“Do not let it worry you; I am certain he will return to Netherfield.”
“How can you be certain?”
Mr. Bingley chuckled. “Because he is courting a young woman at a neighbouring estate and will doubtless not be pleased with the accommodations at the local inn! He will want to be our guest.”
“Oh, I did hear something of that,” Mrs. Bingley now recalled. “A Miss Elizabeth, was it?”
“Yes; she is one of five daughters. She is, I think, perfect for Darcy. And her older sister, Miss Jane Bennet, is soon to be married to your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam.” Mr. Bingley thought it best not to mention that he, too, had been interested in Miss Bennet.
“I look forward to meeting them. Charles…”
“Yes, Georgiana?”
“Does Mrs. Hurst know about – about –“ And here she gestured to her belly.
“No; it was not something I wished to put in a message.”
“What will we tell her?”
“Are you more comfortable with her knowing that the babe is George Wickham’s? Or do you prefer that they think the babe to be mine?”
“Either way, it will be obvious enough that I…” she trailed off.
“I do not think there is any way around that,” Mr. Bingley replied gently.
“I suppose you are right. I would prefer that your family believe the child to be yours, but I understand if you do not like the idea.”
Mr. Bingley considered it. How many people would know that he and Georgiana had not been married when the child was conceived? By stating that the child was his, he would be confessing to having anticipated his marriage vows. Was that preferable to having it known that he was raising another man’s child as his own?
Finally, he shook his head; it was not about him, was it? It was about what would make his wife more comfortable. He would tell everyone that the child was his.
“We will say that the child is mine. Ah, there is Netherfield. Lean forward a bit, Georgiana, and you will be able to see the house.”
She did as he bade her and saw a handsome, modern-looking house, giving every appearance of warmth and comfort. It was nothing to Pemberley, of course. Would she ever see Pemberley again? Probably not.
The carriage trundled down the drive and stopped. The coachman leapt down to open the carriage door, and Georgiana was soon handed out by her husband. The front door opened and a man and a woman came out to welcome them. Mr. Bingley performed the introductions; the woman was his older sister, Louisa, and the man was her husband. Harold Hurst.
“I could scarce believe it when I got your letter, Charles!” Louisa Hurst said. “Married to Mr. Darcy’s sister! You are most welcome, Miss – I beg your pardon! – Mrs. Bingley.”
“Oh, no, please, I am Georgiana.”
“And I am Louisa. I have been acting as the mistress of Netherfield, and believe me, I shall be happy to relinquish the role to you.”
Just then a gust of wind plastered Georgiana’s skirt to her body. Mrs. Hurst’s eyes traveled to Georgiana’s rounded abdomen. “Oh! But you are – oh, dear!” Mrs. Hurst went pale, clapped her hands to her face and leant against her husband as if she would faint.
“Might we not get out of the wind?” Mr. Bingley demanded irritably as Georgiana burst into tears.
Moving quickly into the house, they were greeted by Netherfield’s butler and housekeeper. The two were far too well-trained to betray their surprise at learning that Mr. Bingley was married, but the news would be shared below stairs very soon.
***
An hour later, having seen his new wife comfortably settled in her bedroom, Mr. Bingley knocked on the Hursts’ bedroom door. It was opened by his sister. “Come in, Charles.”
“I would like to explain my wife’s situation.”
Mr. Hurst now appeared and sat beside his wife.
“Go on,” Louisa said.
