Page 40 of Penned By Mr Darcy
“Yes. You are angry at yourself, but you take it out on me instead. Your temperament has been atrocious for days, but I have tolerated it in the name of friendship. I have tried to distract you, yet it came to nothing. I am an easy mark, for you know I forgive far more easily than my sisters. You mean to wound, to inflict your anger on others. Your frustration at losing your diary is understandable – but I object to this treatment, Darcy!”
“I am doing nothing of the sort. I speak the truth, that is all. How many women look at you, at us, with designs upon our wealth? They see riches, rather than men; a life of comfort, a husband of means. The Bennets are quite open in their fawning, based on nothing but the size of your house.”
“The Bennets are a distinguished family.”
“In this strange little place they inhabit, yes – but they are lacking in refinement. Do you believe those younger sisters would have any place in London? They are outrageous flirts, with no sense of how to behave amongst company.”
“They are a little wild, yes, but not without charm. And Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth, you cannot deny that they are well bred and eloquent.”
“Miss Elizabeth speaks too freely.”
“You say that only because she challenges you.”
“No, I…”
“What other woman – nay, what other person – has ever spoken to you thus?”
“Is that meant to be some manner of accomplishment, that she speaks to me without reservation?”
“I think so. And there is something about you, when she speaks to you. Something…I do not know, but you do not seem yourself.”
“And that is indicative of affection?”
“I suppose not.”
“Are we to have the same conversation over and over, Bingley? You may harbour this infatuation if you wish, but I would thank you not to hold any delusions that we are united in this baseless adoration for the eldest Bennet girls.”
Bingley said nothing, his smile downturned.
“If you wish,” Darcy said after a while, the silence unbearable, “we may deliver the invitations to this cursed ball you have planned in person.”
“I do not wish to force you to have any part of this,” Bingley sniffed. “I know you think the ball a folly.”
“I suppose you are right; we will return to London soon, and it is a fine gesture of gratitude to those who have treated us well whilst we have stayed here.”
“Tomorrow, then,” Bingley beamed. “The invitations are ready, and I should like the Bennets to be the first to receive theirs.”
“Very well.”
∞∞∞
The following morning dawned grey and mist-laced, the kind of chill that settled into the bones. Darcy stood by the window in his chamber, watching the fog roll across the lawn, the landscape fading into pale obscurity. The day mirrored his mind - clouded, burdened by the memory of what he had lost and the knowledge of what could befall Georgiana if that diary were found by the wrong hands.
He had barely slept again.
Still, when Bingley’s cheerful knock came at the door shortly before midday, he was long since dressed, gloves in hand. Darcy had taken no breakfast, remaining in his room as he did nothing but stare at the wall.
“The carriage is ready,” Bingley said, peering in with barely concealed eagerness. “Unless you would rather ride?”
“No,” Darcy said, brushing a speck of lint from his coat sleeve. “The carriage is adequate if it is prepared; I would rather be done with this as quickly as possible and not waste time saddling the horses.”
Bingley, seemingly not hearing his final remark, nodded with a broad smile, leading Darcy out of the room and down the stairs out into the sunlight.
“Excellent! I daresay Mrs. Bennet will be delighted to see us again. Though perhaps not as delighted as she would be to receive a certain announcement instead of an invitation.”
Darcy glanced at him sharply, but said nothing.
They rode in silence, save for Bingley’s occasional humming. Darcy’s gaze was fixed on the road, though he did not see it. His thoughts were once again lost to speculation. Had the diary fallen into the hands of a servant? Of some local gossip-monger? Or - worse - one of the Bennets themselves? He had retraced every step, revisited every turning of the trail, every grove, every thicket. Nothing.
