Bingley shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
William returned to the house and rummaged through Kitty’s sewing basket until he could find a ribbon to tie the bouquet with. Then, he went in search of Elizabeth. After a quarter hour, he found her with Kitty. The pair were sitting together on a blanket draped over a fallen tree, just beyond theeastern terrace, their skirts pulled up as they kicked their feet in the little stream. They were each a little hunched, reading. Elizabeth was examining the large leatherbound diary that Kitty was always writing and drawing in, which she would never permit him to look at. Kitty, in turn, was leafing through a small journal he had often seen in Elizabeth’s possession.
William smiled. It was just the picture of domestic felicity he had often imagined, for he had been certain his future bride and his ward would become instantly attached. Of course, he had not anticipated that a mutual contempt for him, and probably all of mankind, would serve as the foundation of their bond.
He cleared his throat as he approached, and both ladies hastily closed their respective reading materials. William took a step closer to Elizabeth and offered her the flowers. “I wish to apologize, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth took the flowers, brought them to her nose and took a deep breath, then tossed the bouquet aside. “Your note indicated that you wished to speak when it is convenient for us. At present, it is not.”
Kitty picked up the flowers and let out a high-pitched sound of indignation. “Willam, this is my ribbon, meant to trim my yellow bonnet! You have ruined it, tying it up in knots!”
Elizabeth helped her smooth out the ribbon, sending the flowers tumbling to the ground. “It is but a short walk to the village, sister – let us go and find some new ribbon that has not beenruined.”
The two young ladies linked arms and stormed off, laughing together. William’s shoulders sagged, and he made his way slowly back to the house, choosing a different path than the one Elizabeth and Kitty had taken. As he approached the front door, he noticed something on the ground; he looked up, notingthat the glass of Kitty’s window had been left open. And beneath it, there was a small heap of torn paper, and two mangled roses.
He knew not whether this was some proof of Bingley’s wisdom, or merely evidence of his own hopelessness, but his spirits sank lower as he entered the house. Bingley was pushing a wheelbarrow through the corridor, and it was entirely full of wildflowers.
“Good God, man, are my meadows barren? And for what? They are sure to go right out the window, just like the roses I sent up at breakfast.”
“I mean to improve upon your methods.” Bingley pushed the wheelbarrow up to the entrance of the parlor, but thankfully he had the prudence to refrain from bringing the dirty thing onto the carpet. He sat down at the little escritoire in one corner of the room, and began folding a piece of paper before tearing it carefully into eight smaller pieces. He repeated the process a few times, and then began scrawling little notes on each bit of paper.
William decided not to gratify his friend with any inquiry, and he sat across the room by the window, pondering how he might next attempt to reconcile with Elizabeth. His mind was full of her, but he dwelt too long on his happy memories of their courtship, and no solution came to him.
Bingley concluded what he was about, and he was determined to share his triumph. He gestured to the flowers, which were now all arranged into dozens of small bundles. Tucked into each one was a tiny folded note. “One for every hour I have known and loved her – and each with an exceptionally lovely compliment.”
“If you have used her ribbon, she shall murder you.” But William looked closer and saw that Bingley had simply used the stem of a flower to carefully secure each little bouquet, and he bristled at his friend’s cleverness. “Well, I will own it is well doneof you, but you might have told me the full scope of what you intended.”
“You told me off before I had the chance! How was your little token received?”
“Not well, Bingley! And now I must think of something grander than this.”
“Best of luck, my old chum. Say, do you think Mrs. Lane will let me place these in Kitty’s bedroom myself, or shall I ask her to do it for me?”
“You willnotenter my ward’s bedchamber,” William snarled.
“Ah, well, I have a specific vision of how they are to be arranged, but Mrs. Lane seems more than capable.”
As Bingley sauntered off, William kicked at a pillow that had fallen from the sofa to the floor. Bingley seemed to embody the spirit of all that Darcy was, as William had conceived his London persona. But at present, William Worthing was absolutely floundering, and he wondered if Elizabeth could ever love his abject want of Darcy’sjoie de vivre.
And yet, she was the only woman on earth who had made him want to try, to exert himself to really be Darcy, a man of merriment and charisma. And when he thought of the passion she had awakened in him at Vauxhall, an idea suddenly struck him. It was absolutely perfect; Bingley would choke with envy and awe.
William hastened upstairs, listing to himself the items that he would need to enact his brilliant scheme. He would require the small pianoforte from the schoolroom brought down to the garden, and as he went up to the room that was now used chiefly as storage, he found several other useful elements to incorporate into what he hoped would be a tremendously romantic display.
He seized some colored paper heaped on a desk, a box of half-used old candles, a basket of tangled, colorful ribbons, a large, blue painted screen, a trunk of someveryold clothing, and a moth-eaten silk tablecloth of shimmering silver. Excitement welled in his chest as he set about his work, for he had much to do, and though it rankled him, he would have to ask Bingley for assistance.
Chapter Thirteen
Elizabeth and Kitty had agreed between themselves that they ought not forgive the gentlemen so easily. They instead devoted much of their day to growing better acquainted, sharing more stories of their lives and finding much that they had in common. After reading one another’s diaries, they each confessed they were softening toward their lovers, though they were each loath to admit it.
It was difficult for Elizabeth to spurn Mr. Darcy as she did, and yet she was cognizant of the severity of his deception. She was not entirely convinced that he had deliberately concealed his guardianship of her sister, for he seemed even presently to not comprehend it, but the truth of his name was a terrible blow.
And he had lied to her for six weeks – for the duration of their acquaintance! Elizabeth could not make sense of it, for either her cousins had also participated in the deception, or they had also been deceived – and Richard’s friendship with Mr. Worthing was of long duration. This realization was strangely palliative for Elizabeth. If he had presented himself to Richard years ago as Mr. Darcy, his motive could not have been to trickher, at least.
And then there was the great coincidence of the alias he had chosen. Her first inclination was to suppose that he claimed to be Will Darcy as a means of getting close to the earl’s family, but she could not see that Mr. Worthing had done anything to take advantage of her relations. He had not made any claim on Pemberley, nor sought to present himself to Lady Anne as her long-lost son. Indeed, he had done nothing while masquerading under this alias that he might not have done as Mr. Worthing – nothing except captivate her immediately.
She could not account forwhyhe had practiced such deception, and until then she knew she could not forgive him. And Elizabeth didwishto forgive him, more so as the day went on. In leaving Rosings and coming to Wildewood, she had crossed a line that could not be easily uncrossed. She had risked her reputation, her place in the world as well as in Lady Catherine’s home, and she still very much desired the outcome that she had imagined when she embarked on this journey. Though his name had been false, Elizabeth still believed the manhimself was true, and all that had passed between them was enough for her to hope that all could be made right.
Yet though she knew she would likely forgive him – for the alternative was to return home to her mother’s wrath – Elizabeth was in no great hurry to end his self-recrimination. She and her sister dawdled a great while in the village; Kitty made an inordinate number of purchases to be billed to Mr. Worthing, and she encouraged Elizabeth to do the same.
