The Darcys and the Bingleys, Page 2

“Despite whatever you may have heard or seen, I will make no claims to be consummate at the arts of feminine wiles,” Darcy said, as stoutly as he was capable of—which was not particularly stoutly at the moment.

  “But you know something. You are . . . a man of the world.”

  “Yes.” Darcy seemed annoyed at admitting it, but that was not unexpected. “Hmm. I now am curious as to how I unduly embarrassed myself at my alma mater.”

  “It was hardly the talk of the town, but it was amusing to some,” Bingley said. “Having not drunk nearly as much as you, I think I may actually be a better judge of the events in this regard.”

  “Then I must make a deal with you. Actually, I am not required to do so, but in the interest of friendship and the success of your marriage, I will offer this to you,” Darcy said. “We share our account of that certain . . . evening . . . and I will tell you the little that I could claim to know of the mysteries of the female disposition.”

  “I find those terms very agreeable,” Bingley said, and he offered his hand. To his great relief, they shook on it.

  Chapter 2

  The Party

  1795

  Fitzwilliam Darcy decided to approach the night with a heavy level of caution. Accustomed to doing this as he was, he still spent his afternoon overpreparing and driving his good manservant crazy. Darcy liked to think his voice was calm and betrayed nothing of his apprehension, but he looked at his pocket watch and realised he had spent more time on selecting a wardrobe for this evening than he had on any other day since the Christmas Ball at Pemberley.

  There was something to be said for academic robes. Darcy was in the unfortunate station in life where what he normally wore was very important, yet he cared nothing for it, and had he anything to say on the matter, he would go around with the same frock coat every day. But the future master of Pemberley was expected not only to be presentable but fashionable, something that in his opinion was a waste of his good time. The saving grace of his position and wealth was that it provided him with practically a retinue of people who made it their business to have indispensable advice on the matter.

  University was a retreat from that, and he supposed he would have enjoyed it more if it didn’t come with its own share of difficulties. He did not find the work particularly challenging and rather enjoyed having a reason to immerse himself in literature for hours on end, but he was not headed for further academia. That would practically require him to take holy orders and to dispense with his responsibilities at Pemberley, something he had no wish to do.

  Young Mr. Darcy went to Cambridge because it was what the landed gentry did. He found some pleasure in it and probably would have found more if he were not practically struck down by homesickness as one is with a fever. Wickham being sent down from the University during his second term was an ease to Darcy’s senses, especially after his father’s gift of two Irish wolfhounds to keep him company. Perhaps the elder Darcy sensed his somewhat retiring son was lacking in the area of friends. It was not to say that he was ill at ease among other men, but he was not the gregarious character that his father had apparently been.

  Most of Darcy’s studies came not from classes, where he was far more studious and serious than most of his fellow students out of a sense of duty, but from the fencing club. Even at the illustrious Cambridge, his social standing had some influence, and he was able to manoeuvre his way into the very exclusive fencing halls quite quickly for an underclassman. (He liked to think that some actual talent might have had something to do with it, but it was not something he would admit.) That he was sparring with the future heads of England was less of a concern to him; he merely enjoyed the sport, which reminded him a great deal of home and even exceeded it in the availability of trainers.

  It was then unavoidable that he would not go totally unnoticed and begin to be drawn into the social circles that surrounded the fencers. The best and brightest athletes of England were his companions, and they were not averse to the attention it brought them, even if he was. Eventually, the invitations began to stack up to the point of becoming unavoidable.

  Such was the case with the “faculty soirée,” as it was called. It was well known that it had little to do with the faculty beyond some supporting members, but the presence of authority made it appropriate for the intrusion of the fairer sex, whereas Darcy could very much spend his time on campus during the day without looking upon a woman.

  Not that he didn’t want to. It was more a matter of propriety. It would not be totally unknown to have a young mistress to dress his arm or even a marriage prospect, but he expected more from himself in this area. His indiscretions, then, were as discreet as was possible, and Cambridge the town was not without its willing populace of young women to service the one need even he could not totally control. He thought at first college would be a several-year experience in monasticism, but there were some things even the young Mr. Darcy could not stand. Fortunately, Cambridge was full of ways to be discreet.

  But tonight it was the farthest thing from his mind. Well, not the farthest, but he was preoccupied with this social invitation that he could not avoid, thanks to the overwhelming generosity of his fencing master in personally handing it to him. There would be people there he didn’t know, and he would have no idea what to say to them beyond the banal pleasantries required of conversation. He did not follow local politics; he was not one to engage in speculation about women; and he could only hope that, being at the illustrious Cambridge, he would at least not be the most eligible bachelor in the room.

  To his relief upon entering the foyer, he was not. There were several titled gentlemen in the room, some who were his sparring partners and some with whom he was not formally acquainted. He was assaulted instead by his captain, who was surprised that Fitzwilliam Darcy would finally put in an appearance at such an event. “Darcy, Darcy, you must sample the punch!”

  Indeed, he must. He decided that it was the best course of action, as being engaged in the act of drinking was the easiest way to avoid having to say something, and he very much wanted to avoid having to say something, as Wentworth took him by the arm and introduced him to every young lady in the room. From the way they looked at him, it seemed they could be distracted from the future lords of Britain long enough to evaluate some wealthy gentleman from the north. Darcy was well aware that his well-toned physique, tremendous height, and brash attitude would do nothing to dissuade them. After the eighth introduction, he was very willing to give half of Derbyshire to be the ugliest man in the room.

  Perhaps noticing his nervousness, the duteous servants kept his glass full, and he found it convenient for two reasons. First, it prevented him from shaking hands if he held it in the right hand, and second, it gave him something to do with his mouth. Whatever it was—not always just punch—he swallowed it and found a third reason to like this situation very much. He was not entirely unfamiliar with intoxication, but he was certainly not on the level of his colleagues, as he considered public drunkenness ungentlemanly and below his station, even if he had occasion at college to witness men far above him in standing quite in the cups. So, he decided not to consider himself intoxicated. He just felt less uneasy after the fourth or fifth glass, and anything that made him less uneasy was a great comfort.

  “And this is my second, Mr. Darcy.” Wentworth put a hand on his shoulder, and the rocking motion made Darcy a little dizzy. He had no idea as to whom he was being introduced—he had missed that part of the conversation entirely—but it was a man at least. Just because he was not at his full senses did not mean Darcy was inclined to throw himself at every flirtatious female in the room. He was much more comfortable with this man, with sort of wild reddish hair and a pale composure but a very pleasing smile on his face.

  “Of course,” said the man—more of a boy, really. Must be a first-year. They shook hands. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “You, as well,” Darcy said, and hoped there would be no exam as to who this man was or what he was doing h
ere. He was not a fencer, so Darcy did not recognise him at all.

  “I will tell you a secret, Mr. Bingley,” said Wentworth. “Our team this year would have suffered a most ignoble defeat to Oxford had it not been for Darcy here. As captain, of course, I’m not supposed to admit it was that close, but he literally saved the day by defeating their top man by a point—and the future Earl of Gloucester, too!”

  Darcy smiled vaguely at the memory. He was not the type to bask in his victories, but he felt like smiling. Odd, because he almost never felt like smiling. “You are exaggerating my abilities to this man, good sir.”

  “Hardly a smudge on the old honour of Pemberley,” said Wentworth. “If you’ll excuse me, Darcy, I have a mission of utmost importance.”

  “Do you need a second?” Darcy said jokingly, knowing Wentworth did not, as he had his eye on a fine brunette who was a bit overdressed in a ball gown. Wait, had he just made a joke? What was wrong with him?

  Wentworth left him alone with the underclassman—Bingley, right? He didn’t want to gape and ask, so he took one of the available chairs beside him. Even through a considerable fuzz, he could see that this young man was nervous and out of sorts for entirely different reasons than he was. Darcy didn’t like social soirées; Bingley just seemed to think he was out of place. There was the possibility that he actually was, but it was not a topic to broach. At the moment, in fact, Darcy was content just to be sitting down.

  “So you are Mr. Darcy of Pemberley?”

  “And Derbyshire and all that, yes,” he said, before realising he had answered the question as if he was mocking the way he was normally announced to people beneath him. Bingley, for whatever reason, saw some humour in this. “And you?” Oh please, say your name again.

  “Just Charles Bingley, I’m afraid. I suppose I’ll have to wait until after my degree to purchase land and become ‘of’ something, unless you wish to include a townhouse in London.”

  “A named townhouse in London is of stature,” he assured him, though he really had no idea why. He could not account for his actions at all this evening. His next question was completely inappropriate. “Trade?”

  “Yes. Shipping, mainly wool. My father’s business, obviously.” But the point was that he was of wealth, even if its means were not as established as just inheriting centuries of wealth probably hoarded from wars with France. Darcy was vaguely aware of the D’Arcys of Normandy and suspected, upon perusal of the old histories of wars between the two countries for his classwork, that at least some of his wealth had nothing to do with Derbyshire and everything to do with some looting during a prolonged war—after all, was that not how great fortunes were made? In a few generations, the Bingleys might have a great landed estate and be socially beside the Darcys.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Bingley, and to his horror, Darcy realised he must have said some, if not all, of his musing out loud.

  “You will excuse me,” he said quickly, and stood up just as quickly. This was clearly a mistake. He did not even notice Bingley steady him with his own arm before it happened, yet another indignity. The Darcy name would not survive this night if he weren’t careful.

  The room had stopped spinning long enough for him to get his bearings again, when he was practically assaulted by the brunette Wentworth had been talking to. They had been introduced earlier, though for the life of him he couldn’t recall her name, but now that he had a moment (or needed a moment—to steady himself) he found her to be quite something for Wentworth to be chasing after. She nearly embraced him. “Mr. Darcy, Mr. Wentworth has told me all about your brave victory over those ruffians at Oxford. I must know more from the man himself.”

  “I assure you—he was exaggerating,” he said, but he was smiling when he said it.

  1803

  “And that’s really all you can remember?”

  Fitzwilliam Darcy, now nine and twenty and standing on the dirt road that led away from the notable estate of Netherfield, home to his best friend and soon-to-be brother, could only shrug. “You have cornered me. It is so. Now tell me how I truly embarrassed myself.”

  “I would not say you did that,” Bingley was quick to defend. “Certainly, not at the party, or there would have been some mention of it that would have gotten back to you. Am I correct?”

  “I suppose you are,” Darcy said, thinking it over. Bingley was right. Best he could recall, there was no gossip when he was back in the changing room the next day and no knowing winks from his captain. Surely if there was some assault on the Darcy honour, he would remember it distinctly. At the moment, all he remembered was a pounding headache. “That is some small comfort. Now, as your part of the bargain, you must finish the tale.”

  Bingley, who rarely had a one-up on anything with Darcy, was apparently much obliged.

  ***

  1795

  Charles Bingley came to Cambridge with a considerable amount of apprehension. His father was kind to him, but he knew he was expected to do well, being the first in what would hopefully be a line of sons with diplomas. While he was hardly the most impoverished student at the University, he was untitled and his soon-to-be inherited fortune was in the abominable area of trade. His father did not have a living but earned a living. He was so good at working, in fact, that his son would not have to, and neither would his daughters, provided they married well. Bingley’s first sister was engaged, in fact, to some man named Mr. Hurst, but Bingley knew very little about him, consumed as he was with his studies. Academics were not a major difficulty for him, but they were not exactly his first love.

  What he did have going for him was his personality. He decided quite early that he liked his classmates and his tutors and just about everyone else he met, as was his habit. There was no use (or time, with all of the work!) in seeing the bad in anyone in his opinion, unless he was in some kind of investigation, and Charles Bingley did not desire to be a barrister. He was content with where his life was taking him as it was and saw no reason to alter course.

  Where he suffered in lack of atmosphere—used to being out of doors, as was his preference—he did not suffer in the area of social interaction. There were plenty of people to meet at Cambridge and women to be found when he hesitantly ventured beyond the vaulted doors of Cambridge. He was not at a loss for acquaintances—acquaintances that his father constantly reminded him would hopefully one day be helpful friends and contacts. To Charles Bingley Senior, Cambridge was to be the foundation of his son’s social standing if he would only make friends with the higher ups of Britain, which he knew his son would not fail to do.

  If making friends was his duty, Charles Bingley Junior did it exceedingly well. He was not half a term into his program before he was busy running from gathering to gathering. Even he was surprised somewhat when he was invited to the infamous faculty soirée, as it was mainly for people of high esteem in some fashionable extra curriculum, and that did not include Bingley. He did like hunting quite a lot, but sadly, that was not offered as a regular club and would have had no place to operate in a college town. That he was of some acquaintance with the fencing team captain was probably the explanation for the practically gilded invitation. His only nervousness about the event was his desire to make a good impression, but on this, he could at least feel some confidence.

  He showed up, what he deemed was, fashionably on time—not too early—and Wentworth briefly showed him around then left him on his own. There were a number of ladies who piqued his interest, but he reminded himself that he was a college man, and he was actually alarmed by their forwardness. He was a socialite but admittedly inexperienced in certain . . . areas. Some insecurities would not be overcome in just one night.

  After several hours of standing without dancing, he found himself retiring on one of the few chairs available for a brief respite when Wentworth reappeared with a fellow fencer on his arm, a dark-haired man with a look of discomfort on his face, marred only slightly by a mild drunkenness. Perhaps because of his own state, Wentworth
was more than oblivious to this, but Bingley could read him quite well. “Charles Bingley, I’d like you to meet a good friend of mine, if you’d do me the honour.”

  “Yes, yes. I would—”

  Wentworth patted Darcy on the shoulder, causing him to wobble. “And this is my second, Mr. Darcy.”

  “Of course,” Bingley said, and shook Darcy’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “You, as well,” said the man, his speech a little slurred, but not easily noticeable.

  Wentworth went on to sing the praises of his fellow fencer, though this Darcy fellow seemed oblivious, even a little annoyed at his captain. Bingley was quite sure he saw a roll of the eyes, though he picked up a mention of Pemberley. Was that not that great estate in Derbyshire? Well, in this crowd, it was hardly unexpected that he would find many men far above his own station. Derbyshire—he had a great desire to see it, but he did not want to bother this new person who seemed ill at ease with himself in the room.

  It was not long before the ever-busy Wentworth was chasing after some lady, and Bingley found the man known as Mr. Darcy sitting beside him, apparently enjoying the break far more than he was. He almost wanted to leave him alone entirely, but he was curious, and eventually he could not hold his tongue.

  “So you are Mr. Darcy of Pemberley.”

  Darcy took another sip from his glass and answered, “And Derbyshire and all that, yes.” The way he answered it, he had clearly answered the question to many admirers—and, undoubtedly, scouting women—and seemed truly annoyed with his own station. This gave Bingley cause for a very inappropriate chuckle, one that he was sure would quickly dissolve this acquaintance. A shame, really, because he looked like a lost puppy in this crowd.

  Mr. Darcy made an enquiry as to who Bingley was associated with, as if he had missed it the first time, which he probably had, but Bingley was not about to slight him for it. In fact, he even let it slip that he was in trade, to which Darcy seemed not at all put off and had no fear in saying this in a very slurred monologue. When Bingley responded, he quickly excused himself, as if embarrassed by his own outburst. Here was a man of wealth and stature who was not as comfortable at parties as Bingley was and looked half-terrified when he ran into the brunette that Wentworth had been chasing. Not to come between a man and a woman, Bingley turned his attentions elsewhere. He did not even notice Darcy’s disappearance until some time later, when it occurred to him in passing. Well, no matter; it was a party, and people were coming and going.