“My other sister’s new family, the Hursts, were not pleased. They were apparently at odds with the Chesterfieldsover some land.Thisdid not concern me. I had only my wife and her family to prove my allegiance, not the Hursts.”
“Your sister, Miss Bingley. She and Mrs. Bingley were friends?”
His question was met by a cough which Bingley attempted to hide by raising his glass. “Once my wife became with child again, she and Caroline had some sort of disagreement. Caroline moved in with the Hursts, and we hardly spoke after that. They never reconciled, and both Rosalind and the baby died during the birth.”
“I am grieved for your loss. And is Miss Bingley well?”
Bingley stared back into the fire. “Caroline has lately gone to America.”
“America?” Darcy asked with raised brows. “She must be a most adventurous lady. I admire her spirit of discovery.”
“Yes,” was all Bingley’s reply as he took another drink.
The room grew quiet, and the fire crackled, with the warmth from the room and his drink spreading through him. Sensing the moment passing, Darcy struck with one more question. “And now, my friend, I wonder what took you from Mayfield to amercantile in Hunsford?”
Bingley gave a sad laugh. “Once again, Fitzroy. I am not good at cards.”
Darcy entered the parsonage, handed his coat and hat to the servant, and wandered down the darkened corridor. It had been a long but comforting evening. Bingley seemed the same unaffected person in this lifetime as in the last. They spoke of horseflesh, politics, and business. And, although the jovial Charles was still there, Darcy could sense caution in his conversation, a reserve that had never been there before.
I could not ask him about Pemberley…not yet at least. He was thick enough with Wickham that he would know what had occurred. But he is obviously struggling with his own demons. I could not push him any further without seeming impertinent. And to have had such a wife! I would hope that any man would choose wiser than Rosalind Chesterfield! God rest her soul.
He remembered the rumors of Rosalind Chesterfield, a woman of little character and morals. Darcy was saddened for his friend who had not received better counsel.
As he passed the sitting room, he glanced within, and there, with her legs tucked under her, sat perfection.
“Eli…Miss Bennet.”
“Mr. Fitzroy!” She stumbled to stand and thrust a book quickly behind her back.
His eyebrows raised as he watched her uneven breathing begin to regulate. “I take it your book is…pleasurable?” He walked to the chair and sat across from her when she herself returned to her seat.
“Pardon me. It is just that Jane was in bed, and Mr. Collins had to depart to ______shire on an errand for Lady Catherine and has yet to return.”
“And your book…?”
Elizabeth raised her chin. “Is one which Mr. Collins forbade me to read because of its questionable morals.” Her eyes sparkled with challenge.
“Forbade you? Miss Elizabeth, I do not believe anyone could deter you from anything. Possibly a gothic novel? Maybe one of unrequited love?” A teasing note in his voice caused her cheeks to flush. He raised a brow, and she matched his expression with a crooked grin. “What is this book which will bring about your ruination, miss?”
She hesitantly took it from behind her back and handed the well-worn book out to him. He sputtered in surprise. “Shakespeare’s Sonnets? Mr. Collins forbade you from readingShakespeare’s Sonnets?”
“My new brother believes a young lady must never educate herself with literature which can be construed as a vice.”
“A vice? Shakespeare?”
“According to Mr. Collins, the Bard has many areas in need of improvement, and a young lady of reputable character should never be exposed to his writing.”
“How can his character improve when he has been dead for over two hundred years?”
“It is apparent Mr. Collins was not a student of the Classics, sir.”
Darcy basked in her wit and eased back in his chair while Elizabeth said, “I have been informed that due to Romeo and Juliet’s breaking of the commandment to honor their father and mother, and marrying in secret, this caused their untimely death.”
“Well…that is true,” Darcy replied with great thought. “Still, the real question remains: Do you believe their affection was true, or was it merely produced by Cupid’s haphazard arrow?”
She sat in mock contemplation. “Ibelievewhile lying in repose, the great Mr. Shakespeare is laughing at the irony of a young woman forced to hold her tongue of its natural inclination. Will she maintain proprietytoward the man who will determine if she is to either live in her family’s ancestral home or the hedgerows? I am certain the Bard is all anticipation.”
“As would anyone with sense about them.”
