Fitzwilliam Darcy was not a storyteller. He had never been one to spin a tale to amuse his listeners. But that had changed. In this new world, he found himself embellishing and fabricating stories to not only please his audience but to give himself a past. For a man who abhorred deceit in any form, he was becoming quite adept at the art of duplicity.But my deception is not like that of Wickham’s. I am coloring my story for survival in a world which I know little about, to attain an intimacy with those I love. He uses lies to manipulate others, better his situation, and steal from those who trust him.
Wickham. The lengths he was willing to go for coin sickened him.To be a slave trader? I would never imagine even Wickham having stooped so low. And no matter how reduced my own circumstances are from my other life, I will never consider it!
Contemplating those truths, he looked about the spartan dining room in Bingley’s home and felt a heavy weight on his heart, not knowing what had brought his friend to his present circumstances. Had Bingleystepped so far from his own moral compass? Darcy could not believe it to be so, but all was not well.
“How long were you and Mrs. Bingley married?”
Charles took a long drink of his port. “It would have been two years this last November.”
“Two years? So, it was shortly after your graduation from Cambridge?”
“Yes. If you recall, my father was in trade. I have no connections but believed I had made firm friendships at university which would help raise my circumstances.”
“Do you not have an older sister who is married?”
Bingley took another sip. “Louisa had only recently become betrothed, and her future mother and father were more interested in her dowry than furthering family relations.”
Darcy quietly nursed his own drink, silently encouraging his friend to resume with his tale.
“I am not much of a gambler but was introduced to a few gentlemen I was led to believe had my best interest. Unfortunately, I was deceived.”
“How so?” Darcy asked, leaning forward, his glass dangling from his fingertips.
“I had just met the elder brother of Rosalind, Lionel Chesterfield, at a hunting party at Pemberley.”
“Pemberley?”
“Yes. Mr. Darcy and Mrs. Wickham, then Miss Darcy, were in Scotland. Mr. Wickham held a shooting party while they were away.” Bingley finished his drink and stood to pour another, forcing Darcy to wonder if he should stop him or allow him to continue using the elixir of truth, which gave him the information he most desired.
“And that is where you met Chesterfield?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
Darcy said, “I have come across him in London. He is a most…interesting man.”
Bingley smirked. “I see youdoknow my brother then.” His smile faded. “After a day of shooting, we played cards, where I lost terribly and drank more. I am not one to hold my drink very well. Somewhere during that time, Chesterfield offered to introduce me to his sister, a woman whose beauty Wickham, Gafton, and Viscount Wenton—”
“Viscount Wenton? Alfred was there?”
“They assured me of the beauty and grace of Chesterfield’s sister, Rosalind. Before the end of the week, I had somehow agreed to become engaged to her although we had never met. I know not how it happened. Everything was a jumble.” He was quiet, his gaze reaching into his past. “In a month, I was married.”
“So quickly?”
“Yes.” Bingley’s tone was level. “Rosalind was a most eager bride but was very sickly during our brief courtship. I noticed she had a delicate constitution and would often become ill with certain foods and scents, having to rush from the room unexpectedly. More often than not, my betrothed remained in her rooms. This endured every day leading up to our marriage where she would not come down for morning callers, instead waiting until the evening to sit with those of consequence.
“Her brother and mother assured me she was suffering from a common illness which all ladies suffered from, and would run its ‘course’, that a cold would be more worrisome.” He took another swallow and stared unseeing into the fire. “After all, as her mother once said, ‘People do not die of trifling colds.’ So, I had no need to worry.”
Darcy remained quiet, his suspicion growing.
“Rosalind had insisted on postponing a wedding tour to be near her mother. She held a great affection for Mrs. Chesterfield, and I did whatever was in my power to please my bride. Yet, within two weeks of our marriage, hercoldturned almost fatal. I returned home from the club to find her mother and a doctor in her room. I was not grantedadmittance, but at the pained cries of my wife, I rushed into the room, and—”
Here he stopped, took another swallow then set his half-empty glass on the tabletop. “My apologies, Fitzroy. I must tire you with my tale.”
“No indeed. I am sustained with this quality glass of port. I am only grieved for your having been so ill-used.”
It was true. He had no qualms staying and listening to Bingley’s tale, but he had to admit, it was more out of selfishness than benevolence. Still, he felt a strange comfort sitting there with his old friend from his previous life. Recollecting the scores of times they had done just that at their club or Pemberley gave Darcy some peace. He modulated his tone and eagerness while gently encouraging Charles to continue.
Bingley cleared his throat. “After her recovery…from the cold, Rosalind was…a most affectionate and loyal wife. She was an angel.” Darcy was expecting this usual avowal but was unprepared for the staleness in his voice. “To help with her convalescence, we chose to take a house in Mayfield which pleased my sister Caroline a great deal, and we three took up residence.
