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“Mr Bingley must have written—surely, the Kroffords’ estate was not a fabrication?”
She appeared very troubled. “Yes, his Austrian estate is very real—and was much in need of Caroline’s fortune, by all reports. But Krofford denied having eloped with my sister. Or anyone else.”
“Why did he leave then? And where did you think Miss Bingley went?”
“There appeared evidence enough that she left with Mr Krofford. Just none that they married, afterward.”
There was a silence as I digested this. It all seemed very unlike Miss Bingley. But then, she had never eloped at all, had she? There was something quite peculiar about the whole story, and that something had to do with my husband.
“Other than family, did anyone else know of the…alleged elopement?” After all, Mrs Longthorpe had understood who I was speaking of, when I mentioned another man.
“There were whispers, but Anne did everything she could to distract her guests and…” she paused, and then continued in a low voice, “When Bingley left on his search for her, he put it about that he was taking her home to our estate for reasons of illness. The absence of the Kroffords was noted, of course, but Anne gave some excuse, and…well…that is…Caroline was not very interesting, to most people.”
And there it was. No one had much cared what happened to her, beyond her immediate family—all of whom had the greatest interest in keeping her whereabouts quiet. Poor, poor Miss Bingley.
“I know that Bingley never stopped trying to make contact,” Georgiana continued. “He wrote to Krofford several times, and each effort was upsetting to him. But he truly believed her away, living some kind of life in Austria. He is heartsick, now. I will take him home, where he can mourn her, and arrange for her burial.”
In her immediate concern over her husband, Georgiana had as yet given little thought to other consequences of finding the body.
“Mr Darcy is sending me away,” I said. “He wishes me to go to London.”
She looked up sharply. “What? But why?”
It was my turn to sigh. “My dear, someone is responsible for Miss Bingley’s untimely demise. The great opinion of the neighbourhood is that this person is my husband. He apparently finds me incapable of living amongst such conjecture.”
I thought she would swoon, she turned so white with shock. “Oh,” she choked. “This is so wrong! It is impossible! Will you go?”
“He has hardly given me a choice. However, I shall not go all the way to London. I shall visit my aunt Gardiner, who lives but twenty miles away in Lambton.”
“But why would he want you to leave? It makes no sense! I will speak to him.”
But I held up my hand. “Please, do not. If he does not want me here, I hardly wish to force myself upon him. Still, you must tell me—do you think Mr Bingley will stand by him? Will he believe the gossip?”
I expected—and indeed, hoped—she would immediately sputter in indignation at the very idea. Yet, her subsequent thoughtfulness was a more realistic response. I understood then, that she was deciding whether she would believe the gossip, as well as Mr Bingley’s reaction. I knew she would defend Mr Darcy publicly; she loved him dearly, and her own reputation had a stake in the scandal as well. But she had questions with no answers—or answers only he could give—and a husband with whom she had only recently reconciled.
“Bingley will stand by him,” she pronounced at last, and I breathed more easily. Georgiana, at least, thought Mr Darcy had nothing to do with the death of Miss Bingley, and she believed her husband would be loyal. That was something, anyway.
After she departed, I called Clara to pack my things, my mind racing with urgent arguments protesting my eviction. Every part of my soul opposed the abandonment, for it felt like nothing less. I did have motive for acquiescing, however: a deep desire to seek advice and even solace from my aunt. I was in love with my husband, but—although I was certain he felt affection, at least at times—he, clearly, did not share the intensity of my own feelings.
It seemed to me that—after suddenly finding himself released from seven years of a miserable marriage—he had reflected upon the course of his life, remembered a girl he had once liked who was of good character, an orphan of small fortune, possessed of undistinguished family (or, in other words, the exact opposite of his first wife), and set out to marry me. Turning back time, so to speak, as a means of blotting out his past and the lost years. Living his life over again, our marriage nothing to do with the woman I am but rather who I am not. I shrank from these notions—there had been that kiss, after all, that first, perfect kiss, and all the ones thereafter. But kisses were not enough to build a life upon, as too many women learned to their regret.
As he was not well-respected by some of the neighbourhood, and since his first wife was both keenly social and traitorously immoral, he would not have wanted too young a wife—one who depended upon a vigorous society for her friendships and entertainment. He would want a quieter person, more bookish—the type who might love Pemberley as much for its trees as its place in the community. And of course, I had no parent to pester and vex him. He’d had more than enough of difficult family relations.
I hoped it was not so, and yet, if not…well, his reasons for marrying me remained as mysterious as those for his marriage to Anne de Bourgh.
I did not regret loving him. But I thought we had at least established a friendship, a mutual passion, a life’s partnership. His habits of secrecy and retreat, however, were ingrained. Just as he had disappeared to London rather than speak to me about Hopewell’s poor opinion of him, he was thrusting me from his sight rather than deliver any explanations regarding Caroline Bingley.
Well. He would not be able to forever retreat from those questions; the magistrate, Lord Cavendish, would, undoubtedly, demand answers. There would likely be an inquest, and my heart hurt at the thought of him facing it by himself.
But that was how he preferred to manage his troubles. Alone.
* * *
I wondered, the next morning, whether he would refuse to see me off. He had not come to me the night before, nor even sent a note responding to mine. I had been tempted to go to him, again and again, but was fairly certain I would cry, possibly followed by undignified begging, and I was determined to subject him to neither. The inequality in our feelings was not his fault, and yet I knew it would pain him if he knew how deeply I was hurt. I took a tray in my room rather than have to wonder whether he would join me for breakfast, barely managing to choke down tea.
But, ever the gentleman, he was waiting when I emerged from my rooms in my warmest carriage dress—for it looked like rain, yesterday’s sunshine replaced by heavy clouds and a chill wind. Without a word or a touch, he walked beside me as we took the stairs, step by echoing step. He was the first to speak.
“I have instructed Mr Frost to take you to Lambton, as you wished.”
