Page 35 of The Matchmaker’s Mistake

Mr. Cresswell was a respectable clergyman who had recently come into a valuable family living. He had been a guest rather frequently over the past two years when in London, for he was a distant relation of his mother’s. The man had never, however, appeared at one of his mother’s matchmaking parties. That he was invited tonight was, Darcy supposed, the sort of arrangement with which his mother did not generally trouble him.

He knew, of course, why it bothered him, but it could not matter. If his mother chose to introduce Mr. Cresswell to a young woman she believed her son had used ill, he ought simply to be pleased for them both.

He was pleased. In principle.

Darcy rolled onto his side and pulled the covers over his head. His mother understood women far better than he. If she believed this was the correct course, then it was.

At half past ten that morning, Hewitt appeared in the doorway of Darcy’s study. “Mr. Bingley to see you, sir.”

“Send him in.”

Bingley was barely two paces behind Hewitt. His cravat had been tied in haste, and his fair hair had not been brought entirely under management. There were also slightly darkened circles beneath his eyes—he had not slept any better than Darcy, evidently, only Bingley was less discreet about who knew it.

“Your valet must be beside himself to send you out of doors like this,” he noted drily.

Bingley snorted. “He asked for the day off.”

“Before or after you insisted on leaving the house in such a state?”

“Never mind that,” Bingley replied, waving Darcy’s comments aside. “I would not have come before noon ordinarily, but I had to see you, and I thought you of all people would understand. Your mother was a marvel last evening, Darcy. A marvel.”

“She is generally a marvel. Sit down, Bingley.”

“I will stand if you do not mind.”

Darcy, quite willing to be distracted, allowed himself to be amused. “Bingley, you have been admitted to my study at half past ten in the morning after you were here until midnight last night. You will sit, you will tell me what you have come to tell me, and then you may go on about your business as you choose.”

Bingley laughed at himself once, ran a hand through his already disarranged hair, and said, “Yes. Yes, of course. I am being ridiculous.” He sat.

“Not at all,” Darcy assured his friend, though he was, in fact, being ridiculous. “You are being a man who had a good evening.”

“I had an excellent evening.”

Hewitt supervised the arrival of fresh coffee and withdrew.

“Darcy,” Bingley said, “I am going to Gracechurch Street. I had thought of calling at noon, but noon felt—that is, given how much my feelings have⁠—”

“Bingley,” Darcy interrupted.

“Yes?”

“Drink your coffee.”

Bingley drank his coffee. The forced pause in his flurried movements helped him to gather his wits.

“Your mother received Mrs. Gardiner like they had known one another for years. Miss Bennet too. I cannot tell you how that made me—well, it was unmistakable, you know. That she entirely accepted them, and everyone in the room had best do the same. Caroline attempted to convince me otherwise, but I know what I saw.”

Bingley set his cup in his saucer and then lifted it to take another sip before he resumed.

“Last night,” he said at last, “I sat next to Miss Bennet at supper and could not have moved had the house been on fire. I shall not bore you with the conversation. You would tell me it was dull. It was about her aunt’s house in Cheapside, and a pelisse her sister Mary had finished mending for her before she left Hertfordshire, and her little cousin Maggie, who—never mind. None of it would interest you. All of it interested me. I do not believe I have been so happy since I was a boy.”

Darcy looked at his coffee but did not drink it. “I am glad for you, Bingley.” And he was, even if he could not be glad for himself.

Bingley looked up suddenly, only just remembering there existed a world beyond his own thoughts.

“Come with me.”

“To Gracechurch Street?”