The frigidity with which Miss Bingley treated her brother that dinner was matched only by the warmth with which she attended their guest. Every overture by Bingley was met by a) pointed silence, b) an elegant cough or clang, or c) a louder conversation, overthrowing by its volume and suddenness anything that Bingley might have wished to say. In contrast, every movement exerted by Darcy was met with the most effusive of praises. Even Hurst could not be insensible to the power politics in the atmosphere, not when Bingley's vocal appreciation of the dessert had Caroline directing all the trifle on Bingley's side of the table Hurst's way.
In short, it was suffocating time for both gentlemen, especially for Darcy who was used to a family culture wherein, if anyone had something to say, they would damn well say it. This state of affairs followed into the drawing room. Thus Darcy, closing his book, bid an early night, which was very early indeed. It had not yet reached the eight o'clock, surely an active man as he would not be turning in at this hour? Maybe a musical performance would tempt him to stay? But he was not to be dissuaded.
Bingley, left behind with his family members, tried to engage them in some manner of passing the time, but gave up when Caroline would not let him play a game of cards with Hurst in peace, for with Darcy gone she felt at liberty to be more directly insulting. He thus took himself to his bedroom, worrying first over how the gentle Jane would fit into such a family, then daydreaming about sweet Jane herself, and finally drifting off to sleep on ponderings of how much pleasanter his life would be if his drawing rooms were filled with Jane and Jane alone.
The next day, the leasing master of Netherfield woke unusually early, and found himself happily enjoying the dawn beaming through the windows and the birdsong lighting up the country scene. He went through the motions of morning ablutions, wondering if he would at last beat Darcy to rising, and was mildly disappointed to find the breakfast room already occupied.
After some goodnatured ribbing in the manner of longtime friends on ungodly waking hours and tea, Darcy said bluntly, "You know you have got to do something about her."
He coughed as he fingered his fork and cast around for any eavesdroppers, or ways out of the conversation. Darcy was, as ever, the soul of discretion, and there was not a servant nearby to lend neither ear nor excuse. "Well... today is looking especially fine for a picnic... We could perhaps call and suggest a walk, set a blanket by the pond…"
The other's eyes went rolling. "I meant your sister."
"Oh," said Bingley, and the color in his cheeks faded to a glum paste. "Darcy— Caroline is… We are not like you and Georgiana."
"Clearly."
"Older though I am, she gets her way. It has ever been so... Father could hardly deny her what she wanted. Besides, Louisa assures me that she will mature with age. She is not even twenty, you know."
"Your age argument is weak: Were any of us such children we were twenty? Elizabeth is not twenty. Compare. Objectively the difference in their comportment is marked."
"You like Elizabeth," he said with a grumble.
Darcy smiled. "It is not fair, perhaps, to set her up against the ideal, but if it helps you take my point, I will press my advantage."
"Did you prepare a whole debate? Am I to parliament?"
"It had been brewing in my mind for a while," came the dry reply.
"And your central argument?"
"One must be set on the correct path in order to achieve his destination. No matter how long she walks, if you do not set her straight, Miss Bingley will be walking in the wrong direction. And who will, if not you? You are the one authority in her life, little exerted though it is, until she finds a husband— if you can find an intelligent, unmercenary man to offer her the way she is."
Charles deflated, capitulating, as he knew he would, and yet wondering how he would ever get the guts to act on this wisdom. "Maybe you ought to give Caroline a set down. She would listen, if it were you."
Darcy only shot him a look.
He sighed once more. A peaceful quiet pervaded, one satisfied about having made his point, the other daydreaming about that mythical world where sisters were selfless and kind. In little time, a footman came in with the day's correspondence. Amidst the small mountain of notes of credit from shopkeepers and letters from his London housekeeper and business contacts and solicitor, Bingley's hand immediately reached for the socials— a habit that Darcy had once tried to cure him of ("Unpleasant matters first," he had warned, and Bingley pointed out that he was a hypocrite, because for Darcy, the social letters were the unpleasant matters, which the other had not let go down without protest).
"My cousin has essentially invited himself over."
"And you are going to humor him?"
"Caroline dislikes him."
"He is in trade?"
"Yes, and some grievance about him ruining her best dress when she was eight."
Darcy's mouth twitched. "I should like to see them interact."
He laughed. "It's all well and good for you, when you do not have to do damage control."
Eventually, however, the socials ran out. From there Bingley proceeded to his business contacts, going through the numbers and reassurances, frequently quoting some phrase, and now and again receiving a question or word of advice from Darcy. Occasionally, Darcy even had the presence of mind not to phrase his suggestions as instructions.
Afterwards, Bingley then turned his attention to the notes of credit from shopkeepers, compiled over the last week spent preparing for the ball, with some horror.
"She ordered everything from London?"
Darcy's mouth was a grim line. "From the Western Exchange at that."
"I could have sworn they sold more than enough ribbons in Meryton!"
"Candles, flowers, draperies as well..."
"The price of transport…"
"Has already been paid, of course."
"Why did we not see it?"
"Because we know nothing about ball planning and were too busy avoiding its kingpin?"
They grumbled.
"How much did this cost?" Bingley burst.
Darcy patiently did the math.
The sum total made Bingley put his head in his hands. "I suppose I could not have expected her first ball to be anything less than glamorous…"
"You did give her a budget, to which she agreed, little though I expected her to reach it. That means the excess will come off her pin money."
Bingley said nothing.
"It is coming out of her pin money?" Darcy demanded, slowly slamming a palm onto the oak desk.
"Er… Well… she had already used it up…"
Chair legs scraped. "Bingley!"
"I am sorry!"
Darcy ran a hand down his face.
"You had better," said he after a long silence, dust settling around them, "hope that your future wife is the frugal sort."
Bingley brightened. "Oh, Jane is very frugal! She is always repairing their linens or remaking a sister's dress, and once persuaded her mother away from employing a French cook when their own Mrs. Lowry had it very well handled… Earlier this year their lady's maid had threatened to resign, so Jane made sure to supervise her youngest sisters' dressing to reduce her distress…."
Despite himself, Darcy smiled. "Alright, alright. Enough, man. Keep your lady's virtues to yourself."
He beamed, before settling into a frown. "She is not my lady yet. Or not. Yet."
"There is still the minor matter of her heart."
Bingley ruffled the papers and pens with his huff.
They whiled away the rest of the morning with some light exercise and meetings with the staff and steward. Unfortunately, sometime in the latter, Darcy had discovered the apparently appalling fact that Bingley had never quite understood the workings behind double-entry bookkeeping. The man set out to remedy this atrocity, regardless of how Bingley's eyes glazed over and his head nodded idly along. In the middle of a thorough demonstration of—balancing, or something; hadn't Darcy done that already? or was this journalizing now? Whatever, he had a perfectly good solicitor who explained these things to him, as he preferred; though Darcy may have his details if he so chused—he slapped his head, remembering that his solicitor required his presence in London.
Darcy was glaring at him. Oops.
"You are not listening! How did you even manage your holdings?"
Sheepishly, he shrugged.
"If someone among your trustworthy contacts isn't already cheating you—" Darcy growled.
"Then I have other trustworthy friends to sniff it out!" he exclaimed, attempting to clap him on the shoulder. Attempting, because Darcy ducked the gesture.
It was in the middle of this paper-scattering wrangle that Mrs. Nicholls found them in the study, and very professionally handed Bingley a short note. It was signed by a lethargic hand neither of them had seen before, but which caused both their hearts to leap in their chests.
It took Darcy a good measure of his famed self-control to refrain from reading over Bingley's shoulder. Sure, one could tell a lot from Bingley's face, but when it shifted from curiosity to consternation to a bewildered delight, the half-information was nothing short of frustrating.
"Well?" he demanded.
"I—er—" and simply handed the paper over.
Mr. Bingley,
My wife has prophesied that you would be coming to-day, to which I declared that you probably would not. We had a good back-and-forth about this matter, for of course it could be settled independently of your input. She has made up her mind, which has manifested in the form of a three-course dinner. I would be much obliged if you would make up mine.
Yours, T. Bennet.
They share a look over the note.
"Caroline will not be pleased…"
Darcy did his personal equivalent of tossing a head.
"Louisa wouldn't mind… Hurst will skin us if we don't…"
Darcy's head made a face.
"The Miss Bennets are expecting us!"
Darcy's neck tilted that face to the heavens.
A/N: These two buggers are coming ALIVE!