Page 57 of Miss Bingley’s Return

Miss Bingley pushed the suggestion away as if swatting an offensive gnat. “Let us simply say that some forms of familiarity build more rapidly than others.”

The result of that conversation was a woman who appeared skeptical, but the other believed every word, and was industriously spreading it throughout the room, unless Darcy missed his guess.

On another occasion, when she was dancing, he heard her say: “How little remains to be settled when hearts have long been understood.”

Darcy by no means heard everything, but each rumor she spread grew on the wings of gossip. It was no surprise when Miss Elizabeth heard much the same—Darcy might have anticipated her reaction if he had considered it.

“It matters little,” said she, dismissing it altogether. “Jane will not bow down to a little gossip, and I suspect Mr. Bingley will also have something to say.”

A glance at Bingley showed his friend in a small group with Miss Bennet and his sister, but the way he looked across the room at Miss Whitcombe told another story. She was unassuming, not contradicting anything Miss Bingley said that evening, doing nothing to draw attention to herself. But Darcy fancied he could see something in her manner that spoke to a deeper regard than Miss Bingley would acknowledge.

“How wonderful it is that we are all together here,” said Miss Bingley, her voice carrying to where Darcy and Miss Elizabeth were standing. “With excellent family and friends, connections that I dare to hope will persist.”

Bingley said something that Darcy could not hear, but Miss Bingley would not be denied.

“Jane, dear, you are yet unengaged for the supper sets?”

Though she colored, Miss Bennet replied she was not.

“How very prudent,” said Miss Bingley. “Charles, Miss Bennet has not promised her supper sets in the hope that you would solicit them.”

“Is that so?” asked Bingley, a growing sense of annoyance hanging over him.

“Indeed,” said Miss Bingley. “I should hate for there to be any disappointment.”

Bingley did not respond, but his gaze had fallen on Miss Bennet as if he were deciding what form his reply would take. Miss Bingley ignored him.

“We must all pair up, for then we may be a merry party at dinner.”

Miss Bingley looked about. “Gerald, you shall dance with Louisa, of course. Mr. Harrington, I believe Miss Eliza is yet without a partner. That will leave Mr. Darcy to dance with me.”

“What of Miss Whitcombe?”

The question cut through Miss Bingley’s attempts to decide everyone’s future, the tone carrying a hint of exhaustion and a much larger measure of steel. Miss Bingley turned to speak to her brother, but when she saw the look on his face, the words stilled in her mouth for just an instant. Then she recovered and waved her hand.

“Oh, Clara will find a partner, I am certain.”

For the briefest moment, Bingley paused, his eyes darting between Miss Bennet, Miss Whitcombe, and his sister. Then resolution settled over him like a fog rolling over a coastal town.

“Caroline.”

“Yes, Brother?” asked Miss Bingley, with an innocence that could not but be false.

“You need not concern yourself with my supper partner.”

Before she could reply, Bingley turned to Miss Bennet and addressed her, not with the tenderness of a lover, but the concern of a friend.

“Miss Bennet, I owe you an apology and an explanation. As I deem the time inappropriate for that, I hope you will consent to receive me tomorrow morning.”

Miss Bennet, sensing that he had just made a significant choice, nodded, her eyes shining. “You owe me neither, Mr. Bingley, but if you wish to visit, I will not object.”

“When we speak tomorrow, then you may judge,” said Bingley, disarming her with that boyish grin of his.

Then Bingley turned and marched across the floor, his steps leading him straight as an arrow’s flight to where Miss Whitcombe stood, separate from their little group, but close enough to have heard something of the conversation. She looked up at him, calm, yet with a measure of expectation and hope. Bingley took her hand and bowed over it.

“Miss Whitcombe, may I have the honor of your supper set?”

While the eyes of everyone in the party, and, indeed, those of half the room, were on Mr. Bingley and Miss Whitcombe, Elizabeth watched her angelic sister. Jane’s gaze followed Mr. Bingley’s path across the floor; she heard him speak to Miss Whitcombe, and her expression settled into happiness, though Elizabeth thought she was the only person in the room who could detect just the smallest hint of regret. By now Jane was not pining for Mr. Bingley, but she had esteemed him enough to hope. This was the end of any such expectation—delusion, perhaps, on Miss Bingley’s part.