Page 6 of A November to Remember

“This is unlikely, Bingley. Besides, I am quite sure your sisters will not object to their exposure to the ton,” Robert drawled, adjusting his cuffs with excruciating slowness. “I find a viscountcy smooths over most domestic inconveniences. If Miss Bingley faints from the shock, Richard can catch her. He has excellent reflexes.”

“I only catch people who hold rank,” Richard replied. “Civilians and non-commissioned officers are expected to hit the floor.”

“You see?” Robert smiled broadly at Bingley. “We are perfectly accommodating guests.”

Darcy closed his eyes and leaned his head back, wishing fervently for a sudden, painless case of amnesia. He was returning to a county full of people who despised him, he could not take Miss Elizabeth out of his mind, he was accompanied by a lovesick and therefore more than usually oblivious Bingley, and two cousins who viewed his misery as a public entertainment.

The carriage slowed, the clatter of hooves transitioning to the crunch of well-raked gravel. Darcy opened one eye and looked out; the imposing façade of Netherfield Park loomed into view.

“Ah, Hertfordshire, the scene of the crime,” Robert murmured, peering through the window beside him. He leaned forward and delivered a solid thump to Darcy’s knee. “Brace yourself, old man. It is time to face the music, the ambitious matriarch, the angelic Miss Bennet, and her tolerable and furious sister.”

“Hell is a place on earth,” Darcy whispered.

The carriage rolled to a halt.

The descent was a difficult affair of unfolding long limbs and Richard complaining loudly about his knees. Bingley scurried up the front steps of Netherfield Park.

Darcy followed, taking a deep breath of the crisp air, but it did nothing to settle his stomach.

Robert’s behemoth of a carriage stopped behind them, carrying Darcy’s valet Dawson, the viscount’s valet Boodles, Richard’s man Dickinson, and an alarming number of trunks full of everything the viscount might need.

“Right,” Bingley muttered, pausing before the doors of the drawing-room, running a hand through his golden hair. “Just... prepare yourselves. Caroline is very fond of proper notice.”

“And I am very fond of surprising people,” Robert replied, adjusting his cravat with a serene smile. “Open the door, Bingley. Let us see what sort of house you keep.”

Bingley pushed the door open.

The drawing-room was a vision of forced leisure. Caroline Bingley was draped elegantly across a chaise longue, holding a thick volume of an agricultural journal—a prop she had undoubtedly grabbed the moment she heard the carriage wheels. It was doubtful she was aware it was upside down. By the window, Louisa Hurst sat fanning herself, vaguely nauseated.

On the damask settee, Mr Hurst was fully reclined. At the creak of the door, he snorted, opened one bleary eye for exactly four seconds, muttered more port, and resumed snoring.

“Charles!” Miss Bingley cried, tossing the book aside with an eagerness that proved she had not read a single word, which was a shame, as she missed learning about some exciting advances in crop rotation. She rose gracefully, her face arranged into a picture of sisterly devotion. “You have returned to us so soon! And Mr Darcy, we have miss—”

Miss Bingley stopped. Her eyes had just landed on the two men next to Darcy.

Darcy was aware of the second the wheels of calculation began to turn in Miss Bingley’s head. He knew exactly what she was seeing. She saw the impeccable tailoring, the identical Fitzwilliam jawlines, the confidence born of consequence, and the unmistakable, effortless aura of the aristocracy that Robert wore like a second skin.

Caroline Bingley was a woman of ambition, and she had just been presented with an impossible calculus.

For many months, she had been building a relentless campaign of agreeability towards Darcy. She had paced the room when he paced, she had insulted the people he seemingly disliked, and she had subjected herself to reading dreadfully dull books just so she could casually mention agricultural reforms in haymaking at breakfast. Darcy was the grand prize.

Until five seconds ago.

Now, standing in her drawing-room was Robert Fitzwilliam, Viscount Keathley, heir to an earldom—the ultimate quarry. And next to him was Colonel the Honourable Richard Fitzwilliam, second son of an earl. Not the grand prize, perhaps, but a spectacular consolation prize.

Miss Bingley was in a predicament. She had but one mouth, two hands, and three targets. She did not know whom to fawn over and flutter at first.

“Mr Darcy,” she began again, her voice pitching into a breathless, trembling soprano. She stepped forward, her hands waving helplessly. “We had no idea... you have brought guests. Distinguished guests... um.”

Bingley, bewildered by the tension in the room, gestured weakly. “Louisa, Caroline, allow me to introduce Darcy’s cousins, Lord Keathley and Colonel Fitzwilliam. Keathley, Colonel, my sisters, Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley. That one over there is Hurst, my brother-in-law.”

Miss Bingley executed a curtsy so deep that Darcy momentarily feared her knees might start popping. “Lord Keathley, Colonel. I am entirely overcome. The honour you do our humble temporary abode is... it is...”

“Tolerable?” Robert suggested helpfully, his face a mask of dry seriousness.

Darcy clamped his jaw shut, biting the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood. He was on the verge of laughing out loud, a phenomenon so rare it would likely frighten Miss Bingley into a swoon.

“More than tolerable, my lord!” she gasped and spun back to Darcy. “Mr Darcy, you must be exhausted. You look fatigued. But such a handsome fatigue!” She pivoted wildly to Richard. “Colonel Fitzwilliam, a man of the sword! How brave you must be to travel all this way. And Lord Keathley, your waistcoat is... it is the most magnificent shade of peacock blue I have ever beheld! Yes. Indeed! Well. Quite.”