Page 17 of To India with Mr. Darcy

D arcy had scarcely taken his seat before Bingley launched into conversation, his usual brightness cutting through the morning quiet of the ship’s lounge.

“She was laughing last night,” Bingley said suddenly, stirring a spoon through his tea. “Miss Bennet, I mean. We were speaking of—oh, I cannot even remember now. Something utterly inconsequential, but she laughed. And it was…” He trailed off, his smile softening at the memory before shaking his head. “It was rather wonderful.”

Darcy sighed internally, already knowing where this conversation was going. He had seen it before—Bingley’s affection, his inclination to speak of nothing but Miss Bennet, to revel in the smallest interactions as though they were proof of something greater. It would be charming, were it not so utterly misguided.

Bingley let out a short laugh and set his spoon down. “And yet, I do not know what to think anymore.” His expression grew clouded, his brow furrowing as he leaned back. “Ever since our conversation in Calcutta, I have been doubting everything. I see her smile, and I think, ‘There, surely that means something’. But then I remember what you said, and I wonder if it is simply her nature. If I have mistaken kindness for something deeper.”

Darcy felt a flash of unease. He had not meant to throw Bingley into complete turmoil, only to encourage him to consider the realities of his situation. Yet here he was, torn between the instincts of his heart and the logic Darcy had imposed upon him.

Bingley exhaled. “I have not even spoken to her properly in days. Not like before. I find myself hesitating, where before I would not have thought twice. And now I fear I have begun to act as though I no longer care for her at all.” He glanced at Darcy then, his expression conflicted. “And the worst of it is, I do not even know if that is right or wrong.”

Darcy’s chest tightened. He could see the battle playing out within his friend, and for a moment, he hated himself for it. He knew the battle well enough himself, but the truth was, Bingley was not like him. He had always moved through life with ease, with good humour and an open heart. He did not calculate his actions, nor weigh them against societal expectations. And yet, here he was, doing just that, and all because of Darcy.

But it is for his own good. It has to be.

“You are right to be cautious,” Darcy said carefully. “You must consider what comes after this voyage. This—” He gestured vaguely around them, at the swaying ship, at the illusion of isolation it provided. “—is not the world, Bingley. It is a fragment, a temporary moment in time. When we return to England, reality will resume, and it will not be so easy to ignore the obstacles in front of you.”

Bingley frowned, his teacup in hand, but he did not interrupt.

Darcy pressed on. “The attachment you feel now, in this confined space, may not hold when faced with the expectations of your family, your position. And Miss Bennet…” He hesitated, hating the words even as he spoke them. “She has given you no reason to believe she returns your affections with certainty.”

Bingley looked down, his fingers tapping against the table in thought. He did not argue. He did not insist that Darcy was wrong. And that, more than anything, told Darcy just how much doubt had already taken root.

Finally, Bingley sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You may be right,” he admitted quietly. “Perhaps I have been caught up in the dream of it all.” He exhaled. “Perhaps it is better to let it go now than to be led into disappointment later.”

Darcy nodded, though the triumph he should have felt did not come.

Bingley gave him a tight smile. “I suppose I ought to thank you for your counsel.”

Darcy inclined his head. “I only wish for your happiness.”

Bingley huffed a short, humourless laugh. “Yes. I only wish I knew what that was.”

Darcy said nothing. What could he say? He had done what was necessary.

Even if, for some reason, it left a sour taste in his mouth.

It was later, as he stepped out onto the deck to clear his mind, that he came across Elizabeth once more. Much to his frustration. It seemed she was there wherever he turned, and that would be the case until they landed in England and could go their separate ways.

There she was, as usual, standing at the far side of the deck, the breeze tugging lightly at the loose strands of her hair, once more staring out at the endless horizon. There was tension in the set of her shoulders, and for a moment he considered going up to her, talking to her.

But he couldn’t. Darcy turned sharply, intent on retreat. The last thing he needed was another confrontation with her, especially after what had transpired between them in her cabin. The memory of her weight in his arms, her breath catching as she clung to him. It was far too present in his mind. And worse still, there was the weight of his conversation with Bingley still pressing down on him, thick and suffocating. He had to get away.

He moved quickly, stepping towards the opposite direction, but it was too late.

“Mr Darcy.”

He froze. He could pretend not to hear her, keep walking as though he had not noticed her presence. But he knew her too well to think she would let him escape so easily. And sure enough, she marched—or rather, hobbled on a damaged ankle—up to him, trapping him.

“Mr Darcy,” she repeated, her voice sharper this time. He turned just as she came to a stop in front of him. He braced himself.

“Miss Bennet,” he said, inclining his head with forced politeness. “Good day.”

Her eyes were narrowed, burning with a fire he had not seen in days. “Good day?” she echoed, incredulous. “You would act as though nothing is amiss?”

Darcy’s pulse quickened, but he kept his expression neutral. “I am not certain what you mean.”

Elizabeth huffed out a sharp breath, coming to a halt before him. “You know exactly what I mean,” she snapped. “My sister.”

Darcy stiffened. He had anticipated many things from this conversation—her usual sharp wit, perhaps even another cold dismissal—but he had not expected her to launch straight into an attack.

“She is miserable, Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth continued, her voice taut with frustration. “Mr Bingley has been nothing but distant these past weeks, and she does not understand why. To make it worse, he point-blank ignored her this afternoon. She has done nothing to warrant such treatment, nothing to deserve such unkindness. I demand to know what is going on.”

Darcy opened his mouth, but no words came. He had prepared himself for Bingley’s withdrawal to eventually be noticed, naturally, but standing here, facing the reality of Elizabeth’s anger, was something else entirely. He didn’t know what to say.

She folded her arms, waiting. “Well?” she demanded. “Do you mean to explain yourself?”

Darcy exhaled slowly, gripping the edge of his coat. “I am afraid I cannot speak for Bingley’s actions.”

Elizabeth’s nostrils flared. “You expect me to believe that?” she scoffed. “That you, his dearest friend, have had nothing to do with this sudden change in behaviour?”

Darcy said nothing, afraid that whatever words he did say would be the wrong ones.

She let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “Oh, of course,” she said mockingly. “How foolish of me. You had no part in this distancing at all. Just as you had no part in influencing his decision to reconsider his affections.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened. “Miss Bennet—”

“No,” she interrupted fiercely. “Do not deny it. I see it now. You never intended for him to be attached to her. You think our family beneath yours, don’t you? You think Jane unworthy of his regard.”

Darcy flinched, but Elizabeth pressed on.

“Well, let me tell you something, Mr Darcy.” Her voice was quieter now, but no less forceful. “You may have succeeded in planting doubt in his mind. You may have convinced him to reconsider. But you have done a cruel thing. You have made her hope and then dashed it without a second thought.”

Darcy swallowed. His throat was dry, his mind scrambling for something—anything—to say that would not make things worse. He could not find the words. She was right. He had been cruel.

Elizabeth exhaled sharply, her gaze searching his face as though she expected him to refute her, to argue, to do something other than stand there in stiff silence. But when he did not, when all he could do was look at her, guilty and speechless, her face twisted in frustration.

She shook her head. “You truly are insufferable,” she muttered, then turned on her heel and strode away.

Darcy remained rooted to the spot, watching her retreating figure until she disappeared below deck. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his breath uneven.

She was right. He had convinced Bingley to pull away, had told himself it was for his own good. He had done what he believed to be best.

Then why did it feel like he had made a mistake?