“Hertfordshire,” he said shortly. His appetite, such as it had been, was gone. He wished only to summon Patrick and see his own wardrobe packed.
Mrs. Annesley’s face pinched. “Hertfordshire? May I ask why a dawn departure? Should we not send ahead? Apprise the relevant party in Hertfordshire of an upcoming visit?”
Darcy shook his head. “There is no need. Bingley will be pleased to have us.” He would be pleased to have Darcy, at least, and would be convivial to Georgiana, no matter how weepy she became.
“Then a visit to Mr. Bingley is your intention?”
Darcy frowned. Why did so much worry fill Mrs. Annesley’s voice? “Yes.”
“Oh, but you should write to him first, surely. We should—”
“You overstep, Mrs. Annesley,” Darcy snapped.
Her mouth popped closed, mid-sentence.
After months of worry, his patience was worn thin, like leather pulled too tight over the top of a drum, but he should not address her in such a tone. He drew in a breath. “I apologize. What I should have said is, Bingley will be pleased to see us, with warning or without, and a messenger would scarcely reach him faster than I intend us to. Furthermore, I believe this is the best way to go about extricating Georgiana from her misery. I do not want to give her time to formulate too strong of a protest. I want to remove her as quickly as possible. I would have us away within the hour if not for nightfall.”
Mrs. Annesley nodded. “Very well. I will have us packed by morning.”
“You will not accompany us,” he said, a bit surprised she assumed she would when he had not expressly said so. Gentling his voice he continued, “I do not fault your care in any way. I simply wish to change as much as possible as quickly as possible, in an attempt to jolt her from her doldrums. However, it would please me if you would make your way to London. I will put a carriage at your disposal. That way, should Georgiana require you, you will be nearby.”
Mrs. Annesley twined her fingers, the skin pulled white. “Yes, Mr. Darcy,” she murmured, and he imagined that now her worry stemmed from fear of losing her position rather than the consequences of showing up on Bingley’s doorstep unannounced.
Darcy did not trouble to inform her that her position was as secure as ever, meaning fully dependent on how well he felt she performed her duties. With a nod, he turned and went into his room.
His evening continued down a similarly aggravating path for, when summoned, Patrick protested not first writing to Bingley as well. Far more strenuously, in fact, than Mrs. Annesley had dared. Darcy was not swayed, for he knew Bingley full well, andcertainly better than either member of his staff did, but being badgered to change his plans left him in an even more sour mood. Finally, after all was in order and he had a tray in his room, he climbed into bed to seek sleep, where the frustrations of his evening could be relegated to yesterday.
He had strange dreams, however, the clearest that Patrick and Mrs. Annesley stood on the other side of the doorway to his sitting room, arguing. One of them kept saying that Colonel Fitzwilliam must be told, and the other protesting that only ‘the general’ could decide that, so he must be told first. They then devolved into bickering over routes to London and to Hertfordshire, and how fast a man ahorse could go, and who to trust. In Darcy’s sleeping mind, their words mingled with his travel plans.
Then Richard was there in his dream, conjured by his staff’s argument, telling Darcy that he’d failed Georgiana. Muddled as the whole vision was, Darcy didn’t know which of the two of them his cousin meant by ‘he.’ Regardless, Darcy apologized over and over.
He woke with a throbbing head, reflected that it would be good for him to get away from Pemberley as well, and rolled over. In moments, he was asleep again, his mind now ranging over what could be so wrong with Netherfield Park that Bingley did not want to admit the problem.
Chapter Nine
Several afternoons after the assembly, Elizabeth’s mother insisted they all join her in the small front parlor. Since that night, they had daily exchanged calls with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and today Mrs. Bennet felt certain that Mr. Bingley would finally accompany his sisters, so he might further his acquaintance with Jane. So sure was she, that Mrs. Bennet would not even permit them any useful occupation, such as mending. They simply sat, all five of them, backs straight and hands clasped in their laps, while Mrs. Bennet spoke.
“…expand this parlor as well, certainly,” Mrs. Bennet was saying. “Yes, once my dear, sweet Jane is mistress of Netherfield Park, and has Mr. Bingley’s five thousand a year, this place will need a great many renovations. I am certain Mr. Bingley, being so amiable, will help with those. He will want his wife’s family to be comfortable. We will have a new dining set, as well, for you and Mr. Bingley must dine with us at least once a week, Jane, and…”
As her mother continued in this vein, Elizabeth forwent pointing out that Mr. Bingley was only leasing Netherfield Park, and that they had no real idea of his income, which rumor had surely inflated and to which her mother continued to add. Instead, Elizabeth let Mrs. Bennet carry on while inching her fingers closer to a book that rested on a nearby table. If she could flip it open, she hardly cared to what page, she could read it out of the corner of her eye. True, it was a boring horticultural book her father had left there, but anything would be better than listening to Mrs. Bennet plan what she would do with Mr. Bingley’s money.
Elizabeth’s fingertips touched the binding.
“Elizabeth,” Mrs. Bennet snapped, breaking off her monologue. “I will not have your mind all befuddled and riledwhen our guests arrive. You will be distracted and contrary. No reading.”
“I will hardly be made contrary by a discourse on the value of rotating crops,” Elizabeth protested.
“No reading,” Mrs. Bennet reiterated firmly.
Her shoulders slumping, Elizabeth withdrew her hand back to her lap.
“Be more like Jane,” Mrs. Bennet added. “She is quite content to wait.”
Elizabeth glanced at her sister. Jane did, indeed, seem content. She also seemed unaware, a dreamy, abstract expression softening her features as she stared across the room at the far wall, where a display of figurines cluttered a narrow shelf. From their late-night talks, Elizabeth knew Mr. Bingley occupied Jane’s thoughts at least as fully as he did their mother’s. In fact, the night before, Elizabeth had pretended sleep so as not to endure another rendition of, ‘Mr. Bingley is the most worthy, handsome gentleman.’ Infatuation threatened to turn Elizabeth’s most dear, reasonable sister foolish.
“This is so boring,” Lydia declared. “May Kitty and I walk to Meryton? Mr. Bingley did not dance two sets with either of us, after all.”
Mrs. Bennet pursed her lips, regarding them.
