And Darcy—steady, principled, watching her with concern that grew deeper each day.
How much longer until I must tell him everything? she wondered, her thoughts looping restlessly. Though she had previously resolved to tell him soon, she delayed time and time again. Soon, she would have no more excuses. Sleep came at last, slow and uneasy, carrying her into dreams where candlelight gleamed off ancient gold and every choice glittered with both promise and peril.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Charles Bingley had always prided himself on waking with optimism. Even on mornings when the accounts had been dull or the weather uncooperative, he rose with the expectation that the day would improve if only one set about it with sufficient cheer. That habit deserted him now.
He lay staring at the canopy above his bed, the embroidered vines blurring as his eyes refused to focus. The room was quiet—too quiet—and the silence gave his thoughts room to roam where he least wished them to go.
Everything has gone wrong,he thought bleakly.And all at once.
It had not been a single misstep, not one catastrophic decision he could point to and correct. It had been a series of reasonable choices, each one harmless on its own, each one made in good faith—or so he had believed at the time.
How was I supposed to know I overpaid for Netherfield?he argued with the empty room.The agent assured me the price was fair. Everyone said it was an excellent estate. Darcy himself said it would suit me.
Darcy. The name brought a tightening in his chest that was not entirely envy, though envy played its part.
And the wagers—how was I to know the tide would turn? I have always been fortunate. I have always won more than I lost.
Except now. Now the losses stood stark and unyielding, numbers inked onto ledgers that refused to soften no matter how many times he read them.
And Caroline’s dowry—why should I have known it was locked away so tightly? My father never said it could not be accessed. No one ever told me I could not rely upon it in an emergency.
His man of business had always handled such matters. Charles had trusted him implicitly. He had trusted everyone. It had seemed a virtue once. Now it felt like foolishness. He pushed himself upright, dragging a hand through his hair. The familiar, well-appointed chamber at Netherfield no longer felt soothing. It felt accusatory—every polished surface reflecting a life he could no longer afford to maintain indefinitely.
Darcy,he thought again, and this time the name carried something sharper.
Darcy had everything. Wealth beyond imagining. Estates that practically ran themselves. Family connections that opened doors without effort. And now he had love. He had Elizabeth Bennet. Courting her openly, properly, with every appearance of success.
He always gets what he wants,Charles thought bitterly.And I—
He stopped himself, inhaling sharply.
No. That was not fair. Darcy had been his friend. Darcywashis friend. And friends helped one another.
That is precisely the point,he reasoned.Friends do not stand by while another sinks.
And if Darcy would soon become his brother—well. That changed matters entirely.
He had turned the idea over often enough that it had begun to feel inevitable.
I cannot afford to marry Jane,he admitted reluctantly. The truth sat heavy and unwelcome. Jane Bennet deserved happiness, security, a home free from anxiety. He could give her affection easily enough—he had always felt that—but affection did not pay creditors.
But if Darcy married Elizabeth, and he married Jane—
Then I am Darcy’s brother.
The thought brought a curious sense of relief.
Of course he would help me. He could not refuse. We would be family.
Darcy could quietly resolve the debts, smooth the accounts, give him time to recover. No one need know. It would all be arranged discreetly, sensibly, with very little trouble to Bingley.
He has so much. More than any one man could ever need,Charles thought.Is it not only right that he should share it?
The logic settled into place with alarming ease. By the time he rang for his valet, his course felt clear. He already liked Miss Bennet. Now he need only secure her hand. She would not refuse.
Later that morning, with the sun climbing higher and the day growing unseasonably warm, Charles ordered his phaeton made ready. A ride would do him good. Air and motion always settled his spirits—and there was someone he wished to see.
