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Chapter Three
Bingley’s nerves were in a state of high agitation as he strode toward Grosvenor Square. Jane Bennet here, in London! It would be the work of minutes to find and call upon her relatives’ home. She had seemed amenable to such a visit, had she not? Yes, she had smiled. That is, he was almost certain he recalled a smile.
Perhaps she was simply being polite. She had liked him at Longbourn, but she might have conceived a distaste for him since then. Perhaps she was angry at how abruptly he had quitted Hertfordshire. He now believed their departure had not been well done.
A shiver ran down Bingley’s back. Now that he had seen Miss Bennet—Jane, as he called her in the privacy of his thoughts—he would be devastated if she turned away from him.
As his agitation grew, his pace increased until he was nearly flying along the street. If only he could call upon her now, at this very moment, to learn how she would receive him! He would be in an agony of hope and despair until he saw her again.
If she welcomed him with uninhibited pleasure, perhaps they might renew their acquaintance. They might dance at balls, he could escort her to dinners, she could be introduced to his friends...he might offer marriage.
No, he was running ahead of himself—as usual. It was far too early for such fantasies.
They might never come to pass. Bingley’s sisters had insisted that Jane was indifferent to him and had only pursued him at her mother’s insistence. He had not credited this account at first, but they had been so certain…
Bingley’s visions of balls and dinners abruptly evaporated, leaving behind an aching emptiness. Perhaps it would be best not to visit Gracechurch Street and avoid all the potential unpleasantness.
Still, Jane had stood outside Darcy House, smiling as if his appearance were the best present she had ever received. No. Even if he made a complete and utter fool of himself before her aunt and uncle, Bingley must make the effort. He would determine her sentiments for himself.
As he mounted the steps to the Hursts’ townhouse, it occurred to him to wonder how he had not discovered Jane’s presence in London before. Two months, she had said. Surely she had called upon Caroline and Louisa during that time? Since her London acquaintance was unlikely to be large, he would expect that a visit to the Hursts would have been among Jane’s first objects. Yet he had heard nothing of such a visit.
Why would she refrain from paying such a call? Bingley’s foot faltered on the steps.
Caroline corresponded with Jane. Had his sister somehow offended Miss Bennet? It was impossible to believe that Jane had committed an offense; she was an angel. Or perhaps there had been a misunderstanding about times and places for a visit. But in two months, surely the women might have arranged something!
Some of his ebullience leaked away. Perhaps Jane was angry with the Bingley family. She would have every right.
Distracted, Bingley climbed the remainder of the steps, where his agitated thoughts gave added force to his knock on the Hursts’ door. It opened slowly to reveal their sour-faced butler, who admitted Bingley and took his coat, all the while clearly demonstrating that he was doing so against his will.
The butler then directed Bingley to the dining room with a stern reminder that luncheon was already underway. I suppose I am a bit tardy.
“There you are, Charles,” Caroline said languidly when he pushed through the door. “I was willing to give odds that you would not arrive before the pudding course.”
Bingley grimaced. He was not so very late; surely the meal had just commenced. “My apologies,” he mumbled at his plate as he seated himself.
Caroline sniffed, and Louisa regarded him disdainfully. Mr. Hurst’s attention to his repast was such that Bingley’s arrival appeared to have utterly escaped him.
Bingley’s plate already held a large slice of ham, much to his dismay. Caroline knew he hated ham; this was her punishment for his tardiness. Sighing, he cut into it and took a large bite. If he chewed quickly, perhaps he would not taste it. Much.
The conversation revolved around the sisters’ recent shopping trip and the latest fashions in shoe decorations. It could not possibly have been duller. Reading a book of sermons would have been preferable.
During a lull in the conversation, Bingley seized the opportunity to introduce a new subject. “I saw Miss Jane Bennet this morning.”
Caroline’s spoon fell into her soup, splattering drops everywhere. Louisa shot her sister a sidelong glance.
“A-Are you sure it was Miss Bennet?” Caroline asked quickly, using a napkin to dab the soup stains on her bodice. “You have believed you have seen her before. I recall
a time on Regent Street—”
For the love of—! “Yes, it was Miss Bennet. I spoke with her.”
Caroline straightened herself in her chair. “I am astonished to learn that Jane Bennet is in town and failed to call upon us.”
“Indeed,” Louisa nodded. “One would like to think we were good enough friends.”
“Well, Sister, consider: perhaps she has not been in London overly long,” Caroline said with a conciliatory air.
“Two months, she said,” Bingley volunteered. Perhaps I should not call at Gracechurch Street. Jane might harbor some resentment against my family after all. The ham tasted like ashes in his mouth.
