“They are dwindling. Considerably.”
Darcy’s thoughts raced. “How badly?”
“Badly enough that creditors are pressing. Severely enough that he sought relief where he believed it must exist—and found it denied.”
Darcy stared toward the pianoforte, where Miss Bingley played with impeccable control, her face composed, her posture elegant.
If she knew anything of her brother’s difficulties, she gave no sign of it. Indeed, she still behaved as if all were well, and so Darcy believed she knew nothing.
“He believes marriage will save him,” Darcy murmured.
Hurst gave a short, soft huff.
“Or delay the inevitable.”
His gaze fixed on Darcy, keen and unmistakable.
“And he knows precisely whose sense of honor he may rely upon.”
Darcy’s hand curled into a fist.
Bingley had always been generous—too generous. He had spent as though fortune were inexhaustible, trusted as though no one would ever betray him, believed as though consequences were a distant abstraction.
Now they had arrived.
“His behavior is becoming erratic,” Darcy said. “He speaks impulsively, acts without reflection. And now this.”
“This attempt to force you into matrimony?” Hurst snorted. “Yes, I overheard. Desperation will do that to a man.”
Darcy rose and began to pace. “This cannot continue. Netherfield is no longer safe. Not in the sense of peace or propriety. Even though Miss Bingley has declared she will not force me, I shudder to think of what other mischief your brother-in-law will create.”
Hurst watched him closely. “You are thinking of leaving.”
“I am,” Darcy admitted. “At least temporarily. Richard and I could take a house—somewhere nearby, but not here. It would remove us from the worst of this turbulence.”
“And keep the Misses Bennet,” Hurst added dryly, “close at hand for courtship.”
Darcy halted, a wry smile spreading across his face. “Yes.”
He pictured Elizabeth as she had been that afternoon—watchful, thoughtful, weighed down by worries she did not voice. She did not deserve to be drawn into Bingley’s collapse, nor subjected to schemes born of panic. Nor did her sister. Miss Bennet deserved to know the truth about the man who courted her.
“I cannot abandon him,” Darcy said quietly. “But I cannot enable this behavior either.”
Hurst stood. “Then distance may be the kindest thing you can offer.”
Darcy nodded, resolve settling at last. “If I am close, he may still call upon me for aid. Perhaps if I am not in the same household, he will finally be willing to speak with me.”
Across the room, Miss Bingley’s music reached its final cadence and faded into silence. Richard and Mrs. Hurst clapped politely as she rose, inclined her head to no one in particular, and withdrew.
Darcy remained by the window long after the others left, staring out into the darkened grounds of Netherfield. The lights glowed steadily, but beneath their warmth lay fracture lines that could no longer be ignored.
Elizabeth Bennet was the future he wished to claim. This house—once a place of promise despite its deficiencies—had become a crucible. Darcy knew that if he did not act soon, the damage would spread far beyond Netherfield’s walls.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Darcy had not expected the morning to feel so unburdened. The air was crisp as he and Richard rode out from Netherfield, the sun already well above the horizon, though Bingley’s windows remained stubbornly shuttered. No summons had come from his friend, no sleepy greeting or late apology. Bingley had not yet risen, and Darcy found—somewhat to his own surprise—that he did not regret the omission.
Richard, for his part, seemed in excellent spirits. “I begin to think,” his cousin remarked lightly, adjusting his reins as the hedgerows gave way to open fields, “that Hertfordshire improves considerably in Bingley’s absence.”
