For anyone who read my 100 word "When Writing is Wrong," this provided the inspiration for the second half of this chapter. I hope this long chapter will help make up for my inability to post more frequently than once a week these days.

Chapter 29: Edwin's Request and Bingley's Secret

I thought we would talk in the music room once Georgiana left, but once she was gone, Edwin said "I truly would prefer the library." This made it clear to me that whatever he sought to discuss must require secrecy.

When we were behind its doors, Edwin paced a little, and then with two hooked fingers pulled at his cravat to loosen it from his neck. I was reminded of his great agitation when he was last in this room, although this was nothing to that. It was then that I finally had a notion of what he wished to discuss.

Suddenly Edwin stopped, turned toward me and then began pelting me with questions (I had read a novel once where that was how it was expressed, "She pelted him with questions." I had not been able to make much of a sense of it at the time, had asked Georgiana for an explanation, and she told me that the questions were coming at the man quick and hard, like rocks being thrown at him, but somehow it was so much clearer now that I was the one being pelted).

"Have you seen her? Is she well?" I had only a second or two to wonder whether he meant Miss Bennet or Miss Vaughn before his next questions clarified the matter. "Where is she? Is Sylvia settled near Pemberley? That was all I could think when Georgiana said you went there. You must admit it is odd to go so far merely to come back again. Is that why you went there? Or was that not truly your destination? Did something go awry with Miss Bingley's mission and you had to intervene?"

Truly there was no time to say anything in reply. By the third question, Edwin began pacing again and his questions kept coming in a similar manner, but for the fact that he was asking them more rapidly as his pacing quickened. When Edwin finally took a breath, I said in a rush, "We have not seen her; I know nothing more than you do."

"Oh." Edwin's feet stilled momentarily. "Of course, you do not." His lips closed and thinned as he pulled at his cravat again. "Her fate is insignificant to any but me, I suppose."

"That is not it," I responded. "Do you not recall how what occurred was all supposed to be secret?"

"Yes, true, true. I have been wishing and wanting to go see Mr. Bingley but thought I ought not. It might be remarked upon if I did so, might make the Earl take closer note of him. Do you know that the Earl knew that he had been courting Miss Bennet but rejected her, has some sense of my own interest in her?"

I shook my head in negation.

"You see, when he last insisted that I must marry Anne, the Earl remarked 'Use your upper story. Think, son! I do not blame you for your admiration for Miss Bennet, for I understand she is a most lovely, but given that she was not good enough for Mr. Bingley, a man who turned his back on his good fortune and returned to trade, she could never be worthy of our family. Listen to your father and you will gain a suitable situation, a position of wealth. Disobey and you will soon be at low tide, have not even two coins to rub together.'

"When I pled ignorance, tried to explain that Miss Bennet was but a passing acquaintance raise again my objections to marrying Anne, he told me 'Cease the prittle prattle. There is no need to lie to your father. Many a man has had his head turned by a white ewe; it is in man's nature to desire someone comely but you, my son, as the fruit of my loins, are meant for a better alliance. Once you marry Anne, you can find a mistress who looks like her, or better yet the woman herself if she can be persuaded, as might occur should her father die before his time.'

I felt a sudden ache in my middle then, could feel a tension in my muscles. I wondered if the Earl was hinting that he could beggar the Bennets by doing away with Mr. Bennet, or simply making note of their circumstances. I wished to speak to Edwin then about the threats Mr. Wilmington had made to Mr. Bennet on behalf of the Earl, but I was still in doubt as to whether I could trust my cousin.

"Please Fitz," Edwin seized my arm then, "do not think I would ever disrespect Miss Bennet in such a way, for I love her. Too, truly, you have opened my eyes to what an injustice I did to Sylvia. I shall not act in such a manner again, take a mistress from the gentry."

I barely caught these words as I was still worrying about what the Earl might or might not do. He continued to speak, but I missed most of his words, only took note again when he placed a hand on my arm and asked, "Fitz, are you listening?"

I forced myself to nod.

"So, will you do it? Will you go visit Mr. Bingley and find out what you can about Sylvia's situation? You can visit him with impunity. No one will think anything odd about it, for it is he who is your great friend."

I found myself nodding, saying "Yes, I shall," for I wanted to keep Edwin loyal to me. However, the burden of having more thing that needed to be done before I could leave for Rosings pressed on me, as did my renewed worries about what the Earl might have planned for the Bennets if they defied him.

I felt my hopes of marrying Miss Elizabeth were perhaps only hopes, that the marriage I desired might never come to pass. I was again caught up in my thoughts, hardly aware of the fact that Edwin still stood before me.

"When shall you go?" I heard his voice as if from far away, and forced my eyes to focus on him, to give him a reply.

"Sometime later today. He is surely at the carriage business now."

We then walked back to the music room and, a few minutes later, Georgiana returned and played for us. I let my eyes drift close when sitting on the sofa, tried to let the music soothe me even as troubled imagined images played in my mind. I was roused from my unpleasant reverie when Edwin (who had been sitting and listening) got up and announced he planned to go to his club but would be back in the evening.

After Edwin left, Georgiana ceased her playing and asked me, after squeezing my arm three times, "Is everything well, Brother? You need not stay and listen to me play if you need some time to yourself."

"Your music helps. Too many things are troubling me now. I am still fretting over several things, amongst them, whether we can truly trust Edwin. I know I felt we could before, but now? Now I am uncertain yet again. I wish you had not told Edwin about our trip to Pemberley. I want to trust him with everything, but I fear what he might tell the Earl."

"What was I to say?" She replied. "Edwin asked where we had gone since we departed from Hertfordshire. He knew the exact day we had left. I suppose the Earl was watching our movements and told him about it. We had to be somewhere, so I told him the truth."

"Did you tell him why we went there and what we hoped to find?"

"No, I told him nothing except you desired some time at home. It was a rather awkward conversation for he clearly knew I was hiding something but was too polite to press me further."

"Well, tell him nothing should he enquire again," I told Georgiana. While I felt some relief, exhaustion pressed on me and I excused myself then. I retreated to my chambers, retrieved my longer string and coiled and uncoiled it one hundred times. After that, I finally felt better, and laid upon my bed, seeking a nap or at least to rest.

It was afternoon when I finally received a brief note to my request for a meeting with my father's brother. However, it was not from the man himself, but rather was sent on Judge Darcy's behalf. His man of business after identifying himself, briefly stated:

Judge Darcy regrets that current matters prevent his acceptance of your call today. However, he will be at home to you at 9 o'clock in the morning on Thursday.

While I wished to simply leave for Rosings then, when I told Georgiana of the note she advised, "It is only one more day, we can leave for Rosings later that day."

"I suppose," I told her, "but we shall not tarry past Thursday if for some reason he cannot see us then. I shall have no further delay."

When it was finally late enough that I supposed Bingley might be at home, I left to call upon him. Luck was with me as Bingley was newly arrived at Mr. Hurst's home when I was shown in and besides Mr. Hurst (who was napping on his sofa and senseless of my presence), Bingley was the only one of the family at home. Bingley had not yet changed for dinner and his light blond hair was tied back in a manner that was likely more practical for business.

Bingley took me into the library which was a squarish room much smaller than the one at my London home. It was not as empty as the one at Netherfield, but still had a shocking lack of books upon the single wall of shelves. Beside the shelves there was a battered round wooden table with two chairs. It looked like the type of furniture which in many homes would have been consigned to the attic; indeed, I was surprised that Mrs. Hurst let it be there (but perhaps it merely demonstrated how unimportant she felt this room was).

Upon the table was a pot of ink, two quills and paper. Two narrow windows, well-spaced out from one another, illuminated the room. Between them hung a painting of an ocean with an island in the middle of it.

"What do you think of that painting?" Bingley asked me, noting my interest.

I hesitated to share my thoughts, but then it burst out, "In my opinion, it is not a very good painting. It bothers me, for the colors are all wrong and the way the island slants, it seems unnatural. And should not the waves be different around the island? It is as if the island should not be there at all."

"I agree it is a poor painting. Louisa hung it here to better hide it from herself. It was done by Hurst's sister and Louisa dares not insult her by not displaying it. However, I have become used to it, perhaps even oddly somewhat fond of it. I think of it as my 'man is an island' painting."

"But it is a painting of an actual island," I responded. "What has it to do with a man?"

"Why, do you not recall the John Donne poem?" Bingley asked.

"But he wrote, 'no man is an island' and that was a metaphor," I responded.

"Yes, true. Normally I may not be an island, would not truly want to be, but sometimes a man needs a place all his own beside his chambers, a place of privacy. I have found this space, which I have claimed as my own domain, serves that need very well. But enough of paintings and libraries. I imagine you wish to know how it went with Miss S."

"Yes, I do, Edwin is most anxious about the matter."

Bingley nodded. He gestured to the table and we seated ourselves. I did so gingerly, not wishing to cause more pain to myself. Once seated, I noted that it was not possible to see out of the windows from such a position, but there would also never be direct light from them to vex one.

"It speaks well of him that she was not just a source of relief for the Colonel, that he seems to bear her some true affection. I will tell you all that I know. The day after we had reached our arrangement, Caroline had a widow she knew retrieve Miss S. The widow took her to another location and provided her clothes suitable for a companion and transferred her effects to a humbler trunk. Then the widow had a friend of hers in a hired carriage deliver Miss S. to a third woman's house (I was given no account of who she was).

"It was from there that my sister retrieved her, immediately setting out with her for their journey. I know not where they went, what Miss S. will now be called, or what occupation she may take up. Caroline said that it was better if I did not know. However, Caroline did tell me to expect her return by this Saturday. Funds will be sought from the Colonel in due time."

"Please thank her on my account," I told Bingley, "and extend such wishes on behalf of my cousin, too."

"I shall. I imagine you shall inform him of the little that I know. I had wished to tell the Colonel something, but Caroline said it would be wiser to wait until you sought me out. She worried about the Earl noting any connection between my family and your cousin, that it might somehow lead to Miss S.'s absence being traceable to her."

While I did not know whether such level of paranoia was warranted, I had no reason to gainsay such caution, so I merely nodded.

Bingley commented, "I must say, I am glad Caroline had this intricate project to occupy her. She is much happier when she has something that requires her skills than when she is attempting to stem boredom. I am afraid that I selfishly barely considered how the change in my condition in life would affect hers. It has cost her many of the opportunities that my father wanted for her.

"Without so many balls and parties, so many invitations, Caroline often finds herself at sixes and sevens as to what to do to occupy her time. While a few months ago I bought her a harp-lute, and she was well pleased with it, there is only so much time that may be occupied by practicing upon an instrument. It is strange, for the woman she aspires to be, has no work but for managing a home and servants, but sometimes I think she would be far happier if it were genteel for a woman to have herself an occupation."

"Perhaps when Miss Bingley marries, she might be occupied with her progeny," I opined.

"Perhaps."

Bingley stood up, picked up a book from the shelf, flipped through it and put it down again. I remained seated for several moments while waiting to see if he would sit down again. Instead, he walked further away, so I arose myself and followed him.

"But many refined women take little interest in their children. I do not say that Caroline would be like those, but I am also not convinced that this would be enough to make her happy. These little projects do her much good for all that they occur many months between one another.

"Now that you know about my sister's secret, I suppose I can tell you more. Do you recall how Caroline frequently switches maids? She is part of a network that helps to place unfortunate women who have been reformed. After they serve with her and have some level of proficiency in their duties, she helps them find other employment after I have written them a letter of reference. More than once, she has tried to see if she might get someone placed with you in London or at Pemberley."

I wished to reward Miss Bingley for her efforts and so told him, "You may tell Miss Bingley that I may find occupation for one or two, when the need arises again. You must understand, I should not want a woman like that around my sister, but I could place someone in scullery at London and perhaps in the laundry at Pemberley."

"I very much think the need is almost constant," replied he. "While she prefers a higher placement for them, it is better to find them some occupation than none at all."

"When servants prove themselves, advancements can be had," I responded.

"I understand. I will tell her of your offer."

Bingley and I remained in the library talking about this and that. He did not resume his seat, so neither did I, but I did not repine that I was not required to sit upon my posterior once again on a hard wooden chair while still sore from too much riding.

I acquainted Bingley with all that had transpired in Hertfordshire and of my quest to learn how to combat the threat of the Earl. It felt good to confide in him as I wish I could have confided in Edwin. I was most honest with Bingley, save for omitting my devastation when thinking Miss Elizabeth lost to me and my unseemly collapse, and refraining from saying anything about kissing her.

Bingley told me, "I am so happy for you, that you have found someone who cares for you just as you are, who will not give you up even when it might be easier and better for her family should she do so."

I was just on the verge of telling him about lending the Coleridge book to Miss Elizabeth and requesting the opportunity to buy it from him (for I wanted this book to belong to her and me), when the conversation shifted in another direction.

Bingley began talking about his uncle who he had partnered with for the carriage business. "With my father, I was always to serve his ambition, but it is quite different with my uncle. He has encouraged me that I need not try to be someone that I am not, that who I am is suitable."

I found this statement somewhat confusing. "When have you ever tried to be someone you are not?"

Bingley chuckled. It was a hard almost barking noise. "All the time. More recent examples you may be familiar with was then I rented an estate and tried to live out my father's dreams for me. Until I sought employment, I cannot think of a time when I did not try to conform all my actions to what was expected. It is not that I think society is wrong in all things, in many particularities it may well be right, but a man should not have to battle against his very nature to be accepted."

I felt his words could have equally been applied to me, but he seemed to be hinting at something quite different regarding himself. However, I knew naught what it might be.

"What are you trying to tell me, Bingley?" In all particularities, save for his poor penmanship and having a father who was in trade, he always seemed to be everything that was most acceptable to everyone.

I had a sudden suspicion that I wished to reject almost immediately. Nothing he had ever done or said suggested to me that he might be a Molly. However, I knew I was not always the most perceptive when it came to other people.

"I have not been as honest with you as I could have been." Bingley told me. "I should have trusted that you would understand, you who have struggled so hard to be all things acceptable, to be who your father wanted you to be."

"You can trust me, Bingley," I encouraged. "I will not share any confidence you see fit to entrust to me." I wondered what secret he could be.

"Darcy . . . you may think it a small thing, when I tell you of it, but it has loomed large in my mind. It was always a sign that I was not meant for higher society, that I was grasping too high."

Bingley flexed both hands (palms facing toward me). "Do you see these hands?"

I looked at his pale hands, they were medium, with thin digits, and I noted the callouses. I looked for any sign that they were different from before.

Bingley said, "They look the same, as each other, do they not? . . . but for being mirror images of one another. Everyone knows that this one," here he wiggled his right hand, "is the one for writing" and this hand," here he wiggled his left one, "is merely the assistant, for when both hands are needed for a task. I have even heard tell that in some exotic foreign climes that this hand," he waved his right hand about, "is for eating, while this hand," he waved his left, "is for cleansing the backside after the offal is produced."

I nodded; I was familiar with all that Bingley was saying but was not sure what this pertained to regarding whatever he might wish to tell me.

"But when you look at them, objectively," Bingley extended his fingers toward the ceiling and then pivoted his arms out in each direction so that his lower arms were parallel to the ground and his upper arms perpendicular to them, "why should the right," he gave a sort of wave with it before stilling it and doing the same with the other, "be superior to the left?"

I shrugged. That was just how it was; everyone knew that. I did not understand why he wished to wax philosophical about his hands, but I soon learned why.

"Darcy, when you confessed to me so long ago that something was the matter with you, well I did not tell you then, but something is the matter with me too. I have tried so hard to conform, to fit in, but uncle says I need not do it anymore, that there is nothing the matter with who I am."

I nodded. I still did not know what all of this pertained to, but I was determined to support my friend in all things. "Surely you should know by now, Bingley, that you may tell me whatever it may be, and I will tell no one."

"I know, but it is still hard to do it. I suppose I shall just come out and say it. Although I took all your help at university in trying to write better, I could not well succeed because I always continued to go about it by writing with my right hand when my natural ability and inclination is to use my left. Perhaps you may recall the last letter I wrote you, how it could easily be read. Well, that is because I finally began using my left hand."

"But this is wonderful news," I told him. "Had I but known that to be the difficulty, I would have said you should write that way long ago!"

"You would?" Bingley exclaimed, "Oh, of course you would! You would be practical, not caring what others thought if it be more useful to do so." He threw an arm around me, and as I could see it coming, I could accept it without flinching and easily return the half embrace and take some enjoyment in it and the happiness of my closest friend.

Bingley's smile was so wide and evidently happy, that I felt myself smiling broadly as well. Oh, to see this joy in him; it was quite wonderful! My chest, which had been feeling tight from all the worries that this day had brought, relaxed some.

When he released me, Bingley continued, "It is just that my whole life, my father, my mother, my governess, my tutor, Louisa, Caroline, everyone said it was wrong to use the left. I was punished when I did, my left arm was tied behind my back to prevent its usage on more than one occasion. At other times I was cuffed when I forgot.

"Oh, and the way they all talked about it! I was told I was a deviant, that the left was the Devil's. Everyone was so certain and me, myself, I tried so hard to do what was right before God and man. I prided myself on finally having mastered myself, pushed the frustrations associated with it all deep down inside in a place I never looked, that I locked away behind heavy doors."

Bingley's comment about the left hand belonging to the Devil struck me as odd, so I commented, "I know of nothing in the Bible that says it is not proper to write with the left hand or associates this with the Devil."

"Now that you mention it, neither do I, but everyone was always so certain when they said it." Bingley gave a shrug. "I never really questioned it, simply accepted that they knew better than me."

I nodded; I could see how that would be so.

"But my uncle, somehow he knew when I was struggling to make some notes on the fabric choices for the seats for a new design of barouche, for he said, 'If you would rather, use your left.' And when I hesitated, he plucked the quill from my right hand and held it out to my left hand. I took it then and the words came slowly at first, but within a few days they began flowing out so well and so easily that I was all astonishment. It may seem odd to you, but I truly did not know that this was how it would be, for I was so thoroughly training in avoiding such use of it that I had not written with the left since I was a young child."

We continued to speak for some time, and I continued to reassure Bingley of my approbation. I am not sure why he needed my approval, but I was happy to give it.

Though Bingley invited me to stay for dinner and I was tempted, I declined as I had told Georgiana I would be home for dinner. The last thing that Bingley told me just before we left Mr. Hurst's pitiful excuse for a library was "I have not yet told my sisters about it. I keep writing in here. This place has become my refuge, the place where I can be myself. But now that I know that you approve, when Caroline returns, I believe I shall be bold enough to tell them all."

"I think that the sooner you tell them, the better. Bingley, truly, you have nothing to be ashamed of. It is just part of who you are."

It was only as I was riding back to my home that I recalled I had not discussed with him my lending of the book of poetry to Miss Elizabeth. However, I believed he would not mind.