldest sister.”

Tears sprang into her eyes, but she would not go down so easily. “You are jealous of him. Jealous of us, of our happiness.”

“You think I am jealous of Wickham?” he said scoffingly.

“I have found love and you are still alone.” Elizabeth could not understand why a man so lovely as Mr Darcy was alone.

Clearly, he needed more than what most women offered.

Despite the fact that he was hurting her in this moment, she still desired to be his friend.

“Mr Darcy, the woman for you will come along and she will make you happy. She is somewhere.”

“This absurd decision comes as no surprise. Your family needs each of you girls to marry and soon, what with your father’s poor management of his estate and the entail, which no one in their right mind would have created.

It is a cruel circumstance that is leading you and your sisters to agree to marry the first man who comes along and asks. ”

The cruelty was stunning. Elizabeth sat frozen as if Medusa had turned her to stone, yet he continued.

“Your parents have hardly cared for your reputations, and any men who would link themselves to the Bennets would be fools. George Wickham is just such a fool. Enjoy him, and do not run to me when this match brings you misfortune.”

With that, Mr Darcy leapt to his feet and disappeared into the hall.

No one else had offered.

Her words rang in his ears. Had she meant him? He could have asked for her hand. He thought of it more than once, but her family was absurd, and he needed a wife who fit his station. Did he not? His parents, rest their souls, said that he did. But why? Was it for appearances?

Gossip could not minimise his holdings nor the size of his estate. If he made a choice that defied expectations, and those in power did not wish to socialise with them, would it signify? He scarcely enjoyed spending time among most of his circle anyhow!

What harm would it do? True friends would like her, just as Bingley did. Yet his deceased father’s and mother’s faces flooded his mind. ‘Her,’ they would say. ‘She will never do.’

He paused halfway up the stairs that led to the bedchambers. Cold crept through his veins. No, she would not do, not for a man such as he. And he would not cause a scandal by stealing another man’s betrothed, even if said man was Wickham.

She was engaged to the most despicable man he had ever known.

If only he could tell her why Wickham was so dangerous!

He could not stand by and watch Wickham ruin her.

It was why he had been so cruel, so seemingly unfeeling.

He had to push her far, far away, so far that she would never again cross paths with him.

Could it have gone any other way? He thought not. He hated hurting her, but what else was he to do: Accept this engagement quietly? Chance encounters with Wickham? No, he was right to have done this. He was right. His head throbbed. He had to believe he was right.

Elizabeth sat alone in shocked silence until her sister and Mr Bingley returned.

Jane, no doubt seeing and understanding her sister’s state, said they must hurry her home.

Only a passing mention was made of Mr Darcy’s absence, and soon, though not soon enough for Elizabeth, she was tucked into her bed and treated for an unnamed but potentially life-threatening malady, at least according to her mother, who added that to die before a wedding would be a cruel irony if ever there was one.

The next afternoon, Jane entered their still-darkened room. “Mr Bingley is gone.”

“What?” asked Elizabeth, half sitting up.

“He left with Mr Darcy this morning for London.”

“How did you learn this?”

“Hill heard it in town from one of Netherfield’s servants. She hesitated to tell me, but feared my hearing it from anyone else.”

Elizabeth sank back into her pillows with a thud. “I see.”

“Why, Lizzy? Why would he have left in such a fashion? Without even saying farewell?”

Because Mr Darcy tore him away from Netherfield and from the dreadful Bennets.

When Elizabeth made no reply, Jane said, “I wonder if I shall ever see him again.”

Her voice was plaintive and Elizabeth’s guilt overwhelmed her. “I have no doubt, Jane. He loves you, surely.”

Jane looked doubtful, so Elizabeth threw her arms around her beloved sister, and Jane hugged her back.

“You seem restored, Lizzy. Let us join the family. Mama will want to tell us who knows about your engagement.”

Elizabeth rose and allowed herself to be pulled along with the day, attempting not to think of Mr Darcy or Mr Bingley or Jane’s disappointment or even Mr Wickham. Today she would be a Bennet amongst family, immersed in their rollick and cheer.