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Mr Darcy had not, precisely, promised to stay the night; nor had he promised to take me with him. In fact, he had ridden from Pemberley, probably so there would be no carriage to convey me home. However, I was confident enough in my powers of persuasion to promise her that he would at least still be here in the morning. “You will, Auntie. Good night to you.”
My husband stood as she did, bowed, and with perfect correctness, wished her a pleasant sleep; however, the greater part of his attention was not on this room or its occupants. What memories was he lost within? When we were alone once more, I determined not to dance around my questions, but ask them directly.
“The body—did it prove to be Miss Bingley’s?”
This recalled him to the present, and he grimaced again. “Yes. I had no doubt of it, of course, for like Bingley, I recognised the rings she always wore. But the scraps of remaining fabric, and the hair colour…yes.”
The gruesome vision appearing in my mind made me shudder. “Why would she leave a letter that she meant to elope? Georgiana explained that much, and her apparent tendre for the Austrian. I must say, I could hardly countenance her doing such a thing. Unless she had changed a great deal from when I knew her.”
He grunted. “No, it was unlike Miss Bingley to behave in such a raggedy manner. But she had been recently humiliated, you see. By me.”
I turned sharply towards him, but he did not look at me. Perhaps he could not, and still relive his bitter memories. There had been an argument of some sort, I remembered Georgiana explaining.
“Why?” I asked.
He did not answer, not immediately. Instead he stood, taking himself to the hearth, grasping the mantel’s marbled edge with both hands and staring into the flames.
“Anne knew what she had in me from the first,” he said at last. “My pride, you see, would not permit me to allow anyone to know of my misery, or that I was a cuckold. I could not bear it. For many years, most all the years of my marriage, it seemed as though it was all I had—my love for Pemberley, my reputation as its master, my family’s honour. It all must be shielded. I could never allow anyone to know of my foolish mistakes. Anne understood all this well before I ever did, understood that as long as she was discreet, I would pretend to the whole world that I was the happiest man in it. Even the servants were fooled. She was expert in deception. Every few days, she would retrieve something of mine—some personal item—and leave it lying in her bed chamber, so the household would believe I visited regularly. And part of me was disgusted by the deceit, but a greater part was relieved she took the trouble.”
I did not, exactly, understand why he told me this, or what it had to do with Caroline Bingley’s death. But there was such bitterness, such self-disgust in the telling, I did not interrupt, lest I disrupt the purge.
“She would throw magnificent house parties, inviting the crème de la crème of society so she could display her talent for entertaining. It was a dangerous game she played, for sprinkled amongst her illustrious guests might be a lover or two, or at least someone whom she had decided to seduce.”
I was revolted, but he had mentioned Thorncroft and its uses to me before. He glanced over at me, his expression full of self-mockery.
“So blatant,” I murmured.
“Not really. As I believe I have mentioned, she was clever, well-practised, and inherently deceitful. It took me a long while to figure it out, and some of it, only in retrospect. I knew she was not faithful, but I was dense and naïve about exactly how unfaithful she was. I knew about Wickham—whom she claimed to have loved since her youth—and he, of course, was barred from Pemberley. As well, I knew of her spiteful act with Bingley, purposely accomplished to wreck my peace and warn me to what depths she might willingly sink. But no, I formed most of my conclusions in hindsight, and the vast majority of them after Miss Bingley’s elop…er, disappearance. That last year of her life, Anne made mistakes she would never have made previously. Mistakes of indiscretion, of recklessness. In the past I have spoken to you as though I understood what I had in her, but truthfully I am convinced I never will.”
He had been married for seven years, and yet, he was saying, he had never really known his wife. Part of it, he had previously explained—she had driven him away, manipulated him, deceived him—but I was half convinced he had never really wanted to know her. He had made himself try, perhaps until she had fired a cannon into her marriage by means of her liaison with Bingley. The true mystery to me was why in the world he had ever married her in the first place, as I had often wondered.
“My sister told you of the Kroffords?” he asked, interrupting my thoughts.
“Yes. It surprised me, I will admit, to learn that Miss Bingley was still unwed two years ago. I had always believed her committed to the prospect of finding an acceptable partner.”
“She did not take particularly well, but it was her own choice,” he said grimly. “She had offers.”
“Still, she had reached an age when one wishes for a home of one’s own,” I said. I certainly knew the longing.
“That was to be the purpose of this grand house party, ‘the grandest party of 1818’, Anne promised. She, who had never cared much for Miss Bingley, was suddenly obsessed with finding her a husband. And Miss Bingley, who had never cared much for Anne, was suddenly eager to spend every moment in her company and seemingly to accept her guidance in affairs of the heart.”
“Was it because of Mr Krofford, do you think?”
“That is what I thought at the time. She had been introduced to him during the Season, and he was said to be a catch. Many other women certainly thought so, and I supposed she was competitive. For Anne’s motives, I could not say. I distrusted them, but what was I to do? Krofford was accepted in all the best circles, and it was Bingley’s duty to investigate him thoroughly.” He ran a hand through his thick hair. “I had begun, by then, expecting more independence of Bingley. I told him he ought to look carefully into Krofford’s concerns, and left it at that. A match seemed imminent.”
He left the hearth and sat down beside me again. But his elbows were braced upon his knees, his head bent downwards, his posture, defeated.
“One afternoon, Miss Bingley entered my library when I was alone. Most of the guests were participating in a picnic of some sort, requiring half the household to serve them, so there were none to see her do it. Of course, I asked her why she was not with the others. By way of reply, she burst into tears.”
“That…must have been awkward,” I said.
He sighed and leant back again, staring at the ceiling. “She told me she loved me—had been in love with me for years. That she had no choice but to accept my marriage, and had wished me happy, but obviously I was not, because my wife was a cheat, a liar, a faithless harlot. She had proof, she said.”
“Oh, my,” I breathed. “How awful.”
“Exactly. I told her it was none of her affair, and she ought to mind her own troubles and stay out of mine. I was humiliated, and rather harsh, I am afraid. And she…”
After a pause, he began speaking again very softly. “She offered to become my paramour. She said she did not want to love any other, that she had no care for her reputation. She asked for a house—she had picked one out, I believe—within ten miles of Pemberley, and another home in London. A horse and pair, an allowance, servants, and jewels. In return, she would see to my happiness in all…the most intimate of ways.”
