Tuesday 12^th May 1812 – Hertfordshire 

Bingley roamed the halls. He sat at the pianoforte and poked the keys discordantly for a while. He prodded the fire; it went out. He looked out of the window. There were some trees; there was some grass. Look, there was the sky! (Still.) He picked up a book. Poetry. Ugh. He put it down. He went to his study and looked at the pile of papers on his desk. Ugh. He left again, closing the door firmly behind him. He roamed the halls.

Bingley was about as dull as he could ever recall being. 

Though appreciative of the chance to recommence his pursuit of Miss Bennet and pleased for the time spent renewing his acquaintances in the area, he had been forced to spend hours alone at Netherfield each day. Bingley loathed being alone – because it was dull.

To his infinite relief, his butler arrived at that moment with the day’s paper. He settled himself on the sofa to read of the many balls and soirees he was missing in town. Not a moment later, he was on his feet once more.

“Good God!” 

The news that the Prime Minister had been assassinated proved a rather successful antidote to his boredom. Overlooking the obvious source of information held in his hands, he summoned Peabody back for a full account of happenings in London. The perpetrator had been captured, the country was not in revolt, Government had not collapsed into anarchy; nevertheless, things were disagreeably unsettled. 

Bingley was glad the Hursts were leaving town. He determined to summon Caroline back also, for her safety. He would also reissue his invitation to Darcy, though he would no doubt return to Pemberley with his sister should he wish to escape London. Bingley wished he would come to Hertfordshire, though, for he should like some of his inimitable wisdom on this shocking event.

“I shall write to him and ask!” 

Thus, armed with quill and ink, Bingley scribbled a note to his friend, enquiring about Perceval and inviting him once again to Netherfield. Having safely discharged all his concerns, he progressed to sharing some of his news, dashing off a few lines about Louisa’s increase, a few details regarding the estate, and a full description of his success, to date, securing a wife, which was vexingly little.

As he heated the sealing wax, he recalled Miss Elizabeth’s plea to send her apologies to Darcy. He did not believe it was necessary; he could not imagine Miss Elizabeth offending anyone, and Darcy had given no indication he was affronted by their exchange. He had given his word, however, and so he reopened the letter and scribbled her message at the end.

Once the letter was sealed and set on the salver to be sent, Bingley was once more devoid of distraction. A few moments more found him once again roaming the halls.

“‘Go back to Netherfield,’ he said! ‘All the usual country pursuits,’ he said!” Reaching the stairs, he kicked at the bottom tread and turned to pace back in the other direction, still muttering. “Well there is nobody to ride with, nobody to fence with, nobody to shoot with… and tell me, what can I hunt in the middle of May in any case?”

“Fish.”

He spun around. “What?”

Peabody, just entering the hall from the servants’ entrance, glided over to collect the letter from the salver. “You can hunt fish in May, sir. I am told the lake on the western side of the property is best at this time of year.”

“Fish! Brilliant! Peabody, I shall have a fishing party for the gentlemen of the neighbourhood. This Saturday. See to the necessaries would you? There’s a chap!”

Not waiting for his butler’s response, Bingley wandered happily away, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “A fishing party! And with Hurst arriving this Friday, too. He will butter his breeches when he learns of this.” 

So it was that Bingley was agreeably diverted from his ennui. 

***

Tuesday 12^th May 1812 – London

The day after the Prime Minister was assassinated, London’s beau monde picked up its metaphorical petticoats, stepped over the figurative pool of blood, and high tailed it directly to Lady Armitage’s ball. That is not to say the ton was untroubled, but where better to ascertain particulars, gauge reaction, and allay fears than at a dance?

Darcy had received an accurate account of the incident from his cousin, whose regiment assisted with the patrol of Parliament the previous evening. The full political ramifications would be borne out in the fullness of time, but his uncle had apprised him of all available information from the House of Lords. Darcy cared not for tittle-tattle, but he was happy to enlighten his acquaintances–many of whom shared the same concerns about unrest as he–with what knowledge he had. Thus, even had he not been obliged to attend the ball, he would have come.

Yet obliged he had been, by his promise to Fitzwilliam to protect him from his grandmother’s machinations. With naught else to occupy her since her return to London, Mrs Sinclair had taken it upon herself to ‘resolve the issue of her grandson’s misogamy.’ Darcy’s presence had always tended to distract ladies from the third son of an Earl, and his cousin was determined this should continue for as long as Mrs Sinclair harangued him. He was not overly enamoured by the idea of being his cousin’s decoy, but beyond such manoeuvrings, Darcy typically enjoyed the society of his set. In this sphere, the dancing was refined, the gentlemen well-informed, and the ladies highly accomplished and often handsome.

At least, that had previously been the case.

This evening, Darcy could find no pleasure in the company. It seemed he could no find real pleasure in very much at all at present, for everything was overshadowed by Elizabeth’s conspicuous absence. He had hoped that an evening of rational conversation with esteemed acquaintances might afford him some respite from missing her, but such was not to be. It seemed the events of the previous day had brought out the worst in polite society.

Gentlemen with no possible access to it claimed certain and preposterous knowledge of salient parliamentary decisions. Peers who ought to have known better, disregarded their genuine knowledge of Parliament’s reaction, and instead took the opportunity to lay spurious charges at the doors of any number of their acquaintances. Even allowing for the shock of such a sudden and violent event, Darcy had thought his contemporaries in possession of enough decorum to avoid descending into speculation and slander.

The ladies were infinitely worse. Darcy had early on danced with Miss Martin, the sister of one of his Cambridge friends, with whom he had been acquainted for many years and had always considered a woman of good sense. His surprise was perhaps not to be wondered at, therefore, when she responded to his mention of Fitzwilliam’s stint on duty the previous day, with a shriek and an animated request for details of the incident. 

“Oh! You must share with me what you know, we are all simply desperate for the particulars! Tell me, did the Prime Minister bleed very much?”

It had been a struggle to keep the incredulity from his countenance. He had met Perceval on several occasions. He had also met his wife and some of their twelve children. Wondering how he had ever found a woman who could make such a crass enquiry engaging, he had answered as civilly as he was able.

“Sufficiently, it would seem.”

All his subsequent dances had gone the same, murder and intrigue the extent of all ladies’ interest this evening. It seemed one shocking event was all it took to break the ton’s usual reserve, rendering them no better than the tattling matrons of Meryton. It was an uncomfortable realisation that, despite what he had always presumed, excellent birth obviously did not guarantee sense, only a better talent for disguise. How mistaken his perceptions! 

As he stood in a quiet corner, observing the inanity before him, Darcy wondered wistfully how a conversation about Perceval’s assassination might have gone with Elizabeth. She was well-read, and arguably more knowledgeable about current affairs than a young woman ought to be – yes, he thought she would have some very valuable observations to make on the subject. And of one thing he was certain: she would not have been so unmoved by a man’s death. 

He bit the insides of his cheeks, inhaled deeply, and closed his eyes in a long blink. 

Elizabeth.

The thought was never far away. Darcy was becoming familiar with the ache of loneliness but tonight in particular, unnerved by events and disillusioned by all he had heretofore valued, what he would not give to see her again. Would that she were here, that he might have his ideas challenged, rather than his patience.   

His reflections were interrupted by the arrival of his cousin who, after handing him a glass of wine, sidled between him and the wall. He rolled his eyes.

“If your wish was to remain inconspicuous, you might have avoided your ceremonials.”

Fitzwilliam eyed his scarlet coat dubiously and laughed. “True enough. Where have you been?” 

“I was cornered by Lord Valery for a good half of an hour. Then I had the unparalleled honour of dancing with his wife.” 

“Only a half hour? I was required to entertain him for an entire evening when he dined with Father last week. I begrudge you not the dance, mind you.”

“How went your dance with Miss Connelly?”

“It could have been much worse,” came the grinning response, “But then I had Miss Appleyard forced upon me. God but the woman is vacuous! And you were no-where to be seen! You were supposed to be helping me!” 

“No, Thirson, that is what I am attempting to do. Though I begin to think you are beyond all help.”

Darcy peered around his cousin to where Mrs Sinclair had appeared.

“I am, Grandmother, I am! There is no hope for me,” Fitzwilliam exclaimed. “You may as well admit defeat now. Not one of these ladies will have me!” 

“I care not for who will have you,” she pronounced, looking into the crowds. “I am concerned with making them want you. A few dances with the right girls, a few unextended invitations, and soon enough, you will be the only one they all wish to dance with.”

Fitzwilliam chuckled and turned his head slightly in Darcy’s direction. “Ballroom etiquette for beginners, Darcy,” he muttered.

“It seems a precise science,” he replied.

“As precise as any business negotiation, Mr Darcy,” Mrs Sinclair said tartly. “A want of wealth or an excess of it – both circumstances demand a good marriage. It is a woman’s business to arrange good matches for her family.”

Her tone gave Darcy pause. God knew he was painfully aware of the importance placed on prudent alliances, but he had never considered it a woman’s ‘business.’ Then again, there were very few women in his family. Matlock had arranged Ashby’s recent betrothal – and the wisdom of that union was certainly debatable. Perhaps they would all benefit from a woman’s influence. 

“Aunt Catherine would certainly agree with you, Grandmother,” Fitzwilliam said, directing a pointed look at Darcy. 

Lady Catherine had always maintained that he should wed Anne, though it was well known in the family he would not. If he were to marry for duty – as he had always assumed he would – the de Bourgh family would not be a consideration. Rosings diminished annually as assets were sold to subsidise the estate after years of poor yields and to fund the extensive repairs required to maintain the decaying manor house. Even with Anne’s inheritance, the losses to the Pemberley estate would be insupportable. 

Nonetheless, Darcy had always attributed Lady Catherine’s insistence on the alliance to family loyalty. Had he expended a little more thought on the matter, it might have occurred to him sooner that she saw it in a much more commercial light.  

Mrs Sinclair sneered, and Darcy did not miss it. “Your aunt has an indolent approach to match making and it will be her daughter’s undoing.”

“You are inclined to think her behaviour irresponsible?” Fitzwilliam asked.

“Certainly! She ought to be actively seeking a suitable – and…” she looked appraisingly at Darcy, “…plausible match. Before her coffers and her heir wither away entirely.” 

This was a damning assessment indeed! But an interesting one, which brought to mind another woman whose behaviour Darcy had recently censured. Mrs Sinclair had labelled Lady Catherine irresponsible for her complacency regarding Anne’s future. By this standard, Mrs Bennet could be deemed a far more conscientious parent. Though her methods lacked any refinement, she clearly thought it her business to make good matches for her daughters. And, Darcy supposed, it would have been irresponsible of her not to, for he knew the Longbourn estate to be entailed away to Collins and thus all their futures were uncertain. 

This was a humbling revelation. He had never known paucity but recognised how daunting a prospect it must be. He had disparaged Elizabeth’s mother for her unashamed rapacity, but perhaps, if one adopted Mrs Sinclair’s view, Mrs Bennet could be viewed as merely an extraordinarily inept businesswoman – and a devoted mother. His opinion of her softened very slightly.

Thinking about Mrs Bennet’s matrimonial aspirations for her daughters could only lead Darcy’s reflections in one direction: Elizabeth getting married. It was inevitable. When someone worthy offered for her, she would wed, and he hated that man already, as he had never hated another soul. 

“What is it?” his cousin asked, frowning at him.

“I have run out of wine. Want another?”

He left in the direction of the refreshment table before Fitzwilliam could answer. Yet again he had been thrown back into the maelstrom of his agony. No matter what he did he could not escape it; Elizabeth was at once everywhere with him, and lost to him, and by God that hurt!

The remainder of the evening passed uneventfully, though Darcy paid little heed to any of it. Sick of hearsay, sick of speciousness, and sick unto death of his heartache, the evening could not end soon enough. He avoided dancing again, and loitered deliberately at the fringes of the room. By the end of the evening, however, a wry smile had found his face. There was some amusement to be had, after all, in his preference this evening for the Assembly Rooms in Meryton.