Page 121 of Near Pemberley

“You are sorry. And I should just accept that?”

Darcy met his gaze. “No.”

The answer took some of the force from Bingley’s indignation.

“You had no right. I could be… who knows… I could be married by now. I trusted you, Darcy. I gave up Netherfield because of you.”

“Bingley. I accept my misjudging of her feelings. I was wrong. But I was not solely responsible.”

Bingley looked at him sharply.

“You listened to me because I was your friend. You listened to your sisters because they were your family. Your sisters believed the match imprudent. They were determined to keep you in London. Yet in the end, the decision was yours.” Darcy hesitated. “You never returned to Netherfield.”

“Because I believed she did not care.”

“Yes. And I bear responsibility for that. But you never questioned it. You stayed away, and you did not even bother to say goodbye to your neighbours. That is not the characteristic of a man in love. Disappointed, maybe, but not in love.”

“What is that supposed to mean? I did love her.”

“Did you really? Yet you did not act as a gentleman. And you did not pursue the object of your love.”

The silence stretched between them until a servant entered carrying a tray. Cold meats, bread, cheese, and ale were arranged upon a side table before the man withdrew once more.

“You know nothing of love,” Bingley said at last.

Darcy bit his lip.

God knew his friend was right. Only a few months earlier, he might have dismissed the remark entirely. He had proposed to a woman who disliked him, fully expecting acceptance. Such confidence seemed almost absurd now. At the time, he had thought only of his own feelings.

Now he knew better.

Love was not merely obtaining the acceptance of a lady. Now he wished to be loved in return. And perhaps, he reflected, it was wishing for that lady’s happiness even when one could not be certain it would ever include oneself.

He thought of Elizabeth. Of a letter written in distress that had contained not a single request. Of the gratitude she had shown him for actions she believed were simple kindness. Of her first concern that morning being Lydia rather than herself.

A few months ago, he might have agreed with Bingley’s accusation. Now he could not.

“Perhaps,” he said quietly. “Come, have something to eat. You will need your strength. There is more.”

Bingley stared at him. For a moment, he had almost forgotten there had been another reason for the summons. “More?”

Darcy nodded.

The brief trace of humour disappeared from his expression.

At once, Bingley felt a knot form in his stomach. Without another word, he crossed to the table and poured himself a glass. “Very well,” he said. “What has happened?”

Darcy waited until they were both seated. Then he told him.

Not everything. Some details belonged to Lydia Bennet and ought never to become the subject of drawing-room conversation. Others were still too recent and too painful.

But he told him enough. Enough to explain the scandal. Enough to explain why Jane Bennet would inevitably suffer for something she had neither caused nor deserved. Enough to explain why he had thought Bingley should know.

When he had finished, Bingley sat motionless. The untouched bread lay forgotten beside his plate. At length, he set down his glass.

“Good God.” The words were little more than a whisper.

Darcy said nothing. There was very little that could be said.