Page 84 of Shipwrecked with Mr Darcy

“He should. Between the two of us, we robbed your daughter of seven months of happiness, and the fault was primarily mine.”

Mr Bennet slowly removed his spectacles, cleaned them on his handkerchief, and replaced them, carefully considering his words.

“You are unlike the man I expected, Mr Darcy.”

“I have changed, sir.”

“You are uncommonly honest about your own failings,” Mr Bennet noted quietly. “I find that unexpectedly reassuring.”

Bingley's animated voice drifted from the drawing room, chased by Mrs Bennet's excited chatter and Lydia's sharp laugh. Beneath it all, Darcy heard the soft, unmistakable warmth returning to Jane's voice—a gentle joy he had not heard since Netherfield, before he had ruined it.

He had caused this terrible damage, and now he had facilitated the repair. It did not erase his guilt, but it was a beginning.

Elizabeth watched from the hallway, hiding behind the tall clock. She accepted the total lack of dignity because she desperately wanted to observe without interfering.

Bingley stood in the centre of the drawing room, staring at Jane with naked, desperate devotion. He was attempting to make polite conversation, but his words stumbled over themselves in his anxious rush to speak. His utter lack of artifice made Elizabeth's throat tighten.

Jane sat in her usual chair, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She was fighting to maintain her serene composure, though the effort was visibly costing her. Sitting across from the man she loved without breaking down required a heroic strength of will.

“Miss Bennet,” Bingley stammered. “I hope—I wanted to say—I have been a perfect fool.”

“You have not been a fool, Mr Bingley,” Jane said softly.

“I have! I should never have left. I was told... I was informed wrongly, but that is no excuse. I should have trusted my own heart.” His face was deeply flushed, his hands gripping his hat as if it were a lifeline.

Jane's composure finally slipped. Her mouth softened, her eyes brightened with unshed tears, and she leaned slightly towards him.

“Mr Bingley,” she whispered. “Please sit down.”

He practically collapsed into the chair beside hers, his eyes never leaving her face.

Mrs Bennet was chattering with manic, triumphant energy, her shrill voice dominating the room.

“Mama,” Elizabeth said, stepping from the hallway. “I believe Kitty requires your assistance in the breakfast room.”

“Kitty requires no such thing,” her mother retorted.

“She does, Mama,” Elizabeth insisted, fixing her mother with a fierce, commanding stare that brooked no argument.

Mrs Bennet finally yielded, herding Lydia and Mary out of the drawing room. Jane and Bingley were left alone. Across the hall, Darcy stood in the library doorway, offering Elizabeth a quiet nod of approval.

Elizabeth quietly retreated.

Bingley came every day. He called on Friday, and again on Saturday. He even called on Sunday, cheerfully ignoring the conventions of polite society in his desperation to be near Jane.

On Monday, he brought wild flowers plucked hastily from a hedgerow. The sweet, informal offering proved he had been thinking of her while walking, too eager to see her to wait for a formal bouquet.

Jane arranged them in water with tender care, her flushed face turned downward. When she finally looked up at him, her love was naked.

On Tuesday, Bingley took Jane walking. The short distance to Lucas Lodge somehow required an hour and a half. Elizabeth tactfully intercepted Mrs Bennet in the hallway to prevent her mother from commenting on their lengthy absence.

On Wednesday, Bingley and Jane talked in the drawing room for three hours. Mrs Bennet worked at her embroidery and, by some miracle, refrained from saying anything foolish enough to break the spell.

On Thursday — one week after his arrival — Bingley asked Darcy to walk with him.

They walked the quiet lane towards Meryton. Bingley's usual brisk pace was replaced by slow, deliberate steps as he carefully arranged his thoughts.

“I am going to ask her,” Bingley said.