Bingley’s eyes flew to Darcy’s, a flush creeping above his neckcloth, before he turned to his hostess and stammered an apology. With a glance at Miss Bennet, whose color had also risen, he accepted the inelegant invitation on behalf of them both. “Mrs. Bennet.” He and Darcy bowed in farewell. “Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth…” Bingley continued taking leave of them all, Darcy repeating the compliment after him. Miss Bennet’s answering farewell to Darcy was all that was composed, and he was quite able to meet her eyes; but Elizabeth’s he feared to pursue for the relief he might see in them.
They were to meet again, dine together at Longbourn, in two days’ time. He was glad for Bingley’s sake. “What do you think, Charles?” he asked when they reached the end of the lane and turned in to the road. “Would you say it went well?”
“As well as can be expected after so lengthy an absence,” he replied thoughtfully, then launched suddenly into a veritable paean. “Is she not beautiful? As beautiful as I — No, more beautiful than I remember! Oh, Darcy, the way she smiled at me!”
As they wended their way to their next morning call, Darcy listened with sympathy to all his friend’s expressions of renewed hope, but his own hopes he considered as gravely in doubt. If, as it appeared, he only caused Elizabeth pain or his presence confused her into silence, he would not give her cause for more by imposing himself upon her notice any more than necessary. He would place himself even more firmly at Bingley’s disposal and continue to observe Miss Bennet, his eyes this time attuned to the more subtle signs of affection which resided in that Bennet sister. As for Elizabeth, he decided as they rode to the squire’s, he would need a sign from her or he was for London as soon as possible.
Their visit with Squire Justin was conducted along such familiar lines as to deny they had been absent from Hertfordshire for more than a fortnight. Under the squire’s hearty ministrations, it occurred again to Darcy that, should his friend become a fixture in the neighborhood, he would do quite well among them. The squire, Darcy noted, might be just the sort of older, wiser head toward whom Bingley would do well to turn as Darcy eased himself out of a role he felt less and less qualified to play. He would mention it to Bingley, should his friend find that all he desired did, indeed, reside in Hertfordshire.
It was decided. He would leave on the following day. Darcy looked up at the ceiling above his bed, then flung an arm over his eyes. The dinner at Longbourn the previous evening had provided every reason to believe Bingley’s feet upon the path to happiness. He had watched the pair, their delight in each other patently obvious, with growing certainty. With the confession Darcy must make to him today, Charles would soon be well down the road to matrimony. It was time to cut him loose and leave him to make his future. As for his own…
The company at Longbourn had proved to be large in number. Of this fact, Mrs. Bennet had not hesitated to remind him several times, harking back, Darcy supposed, to his utterance last autumn about the confining nature of country life. Other than those commonplaces required of a hostess, she had ignored him most of the evening, and he had kept his distance from her. Only at dinner had he been forced to sit near her and partake of a meal replete with the reiteration of all the vulgar speculations of the dinner ball at Netherfield, now generously seasoned with raptures over her recently married daughter and son-in-law.
After being greeted in the hall by his hosts, he had come to Miss Bennet, who had greeted him with the kind smile she was wont to bestow on every creature. Making his bow, he had moved on. Elizabeth. His heart had turned over as he looked down on her glossy curls and creamy brow. How could she always surprise him with more loveliness than he remembered when he remembered and cherished every moment between them?
“Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth had looked up at him, her glorious eyes uncertain as she briefly explored his face, then looked down in her curtsy. “So good of you to come.”
“Not at all,” he had replied upon rising from his bow. “It is you who are good to invite us.” And that had been the sum of their conversation until the evening was almost over. When he had taken the opportunity to stand by her, she had asked about Georgiana. He had answered her and then waited, standing there awkwardly, his tongue tied against the riot of questions he longed to ask, but she had said no more and he had walked away when another young woman required her attention. Not once that evening had she approached him! Neither had the vivacious Elizabeth, full of life and wit and challenge, ever made an appearance.
Soon after, he had found himself planted at a table of whist players whose fiendish affinity for the game fortunately required his unwavering attention. Between hands, he had stolen glances across the room to Elizabeth’s table. The look upon her face had indicated little pleasure with her cards. Perhaps it had indicated little pleasure with the whole of the evening. He could not tell. What had pleased her was the renewal of Bingley’s attentions to her sister. The soft look he so coveted for himself she had bestowed often on the pair as they walked about the room together or sat and conversed with other guests.
Well, so it must be, he thought to himself with something like despair and threw off the covers. He had wished for a sign, and though he had not received a negative reception, there was in nowise enough positive in their exchanges to constitute any encouragement to stay. So, he was for London. Darcy rose and threw open the curtains. One last day…one last day that must end in either strengthening or destroying a friendship. His eyes traced the distance over the fields from Netherfield to Longbourn. Elizabeth…Elizabeth.
“What good fellows they are!” Bingley turned a bright, satisfied countenance upon Darcy when the last of his guests had called for his carriage or horse and departed into the cool of the autumn night. “I like them quite as well as — better than — I did last autumn.” An impromptu gathering of gentlemen for cards had been announced by Bingley the night before at Longbourn, and many had come, glad for an evening away from the eyes of mother, wife, or sister.
“A good sort on all counts,” Darcy agreed as they returned to the drawing room and a last glass of port. “It is gratifying to know that I leave you in such good company. You shall want for nothing to keep you occupied during my absence.” He observed Bingley carefully as he poured out their drinks. His friend was in the best of humors. The visits to Longbourn and the welcome of his return by the neighboring gentry were doing his friend great good, and for this, Darcy was exceedingly thankful. Now, the night before he was to leave Hertfordshire for London, was the time to tell him. His stomach tightened even as he accepted a glass from his friend.
“I wish you would not leave so soon, but since you must, here is to those fellows who just departed, and to your speedy return.” Bingley raised his glass, smiling at him. A swift pang smote Darcy at the sight. When he had done with what he must tell him, would Bingley still wish for his return? Darcy tipped his glass to Bingley’s, and each downed a portion of his liquor. Go to! Darcy’s conscience badgered him.
“Charles, there is something that I must tell you before I leave.”
“Tell away, Darcy!” Bingley set his glass down, flung himself with a bounce into the large stuffed chair, and motioned to its mate before the fire.
“No, thank you, I think I will stand.” Darcy took another sip of the port and stared into the flames.
Bingley looked up at him in concern. “Are you quite the thing, Darcy? I did notice that you have been more quiet than usual this evening.”