The Darcys and the Bingleys Read online

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2008 by Marsha Altman

  Cover and internal design © 2008 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover photo © Bridgeman Art Library

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Altman, Marsha.

  The Darcys & the Bingleys : a tale of two gentlemen’s marriages to two most devoted sisters / Marsha Altman.

  p. cm.

  I. Austen, Jane, 1775-1817. Pride and prejudice. II. Title. III. Title: Darcys and the Bingleys.

  PS3601.L853D37 2008

  813’.6--dc22

  2008010395

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Book One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Book Two

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  Dedication

  To the cheetah kid

  You don’t know who you are, and I don’t remember your name, but thanks for the eighteen years of inspiration.

  Book One

  A Bit Of Advice

  Chapter 1

  The Deal

  Charles Bingley, a man in possession of fortune and of good standing, had been for several years now in want of a wife. Now he stood at the culmination of his efforts and found it almost alarming.

  For the first time in many years, the shooting season had passed, and Charles Bingley didn’t give it a second thought. He had to look his best at all times for the numerous guests that were filling his hours. Normally, hosting was something he did gladly, but other forces were pulling him in directions away from his abominable guests and well-wishers.

  This must be how Darcy feels all the time, he mused, and allowed himself a rare smile—rare in that it was at the expense of his friend. For he had no doubt that whatever sufferings he was enduring at Netherfield by having the flux of people and priorities keep him from his beloved Jane, Darcy was probably feeling them more, because Darcy went into the intense period of social events with a predisposition against them. As a guest in Bingley’s estate, he was normally entitled to all of the privacy he wished and could hide in his room with a pile of books for all Bingley cared. But that was not the case when one was engaged in what was looking to be a rather controversial wedding.

  Perhaps controversial was not the right word, but Bingley chose it anyway, at least in his own mind. Certainly, there were those who opposed it, but none that he and Darcy were not willing to stand up to. He could never have imagined his unshakable best friend bending to the will of his aunt and marrying Anne de Bourgh, but then again, he also could never have imagined his friend falling in love with someone deemed below his station by the world at large. If anything, the master of Pemberley was more than aware of his station and the social standing that he was required to maintain, something Bingley would not wish on himself for the doubling of accounts that it would bring.

  So, it seemed, life was full of surprises, because Darcy was quite possibly more in love with Elizabeth than Bingley was with Jane, even if he was being subtle about it and apparently had been since the moment they met. Only after much teasing and a persevering interrogation did Fitzwilliam Darcy admit to falling in love with her at first sight, of all places and times, and he only admitted it with a passion in his eyes that indicated that, if Charles Bingley were not his best friend and companion, he would be inclined to thrash him with his walking stick for asking such a question.

  But even all of his purported and very real hauteur and intimidating posture and grace could not save poor Mr. Darcy from the necessities of prenuptial social business. There were the trips to Longbourn that were not frequent enough and the various well-wishers (and non-well-wishers) streaming into Netherfield that were all too frequent. He also had to travel to London no less than three times in a month for reasons of finance management and general legal wedding preparations. Bingley, a man of smaller fortune, only had to go once and entrusted to his steward that all the rest would be well.

  In fact, it had reached such an extreme that standing in his room, waiting for the appearance of his waistcoat, Charles Bingley could not think of two or three words he had spoken to Darcy in the past day, despite living under the same roof. Not that he was totally unaccustomed to absences, and not that he was helpless without the person whom he would never bring himself to call—to his face, anyway—a sort of elder brother, but he could think of no better way to idle away the time which they were forced to be away from their respective fiancées by social circumstance than talking, even if it was idle chatter that would result in Bingley quite knowingly running his mouth off and Darcy impatiently rolling his eyes. That, at least, would be a bit relaxing in its own way.

  No, there would be no return to normalcy. In three days, they would no longer be eligible bachelors who were the talk of every ball. Bingley’s beloved sister would no longer be batting her eyelashes at his best friend (or, at least, Bingley hoped she wouldn’t), and he would not be returning the favour with dismissive witticisms. All right, Bingley admitted he was a bit oblivious at times, but he was not dim-witted, even if he had missed Darcy’s obsession with Elizabeth Bennet. But then again, everyone had missed that, probably including Darcy himself. Darcy was jubilant when writing to his sister of the arrangement, and he took great pains to make his face even more unreadable than usual when he gave the grave news to Caroline Bingley. It was a masterpiece of a performance and went well with Charles’s considerable relief that he didn’t have to do it himself.

  All cousins, sisters, distant relatives, attendants, hired planners, paperwork officials, and local guests made two matters particularly vexing for the normally unvexible Charles Bingley. First, and most obviously, despite the many trips to Longbourn, he could not get nearly as much time with Jane as he would have liked, but he was assured that he had the rest of his life to make up for it. The second matter was more pressing, if less emotionally invested: he needed Darcy, alone.

  It took him several weeks to admit even to himself that he had questions that were better an
swered before the wedding and that Darcy was the best person to answer them. He was lacking a father—though that would have been an awkward situation anyway—and Mr. Hurst was, he decided, with all of his good manners and intentions, the last person he wanted to ask.

  That left his friend, confidant, and evermore-experienced-at-everything brother figure. If he could just get him alone long enough to properly work up the courage to ask the appropriate questions, then all would be well. Darcy wouldn’t answer, of course. He would look indignant and find some reason to stomp off or find no reason at all and still stomp off. Or maybe, maybe, he would actually have some advice that could be pried out with excessive trying.

  And Bingley was ready to try.

  Now there was the apparently irremovable obstacle of getting some time alone with Darcy. The halls of Netherfield were out of the question. Even if he could shoo away the servants, he would have enough trouble with Caroline and Louisa walking in and out as if they owned the place. Maybe he should have put his foot down earlier, but they were his older sisters, and he felt a particular amount of respect for their wishes. “Retirement with the gentlemen” on premises would involve Mr. Hurst, and that was right out.

  Longbourn was also not the answer. Aside from the obvious notion that their fiancées and future in-laws were around, even the after-dinner brandy and conversation could not happen without Mr. Bennet, a man with whom he was most eager to leave only the finest impression.

  That Bingley was a varied outdoorsman and willing to admit it at the slightest temptation was about his only reasonable means of expediting the process. So was Darcy an outdoorsman; though, as with everything else, he kept silent about his own personal habits. The master of Pemberley wouldn’t even admit to owning dogs or knowing their names or personally caring for them before Bingley caught him red-handed actually playing with one on the grounds when he was sure no one was around. When a man would not be seen even playing with his animals, that was the very measure of privacy—which was precisely why Bingley knew he needed to talk to Darcy about his concerns.

  After much internal debate and fretting about timing, Bingley eventually decided that the best approach was a direct one and conspired to find Darcy when he was alone, even if it meant tromping into his dressing chamber. Fortunately, it did not come to that. Darcy had been breakfasting earlier than normal, either because he had business or because he had a great desire to avoid the leisurely feast with Bingley and Caroline, as a normally awkward situation was made even more awkward by Caroline’s shock and disapproval, made obvious despite many layers of proposed civility. In fact, when Bingley inquired, Darcy barely sat down at all, merely pacing the room with a cup of coffee and glancing at the paper to see if it contained anything particularly scandalous about him that day.

  “Darcy,” Bingley said, announcing himself to his friend, who had discarded the local paper and was staring out the window with his morning liquid refreshment. “I hear it is to be a most pleasant day for the weather.”

  “Yes,” was all Darcy answered, perhaps a bit surprised to see him so early and so eager, but offering none of that with his usual neutral expression.

  “Perhaps we might go for a walk—not to Longbourn, necessarily. I just cannot let Netherfield’s fine woods be neglected any longer.”

  Whether Darcy believed him or not, he gave no indication. “If it is your wish.”

  So it was that easy. Because of the hour, they managed to escape almost everyone who could not be shooed away with a gesture. The morning sun was not at full force yet, with the mists still shrouding the estate in an eclectic sort of charm.

  “So,” Darcy said when they were well out of sight of the grand halls of Netherfield. He did not continue.

  “Is the quiet not very pleasant—?”

  “Out with it,” Darcy said, not entirely harshly—for Darcy anyway. He had a whole spectrum of impatience, one that could only be discerned with careful research, and Bingley judged himself rather low on the scale—so far. “I know full well we are not making a surprise visit to Longbourn, unless you are mistaken as to the proper direction, and I believe you are not. And as much as I appreciate the opportunity for peace that you have afforded me in your offer, that does not mean I intend to dally the day away while you decide whether to ask me whatever you intend to ask me.”

  “You know me too well. I fear I am quite readable.”

  Darcy gave an odd sort of smile. “I would not do you the dishonour of admitting it.” That he just did went unspoken between the two of them.

  Now they had come to it, the moment he dreaded. “We are to marry in nearly two days—”

  “It has not escaped my notice, I assure you.”

  “—and I find myself in need of some . . . advice.”

  If Darcy were a tad less clever, Bingley supposed he would have asked him if he was worried about doing the right thing by marrying Jane Bennet—but Bingley knew that Darcy knew that he had no such concerns. He was madly in love with her and had been for a year now. It was not a question for an intelligent person to raise, and he considered Darcy to be quite possibly the most intelligent person he had the pleasure of knowing.

  Instead, Darcy took a moment to ponder all of the meanings Bingley could be implying. Financial? Surely not, as that would not require such great fortifications of privacy. Merely nervousness? That was only to be expected.

  Bingley was sure that Darcy had arrived upon the answer himself because a look of pure horror washed over his face.

  “It is not what you think. I am quite aware—”

  “One would hope,” Darcy said. “No, no, I would never suppose you to be that naïve.”

  “Then you see it’s not a matter of technical . . . knowledge. I just—,” and he did not even begin to curse himself for stuttering like a fool, because if there were ever a time when this behaviour were excusable, it was now. “I—I just want to be . . . what I’m saying is—”

  But Darcy didn’t finish his sentence for him. Damn it, he was so good at that. Why couldn’t he be so kind now? He merely replied with utmost calmness, “You are destroying your hat.”

  Because he was. Bingley was playing with his removed hat, shoving it around in his hands and wringing it out as if it were a rag. He had destroyed any number of hats this way, so it came as no great surprise. Fortunately, he had been wise enough to put the one purchased for the wedding away until the appropriate time. “I am perhaps my haberdasher’s favourite client,” Bingley said, mainly to relieve the tension that only he seemed to feel. Darcy was an impenetrable wall. It made him very patient but unhelpful. “Please don’t torment me. You know what I mean.”

  “And you assume that I am somehow more experienced in this area.”

  “You are more experienced in most areas,” Bingley freely admitted. “In fact, I cannot think of a single area where you have not bested me.”

  “Except in proposing marriage.”

  A rare admission for Darcy. Bingley was too busy to be stunned. “Only with your incessant prodding was I successful. But no matter, it is in the past. My point—”

  “Yes, your point.”

  “My point is—,” but he didn’t want to say his point, and Darcy was going to torture him by making him say it out loud, even though he knew full well what they were talking about. The bastard! “I want—I want my wife to be very . . . happy.”

  “Satisfied.”

  “Yes!” he said, and then judged it to be too enthusiastic a response. He felt like smacking himself.

  Darcy huffed a bit before answering, “Surely there are enough married men in England that you can find one to help illuminate the subject—”

  “Darcy, please, don’t make me beg you or suggest I resort to Mr. Hurst. Find some kindness in your heart. You may keep it hidden, but I know you have it.” Bingley pleaded, “Do you want me to get on my knees? Because I will.”

  “I am merely affronted that you assume that I am some kind of expert on the subject,” Darcy said, ev
en though he didn’t sound all that affronted. “Surely you do not categorise me with Wickham in this respect.”

  “No, no, of course not! You have always been very discreet—or I assume, I assume, you’ve been very discreet.” Now he didn’t want to hit himself; he wanted to kick his own teeth in. He wondered if that was possible. “I’m assuming.”

  Darcy raised an eyebrow. “You are assuming a lot.”

  “Don’t torture me, man! I remember Juliana quite well.”

  “Juliana?” There was, as best as Bingley could tell, no look of recognition on Darcy’s face.

  “Juliana. Good God man, you don’t even remember her name?” Now it was Bingley’s turn to laugh. He was being daring now, treading the line of inciting Darcy’s anger, but it was worth it if it helped him make any progress.

  “Juliana,” Darcy repeated, trying to dredge up old memories. “Cambridge?”

  “The faculty soirée.”

  “Where we met. Not very formally, as I recall,” Darcy said. “I’m afraid my impressions of the evening are—well, they’re a bit lost over time. I may never have learned her name.”

  “Oh, you knew her name.” Bingley would chastise himself for this later, but at the moment, it was good to gloat and ruffle Darcy’s unruffable feathers. “You were moaning it the whole way back to your quarters.”

  Darcy’s mouth was agape. It was such a sight; Bingley had never seen it. “How do you know?”

  “Because I carried you back. You could hardly stand.” Bingley revelled—this was an expected delight, plus it further put off his uncomfortable and very technical questions. “But apparently you don’t remember much of that, either. Do you wish me to enlighten you?”

  “No,” Darcy said, returning to his cold voice. “No, what I have of my memories is quite all right, thank you very much. If I have need of your services in the future, I will let you know. But back to the matter at hand—”

  “Yes, the matter at hand.” He did not relish in returning to it, but it was why they were out here in the morning chill, with their clothes damp from the morning dew.