Page 14 of A Mismatched Compromise

Watching him from the corner of his eye, Darcy thought ruefully that his friend’s pretence was rather less than convincing. In the half hour since he had settled into a chair by the window with a volume on agricultural improvements, Bingley had not once turned a single page. He sat quite still, staring fixedly at the pages, clearly not reading them so much as using them as a screen behind which he could conduct the serious but invisible business of private misery.

The stillness alone would have been a sign to anyone who knew him that all was not well, for Bingley was not a man who sat still. The effort of such inactivity was visible in the tenseness of his shoulders beneath his coat, as well as in his silence, which seemed less the quiet of a restful mind than that of someone who has decided that he has no recourse but to say nothing.

Concerned as Darcy was for him, he was loath to interrupt Bingley’s enforced quiet when he could think of nothing useful to say to him.

Though the problem was not exactly that he could not think of anything to say to Bingley. In fact, he had shaped several observations into full-blown speeches since the night of the ball, but he had shared precisely none of them, partly because Bingley did not seem to want speeches, and partly because he was perhaps the last person who ought to be counselling anyone on managing inconvenient feelings that one would prefer not to feel. Thus Darcy was staring intently out the window, pretending not to notice Hurst’s snores or Bingley’s moping or Miss Bingley’s ankles. It was all rather exhausting.

The door opened, and a footman entered, announcing callers. “Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth Bennet, sir.”

Bingley was on his feet, the forgotten book tumbling to the floor, before Darcy had fully registered the names. His expression moved through several stages in rapid succession: first a bright, unguarded delight that lit him from within in his old way, then a sharp, visible recollection of the precise nature of the situation and how he should be feeling about it, and finally something complicated and unfinished that settled heavily over his features and made him look rather as though he had just walked straight into a closed door. It was not, Darcy reflected, the most dignified expression he had ever seen grace his friend’s face.

“How delightful,” said Miss Bingley, in a voice that indicated she did not find the callers or their presence in the drawing room to be even remotely delightful. Her eyes moved to the door with a swift, still alertness that said louder than words that she had been waiting for this development and had prepared accordingly. “I wondered when we might be graced with a visit. Now that the engagement has been arranged, I suppose it is only natural that Miss Eliza would wish to come and establish her position here, as it were.”

Darcy suppressed a grimace. Caroline Bingley had not liked Elizabeth Bennet before. It was evident that she would not like her any better for threatening her own position as the chief lady of her brother’s house.

Nor had Miss Bingley finished. “One does hope, however, that she has not come to gloat about her remarkable good fortune. That would be rather unbecoming, even for — well.”

“Caroline,” said Bingley, his tone warm with exasperation. Darcy knew, because he had witnessed it, that he had already had this conversation with his sister several times, and he was certain that Bingley wished to have it again about as much as Darcy wanted to hear it again — that is, not in the slightest.

“I am only making an observation,” Miss Bingley protested, her tone calm and reasonable. Darcy had come to view ‘calm and reasonable’ Miss Bingley as the most dangerous version of the woman. It was where the plotting and meanness seemed to live. “It is, after all, only natural that she would come to call on her fiancé, and it is only proper that she bring her sister with her. I simply hope, as a sister myself, that Charles does not find that he is…overwhelmed.”

“Miss Bingley.” Darcy’s voice came out rather more sharply than he had intended. She looked at him and, after studying his expression, she appeared to think better of whatever she had intended to add. She forced her lips into something that was not quite a smile and turned toward the door with almost ostentatious dignity.

The greetings that followed were polite, brief, and almost unbearably awkward, as everyone pretended that everything was normal while painfully aware that nothing was normal at all.

“How lovely to see you, Miss Bennet,” Miss Bingley said archly to Jane. “You will understand, I’m sure, that I am unfortunately otherwise engaged, and unable to remain to visit. I hope we will be able to speak together again soon.” She said nothing at all to Elizabeth and swept out of the room, Mrs Hurst at her heels. Bingley stared after her, clearly astonished at her rudeness. Darcy privately felt that the room was considerably better for their absence, a thought that was only solidified when he observed the look of hurt on Jane Bennet’s face upon being spurned by the woman she had thought to be a friend.

“This room is rather close,” Elizabeth observed, breaking the silence that had fallen in the wake of Miss Bingley’s departure. “Perhaps a walk?” As this was met with a murmur of agreement, they left Mr Hurst still snoring on the sofa and moved outdoors.

Darcy, who had assumed Elizabeth had intended to find an opportunity to speak with Bingley, was surprised to find that she fell into step beside himself instead. His surprise was even greater when they reached the gravel path and she allowed Bingley and Jane to move a few paces ahead, and then, entirely properly, as the path was uneven and the gravel could cause a lady to turn an ankle, took his arm.

He couldn’t think about the path, or much else really, for a moment.

“Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth said abruptly, her voice low and determined. “I should like to speak with you, and to speak quite plainly, if you will allow it.”

Darcy collected himself with some effort, telling himself firmly to concentrate on anything but the feel of her arm in his. “I would not have it any other way, Miss Elizabeth.”

She remained silent for a moment, looking at the figures of Bingley and Jane, who had already reclaimed some of their usual ease in conversation. It was the most animated Darcy had seen his friend in days, and the return of his bright smile was almost painful to observe.

“Very well,” Elizabeth said. “In the name of directness, I will not hesitate to reveal that I know well that you dislike me, and that you disapprove of my family. You have never taken any pains to disguise that, which, despite having created some awkwardness, I far prefer to Miss Bingley’s pretence at civility.” She spoke calmly, as though she were making a statement of established fact, and Darcy could only marvel at the complete belief she had in a statement that was, in its main points, entirely incorrect. “Despite that, at this moment our situations are rather closely aligned, and I believe, or, more accurately, I hope, that we might work together despite any mutual reservations we may have regarding the other.”

Darcy found himself quite unsure how to reply. He wanted to tell her that she had completely misread the nature of his feelings, but that would be neither helpful nor, he expected, welcomed. Nor could he simply agree, for while she was holding his arm and looking up at him with those clear, steady eyes, he could not easily pretend that he found her company repugnant.

However, it was apparent that she needed him to be useful, and Darcy was determined that he would deliver upon that wish.

“If you mean we are both concerned about the effect of recent events on those close to us,” he said, nodding at Bingley and Miss Bennet, “you are quite correct that our situations are aligned, and I am willing to be of help in rectifying matters.”

Elizabeth looked at him with a brief flash of surprise, as though she had prepared for an argument and found herself unsure of how to proceed without one. “Well,” she said. “Good. Excellent.”

“Good,” Darcy agreed. He looked away from her, certain that if she continued to look up at him like that, he was not going to be of any use to anyone.

There was a brief silence, broken when, up ahead, Bingley said something that made Miss Bennet laugh, a soft, unguarded sound that made Elizabeth smile. However, Miss Bennet quickly seemed to recall herself, and the laughter faded, leaving something quieter and more careful in its place.

“Of course, there are any number of possible approaches,” Elizabeth began. “I have dismissed a number of my initial ideas as impractical, such as announcing that Mr Bingley has developed an incurable lung complaint. That would be unnecessarily traumatic, as well as rather difficult to sustain over the long term.” She paused. “What options remain are rather more dramatic, but I think they could be managed.”

He glanced at her, conscious that he was both quite interested and quite tense at the prospect of learning which ideas Elizabeth Bennet considered more dramatic than fatal consumption. “I await the particulars with apprehension,” he said, dryly but truthfully.

She nodded briskly. “I believe the best option is for me to die,” she said, in a tone of reasonable calm, as though she had just not announced her own demise.