Page 75 of Near Pemberley

The house had grown quieter at last. Somewhere above, footsteps still moved faintly from time to time – a maid crossing the passage, a door opening softly and closing again – but the greater agitation of the morning had begun gradually to settle into uneasy order.

Darcy remained alone in the study.

The rain had ceased, though the windows still carried a dim grey cast beneath the London sky, and the air retained that heavy dampness which lingered after summer storms in the city. Papers lay scattered across the desk before him: names, addresses, unpaid accounts, notes hastily assembled from Lydia’s broken recollections the previous evening. He had attempted to arrange them methodically, yet the information remained frustratingly incomplete.

Wickham had vanished too often before.

Still, Darcy believed he understood enough of the man’s habits to know one thing with certainty: he would not remain hidden long if money failed him entirely. And money would fail him.

Darcy leant back at last and closed his eyes briefly.

For several moments, he thought of nothing at all. Mere exhaustion overtook even anxiety for a little while.

Then another face rose unwillingly before him.

Miss Bennet.

She, pale with distress, struggling still to hope for her sister while disgrace gathered steadily around the family.

And Bingley.

Darcy’s expression altered slightly.

There had been a time when he would simply have acted for his friend and considered the matter settled. Indeed, he had once done exactly that – with consequences he now understood far too well.

But this was no longer Netherfield a year ago, nor was he himself quite the same man who had interfered so confidently then. If Bingley’s attachment had truly survived the past year, then surely he could not remain indifferent now.

A marriage, honourably maintained despite present circumstances, might do much to soften society’s judgement. People could be severe about matters of reputation, particularly when misfortune belonged to someone else. Yet society was often willing to overlook what it had first condemned when those of rank appeared unconcerned by it themselves.

And if Bingley remained steady, perhaps others might gradually do the same.

The thought lingered strangely with him.

For if Bingley married Jane Bennet despite the scandal, what then prevented himself…

Darcy stopped abruptly. He rose from the chair at once and crossed towards the window.

The idea ought to have appeared impossible now. Every objection once urged against such an attachment had strengthened a hundredfold. Yet even while he acknowledged it fully, he found himself unable to wish the connection undone. He discovered, with something very near astonishment, that Miss Lydia’s disgrace had not altered his feelings for Miss Elizabeth in the slightest.

Nor his hopes, not after Lambton.

There had once been a time when family consequence, propriety, and prudence had stood foremost in his mind. Now, against all reason, he could think only that if Elizabeth Bennet were willing still to accept him, he would marry her despite every whisper London might choose to invent.

He returned to the desk and drew a clean sheet of paper towards him. For a few moments, the pen remained motionless in his hand.

What precisely was he asking?

Not merely friendship. Not merely sympathy.

Constancy.

And perhaps more constancy than he himself had once believed Bingley possessed.

At last, he began to write.

The letter remained brief. He requested that Bingley come to London immediately upon receiving the letter. He could not put into writing what had happened. Nothing more. Yet after sealing the letter, Darcy did not immediately ring for it to be sent.

He remained seated for several moments, looking at the folded paper before him. For the first time, he found himself uncertain whether his friend would come willingly towards difficulty – or retreat from it.