Page 5 of A November to Remember

“If Bingley is amenable to the two of you inviting yourselves, I have no objection,” Darcy concluded. “The change may do you good, Richard. You are miserable spending your leave within the confines of your parents’ home.”

Richard nodded. “I could use Bingley’s hospitality. I have eaten everything at Matlock House. Cook threatens to resign hourly.”

The journey to Hertfordshire the following morning proved the path to hell was not a subterranean agony of fire and brimstone. It was a well-upholstered, well-sprung, mahogany-panelled travelling carriage containing Charles Bingley, two Fitzwilliams, and a Darcy. There was no partridge in a pear tree present. If there was, Colonel Fitzwilliam would no doubt have eaten it.

Darcy sat rigidly in one corner, his long legs folded defensively. Four grown men of above-average height in a closed carriage meant that knee-knocking was a certainty. Richard, a colonel in the Dragoons with a seemingly bottomless appetite, had adopted a posture conveying that he was preparing to repel a French cavalry charge. Or attack a supper for Wellington and the entire high command, all by himself.

Lord Keathley, meanwhile, was sprawled with an aggravatingly fluid grace, which suggested he owned the carriage, the horses, and the road itself. He did not. It was Bingley’s equipage, but distinctions of ownership meant little to Robert.

His cousins shared dark hair and straight noses, not to mention precisely the same inclination to make Darcy’s life a waking nightmare.

“So,” Richard barked. “Bingley.”

No answer came.

“Bingley!” Robert and Darcy said in unison.

At the combined force of all three men addressing him, Charles Bingley blinked. He had been huddled in the corner next to Darcy, resembling a lapdog who had accidentally wandered into a den of well-dressed, pointy-toothed wolves. Bingley had an amiable disposition, a vast fortune, and no defence against the Fitzwilliam brothers. They were an unstoppable force, while he apologised to furniture when he bumped into it.

“What is the matter?” Bingley asked weakly. “Beg pardon. I was thinking how the Bennet family is truly exceptional. Miss Jane Bennet, for instance, is an angel.”

Robert paused peeling an apple with his pocket knife, his eyes gleaming with predatory delight. “An angel, you say? How fascinating. Tell me, Bingley, does she have a halo, or merely a very good seamstress?”

“She has the most serene countenance I have ever beheld,” Bingley sighed, ignoring the trap. He leaned forward, his hands clasped over his heart in a gesture so earnest it made Darcy want to throw himself from the moving carriage, because he wanted to replicate it. “Her smiles, Lord Keathley. They could light a room faster than a candelabrum. And her nature! She sees only the good in people. I am convinced she does not have a single negative thought.”

“A dangerous quality in a woman,” Richard noted, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “It suggests a lack of strategic thinking. What if she is confronted by a French spy? Will she offer him tea and a scone?”

“She would,” Bingley said proudly. “And the spy would be so moved by her grace that he would surrender his secrets. She is the most beautiful creature. Her hair is like spun gold, and her eyes...” he trailed off, staring dreamily at the ceiling.

Darcy pinched the bridge of his nose. “She is a very pretty woman, Bingley. We established this at the assembly. You danced with her twice and stepped on her hem once. It was a triumph.”

“Twice?” Robert echoed, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. “Bingley, you absolute hound. Two dances? That is practically a declaration of intent in the country. Has the mother started planning the wedding breakfast? Country mothers are ruthless. I fully expect to find a parson hiding in the shrubbery when we arrive.”

“Mrs Bennet is... quite enthusiastic,” Bingley admitted, a slight flush creeping up his neck. “But Jane—Miss Bennet—is perfection.”

“Well, I cannot wait to meet this paragon,” Robert declared. He lowered the window, tossed the apple core outside, then pulled it up against the October chill. “And I am equally eager to meet the ‘tolerable’ sister. If she survived Darcy’s questionable charm, she must have the constitution of an ox.”

“Miss Elizabeth is extremely lively,” Bingley offered, trying to be helpful. “And she was rather angry with Darcy,” he admitted on second thoughts.

“Lively,” Darcy repeated, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. “She has a pair of fine eyes, I grant you that, but her family is a menagerie, save your angel and Miss Elizabeth herself, Bingley. The mother is vulgar and mercenary. She spent the evening calculating your income loudly enough for the musicians to hear.”

“A tactical genius,” Richard praised approvingly. “I respect a commander who thoroughly reconnoitres the territory’s features prior to striking.”

The carriage hit a rut in the road, jostling the occupants. Bingley suddenly sat up straighter, horror washing over his open features. “Oh, Lord. Oh, good heavens.”

“What is it, old chap?” Robert asked. “Have you forgotten your snuffbox? Or has the memory of the angel’s spun-gold hair caused a sudden palpitation?”

“My sisters,” Bingley choked out, wringing his gloved hands together. “Darcy, our departure from London was so hasty, I forgot to send an express to Netherfield. Caroline and Louisa have no idea we are returning today.”

“So?” Darcy asked, unmoved by this domestic crisis.

“So, they have no idea I am bringing guests,” Bingley squeaked, looking frantically between the viscount and the colonel. “They will be unprepared for your arrival. The bill of fare! The guest chambers! Caroline might not be wearing her best silk!”

Darcy nearly snorted. The idea of Caroline Bingley not wearing her best silk was as likely as the sun rising in the west. Miss Bingley treated every waking moment as an opportunity for social advancement. Her surprise at finding an eligible, titled, and wealthy man—and Richard—on her doorstep would instantly transform into a display of her lowest-cut gowns and a barrage of sycophantic compliments. To her, if Darcy represented society’s equivalent of Ben Nevis, Keathley was the Swiss Alps. He pictured Miss Bingley wearing the largest cowbell she could find, and snorted internally.

Robert waved his hand in a dismissive arc, unconcerned by Bingley’s panic. “Do not distress yourself, Bingley. Let them be surprised. It builds character.”

“But they might yet be in their morning wrappers!” Bingley protested.