He recalled an evening alone with Bingley after Hurst had retired, both gentlemen indulging in several glasses of fine port brandy. Bingley, his speech loosened by spirits, had lamented the financial burden of his sister’s extravagance after she had, yet again, exhausted her quarterly allowance.
“These expenditures are beyond my means at present,” Bingley had said, punctuating his complaint with an indelicate belch that echoed in theotherwise silent billiards room. “Not when my investments are yielding less than anticipated. And yet, I must give in to her demands until she marries, and the purchase of unnecessary fripperies and ghastly feathered monstrosities she calls hats falls to her husband. A damned waste of money, if you ask me. What need has she of more silk and lace, when she will primarily reside in the country?” A self-satisfied chuckle escaped him. “I do not believe she has thought that far ahead, as she cannot see beyond draping herself in expensive silks and capering about in elegant carriages. She conveniently overlooks that her intended’s estate lies a three-day journey from town.”
“Your sister has formed an attachment?” Darcy enquired, his eyebrow arching sharply as he straightened in his wingback chair. Bingley had never indicated that she held any gentleman in esteem. “Am I acquainted with the gentleman?”
“I believe you are,” Bingley replied, with a sly grin. “But I shall divulge nothing further. I do not wish to cast misfortune on my sister’s goals and dreams.”
In retrospect, Darcy’s gut recoiled. How could he have been so obtuse? Bingley could not have been clearer if he had written a treatise on the subject, complete with diagrams, detailing the impending nuptials of Fitzwilliam Darcy and Caroline Bingley. The invitation to partake in a ‘shooting party’ in Hertfordshire this past autumn now had shades of a Machiavellian intent, a spider’s web spun with careful precision. Not for the first time, Darcy thanked his lucky stars that both he and his valet always ensured his chamber doors, along with any servant’s access, were securely locked when staying under the roof of an unmarried woman.
Not that he would have offered that woman marriage if she had successfully trapped him. He would fall in disgrace, taking his innocent sister with him, before shackling himself to such aviper as she.
A second vignette dropped in his memory like a pebble in a smooth lake. The night of Bingley’s ball, when Miss Bingley, her face pinched with disapproval, had remarked on her brother’s imprudent attentions to Miss Bennet.
I cannot believe he has strayed so far from our goals and dreams.
Goals and dreams.
The phrase reverberated through his thoughts, hollow as his footfalls had been that night at Netherfield, when he had followed Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst down the shadowed hallway to that secluded parlour. There, with voices lowered and consciences quieted, they had plotted to sever Bingley from the eldest Bennet daughter. Little did he know those goals and dreams had also included him.
A week later, Darcy found himself scrutinizing a detailed report covered in neat, damning script. Though the Yorkshire inquiries remained outstanding, the London intelligence alone proved overwhelming in its scope and implications.
Freed at last from their father’s stringent control over the family fortune, the two Bingley siblings promptly embarked on a lavish spending spree that would have made even the most indulgent aristocrat blush. Their purchases included horses and carriages, entirely new wardrobes, extravagant entertainments where champagne flowed like water, rare wines, port, and brandy, and — even more superfluously — a complete redecoration of their Mayfair town house. The lease itself cost a small fortune, and although the rooms had already been appointed with elegant furnishings, Miss Bingley insisted on replacing every damask curtain and mahogany side table with items that better reflected her ostentatious taste.
By far the most excessive outlay was Charles Bingley’s one-year lease of Netherfield Park, which he abandoned less than two months after taking possession. Darcy could not entirely absolve himself of blame; he had deliberately painted Miss Jane Bennet’s affections as tepid, fearing that Charles might succumb to her luminous blue eyes and gentle demeanour. In retrospect, his intervention had very likely spared the eldest Bennet daughter from a life of genteel poverty, given the alarming rate at which Bingley’s finances were deteriorating.
After scanning the meticulous columns of figures in his solicitor’s handwriting, Darcy was stunned to discover that more than half of Bingley’s inheritance, a sum that had once seemed inexhaustible, was nearly depleted, with twenty thousand pounds of the remainder irrevocably committed to Miss Bingley’s trust. This explained Bingley’s muted reaction when Darcy and his sister cautioned him against Miss Bennet: he was in urgent need of an heiress whose fortune could restore his dwindling resources. Miss Eldridge, whose dowry reportedly exceeded thirty thousand pounds, would replenish the Bingley coffers which would be depleted when Miss Bingley married.
Setting the report aside, Darcy took up fresh paper and penned three resolutions in his bold, slanting script. First, he would withdraw Bingleys’ invitation to Pemberley in August, sending a separate invitation later to Mr. and Mrs. Hurst alone. Second, he would speak again with Hurst, though Darcy suspected that his shrewd friend already comprehended his in-laws’ precarious situation. Indeed, Hurst had alluded to it earlier that week when he and his wife joined him for dinner. Finally, with a firm hand that betrayed no hesitation, Darcy resolved to request a discreet review of Bingley’s membership at their exclusive gentlemen’s establishment. It was Darcy’s endorsement that had secured the young man’s acceptance, andhe would not allow the venerated name of Darcy to be tarnished by association with the scandal that loomed on the horizon like a gathering storm if Bingley’s finances continued to hemorrhage at its present alarming rate.
Chapter Seven
“Rise, Lord and LadyRumley.”
At the summons, Bennet drew himself up and gently lifted his wife from her deep curtsey, her new hooped gown bobbing slightly with her movement. Though an earldom usually passed with little ceremony, his wife’s first presentation before Their Majesties required this formality amid the gilt splendour of the palace’s receiving room.
“We are delighted to see Lady Jane and Lady Elizabeth once more. They have grown in beauty since last we met,” the Queen said, her gaze warm as Jane and Elizabeth dipped their heads. Her expression shifted, turning somber. “We understand your middle daughter chose not to be present. Having read your letter, we hold no ill will towards her.”
“Your Majesty’s kindness is most heartening,” Bennet replied with a respectful inclination, the weight of his new signet ring still unfamiliar on his finger. “Lady Mary finds peace only in the solitude of home, and I could not in good conscience subject her to an ordeal she would dread.”
The Queen offered no further comment, her powdered face carefully neutral, and Bennet sensed the audience had drawn to its close. He and his family bowed and retreated. Once theyreached the anteroom, they all exhaled in unison.
“I am so relieved that it is over,” his wife murmured, fanning her flushed cheeks with a delicate lace handkerchief. “I was certain I would stumble and embarrass us all.”
“Nonsense, Franny,” he said to sooth his wife as he pressed the gloved hand that rested on his arm. A slight tremble was just perceptible beneath the soft satin. “You were exquisite. Miss Tyler’s lessons served you well. You behaved precisely as a countess should.”
Lady Rumley halted midsentence and turned to him, eyes glistening. “You have no idea how much I appreciate your patience in explaining everything to me. There was a time when you would not.”
Tears gathered at her lashes, and guilt swept through Bennet. Mindful of the waiting servants in their liveries and courtiers in their finery beyond the mahogany doors, he guided his wife onward, grateful that Jane and Elizabeth maintained a respectful distance, their silk skirts swishing in unison as they walked.
“I owe you so many apologies,” he whispered. “If you will allow it, I would like to visit you after dinner to discuss everything.”
“Everything?” Her voice trembled as she clutched his hand.
He paused in the hallway, meeting her anxious gaze. It was time they spoke of what happened more than eighteen years ago in the shadowed corners of their marriage.
“Yes, my love. Every last thing.”
Firelight bathed the roomin warmth and cast a gentle glow upon his wife’s face. The soft light smoothed away the fine lines thathad appeared over the decades, softening her features until he could see only traces of the happy girl, she had once been. When Thomas Bennet, at two and twenty, had first encountered Frances Gardiner, she had been Meryton’s incomparable beauty, all tumbling golden curls, sparkling blue eyes, and a laugh that rang like silver bells. Enchanted, he had pursued her with the single-minded determination of a besotted young man. Bennet attended every assembly where she might appear, and sent bouquets of wildflowers gathered from Longbourn’s meadows until he secured the hand of a carefree sixteen-year-old girl whose only dowry, other than a modest five thousand pounds, was her loveliness and a vivacity that lit up every room she entered.