The lamps in the drawing room were lit earlier than usual, though the hour scarcely required it.
Outside, the lingering warmth of the day had given way to a restless dusk—too mild for autumn, yet too heavy for comfort.
The windows stood slightly open, but the air within Netherfield remained close, the house itself seeming to hold its breath.
Darcy felt the oppressive atmosphere keenly, and nowhere more acutely than at supper.
Bingley arrived late, his apology delivered in haste and without his customary warmth, giving the impression of a formality rather than a genuine courtesy.
He took his seat with little ceremony and ate with even less appetite.
His attention wandered in fits and starts, never settling upon his companions for long.
When replies were required, they were clipped.
When smiles were attempted, they possessed a brittleness that did not escape notice.
The others at table were largely ignored, though Richard’s easy levity drew more than one sharp glance from him—quickly suppressed, but no less revealing for its brevity.
Even Miss Bingley’s efforts to animate the table—so often equal to the task—proved unequal to the evening. She spoke too brightly, laughed too quickly, and cast repeated glances toward her brother that went unanswered, each one lingering a moment longer than the last, as if she might yet coax him back into himself.
Darcy watched it all with growing concern. Charles Bingley had always worn his emotions openly; it was one of his most appealing qualities. Yet now there was something unmoored in his manner—an edge that hinted at desperation rather than disappointment. He rose from the table almost as soon as the last course was cleared, muttered something about fatigue, and left the room without waiting for the ladies to rise.
Miss Bingley’s gaze followed him, her eyes narrowing.
“Well,” Hurst murmured, draining his wine, “that was delightful.”
Mrs. Hurst shot her husband a warning look, but said nothing.
Darcy excused himself soon after, claiming a need for fresh air. In truth, he wished only to distance himself from the oppressive atmosphere that had settled over Netherfield like a fog. He hadnot gone far—only to the small anteroom adjoining the drawing room—when he heard his name spoken softly behind him.
“Mr. Darcy.”
He turned to find Miss Bingley standing just within the threshold. She had changed gowns since the outing, exchanging the deep blue gown she had worn on the picnic for a pale silk trimmed with lace. It suited her, lending gravity to her appearance and tempering her usual air of studied brilliance. Her expression was unsettled.
“Miss Bingley,” Darcy said evenly. “Is something amiss?”
She hesitated, fingers twisting together briefly before she seemed to gather herself. “May I speak with you? Privately.”
Darcy inclined his head and gestured toward the small seating area near the window. “Of course.” He was wary, though less suspicious of her intentions since their conversation a week or so prior. They seated themselves opposite one another. For a moment, neither spoke. Miss Bingley stared at her gloved hands, then looked up at him with an expression that was—astonishingly—earnest.
“My brother,” she began, then stopped, reconsidering her approach. “Charles has…lost his senses.”
Darcy did not interrupt.
“He told me this evening before supper,” she continued, her voice tight, “that I must convince you to marry me. As soon as possible.”
Darcy stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”
She huffed out a short, incredulous laugh.
“You may imagine my reaction. I told him that even I am not so blind as to believe that ship has not already sailed. I reminded him—quite pointedly—that you are officially courting Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “And his response?”
“That it does not matter,” she said flatly. “That there are ways to convince a man and that affection can be…encouraged.”
Her cheeks went red.
