Billy’s gulp was audible and clear, but less comprehensible was his stuttered response. Seconds later, the discourse had taken on an entirely different fashion… a nonverbal one.
Elizabeth ran, and spoke to not a soul until dinner.
Onthefollowingday,several persons were waiting for Darcy and Bingley when the carriage pulled up at Matlock, though only Reginald showed himself. Darcy glanced up the hall as they walked into the house, sensing, or perhaps only imagining, the weight of bated breath and anxious attendance of others upon his head.
Bingley was as good as a gangling adolescent. Since their train had departed London that morning, Darcy had lost count of the times he had answered his friend’s unease or given reassurance for his doubts. Had Bingley’s anxieties centred upon the constancy of his love or the woman whose hand he meant to beg, Darcy would have cautioned him. Bingley’s nerves, however, were more prosaic in nature—hopeful elation for the future combined with the last gasps of a bachelor’s independence.
“Do you really think it is not too soon?” Bingley asked once more. “She just had the word of her father a little more than two weeks ago. How can she be in a mind for thinking of marriage?”
“I expect she is in a perfect mind for thinking of the future,” Darcy replied. “I do not think the lady rash or impetuous regarding her feelings, or I would advise you differently. I believe she will welcome your timing.”
Bingley straightened his jacket just before stepping out of the carriage. “I hope so.”
Darcy had expected that once Reginald greeted Bingley and the latter declared his intentions openly, his own purpose would be complete, but it seemed his friend was not yet ready to part with him. And so, with one regretful glance down the hall, Darcy resigned himself to an undetermined delay before undertaking certain… other conversations.
Reginald invited them both to his study, and the “negotiations” commenced. Half an hour later, and after much ribbing and good-natured abuse, Charles Bingley walked out of the room with a smile as bright as the sun, nearly sprinting for the sitting room where his fair damsel awaited.
“You were too easy on him,” Darcy said.
“Only because Miss Bennet is not my daughter. I could think of nothing worse to do to him.”
“Fortunately for you, you have perhaps fourteen more years to come up with better means of handling your own daughter’s suitors.”
Reginald laughed. “Oh, speaking of suitors and the like, Anne asked me to tell you she wished to speak with you as soon as we finished here.”
Darcy pressed his mouth closed and merely nodded. He had things to say to her as well, and some of them might be unpleasant. Though every sinew and limb cried out to ask after Elizabeth and confirm with his own eyes that she was well, this one duty must come first. He had not spoken or written to Anne since that aborted attempt at dinner before Christmas—a thing no one could fail to notice, particularly considering his frequent letters of comfort to Elizabeth. He and Anne had much to discuss; much which must be upended, thrown over, and released if there was to be a way forward.
He found Anne in the drawing-room, seated with the countess as they took tea. Anne rose gravely when she saw him and beckoned him to follow her to the library. Apparently, she had taken to heart his request for more serious conversation, and he felt an ominous stirring from the pit of his stomach.
“Darcy, there is something I must tell you.”
“If you please,” he interrupted her, “I ought to go first. Perhaps what you have to say will be less stinging after I have done.”
She held her breath, then inclined her head.
He began to pace a circle about her, uncertain what to do with his hands or his eyes, but only knowing he did not wish to look at her face as he spoke. “I know I have been a disappointment. I have been unguarded, imprudent, and even wicked in my dealings with you.”
A fine line appeared between her eyebrows. “Wicked?”
“It comes to this. I will honour my promise. I will take my feelings in hand, seek to make you happy, and I will never betray you, but there is something I must confess.”
“I am going to marry Collins,” she blurted.
Darcy stopped mid-breath, his mouth still open and prepared to divulge…
“Whatdid you say?” He shook his head, even rubbed his ear.
“You heard me. I have proposed to William Collins, and we are happily agreed.”
He tried to blink the sunburst of bewilderment from his eyes, and his head was spinning wildly. He could only manage a strangled “How?”
“Had you a bit of imagination, you could discover that easily enough on your own. ‘How’ matters not. I was quite annoyed with you when I returned to Matlock, Darcy. I will own it. I always liked you, thought we would do well together, but you were not at all what I had contrived you to be in my mind.”
“If I have disappointed you—”
“Hold there, I am not finished. One day it occurred to me; the only person in all my acquaintance who dotes on my every word, and who addresses my passions with an excitement to equal mine, is Collins.”
“But… But he is younger than you!”
