The Road to Pemberley (33 page)

Darcy had only just arrived back at Netherfield, having been in town the past several days, when Bingley returned from an afternoon of shooting. Darcy had not been expected for another two days, but Bingley's welcome was warm. Bingley wasted little time in confirming that an engagement had been formed between himself and Miss Bennet; whereupon he added that he expected the Bennet family to dine that evening and was delighted that Darcy would now join their party. Darcy's own delight, had Bingley but known it, was tempered by anxiety about how his presence might be received by that family—and one member of it particularly—given the regrettable events of the day before.

They were disheveled from their activities—Bingley from the hunt and Darcy from the dust of the road—and determined that, as each must bathe and change his attire, they might as well dress early for dinner. Upon doing so, they then met in the billiard room, where, over a game, Bingley asked Darcy for his assistance. He wished to select a particularly fine port for Mr. Bennet's enjoyment after dinner. And so, armed with glasses and a wine screw—for which Darcy now silently thanked Providence—the two men had ventured down into Netherfield's cellars. They had only begun to peruse the casks and shelves when the heavy door had in some manner broken free of its holding latch and slammed shut. The loud clatter which immediately followed suggested that something additional had dislodged and fallen across the door as well, resulting in their present predicament.

Darcy passed by the port now—their situation called for something slightly less heavy—and settled at last upon a pinot noir of good vintage. Bingley watched him as he took up a nearby rag to wipe the bottle of its fine coating of dust. He inspected the cork
down in the neck before applying the screw to it; it came free a moment later with a satisfying
puh.

He filled the two glasses and placed one in front of Bingley on the table. Placing the other glass across the table, he took a seat in one of the remaining two chairs. Another chair lay in pieces on the floor at the entry. Bingley had employed it unsuccessfully to ram the door.
Blasted English oak!
thought Darcy
. It could withstand any barrage.

Bingley had continued to follow Darcy's every action with concentration, as if only the sight of his friend could keep his own alarm at bay. Now, as they sat together, they raised their glasses.

“To your happiness, sir!” said Darcy.

“To an early release!” replied his friend. “That will ensure my happiness!” Both laughed, though Bingley's held an element of nervous disposition.

Oh, blast
, thought Darcy.
I must take his mind from this imprisonment.
Reaching into the interior pocket of his coat, Darcy brought out a small book. He offered it to Bingley.

“Poetry, Darcy? You surprise me, I confess.”

“I comprehend no reason for your astonishment. I read a great variety of material—treatises, essays, and, yes, poetry—even, if you will credit it, the occasional novel.”

“I do credit it, all of it,” replied his friend. “I know you to be a great reader. Nonetheless, I find it a revelation that you carry verse in your pocket.”

“It is Cowper—lyrical without being too maudlin or sentimental, for the most part.” He added, “The nature of verse allows one to peruse it in brief moments of idleness.” He stopped, considered again, and said, “Must I justify my choice of reading to you, Bingley? Do you desire the book or no?”

Bingley took it then. He opened it at random, somewhere in its middle, and began to read, moving his lips as he went through the words. After only a moment, however, he broke off and handed the diversion back. “It is no good, Darcy. You know I am not much for reading at the best of times.”

Darcy began to return the book to his pocket when Bingley added, “Perhaps if
you
were to read it, Darcy—
to
me. I might find more comfort in hearing the verse spoken aloud.”

Darcy regarded Bingley incredulously, prepared to offer a caustic remark; but he was met with an earnest appeal in the man's eyes. At length, he sighed, flipped through the small book to a random work, and, stopping first to refill their glasses, he began to read:

“Ask what is human life—the sage replies, / With disappointment lowering in his eyes, / A painful passage o'er a restless flood, / A vain pursuit of fugitive false good, / A scene of fancied bliss and heartfelt care, / Closing at last in darkness and despair
…”

Darcy glanced up at Bingley and saw that perhaps this was not the selection to soothe his breast. He moved forward through several pages and settled upon an offering a bit lighter in tone, first slaking the thirst his exercise had induced before beginning again.

“Though nature weigh our talents, and dispense / To every man his modicum of sense, / And Conversation in its better part / May be esteem'd a gift, and not an art, / Yet much depends, as in the tiller's toil, / On culture, and the sowing of the soil.”

This was better—Cowper's observations of a less dire nature:

“Words learn'd by rote a parrot may rehearse, / But talking is not always to converse; / Not more distinct from harmony divine, / The constant creaking of a country sign. / As alphabets in ivory employ, / Hour after hour, the yet unletter'd boy, / Sorting and
puzzling with a deal of glee / Those seeds of science call'd his A B C; / So language in the mouths of the adult, / Witness its insignificant result, / Too often proves an implement of play, / A toy to sport with, and pass time away.”

Darcy's deep, well-modulated voice and the cadence of his recitation did appear to assuage Bingley somewhat, and so he continued, breaking off now and again only to taste of his wine.

When Darcy had finished
Conversation
, for which he received the compliments of his audience for his measured recitation, he filled their glasses yet again and moved on to
The Task
; but soon he noted that Bingley's interest—and, indeed, his own—had waned considerably. “Shall I go on reading?”

“No. I thank you, Darcy; I feel I have had enough poetry for one afternoon.” He gave it thought a moment before adding, “Do you know, I do not understand the penchant for this poem. The first you read, I found superior; it had a pattern to it, at the least. But this latter one—what purpose can there be in calling it poetry if the composer can stop and start wherever he pleases? I believe even I could write such lines without the onus of forming rhymes. But then what would be the
point
?”

Read aloud he might, but Darcy was not inclined to lecture on the merits of free verse, nor the delight that Lady Austen took from it, at whose request
The Task
had been written. He did not offer reply of any sort, nor was one expected. Bingley had left the matter as soon as he had raised it. Darcy surreptitiously drew his watch from his pocket and glanced at it. An hour had elapsed since they were shut in the cellar. How many more must they endure before they would be found?

Rising, he took a lamp and returned to the shelves, selecting a second bottle identical to the first. He opened it and set it on the table to settle in the air a few moments. Its bouquet was delightful, redolent of its black cherry undertones. Though full-bodied, it had a smooth texture that slid easily—and gratifyingly—down the throat.

“How long have we been here?” asked Bingley during the wine preparation. “Do you know, Darcy?”

“Mmm. Upward of an hour, I should think.” He raised the first bottle, now empty. “Long enough to enjoy this,” he said and laughed.

Bingley laughed as well, but with trepidation. Darcy sat down again and, to divert his friend, said, “Tell me. You have secured the hand of Miss Bennet. How did you go about it? When I departed for London, you were yet hesitant in your address of her.”

In truth, Darcy cared little for the details of Bingley's courtship with Jane Bennet beyond that it had been put to rights, as had their own friendship once Bingley had forgiven Darcy's part in the couple's separation of several months. But it was a topic sure to draw Bingley's full attention and thus draw the same away from their continued incarceration.

“I can tell you that I am glad to have the thing decided!” said Bingley with a laugh. “I believe I resolved on at least three occasions—no, four—to offer to Miss Bennet. If I had endured one more supper with
Mrs.
Bennet without its being settled, I am certain I should have gone mad.” He smiled as he recalled his lady. “She is most beautiful, Darcy, is not she?”

“Mrs. Bennet?” The name had been pronounced with wry amusement as Darcy poured servings from the second pinot noir, but Bingley took his friend's question seriously.

“
Good God, no
, man! It is of
Miss
Bennet that I speak!” He looked at Darcy in some astonishment until he realized the man was
making sport. The smile returned, along with a dreamy mooning: “My Jane…”

“Indeed, she is very fair. You deserve no less.” Raising his wine glass, he added, “To Miss Bennet, soon to become Mrs. Bingley!”

“To Miss Bennet!” Bingley could hardly drink without dribbling, so wide was the smile upon his countenance.

“It was torturous, Darcy. To be so near and yet feel so far removed from my beauty, simply for want of words.”

Darcy nodded sagely. “I gather a constant audience did little to free your tongue.”

“Indeed. Although…in truth I cannot lay blame at any feet but my own. Mrs. Bennet hinted for me to get on with it at every turn, and then contrived pointedly with each of my visits to arrange for my privacy with Miss Bennet. On each occasion, the echo of her hints—
Mrs.
Bennet's hints, that is—lodged the words in my chest. Blasted awkward, it was.”

Bingley went on, sighing at the memory of it. “And when the words would come to me, there was always some sister about. I tell you, Darcy, but for the love of my Jane…well, it would have been akin to living in a…a ribbon emporium!”

Darcy laughed. “And Mr. Bennet? Surely, there could be little doubt of your design with such studious attendance upon them. Did he nothing by way of advancing your suit?”

“I scarcely saw him, in truth. He closets himself in his study during the day, and escapes to it again directly when dinner concludes.”

If he could not condone his actions, he could at least understand Mr. Bennet's motives in such a household. But did not the gentleman see that to further an understanding between his daughter and Bingley would be greatly to his own advantage?

“I might still have failed to speak, were it not for Miss Elizabeth!” added Bingley.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet?” Darcy, who had been listening idly to his friend's recounting, now gave him his full attention. Indeed, up to that point, as Bingley had related his tale, his friend had given half his thoughts to that young lady. She was never far from his consciousness these months past; and events of the preceding day had only escalated the frequency and intensity of his imaginings. It was she, in fact, who had precipitated his early return to Netherfield. He struggled now to put aside those thoughts and listen to Bingley, who had already begun his explanation.

“…nothing she said, but I am certain she saw the situation with clarity. Soon after tea, she excused herself to go into another room to write a letter. A ruse, I suspect.”

“A letter? And this loosed your tongue and your resolve?” Darcy asked, jealously wondering to whom the lady wrote.

The two men had been draining and refilling their glasses whilst the one had been reliving his proposal. By now, a third bottle had found its way to the table and stood awaiting their attentions. Bingley applied the screw to it as he continued.

“No, no. But as she passed, she gazed upon me directly and smiled, Darcy. The simple gesture carried such an understanding—such earnest friendship—that it provided me the encouragement, indeed, all the fortitude I had been lacking. Imagine that, Darcy. Nothing more than a smile!”