The ___ Inn on the road between London and Meryton
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Darcy was beginning to question more than his judgement. He was beginning to question his sanity.
Over-exposure to the late-autumn sunlight could not be the culprit.
Perhaps it was that persistent, unwelcome notion that if he did not follow this path or examine that copse for signs of his friend, he would miss the very clue he sought. No matter how many times such searches yielded nothing, he could not suppress the urge to leave no trail unexplored—if only for a moment or two—before continuing on his way.
But the unfruitful detours, tedious as they had been, were nothing to what he was presently enduring. He looked about him and groaned. Why had he decided to track Bingley to the end of the world, or at least to the far reaches of Hertfordshire?
He was not right in the head. That strain of unreasonableness that he often saw in Lady Catherine must be making its way into his...
No. It could not be that bad.
His idea had merit. Of course he ought to have inquired at each reasonable place where a traveller might stop! It was the nature of the task that was to blame: having to mix with persons whose station in life was decidedly below his own; having to describe Bingley to those with no useful intelligence to offer for his pains; and the other thing, the thing that threatened to drive him mad.
Having to hear about Bingley without knowing where he was was bad enough.
Having to hear about Bingley in contrast to himself five times in as many minutes was intolerable.
Yes, he had finally come to a place where his friend had been seen, but he took little pleasure in this discovery, for he heard nothing he did not already know: Bingley had been on his way to London on Wednesday. The more serious he tried to appear when closely questioning workers at the inn, the more one spoke of Bingley's smiling countenance; the more imperious Darcy's manner, the more another remarked on the way Bingley's friendly nature put a body at ease.
This unhelpful barmaid now standing before him was as abysmal as the rest. "Such an amiable gentleman your friend was, sir," she said. "And so generous." She looked in the approximate direction of his purse and all but held out her hands together with palms upwards.
Darcy raised his eyes in silent petition and, against habit and inclination, ordered a second drink.
Longbourn House
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"Jane," Elizabeth said, "I have kept count this past hour. She has mentioned Mr. Bingley seven times, and—"
"Eight!" corrected Mary.
"Eight, then. And she has mentioned Mr. Collins no less than thirteen times."
"I counted nineteen."
"Enough, Mary. Just for that, you are coming with us."
"Where?" Kitty asked.
Mary frowned. "I went with you yesterday."
"So you did," Elizabeth answered. "We are going out, Kitty," she added.
"Out where?" said Lydia, eager to go.
"Where we will not hear Mama no matter how many times she mentions the names of certain gentlemen."
Lizzy barely managed to shepherd all her sisters through the door before the count increased to nine and twenty, respectively.
In Conduit Street, late afternoon
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"Can you believe Darcy, of all people, interrogated me regarding the whereabouts of that young pup, Bingley? What, he dropped his leash and now must scamper about town trying to find him?"
"Sour grapes again, Ross? Scared him off, did you, with talk of your Amelia? You know that Darcy has never shown interest in her, nor is he likely to."
"I don't see why not! She is a fine girl, and her twenty thousand pounds ought to be good enough for him."
Greyson shook his head. "Find someone else for Miss Ross. You are wasting your time with him."
On the path to Longbourn House, late afternoon
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"Mr. Darcy!"
"Jane, why spoil such a lovely outing? The mere mention of his name may bring storm clouds upon us and ruin our walk. I am sure you can find a more palatable topic for conversation."
"No, Lizzy," Miss Bennet almost hissed, turning her head to the side for a moment. "Mr. Darcy is here."
"I hope you are joking," Miss Elizabeth said, and then she bumped into the back of Miss Bennet, who had stopped all at once and stood rigid, staring at him.
"You are not joking," said Miss Elizabeth as she moved to stand next to her elder sister. She, too, was now staring at him. The other three girls came round them both to gawk at him as well.
Darcy looked at their faces in turn. He could not recall the last time he had confronted a gaggle of young, eligible women without a single one of them appearing interested in him. Not even Miss Elizabeth seemed so; in fact, she looked positively hostile.
He could not imagine why.
"Mr. Darcy!" Miss Bennet called out and curtsied, remembering her manners and recalling the others to like exertion. "I had thought," she began with the notable absence of her usual serenity. "Oh, Miss Bingley wrote that you were all gone to town for the winter. But where is Mr. Bingley?" Her voice pitched higher. "Is he not with you?" Miss Bennet's eyes strayed to the road behind him, as if she were expecting an addition to their party at any moment.
Darcy's concern began to mount. Miss Bennet's obvious agitation was unexpected. Why would she be agitated about Mr. Bingley's whereabouts?
He stated the obvious: "He is not with me, Miss Bennet."
Miss Bennet's face arranged itself into the most adorable display of disappointment he had seen in some time.
"Actually," he explained, "he was not at the hotel where I expected to find him. I returned to Netherfield attempting to locate him."
"Oh, my." The disappointment rearranged itself into worry. If Darcy had not been convinced before, he would have been swayed by this latest proof of a heart that had certainly been touched. So much for his Miss-Jane-Bennet-as-fortune-hunter theory.
"Perhaps we should call him Mr. Wingley," Miss Mary said. "It appears he took wing and flew away."
Mr. Darcy raised an eyebrow.
"Mary!" Miss Bennet cried, wringing her hands.
Miss Lydia snorted.
Miss Catherine giggled.
Miss Elizabeth pressed her face into her palm. When she looked up, she said, "You must pardon us, Mr. Darcy. I had believed we Bennets were fated to show to greatest disadvantage only when the moon is out—I drew this conclusion directly after the ball, you understand—but it appears afternoon sunlight will serve just as well to illuminate our peculiar inanities." She took a deep breath and released it slowly. "At least my elder sister may always be relied upon to preserve us from universal censure."
Miss Mary took immediate offence. "Just because you cannot appreciate a pun is no reason to be insulting, Lizzy." This comment and the expression on Miss Mary's face resulted in more giggles from Miss Catherine and an outright guffaw from Miss Lydia.
Miss Elizabeth mumbled, "I wish Mr. 'Wingley' would swoop down and rescue us from this humiliation." She turned aside and said in a low voice, "Forgive me, Jane," and reached out to squeeze Miss Bennet's hand.
Darcy heard it all, accustomed as he was to listening to Elizabeth's conversations and gravitating to her side whenever they were in company together.
Not that any of it helped. Miss Elizabeth seemed to take no pleasure in his company, Miss Bennet was sincerely attached to his friend, and the rest of the girls were certifiably insane, or, at the very least, patently ridiculous.
And where was Bingley?
Amidst all the questions swirling in his head, of one thing Darcy was certain: If Miss Bingley were to call at his London residence today, it was satisfying that he would not be there, wherever in the world Bingley might be.
Fitzwilliam Darcy's town residence, late afternoon
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"What can Mr. Darcy mean by still having his knocker down?" Miss Bingley was not amused.
Louisa was not either, but she was resigned to the situation. "It is just as well, Caroline," she said. "We should not be calling here in any case."
"Why ever not?"
Because we just called yesterday, she thought. Because Mr. Darcy would have sent word if there had been any news, she thought. Because Mr. Darcy had worn that pinched look on his face when last they spoke, she thought. It was the very look he sometimes wore when Caroline had paid him just this side of too much attention. Louisa was not fond of that look.
"What else are we to do?" Caroline asked her.
"I do not know what you mean to do, but I am going home. Chasing Charles is a wearying business."
On the path to Longbourn House, late(r in the) afternoon
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Miss Lydia and Miss Catherine began to talk amongst themselves. Miss Mary was silent, her wit seemingly exhausted on the pun. Miss Elizabeth, however, addressed Darcy thus: "I suppose you have no reason to fear Mr. Bingley has met misfortune on the road?" Miss Bennet seemed eager to hear his answer as well.
"None, Miss Elizabeth. I discovered rumours this morning of his having lately been seen, but nothing substantial, so I inquired at the principal hotels before starting on the route to Meryton. I did come upon an inn where Bingley is known to have stopped two days ago on his way to town. By the time I conceded I had more than likely left him behind me in London, I was near enough to Netherfield that I approached the house. It had every appearance of being closed for the winter. And when I saw no sign of him there..." He glanced at Miss Bennet, letting the words hang in the air.
Miss Elizabeth eyed him speculatively. "You are thorough, I will grant you that."
Miss Bennet's blush was discernible even in the fading light. "It is possible," she said with the air of one trying to divert attention from oneself, "he met with friends in town. Mr. and Mrs. Newland, who are recently returned to London after their wedding tour, or Colonel Parker, or Captain Smith, or..."
Darcy's eye twitched.
"...Mr. Barton, who I believe also has a sister named Louisa, or Mr. Kell from university, or..." Miss Bennet seemed to realise she was running on in an uncharacteristic manner and did not finish her list.
Darcy was impressed, despite himself, with Miss Bennet's information. Not only did she recall the names of Bingley's friends, people she only knew of through conversation, but she was sensible in suggesting that Bingley might have met one of them and altered his plans as a result. How very like him that would be. "Bingley and I hardly have every acquaintance in common," he told her, "but I am familiar with one or two of the names you mentioned." He smiled. "It never occurred to me to call on any of them. Perhaps I am not so thorough after all."
In Berkeley Street, late afternoon
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"Sofia," said Mrs. Beaufort to her daughter as she spied a trio of gentlemen conversing with spirit on the opposite pavement. "I thought you told me Mr. Bingley had removed to the country."
"He did, Mama."
"But is that not Mr. Bingley I see there?"
Sofia looked where her mother indicated and blanched. That was enough confirmation for Mrs. Beaufort. How fortunate it was that the man in question stood with his back to them as they passed by.
"I am surprised he is so near Portman Square and has not called on you, my dear!" Mrs. Beaufort whispered, hurrying her daughter onward.
"It matters not, Mama," said Sofia in a tone that assured her mother it mattered a great deal.
Mrs. Beaufort began to regret having pointed the fellow out. After all, Mr. Bingley had not paid Sofia any more attention than he had paid to half a dozen other young ladies she could name. "Young men can be so capricious," she said once the gentleman was out of sight. "Better you know it now, my love."
