Page 13 of To India with Mr. Darcy

T he following day, Darcy accompanied Bingley and Gardiner to a business meeting, to which he paid little heed, thinking how much he would prefer to attend the market again. His mind had drifted back to his dance with Elizabeth, but they had since retired to a more social setting, and that distracted Darcy at least a little.

The club was a grand establishment, a relic of British refinement transplanted onto foreign soil. The polished wood, fine leather armchairs, and crystal decanters of brandy spoke of a desperate attempt to maintain English civility in a land so vastly different from home. A handful of men milled about, some engaged in hushed conversations, others perusing the latest newspapers from London—merely months out of date.

Darcy sat beside Bingley, across from Mr Gardiner and a group of British merchants, all of whom were deep in discussion regarding the latest trade agreements and export opportunities, as if their meeting hadn’t been enough. The conversation had meandered from textiles and spices to shipping routes and import duties, but Darcy had contributed little. He listened, his mind only half-engaged, his fingers idly toying with the edge of the glass before him.

“…and the new measures should prove quite profitable,” one of the men, a Mr Weston, was saying. He was a seasoned merchant, his skin weathered from years under the Indian sun. “If the East India Company agrees to revise their current taxation policies, we’ll see an increase in trade along the Hooghly River.”

Bingley, ever eager, leaned forward. “That would be excellent news for those of us looking to establish new partnerships. Mr Gardiner,” he turned towards the older gentleman with a smile, “I imagine this would be of interest to you?”

Mr Gardiner nodded, looking pleased. “Indeed, it would. I’ve already begun negotiations with a firm that deals in fine muslins, and should this revision pass, the prospects will be even greater.” He took a sip of his drink before glancing at the clock on the wall. “However, much as I would love to discuss it further, I must be returning to my wife and my two nieces.”

One of the men, a Mr Goddard, a portly gentleman with thinning hair and a keen expression, grinned at that. “Your nieces, sir? You do not mean the Misses Bennets, do you?”

Darcy perked up upon hearing the name, his attention now fully caught. He leaned forward almost imperceptibly to listen closer.

Mr Gardiner turned to him with mild curiosity. “Yes, indeed. You know the family?”

Mr Goddard smiled, setting down his glass. “I am from Meryton myself, sir. I have known Mr Bennet and his household for many years.”

Mr Gardiner’s face brightened. “How remarkable! What a small world it is.”

“Indeed, indeed,” Goddard agreed. “I trust Mrs Bennet is in good health?”

Mr Gardiner gave a polite but careful smile. “As well as ever, I imagine.”

Darcy watched Mr Goddard, taking in his knowing expression, the faint amusement that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

The conversation continued with a few more pleasantries—Goddard inquired about all five of the daughters, expressing familiarity with them in passing, though it was clear he had never been particularly close to the family. After a few more exchanges, Mr Gardiner excused himself, rising from his chair with a nod.

“It has been a pleasure, gentlemen,” he said. “I shall leave you to your discussions.”

As he exited the room, Bingley reached for his glass, but Darcy barely noticed. His mind had already latched onto one pressing thought:

This man knows the Bennets.

And, for reasons he was not yet willing to examine, he wanted to know what else he had to say.

As Bingley and the others resumed their discussion on tariffs and export duties, Darcy turned his attention back to Mr Goddard, keeping his expression carefully neutral. “You mentioned that you are acquainted with the Bennet family.”

Mr Goddard blinked, then nodded, seemingly pleased by the inquiry. “Oh yes, quite familiar. I grew up in Meryton and lived there for many years before coming to India. One cannot help but know the Bennets. A respectable family, if somewhat… how can I put this? Peculiar.”

Darcy leaned back in his chair, his interest truly piqued. “Peculiar? How so?”

Mr Goddard let out a light chuckle, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Not in any scandalous way. Simply put, they are a family of contrasts, shall we say? Mr Bennet is a man of intelligence, but quite indifferent to the world outside his library. Mrs Bennet, on the other hand…” He hesitated, as if considering how best to phrase his words.

Darcy leaned in further. “Yes?”

Goddard sighed, though it was not unkind. “She is lively. A great deal of energy. Not quite the sort of woman one associates with refinement, but I daresay she has done her best. She was the daughter of a solicitor, you know. Her father was quite respectable in his profession, but such connections are not what one typically seeks in gentry circles.”

Darcy absorbed this without outward reaction, though his fingers pressed lightly against the arm of his chair.

“Yes, I was aware,” he said evenly.

Goddard nodded. “The Bennet estate, Longbourn, is a pleasant enough place, though quite small compared to others in the county. And of course, there is the matter of the entail.”

Darcy’s expression did not change, but his stomach clenched. He had heard whispers of it before—hints of it from Mr Gardiner, implications from Elizabeth herself—but hearing it now, stated plainly, confirmed as fact, made something settle heavily in his chest.

“Yes,” Goddard continued, unaware of the effect his words were having. “As I understand it, the estate is entailed away from the daughters. It must pass to a distant cousin—Mr Collins, I believe. A clergyman, though I have never met him.”

Darcy remained silent, though his thoughts were anything but.

“Unfortunate, truly,” Goddard added, shaking his head. “Mr Bennet never had a son, and now his daughters are left in a rather precarious situation. A pity, as they are, by all accounts, fine young women. Miss Bennet—the eldest—is widely considered to be the beauty of the family.”

Darcy stiffened, almost offended on Elizabeth’s part, though he could not deny he had not found her particularly handsome upon their first meeting. Her beauty had somehow grown in the weeks and months since they’d met.

“And Miss Elizabeth?” he asked before he could stop himself.

Mr Goddard smiled knowingly. “Ah, now Miss Elizabeth is a different sort. Clever, spirited. A favourite in Meryton, I should say. If she had a fortune, she might do quite well for herself.”

Darcy forced himself to remain composed. “And yet, she does not.”

Goddard sighed, placing his empty glass onto the table. “No, sir. She does not. I daresay it is a rather delicate matter for the family.” He hesitated, then added, “A shame, really. With the right connections, the Misses Bennets might have secured strong matches. But as it stands…”

He trailed off with a small, diplomatic shrug. The meaning was clear enough. Darcy nodded curtly, saying nothing.

Goddard glanced at him then, studying his expression with mild curiosity. “You know them well, then?”

Darcy’s fingers tightened over his knee. “I would not say well, but I have made their acquaintance, yes.”

“Ah,” Goddard said, smiling. “Well, then, I suspect you understand what I mean. A charming family, but one must consider practicalities, mustn’t one?”

Darcy merely inclined his head in polite agreement, though his chest felt strangely constricted.

The conversation moved on, and Mr Goddard shifting his attention back to the rest of the group, but Darcy hardly heard it.

The information should not have affected him. These things were not all that of a surprise to him, in truth. And yet, hearing them spoken aloud—so plainly, so rationally—made it real in a way that it had not been before.

Elizabeth.

His mind conjured her without permission—the quickness of her smile, the sharpness of her wit, the warmth in her eyes as she laughed, challenged him, tested him. He had spent weeks convincing himself that his interest in her was fleeting, nothing more than admiration of a rare mind. A curiosity, at best. But it was not. He knew it now. He could no longer pretend.

Elizabeth Bennet stirred something in him—something no other woman ever had. She challenged him, unsettled him, made him feel alive in a way he had never before experienced.

But her family was beneath his, and there was no getting away from that fact.

Her circumstances—her lack of fortune, her mother’s improper behaviour, the entailment that left her future uncertain—all of it was precisely the kind of disadvantage his family would never approve of.

Darcy closed his eyes briefly, inhaling through his nose, forcing himself to remember who he was. This could not happen. He was not the sort of man who indulged in imprudence. He was not Bingley, who followed his heart so readily, with little thought to consequence.

No. This had gone far enough. A folly caused by entrapment upon the ship, nothing more. He needed distance. He needed to remind himself of what was practical, of what was reasonable.

And so, as the conversation at the table resumed and the club’s slow-moving fans barely stirred the stifling air, Darcy made a decision. He would step back. It was the only course of action.

***

By the end of the evening, only Darcy and Bingley remained in the club, all the other gentlemen having taken their leave. Darcy sat stiffly, his fingers curled around a glass of brandy he had barely touched. Across from him, Bingley leaned back in his chair, far more at ease, though there was something contemplative in the way he swirled his glass, staring at the liquid as if the answers he sought lay within.

They had remained quiet for a long time, soaking up the atmosphere. It had been a long day, but the fact that Bingley hadn’t yet suggested they retire made Darcy believe he wished for company or perhaps something more.

Eventually, Bingley exhaled, set his drink down, and looked at him.

“I have been thinking,” he said.

“A dangerous pastime,” Darcy replied dryly.

Bingley huffed a small laugh but shook his head. “I mean it. I have been thinking about Miss Bennet.”

So much for not thinking about her.

Darcy did not respond immediately, the name once again sending a bolt through him. He took a measured sip of his drink before setting it down carefully, waiting for more.

Bingley ran a hand through his hair. “I am exceedingly fond of her, Darcy. Exceedingly.”

Darcy had expected as much. Bingley’s admiration of Miss Bennet had been evident since the very first days aboard the ship, and here in India, if anything, it had only deepened. He had watched Bingley hover near her, eager but never obtrusive, his attention drawn to her at every opportunity.

Darcy sighed quietly. Bingley was too easily led by his heart.

“And what do you intend to do about it?” Darcy asked at last.

Bingley hesitated, looking up at him like a child looking for permission. “That is precisely what I wish to ask you.”

Darcy frowned. “Me?”

Bingley nodded, leaning forward. “You always think more clearly than I do about these things. You see things that I do not. You understand what is wise, whereas I merely follow my heart.”

Darcy nodded. He strongly agreed with that assessment.

“I have no doubt that Miss Bennet is an excellent young woman,” Bingley continued. “She is kind, intelligent, graceful. I have never met anyone like her.”

“No,” Darcy murmured. “I do not believe you have.”

Bingley hesitated again before lowering his voice. “Do you think she returns my affections? I cannot decide if she does or if she is merely being polite.”

Darcy studied his friend carefully. Bingley had always been quick to love, but he had also been quick to doubt. His open, trusting nature left him vulnerable to uncertainty, to doubt his own happiness. And now, here he was, seeking Darcy’s judgement, hoping for validation, for confirmation.

Darcy closed his eyes briefly. He thought of Jane Bennet’s serene smiles, her composed manner, the way she always carried herself with quiet grace. But Bingley was right to question her affections.

Did she truly love Bingley?

Darcy was not so certain. She was kind to everyone. Her temperament was soft, gentle—but was it merely her nature? Or was there something more behind the warmth she showed Bingley?

And if there was not?

If she did not feel as strongly as Bingley did, then all of this—the attachment, the potential entanglement—could lead only to heartbreak, especially with what he now knew to be the truth of their family. And he could not allow that to happen.

Darcy took in a slow breath.

“Miss Bennet,” he said carefully, “is undoubtedly amiable. I do not doubt that she enjoys your company.”

Bingley’s brows drew together. “But?”

Darcy hesitated.

He could feel the weight of his own words before he spoke them. “The Bennet family has little fortune,” he said at last. “And no particular connections to recommend them. Their estate is entailed away from the daughters, meaning Miss Bennet’s future security is uncertain.”

Bingley exhaled slowly, but he did not look away.

Darcy continued, his voice measured. “More than that, I cannot say whether she harbours the depth of feeling that you do. You have seen her kindness, her composure—but does she love you?”

Bingley swallowed. “Do you believe she does not?” he asked, voice quieter now.

Darcy paused for only a second too long, unsure whether he was actually going to do this or not.

“I cannot be certain,” he admitted eventually. “But Miss Bennet is not demonstrative in her affections. And you, my friend, are eager to believe in them.”

Bingley’s expression shifted—just slightly. Doubt crept into his gaze, subtle but unmistakable.

Darcy hated himself for it.

He was not lying. Not truly. He had not spoken an untruth. He had only planted the seed. Bingley was too good-hearted, too prone to being swept up in his own feelings. He needed caution, needed to understand what was at stake. It was the right thing to do.

Was it not?

Bingley sat back, his drink forgotten. His fingers tapped against his knee as he mulled over Darcy’s words, his lips pressing into a thin line. Darcy watched him, feeling something uncomfortably close to guilt settle in his stomach.

Bingley nodded, almost to himself. “Perhaps I have been too quick to assume. Travelling in such close proximity no doubt heightens one’s emotions.”

Darcy did not reply. He only lifted his glass, letting the silence between them speak for itself.

Bingley sighed heavily. “I shall have to think on it.”

“Yes,” Darcy murmured. “You should.”