(A/N: At long last I have updated this story. Apologies to my wonderful readers for making you wait so long, and thanks to the great reviews I've gotten thus far!)
Part 3
Darcy handed a glass of brandy to Bingley silently before pouring himself his own and setting the decanter back on the tray. Bingley accepted his drink, a bemused half-smile on his face. He had called upon his friend ten minutes ago, and Darcy had scarcely spoke three words to him. Bingley was aware that his friend was a taciturn sort of gentleman, but this lack of conversation struck him as odd indeed.
Bingley also realized, with dismay, that Darcy seemed to not take any notice of his presence. Hardly did he cast a glance to where Bingley sat in a leather chair facing him. Instead, he paced about his study, his dark eyes unfocused, as if he were lost in his thoughts. Bingley was tempted to inquire as to what troubled Darcy, but he only knew too well that such a question would only merit a dark glare.
"How was your journey into Kent?" Bingley questioned instead, endeavoring to make his tone light. "Tolerable, I hope?"
"It was very...surprising," said Darcy vaguely.
"How so? I trust your aunt—Lady Catherine de Bourgh, right?—I trust that she's well?"
"Oh yes...Lady Catherine is just as she ever was," muttered Darcy.
"And your cousin? I hope she is well?" Bingley prompted.
"Yes, yes..." Darcy sat down at his desk, his eyes giving no hint as to what was on his mind.
"Out with it, man," said Bingley, nearly losing his patience for once. "Something is troubling you, Darcy, and I daresay that this time it's not your nagging aunt." He chuckled slightly; even Darcy's mouth quirked momentarily. Then suddenly Darcy regained his grim—no, solemn expression.
"And I suppose you want to hear it," said Darcy wearily.
"Believe me, Darcy, I wish to hear it so that I may help you," Bingley said honestly.
Darcy laughed mirthlessly, as if he had found something to be ironic. "As you recall, Lady Catherine is the patroness of a parson, whose residence is near Rosings?"
"Yes," said Bingley slowly, puzzled.
"That parson, whose name is Collins, actually sojourned to Hertfordshire when we were there. He even attended your ball at Netherfield," went on Darcy, staring at his hands thoughtfully.
"Why, I recall the gentleman," said Bingley. Suddenly he felt his chest grow tight; to be reminded of that night at Netherfield! His thoughts did not remain on Collins long. They wandered to a certain lady...nay, an angel, who had captured his heart at the Netherfield ball...
"Bingley? I say, are you listening?" Darcy said impatiently.
"Yes...of course," said Bingley, dazed. "Yes. I apologize. Pardon me, Darcy, but why are you telling me all of this? What does this have to do with anything?"
Darcy fell silent suddenly, his eyes meeting Bingley's. His countenance was grave and solemn, and Bingley was momentarily fearful that he would remain tightlipped. Then Darcy spoke again, and his tone was somber.
"Bingley, I have dreaded this moment for quite some time...but...there are some injustices I have committed against you that I must confess."
"Darcy! Come man, it cannot be so grave!" said Bingley in disbelief.
"Nay, when you hear me out, my friend, you will fully understand the weightiness of my faults." Darcy continued in his solemn voice. "Collins, the parson I was talking about, recently wedded a lady from Hertfordshire—I believe that we have made her and her family's acquaintance during our stay—formerly Miss Charlotte Lucas."
"Ah yes, I remember her," said Bingley.
"Apparently, before I had made my sojourn to Kent, Miss Lucas—pardon me—Mrs. Collins had invited a close friend of hers to visit her husband's parsonage at Hunsford. The young lady happened to be Miss Bennet...er, Miss Elizabeth Bennet."
"Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" repeated Bingley. His heart had swelled with false hope that the lady alluded to should turn out to be his beloved, but all hope was deflated when it turned out to be her sister. Darcy regarded his friend curiously with a sharp eye. "Ah yes, I see. Er…continue."
"I had the pleasure of renewing my acquaintance with Miss Elizabeth," said Darcy softly. "She was just as I had expected her to be: pert, sharp-tongued...um..., well, to come to the point." Darcy stood up and cleared his throat. Bingley frowned at Darcy's sudden change in tone when he mentioned Miss Elizabeth.
"Bingley, Miss Elizabeth and I...shall we say...well..." To Bingley's utter amazement, his friend began to stammer, nervously searching for the right words. "Well, she made it clear that I had misunderstood her...and her sister."
"What?" Bingley shot up from his chair at the mere mention of Miss Elizabeth's sister.
"Some time during the exchange between us, I had mentioned your—my reasons for our departure from Hertfordshire last November. I had made it clear to Miss Elizabeth that I believed Miss Jane to be indifferent to you, and—" Darcy paused, running a hand through his hair nervously.
"Darcy, what—?" Bingley urged on, but he was interrupted by Darcy.
"Miss Elizabeth made it very clear," said Darcy with a wince, "that I had been incorrect in my assumptions that Miss Jane was indifferent to you."
"She—?" Bingley gaped wordlessly, astounded by this bit of information. He collapsed into his chair once again. What did Darcy insinuate? Jane...loved him? Dare he entertain the hope? Bingley was brought back from his fleeting thoughts by Darcy's nervous pacing. "I don't understand. How have you wronged me, Darcy?"
"I had my suspicions that Miss Jane's feelings were deeper than I had estimated before Miss Elizabeth informed me of them herself." Darcy stopped pacing abruptly and turned to face Bingley. "You must understand that it is difficult for me to confess this."
Darcy's tone had become graver, if that was at all possible. Bingley fretted over what on earth could be eating away at Darcy's heart so much. He awaited his friend's confession with apprehension.
"Bingley, last winter I was aware that Miss Jane had been in London, and I purposefully concealed it from you."
Bingley once again leapt from his seat. "What?" he exclaimed, a feeling foreign to him rising within him. "You...you concealed it from me? By God, man, why?" Dismayed, he suddenly realized that this new feeling was anger.
Darcy winced visibly at Bingley's uncharacteristic rage. "I have no paltry excuse to offer you, Bingley. It was wrong of me, and I heartily apologize."
"All this time...all winter, she was in London? I could have...my God..." Bingley realized that he was prattling on and on like a mindless fool. He met Darcy's gaze at last, detecting remorse in his friend's eyes. Bingley desperately wished to acquit him of cruelty, to forgive and forget, as they say. Yet he found it increasingly difficult to brush away Darcy's willful concealment, no matter how contrite his friend felt. Bingley was normally a generous and forgiving man, yet he felt reluctant to be so toward his friend.
"Darcy, you understand that knowing...that receiving the information that you have just related to me does nothing to ease my pain—rather, it has increased it considerably," said Bingley in a strained voice. "I can find it in my heart to forgive you, my friend, but I am sorry to say that I cannot, and will not, forget it. I can't fathom why you would conceal Jane's being in London from me,." Other than the obvious reason, thought Bingley. He winced, willing himself to erase that thought from his mind.
"Bingley, I thank you for your forgiveness," said Darcy softly, meekly. Bingley was astounded to see his formerly proud friend humble and mindful of his faults.
"Darcy, you understand that I now find it hard to trust you," said Bingley solemnly.
Darcy winced, and Bingley was struck with sympathy for his friend, who suffered from such guilt and misery for one act of folly. Yet he could not bring himself to fully reconcile their relationship.
"I think that it is best that I leave you now," said Bingley quietly.
"Yes," said Darcy in agreement, his expression stony. "Bingley, I have one thing to ask of you. Return to Hertfordshire, I beg of you."
"Darcy, you cannot ask me to do that," said Bingley wearily. "How can I face Miss Bennet again after leaving her so abruptly last November and not contacting her whilst she was in London? She must despise me now," he added miserably, more to himself.
"I assure you that Miss Bennet's regard for you remains unchanged," said Darcy. "She loves you, man, you cannot turn away now. Go back to Hertfordshire and renew your attentions. If you do not, you will regret it. Promise me, Bingley."
"Darcy, how can I believe you?" said Bingley desperately.
"I would not conceal the truth from you twice!"
Defeated, Bingley sighed helplessly. "Darcy...I will think about it. But I will not make any promises."
"Very well," said Darcy, his expression betraying his weariness.
"I take my leave of you now," said Bingley abruptly, glancing at Darcy's uncharacteristically slouched figure one last time before departing from the room.
Darcy did not look up when Bingley finally left his study; the only signal of his friend's departure was the sharp sound of the door briskly shutting. For a few minutes, the room filled with reverberating silence. At last, Darcy stood up slowly from his chair and rang for his steward. Only one task remained for him: to make preparations to leave for Pemberley the next morning. To Pemberley he would retreat, with his tail between his legs, where he could be far, far away from the consequences of his mistakes.
In the middle of these morose thoughts, Darcy sifted through the pile of missives in helter-skelter on his desk. One letter's seal, he noticed, was still unbroken. Hastily he broke the seal and quickly skimmed the letter's contents. A faint frown appeared between Darcy's brows, and, as he came to the close of the letter, he actually groaned in annoyance. Some obscure old friend of his father's, a man he had never met in his life, requested his presence at dinner the following week. The man was apparently some illustrious captain who was willing to discuss shipments with Darcy. He frowned again, checking the letter's direction; it had come from Portsmouth. This was indeed a fortunate opportunity, but Darcy suddenly felt overwhelmingly weary, in his mind and even worse in his heart. He detested the idea, furthermore, of calling upon a gentleman he had never met, and travelling to Portsmouth would only delay his sojourn to Pemberley. Darcy paused in his indecision, skimming the letter over and over again. Damn it all! I shall pay my respects to this captain; shipping nowadays is so damn expensive; perhaps I could save a few unnecessary pounds, he thought. Why was he in a hurry to journey to Derbyshire anyway? Quickly he scribbled a letter accepting the captain's invitation and rang for his steward. One last social call, he thought grimly, and then I can retreat into peaceful solitude.
(A/N: The letter that Darcy received from the "illustrious captain" is an allusion to another short story I wrote. It's a Hornblower/Pride & Prejudice crossover and is not really important to this story.)
Darcy awoke from a light slumber to find himself still in the carriage, en route to Pemberley. The rain had thankfully ceased, and once glance out of the carriage window informed Darcy that he had finally entered Derbyshire. A faint smile touched his lips at seeing his true home at last. His smile widened a trifle when he recognized the grove of trees that lined the edge of his estate. The woods of his home seemed particularly lovely at this time of year; such a sight was enough to lift Darcy's downtrodden spirits if but for a moment.
As the carriage pulled to the front of the house, Darcy gave a few orders to his steward as to where to take his luggage and to make sure all of his mail was in his study. Then he climbed out of the carriage eagerly and entered the grand foyer of the house, awaiting his welcome. A servant promptly relieved his master of his greatcoat and hat; when he had bustled away, another person came forward to greet him.
"Brother! You have come so soon," said Georgiana sweetly, allowing Darcy to fold her into his embrace.
"There was nothing in London to keep me long, dearest," he said, his heart swelling. For the first time in weeks, Darcy had been welcomed by someone who harbored no hatred or bitterness toward him. The thought provoked within him a new wave of anguish, and the smile that had previously appeared on his face vanished. As he embraced his sister, thoughts of Bingley's anger and Elizabeth's hatred gnawed at his heart. Abruptly he stepped back, startling poor Georgiana.
"Are you unwell, Fitzwilliam?" she inquired worriedly.
"No, my dear, I am quite well. I must attend to some matters of business, but later, I promise I shall listen to the new piece you are working on. You have been practicing whilst I was away, haven't you?" Darcy feigned a smile, guilt pricking at his heart for lying to Georgiana.
"Of course I have, brother," she replied with a smile. "I shall wait in the music room."
Darcy regarded Georgiana's retreating figure gloomily; fool he was to think that running to Pemberley would cure him of his dark mood. To his dismay he found himself more miserable than he had been in London.