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“Come, Mr Bingley. Let us return to the house,” his wife said gently, and her words seemed to recall him to the present.
“I shall take you to my study,” Mr Darcy said, but Georgiana objected.
“No. We shall retire to our rooms,” she insisted.
“I will have the carriage brought up,” I offered, but she shook her head.
“No. The walk back to the house will do us both good,” she replied determinedly, taking his arm. “Brother, I am certain Mr Bingley will wish to speak with you…later. Preferably not until tomorrow.”
Even amidst my dismay over the afternoon’s discoveries, I recognised the new protectiveness in Georgiana for her husband. Evidently, she had indeed made great strides in overcoming the bitterness she had carried towards him for so long. He clung to her arm as if it were a lifeline as they made their slow way back to Pemberley.
Mr Williams cleared his throat. “Sir?” he addressed my husband, who stood frozen, his expression implacable. “Shall we…” he gestured towards the grisly remains.
Mr Darcy ignored him. “I will escort you back to the house,” he said to me.
“It is not necessary,” I said firmly. “I will speak to you later.” Without waiting on his reply, I marched down the hillside after the Bingleys, not wanting him to see my trembling, or them to notice me.
I did not—or rather, had not liked Caroline Bingley. When I had known her, I believed her self-absorbed, petty, and unkind. But she was—had been—a human being, who loved her sister, pretty clothing, and dancing the cotillion. Had she been granted a longer life, who was to say that she would have remained small-minded and critical? Her opportunities for growth and self-improvement had been cut drastically short.
I remembered what Mr Darcy had said about her when I had asked him about the Bingleys, in Rosings’s garden. Eloped, he had claimed. I had thought it extremely uncharacteristic at the time, but had not questioned it. I simply had not cared, then, if she had fallen off the face of the earth. She had wished for me to disappear, and her wish had come true. Rather than dwell upon ‘if onlys’, I had shoved everyone from that old life out of my mind.
Poor, poor Miss Bingley.
Before I rounded the bend that would take me out of sight, I glanced back over my shoulder. My husband still stood in the same place, watching me go. His expression was as forbidding as I had ever seen it.
* * *
Mr Darcy did not follow me any time soon, and I suffered one of the longest afternoons of my life awaiting news. When Mrs Reynolds entered the gold parlour to inform me of a visitor, I was relieved to have some distraction. I ought to have known it would not be a pleasant one.
I well understood the neighbourhood’s reluctance to welcome me into its bosom. The former Mrs Darcy had been a sought-after addition to their numbers, and her Pemberley entertainments were legendary, even in London. She had been popular, pretty, and added richly to the consequence of their little country society—whilst managing, through ill-natured gossip, to cast aspersions upon the husband to whom she pretended devotion. His lack of sociability made him an easy target for her machinations, but at least he held both wealth and power and thus, acceptance.
By contrast, I was a nobody from nowhere. According to widespread rumour, helpfully conveyed to me by Mrs de Bourgh—probably by way of the gossiping Mr Donavan and his nurse—I was regarded as either a scavenger who had taken advantage of the vulnerable, grieving Mr Darcy (and, it was to be presumed, unfairly snapping him up before their own daughters had even had an opportunity to try) or a weak-willed fool, stupid enough to marry an abusive husband.
Of course, it did not help that Mr Darcy had little interest in mending fences. I understood that he had been the subject of merciless gossip, and could not care for most of their opinions. I wished, however, that he could care more for mine. I wanted to make my own place in this community, judge for myself who should be my friends, and try to earn respect, however slow the progress.
Thus far, I had managed to become acquainted with only two women. Lady Harrington, a very elderly dowager, quite deaf, enjoyed my company greatly, though the visits were rather painful as I had to shout to be understood. The other was, of course, Mrs Longthorpe, though it was evident that she neither respected nor liked me. An inherent gossip, she pretended an attachment only because she could not resist imparting everything she had ever heard, clearly in the hopes that I would, in turn, spill something worth repeating. Still, I did not discourage the acquaintance. Instead, I used it, learning what was said and by whom.
Unsurprisingly, Mrs Longthorpe had immediately heard the terrible story of the recovered remains, and though I tried to subdue her wildest conjecture, she was impervious to my efforts.
“I was well acquainted with Miss Bingley, you know,” she said, pretending shock and grief, even putting a handkerchief up to the corner of her eye to dab at an imaginary tear.
“We do not yet know the identity of the unfortunate person found on our property,” I said quellingly, though, judging from Mr Bingley’s reactions, the assumption would be easily proven.
“You would not have known,” she replied, with false sympathy, “how very close we were. Of course, she was devoted to Mr Darcy. Very devoted, indeed.” The rings on her fat fingers glittered as she spoke. “She often complained of Mrs Darcy’s failures to be a proper wife to him. We tried, all of us, to help her realise just who was improper to whom. She would not listen. And now, it appears, she paid for her inattention with her life.”
A wave of sorrow struck me. Caroline Bingley, whom I had once despised, had probably been the only person on earth who cared enough for—and who paid enough attention to—Mr Darcy to truly realise the sad state of his marriage. Unfortunately, she had addressed her criticisms to the wrong audience, all of whom were devoted to Anne de Bourgh.
“We have no idea how the unfortunate person discovered met his or her end. We shall leave it to Lord Cavendish and whomever else he cares to involve.”
She smiled, all pretend apologies. “Of course, my dear, of course. I hear an express has been sent to him in London, although I wonder whether he will make haste to return. He has always shown such a prejudice in Mr Darcy’s favour. It must be so unpleasant for you, being at the centre of such scandal. I find myself perplexed as to what my role ought to be. As your sole friend, I feel an obligation to inform you what is being said. But would you rather I did not? I would not hurt your feelings for worlds.”
What a despicable woman! If I agreed, she had carte blanche to abuse me. If I did not, however, I would not learn what I wished to know. But it was hardly likely that Lady Harrington would be a ready source of information, was it?
“My feelings are not so delicate. If it is Miss Bingley, and I do not say it could be, my husband will do everything in his power to discover the villain.”
She sighed, as if I were incredibly naïve. “Now, now, we are both women of the world, are we not? Some men, as I am sure you realise, Mrs Darcy, are not satisfied with what is easily available at home. A wife becomes less interesting. They require variety. Some women are weak, allowing a man to do as he will. It is an old story, if a sad one. I cannot imagine why anyone who had the first Mrs Darcy in his bed would look elsewhere, but of course, she never blamed him for it, did she?”
I had expected inferences, but not outright accusation. “I disagree wholeheartedly with your supposition,” I said, forcing an evenness to my tone I did not feel. “My husband takes his wedding vows very seriously. He is a gentleman, and he keeps his promises. By all accounts, Miss Bingley was interested in another man entirely.” After all, it was said she had eloped, and the family had believed it. There was another character in this tragedy, whether Mrs Longthorpe wished to mention him or not.
