"Ah, Darcy! Good morning. I was beginning to wonder if I should have Joseph wake you with a dash of cold water!" Charles Bingley smiled at his jest as Darcy entered the breakfast room some twenty minutes later. "It is strange, though. There seems to be exactly the same level of brandy in the snifter as there was when I retired last night," he said with mock seriousness. "Perhaps you paid a servant to refill it? I shall have to ferret out the responsible party!"
"If only there were such an excuse for my late rising, though you are well aware I rarely overindulge in spirits," Darcy replied with a frown. "I fear my rest has lately been somewhat erratic, I know not why. My apologies, Charles." He wondered briefly why he bothered to feign ignorance as to his troubled sleep. Perhaps it would make the strange burden slightly easier to bear if he were straightforward with his friend about the dreams or at least as straightforward as propriety allowed.
"Nonsense, Darcy. I've reason to believe the boundaries of Netherfield will still be there later today if not tomorrow." The two of them had planned to ride the full boundary line of the property so as to become familiar with its extent and holdings. As it was, they would hardly have time to ride half its length before returning to prepare for the night's festivities.
"And as my guest," Bingley continued, "I should think it perfectly acceptable to overindulge on occasion be it in sleep or in spirits. Though I must say never once in our acquaintance have I known you to rise later than my sister." Bingley chuckled to himself, soundly dismissing Darcy's concern with his usual affability and returning to his newspaper.
"Yes, I suppose you're right," Darcy agreed quietly, surprised at the sagacity of Bingley's observations.
Throughout the course of their friendship, Darcy had found himself inclined to act as an adviser of sorts to the younger man, primarily because Bingley simply lacked experience in matters of business. Secondarily, Bingley needed a bit of general direction. Often, Darcy forgot their age difference was only a matter of a few years for it often felt like more.
He knew very well that theirs was an unlikely friendship. With Bingley's amiability contrasted with his far more solemn nature, Darcy imagined people often wondered what they found in common. Simply put, they each provided a modicum of balance to the other.
Aside from this, Bingley was one of the few friends whose continued relationship never seemed to hinge on the Darcy name and the connections it afforded. Such as it had always been between them, Bingley came far closer seeing Darcy's true self than others he spent more time with, apart from his sister.
Something in Bingley's open and unassuming nature that morning compelled Darcy to ruminate on the possibility of sharing a little of his troubles with his friend. Though not the first time he considered this, it felt abruptly vital to share the matter with someone. And who better than his closet friend?
If such a conversation were to take place, the question was how much to divulge and to what end. He thought it unlikely Bingley would be able to offer any great insight not already entertained. He fought against the immediate concern that discussing such subjects would invariably expose him to ridicule. While chancy, if anyone could be trusted to keep his confidence, it was Charles. Though open and sometimes playful in nature, Bingley would surely not tease too severely if he explained just how thoroughly the situation aggravated him. Perhaps revealing his distress would diminish the power the dreams appeared to hold over him. Most enticing was the possibility that speaking of the dreams might cause them to cease altogether!
If only the solution could be so easy, Darcy sighed to himself.
Such was the case that Darcy had just opened his mouth to speak when Caroline Bingley entered the room.
"Mr. Darcy! Oh, how glad we are to see you no longer abed," she remarked with a curtsey. "May I presume you are in good health?" There was a pause in which Darcy could only blink at her in consternation. Why did everyone seem to be under the impression that he was ill?
"He is well, Caroline," Bingley interjected, giving Darcy an odd look. "Just a bit out of sorts, it seems." Darcy cleared his throat uncomfortably, unaccustomed as he was to the authority Bingley seemed to have commanded this morning.
"So I see." Caroline swept in to resume her seat at the table, taking the opportunity to brush past him closer than necessary. She prepared herself a cup of tea, turning towards him as she did so as to invite further conversation. Darcy merely scowled and attacked his breakfast dish with ferocity. The urge to divulge his private troubles seemed to have evaporated as quickly as it arose. He was now only irritated with himself for contemplating such drastic action in the first place.
"Charles, I find it is unseasonably warm outside," Caroline said. Darcy highly doubted she'd been outside at all; it was far more likely she'd simply inquired of a servant the current outdoor climate. "The pair of you, indeed all of us, had much better rest this afternoon if you still insist we all attend that dreadful assembly this evening. I fear we shall need to conserve our energies." She sipped daintily at her tea as Bingley folded the newspaper and handed it across the table to Darcy. The latter tried not to curl his lip at the drawn out enunciation of the word dreadful.
"Yes, I still insist on attending, Caroline. Really, I don't see why you are so reluctant," Bingley declared. "I have already promised several new acquaintances that I shall attend with the rest of my party, as you are well aware. It would be unacceptable for me to attended alone now, as Darcy would no doubt agree." Caroline pouted prettily at the truth of his words.
"Of course, I know it is important for you to make a good impression, Brother," she said. "I simply find these country manners to be every bit an unrefined as I expected. I'm sure Mr. Darcy would agree with me on that score." She cast a demurely heavy lidded look in Darcy's direction over the top of her teacup. He quickly cast his eyes down to his own cup.
"'Country' manners?" Bingley's brows drew together. "I confess I have not notice a great difference from 'city' manners to what you call 'country' manners."
"Charles, do be serious."
"Only if I must be, Caroline. Actually, Darcy," he turned toward his other companion, "I have it on good authority that there will be no shortage of young ladies to dance with, some of whom are reported to be singularly pretty! Why, Mr. Bennet of Longbourn alone has five daughters, all said to be beauties in their own right, but in particular the eldest two." Caroline rolled her eyes meaningfully, giving Darcy a knowing look.
"Of course they are said to be local beauties! Those who would believe so hardly have any other beauty to judge by this far from Town. Honestly, Charles, I am sure there are but a few who are truly pretty and even less who are accomplished. I shall suffer for want of society."
"Nevertheless, I intend to judge for myself and have a perfectly enjoyable time in the process. Come now, what say you, Darcy?"
Darcy hesitated in his reply, loathe as he was to broach a familiar point of contention between them in his already darkened temper. "I do recall hearing of the Bennet sisters, Bingley, but I would endeavor to keep from setting any hopes too high," he finished diplomatically.
"Well, I for one am looking forward to the evening. As should you, Caroline. If they have no beauty to judge by then you will certainly provide them with an example to emulate. And perhaps you will both feel differently when faced with all five Miss Bennets at once. I am sure they will be uniformly charming," Bingley encouraged with twinkling eyes. Caroline brightened at her brother's compliment and seemed far more inclined to accept her fate than before receiving such flattery.
Darcy nodded slightly, uncertain whether the comment was merely meant to tease or Bingley simply did not understand how improper it would be for him to honor any of the daughters in attendance with a dance. Even if he cared to dance he would have to be extremely cautious as to whom he extended an invitation so as not to give the wrong impression. Either way, he was fated to pass the evening in some form of discontent or other.
But fate (or whatever force or absence thereof to which one might attribute such activity), tends to be far less predictable than humans might prefer. Whatever the case may be, the life of poor Mr. Darcy proffered delights sufficient to entice even the most indolent of meddlers. Even with the recent excess activity of his mind, he could scarcely have imagined what really awaited him.