“You know nothing about Miss Bennet.” Bingley’s cheeks turned pink.
So, he has already formed a tendre for his latest angel. Darcy knew what would happen now. Bingley would lavish attention on the poor lady, engaging her affections and portraying every intention of an attachment, but something new would draw his gaze, and the poor lady would be left alone. Bingley is his own man. It was not for Darcy to interfere, poor though was the behavior.
And yet Darcy could not help thinking that there had been nothing fickle in Bingley’s attentions last night. His friend had been struck—not by flirtation, but by gentleness, by beauty unaccompanied by artifice. If Bingley’s regard endured, it would be because it had roots. Darcy told himself it would not—because to hope otherwise would be to invite complications he did not wish to manage.
“I shall know Miss Bennet’s true worth within a fortnight,” Miss Bingley vowed. Her eyes glittered with the satisfaction of a woman who believed herself cleverer than everyone present. “You know I have a…particular gift…for discovering pertinent information.”
She smiled as she spoke, and it was the kind of smile that belonged in a drawing room—bright, graceful, and faintly predatory. It made Bingley look away in discomfort, as though he could not decide whether to be amused or ashamed.
She means, I suppose, the Runners she employs.Darcy’s man had discovered this last season when Miss Bingley’s gossip had ruined a young woman. The information discovered could only have been unearthed using extreme methods. Thankfully, no one had traced the rumors to the Bingley household, or Charles would have been ruined. Darcy did not approve, but if Miss Bingley wished to spend her dowry eliminating her perceived rivals, that was her decision.
The memory pricked at him: the murmurs in London, the sudden chill that had fallen over a once-respected girl, the way reputations could be ruined not by proof but by insinuation whispered to the right ears. Miss Bingley had possessed no scruple about it, only a cold satisfaction that her rival had been removed. Darcy had nearly confronted her then—had nearly demanded to know what pleasure she found in such cruelty—but he had held his tongue for Bingley’s sake. Bingley had been mortified when he learned of it; Miss Bingley had merely laughed.
Miss Bingley’s powers of discovery, however, extended no further than what could be purchased or pried loose by insinuation. She could listen, inquire, and pay for whispers; she could pursue rumors until they were worn thin and reshaped to her purpose. But she could not conjure wealth where none announced itself. The Bennet sisters presented nothing to invite suspicion or ambition—no ostentation in dress, no indulgence in display, no hint of that careless expenditure by which concealed fortunes so often betrayed themselves. Their gowns were well made but unremarkable, their manners easy without affectation, and their confidence owed more to character than to consequence. To Miss Bingley’s eye, trained to recognize advantage only when it was proclaimed, such restraint could mean only one thing: that there was nothing worth uncovering. Whatever secrets these young women possessed lay beyond her reach—not because they were cleverly hidden, but because she never thought to look for what did not first announce its value.
Darcy’s fork paused midway to his mouth. The thought was uncomfortably apt. Miss Bingley could not imagine a virtue that was not performed for effect, nor a reserve that was not evidence of want. She would see modesty and assume poverty; see restraint and assume insignificance. That blindness was,perhaps, her greatest limitation—and her greatest danger to others.
“Besides, Charles, your fortune and position—even your connections—allow you to do more than settle for the daughter of a country gentleman.” Mrs. Hurst’s remonstrations joined her sister’s, piling one argument atop another as though volume might substitute for truth.
“If a person is good, amiable, and sensible—what more should I require? What care I for fortune or connections? I have ample of both.” Bingley’s voice rose, then softened as though he were embarrassed by his own passion. He set down his cup with more force than necessary.
“Character is only one aspect in finding a match, my friend. You may have fortune and connections aplenty, but they are of some importance when selecting a bride. Your family’s footing in society is very new and not entirely secure. One misstep could render all progress moot.” The words had burst forth seemingly of their own volition. Darcy’s mouth snapped shut after his impromptu speech. Though he agreed with much of what the sisters said, he did not want them to know that.
The moment the words left him, he regretted them—not because they were wholly untrue, but because of how they would be used. Miss Bingley would seize on his statement as validation. Mrs. Hurst would use it as a cudgel. And Bingley—sweet, impulsive Bingley—would look wounded that Darcy had, even briefly, joined the chorus.
“Well said, Mr. Darcy.” Miss Bingley smiled coyly at him, and he felt bile rise in his throat. “Best be careful, Charles. It would not do to connect ourselves to those so decidedly beneath us.” Miss Bingley’s eyes flashed. “You require prudence, Charles.”
“And taste,” Mrs. Hurst added, as if taste were a measurable commodity to be purchased with a London address.
Bingley opened his mouth to reply again, and Darcy felt the tension in the room sharpen. The servants moved even more quietly, as though trying to become invisible. It was the sort of domestic scene Darcy despised—discord wrapped in civility, affection pressed into service as a weapon.
He cringed inwardly. Had he not said something eerily similar the night before? Goodness, is that how I sound? If so, his arrogance needed to be tempered.
Darcy’s gaze dropped to his plate, appetite evaporating. The scone before him looked suddenly unappealing, its golden crust too cheerful for his mood. He thought of the Bennet sisters—of Jane’s gentle composure, of Mary’s quiet earnestness, and of Elizabeth…He forced his mind away from her at once, irritated that she should intrude upon his thoughts again.
And yet, as he sat amidst the polished contempt of Netherfield’s breakfast table, he could not help comparing. The Bennets had lacked London’s refinement, perhaps, and certainly its cruelty. Their laughter had been genuine. Their manners, if less polished, had been warmer. Even Mrs. Bennet’s fluttering excitement had been born of hope rather than malice.
Bingley, for his part, looked between his sisters and Darcy with an expression caught between resolve and hurt. He swallowed once, then spoke with measured care.
“I am not a child,” he said. “I will not be managed. I value your counsel, Darcy—and I value my sisters’…concerns. But I will choose my own acquaintances. And I will not hear Miss Bennet spoken of as though she were a creature to be weighed and dismissed.”
Miss Bingley’s nostrils flared, but she recovered quickly, smoothing her tone into sweetness. “We only wish to protect you.”
“Yes,” Bingley said with feeling, “from happiness.”
Darcy’s eyes flicked up at that, and for a moment he almost smiled. Almost.
Mr. Hurst, who had contributed nothing beyond complaint and consumption, drained his glass of port and reached for the decanter again. “If we are to have such earnest speeches,” he muttered, “someone ought to produce a deck of cards. It would improve the morning.”
No one acknowledged him.
Darcy set down his fork, the motion deliberate. He had spoken too freely and had given Miss Bingley ammunition. He had, worst of all, heard his own voice echoed back at him—his own severity made uglier by her smug approval.
Temper, Darcy,he thought.Not your judgment—your manner.
For if his principles were to remain intact, he must learn not to deliver them in a way that invited contempt rather than respect. And if he were honest—painfully honest—he must admit that last night’s words, thrown carelessly in a moment of irritation, had been precisely the kind of cruelty he despised when he saw it in others.
He rose at last, pushing back his chair with restrained politeness. “If you will excuse me, Bingley,” he said, inclining his head. “I have letters to write.”
