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She waved this away, jewels glistening. “I do not judge. If Mrs Darcy did not care, why should I? Why, even, should he? But Miss Bingley was too demanding. It could not end well.”
“What demands?” I asked sharply, the bile of her implications rising in my throat. “And to whom?”
She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “For a divorce, if you can believe it,” she nearly whispered, her eyes gleaming like her rings. “She told me herself that she expected him to apply to Parliament for one. She hinted that she could say much more, and would, when the time was right.”
I rolled my eyes and let her see my disbelief. “No one in their right mind would expect Mr Darcy to obtain a divorce, even if he set up tents for his mistresses on the front lawns. This is all nonsense, as you must have known then and should know now.”
I could see I had made my point, for doubt showed in her expression. “Well, nooo,” she drawled. “But she hinted at the most lurid of accusations. I am certain she embarrassed him deeply.”
“And thus he killed her? Is this, then, your argument? Why should he subject his life, his reputation, and even the honour you suggest he defends, to such infamy? You contradict yourself madam. Either he cares so much for honour that he loses it entirely, or he had none in the first place. If the latter, why bother about the foolish imaginings of a foolish woman, who damaged only her own reputation with her foolish complaints? If we are making wild accusations without any evidence, we ought to at least include the other man whose interest she attracted.”
“The German? But why should he do Miss Bingley any harm?”
Had Miss Bingley’s lover been a foreigner, then? Of course, it mattered little now, and my frustration with Mrs Longthorpe’s ridiculous assumptions mounted. “Exactly! Why should anyone? You have provided no sound reasoning to either accuse or suspect any person of a crime.”
“Mr Darcy’s reputation—” she began, but I interrupted.
“Has always been of the finest. Ask his servants. Ask his tenants. Ask his wife. He has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do not know what he really is; pray, do not pain me by speaking of him in such terms. You must search elsewhere for your villain.”
She stood, insulted, and for no good reason I could see. “He is a proud, unpleasant sort of man, but I can see you are resolved on defending him. I fear, my dear, you are in the greatest danger in your marriage. I can only hope you will escape the discredit and misery—or worse—as I predict.”
Turning on her heel, she flounced from the room. I sighed, rubbing at my temples, feeling the beginnings of a megrim.
Mr Darcy entered at that moment through the opposite door from the one Mrs Longthorpe exited. His face…oh, his face! It was frozen in an expression I hated. It was plain he had overheard every stupid, contemptible accusation.
“I am sending you to Darcy House in London,” he said coldly. “I will send an express to Mrs Harris. She will have everything ready for your arrival. There will be no discussion. I will allow no further insult to either of us. Please ask Clara to pack your things. You will leave first thing in the morning.” And, just like Mrs Longthorpe before him, he marched from the room without taking his leave of me.
I sighed again. It only wanted this.
