Chapter 12

~Relentless ambition is like a stormy sea, driving you forward but leaving a wake of turmoil and destruction.

Darcy returned to Netherfield that afternoon, his mind a labyrinth of disquiet following his unexpected encounter with Elizabeth Bennet in the woods. Nearly a decade had passed since their last meeting, and now the memory of an almost-kiss lingered fondly in his mind, stirring emotions he scarcely dared to name. His distraction did not escape the notice of his father who chose to indulge in some light-hearted teasing as they gathered in the drawing room for tea.

"Fitzwilliam, you appear to be gazing into the middle distance as though your very soul has taken flight," remarked Mr. Darcy senior, setting down his teacup with deliberate precision. His tone carried the ease of a man long accustomed to playful banter. "Tell me, did you lose it to a fairy in the woods? Or perhaps to a goddess?"

Darcy attempted a neutral smile, though his thoughts clearly lay elsewhere. "I assure you, Father, my musings are far more mundane than your poetic notions imply."

"Mundane? Ha!" Wickham interjected, sprawled in his chair with the careless grace of youth, after slaving for three-quarters of an hour poring over a jewelry design inspired by his earlier discussion with Darcy. He grinned as he waved a crumb-laden scone in Darcy's direction, as though issuing a challenge. "That's precisely the kind of word a man uses when he's hiding something. Golden-haired or dark-eyed, cousin? Or wait—don't tell me! You've fallen for some charming dairymaid, haven't you? They've a knack for bewitching even the dullest souls, or so I hear."

Darcy's lips tightened as he stirred his tea, a tell-tale flush rising to his cheeks. "Your imagination, Wickham, has evidently outpaced reality. My thoughts were occupied with weightier matters, as you might expect of someone not perpetually idle."

"Weightier matters?" Wickham drawled, a lopsided grin spreading across his face as he leaned forward, balancing his scone precariously on his fingertips. "Pray tell, is that your way of confessing you've taken up philosophy? A man who thinks too hard might miss the finer things in life—a lass's pleasing form, or anything else worth noticing. What a tragedy that would be."

Mr. Darcy senior set his teacup down with deliberate precision, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Far more tragic, I suspect, would be if Fitzwilliam were to wax poetic over a parson's daughter. Heaven forbid we find ourselves subjected to sonnets extolling the virtues of sermon writing and needlework."

Darcy's knuckles whitened around his teacup, though he maintained a stoic silence. Sensing his discomfort, Lady Anne intervened.

"Now, gentlemen," she said, her tone light but edged with purpose, "must you be so relentless? A man is entitled to his private reflections, even if they render him a little distracted. Fitzwilliam has always been one to think deeply—surely you might allow him his peace?"

Georgiana, perched at the edge of her chair with an embroidery hoop in hand, added with a sly smile, "Indeed do give Brother space. Else he may decide to hold your secrets hostage the next time you are caught wool-gathering."

"Secrets?" Wickham scoffed, gesturing theatrically with his scone. "I am a paragon of transparent honesty! But surely Darcy might grant us a glimpse of what occupies his thoughts. It cannot possibly be duller than my own."

"Oh, but Cousin George," Georgiana replied sweetly, "that sets the bar dreadfully low. Fitzwilliam could sit in silence for hours and yet outshine you."

Wickham laughed, conceding the hit with a good-natured shrug. "Touché, little Georgie. Yet I remain convinced that Darcy's crimson cheeks tell a tale he is loath to share. Shall we wager on whether it involves an heiress or a farmer's daughter?"

"Enough of your teasing," Lady Anne said, her laugh indulgent. "If Fitzwilliam wishes to share his thoughts, he will do so in his own time. Until then, I suggest you occupy yourselves with something more productive than tormenting him."

"Productive? At tea?" Mr. Darcy senior quipped, his expression one of mock incredulity. "Surely, my dear Anne, you do not expect miracles."

"Perhaps not miracles," she replied, "but at least civility."

Darcy cast a glance toward his mother, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes. Yet he knew his reprieve would be brief; his father and cousin delighted far too much in their jest to let the matter rest. As he sipped his tea and half-listened to the idle chatter, his thoughts drifted inexorably back to the woods, to Lizzy, and to the unspoken words that hovered between them like a spectre.

The respite was soon interrupted by the butler, who entered with a measured bow. "Mr. and Mrs. Wickham, accompanied by Mrs. Bingley and Miss Caroline Bingley."

Darcy instinctively stiffened, his teacup halting midway to his lips. Mr. Darcy senior, however, rose with the practiced geniality of a seasoned host.

"Cousin Adam and Harriet! What a delightful surprise," Mr. Darcy senior declared warmly, though his gaze briefly flicked to the unexpected companions. "I see you have brought friends."

George Wickham greeted his parents, and the rest of the group offered warm welcomes to the Wickhams. Mrs. Adam Wickham, determined to present an air of cheerful propriety, smiled brightly and stepped forward. "Cousin George, how lovely to see you and thank you for the invitation!" She then glanced at the newcomers and added, "We encountered Mrs. Bingley and her daughter in a most unfortunate predicament—a carriage mishap, scarcely a mile from here. Naturally, we could not leave them stranded. Mrs. Bingley hoped she might impose upon your kindness, if only for a brief moment."

Mrs. Bingley, a stout woman, clasped her hands dramatically. "Oh, Mr. Darcy, it was dreadful! A wheel mired in the mud—we feared we might not make it back to town before nightfall. I cannot thank Mrs. Wickham enough for her kindness. Such an ordeal!"

Miss Caroline Bingley, tall and sharply featured, stepped forward with a smile that seemed practiced rather than genuine. "I do hope we are not imposing, Mr. Darcy. Your hospitality is spoken of most highly."

Darcy's brows furrowed slightly at the theatrical display, but his father, the courteous host, masked any irritation. "Of course, you are most welcome, Mrs. and Miss Bingley. Such a misfortune is no fault of yours. Please, do make yourselves comfortable."

Trailing behind his wife, Adam Wickham appeared less pleased. A man whose pride had long since been eroded by the loss of his family estate, his employment as a secretary to Mr. Bingley was a daily reminder of his diminished circumstances. Escorting the overbearing Mrs. Bingley and her daughter into his cousin's genteel residence only deepened his resentment.

"Mrs. Bingley is eager to expand her circle of acquaintance," Adam said stiffly, his tone barely concealing his displeasure.

Mrs. Bingley, either pretending not to notice or blissfully oblivious to the tension in the room, swept in with an air of self-assurance bordering on arrogance. Her gown, a riot of bold colours and heavy ornamentation, demanded every eye, though not in admiration. Emerald earrings, nearly as large as her earlobes could bear, swung with every exaggerated movement, and a necklace of oversized pearls pressed heavily against her ample bosom.

Miss Caroline Bingley followed in her wake, her gown of shimmering orange silk catching the candlelight with a near-blinding intensity. Her hair, styled in a mass of excessive curls, was crowned with a feather so large it seemed to announce her presence before she spoke.

Lady Anne said with graceful composure, her expression revealing nothing of her inner thoughts. "Of course, Mrs. Bingley and Miss Bingley are most welcome. It is quite late, after all. Please, be seated, and take some refreshment. I will have fresh tea brought in."

The Bingley ladies moved quickly to claim prominent seats near Darcy, their intentions as clear as day. Meanwhile, Mrs. Wickham seated herself opposite, keenly pondering how her son George might charm Miss Bingley, though she was realistic enough to know that Darcy was the more coveted prize.

Darcy, however, remained polite but distant, his thoughts elsewhere. As the Bingley ladies launched into an animated recounting of their ordeal—voices grating and shrill—he cast a fleeting glance at his sister Georgiana, who returned his look with a knowing smile. It would be a long afternoon indeed.

Mrs. Bingley's expression sharpened with unbridled determination. "Master Darcy," she began, her voice dripping with affected sweetness, "what a delightful surprise to meet you. I've heard great reports of your charming form, and I must say, they are no exaggeration. I congratulate your parents for having such a handsome son. What a fortunate coincidence that we should cross paths in this way!"

Darcy tried not to roll his eyes at the vulgarity of her words. "Indeed, Mrs. Bingley."

Caroline, her smile a calculated mixture of coquettishness and self-assurance, leaned in slightly. "Master Darcy, I've heard such fine things about Hertfordshire. They say the countryside here is most picturesque, though I suppose rare beauty is not bestowed every day." She raised a hand to adjust the necklace on her bony neck, subtly pushing her small bosom forward, clearly attempting to flaunt her modest assets. Her gaze lingered on him, lips curving into a soft, imperceptible smile, as if expecting a compliment.

Darcy fought the urge to shift uncomfortably, his posture rigid. He replied in measured coldness, "The area does have its charms."

Mrs. Bingley, undeterred by his reserve, continued the campaign to recommend her daughter. "Oh, the countryside here is so serene! Just like my Caroline! We had no notion we might stumble upon such distinguished company during our unfortunate mishap. And to think our families might never have met had Mrs. Wickham not come to our aid!"

Darcy nodded his head, not wanting to respond to such meaningless conversation.

Caroline pouted, finding him rather dull. If not for his family fortune, she wouldn't deign to waste her beautiful breath on him. "Such amiable hospitality is rare these days. I do hope we are not imposing on your afternoon. Pray, might I inquire what pastimes you find most diverting when you are in your large estate Pemberley?"

Darcy spoke with cool politeness, "My pastimes are not particularly varied, Miss Bingley." He shifted slightly, trying to signal his desire to end the conversation. "But I do not wish to keep you from your own enjoyment this afternoon."

Meanwhile, George Wickham sat with a stiff discomfort, his expression betraying his distaste for the company. The predicament his cousin endured was not lost on him, though he had his own reasons for disliking the Bingley ladies.

"The woods are indeed picturesque," Wickham interjected dryly, his tone laced with subtle irony. "I daresay their charms may be somewhat lost on those who fail to appreciate the rustic beauty of the countryside."

Mrs. Bingley, deliberately ignoring the barb, waved her jewelled hand with feigned ease. "Oh, I find all things rustic most diverting," she declared airily. "But one does hope such charm does not come at too great a cost to one's convenience. My Caroline and I would be in utter misery if we couldn't visit our modiste every week. Imagine—what would we do without the latest fashions to keep us in the good graces of society? And the comings and goings of acquaintances—it's all quite an affair, isn't it? One simply must keep up appearances, after all. It's dreadful how some let themselves slip into obscurity by neglecting these important details."

Caroline, clearly inheriting her mother's flair for veiled condescension, turned a pointed smile toward George. "I understand, Master Wickham, that you are quite industrious in your trade. A jewellery shop in Russell Square, is it? How commendable. Though one might wonder—has Bond Street entirely lost its appeal?"

Wickham's jaw tightened, but he managed a polite smile. "Russell Square suits my purposes admirably, Miss Bingley. It is, after all, the quality of the work—not the location—that determines one's reputation."

Sensing his cousin's rising irritation, Darcy spoke with quiet authority. "Indeed, George's craftsmanship has garnered him considerable notice, as it rightly should. Talent and diligence will always outshine mere fashion."

Caroline raised a finely arched brow. "How noble of you to say so, Master Darcy. Yet surely one must concede that certain addresses carry an air of... distinction."

Before Darcy could reply, Lady Anne intervened. "Distinction, Miss Bingley, is a rare and elusive quality. It cannot be purchased—no matter the address."

The words fell into a brief silence. Lady Anne then continued. "Mrs. Bingley," she said, "you must partake of the lavender biscuits. Our cook has truly outdone herself today."

As tea continued, Mrs. Bingley's attentions turned increasingly toward Darcy, her efforts to recommend her daughter Caroline growing more pronounced. Mrs. Wickham could not help but be annoyed by the slow progress of bringing about a match between her son and Miss Bingley.

Darcy endured the remainder of the gathering with great reserve, his thoughts wandering repeatedly to the woods, to Lizzy, and to the memory of her playful smile.

When at last the company rose to depart, the Bingley ladies began offering a series of laughable excuses to remain. Mrs. Bingley, her hands fluttering toward her extravagant feathered headpiece, sighed dramatically. "Oh, my feather has become quite dishevelled. It seems I shall need a moment to have it properly fixed before I can be seen out in public." Meanwhile, Caroline placed a hand delicately to her stomach. "I fear the hot tea has not settled well with me, Lady Anne. I do hope you will excuse my delay while I recover from this little discomfort."

Before any resolution could be made, however, the heavens opened with a sudden deluge, rain pouring in torrents that drowned out all hope of departure.

Lady Anne could do no less than extend the inevitable invitation. "It seems Providence has decided for us," she remarked with composed resignation. "Mrs. Bingley, Miss Bingley, you shall remain here tonight. It would be most unsafe to journey in such conditions."

Mrs. Bingley clasped her hands with dramatic gratitude. "Oh, Lady Anne, how exceedingly kind! I knew your reputation for hospitality was most deserved."

As arrangements were made, Darcy observed the Bingley ladies ascend the staircase with mixed feelings of relief and exasperation. Alone in his room later that night, his thoughts returned to Lizzy. In her, he saw not only beauty, but warmth, wit, and a sincerity entirely absent from the shallow and gaudy pretensions of the Bingley ladies.

And as the storm raged outside, Darcy resolved that no amount of scheming or familial expectation would sway his heart from Elizabeth. It already belonged elsewhere.

At the other end of the guest wing, Mrs. Wickham asked his son, "why do you resist so? Miss Bingley possesses wealth and beauty that could bring great advantages to our own. She is a match, I think, that many would covet."

Wickham ran a hand through his hair in frustration, sighing deeply. "Mother, it's not merely about beauty and fortune. Have you observed how she treats the servants? With the utmost disdain, as though they were beneath her notice. I can't marry someone who shows such lack of respect for those beneath her."

His father leaned forward slightly, his expression thoughtful. "Son, you must understand the importance of securing our position. Your mother and I have worked tirelessly to maintain some semblance of respectability, and Miss Bingley's family wealth could do much to further that."

Wickham met his father's gaze, a firmness in his eyes. "I understand that, Father. But marrying Miss Bingley isn't the answer. Uncle Darcy taught me the value of character and integrity. Marrying her would be a return to the man I used to be—a man who mocked and resented everything and everyone around him."

Mrs. Wickham's brow furrowed in concern. "But think of the advantages, George! Your jewellery shop could flourish with the Bingley's money."

Wickham snorted, his disbelief evident. "That's exactly it, Mother. Miss Bingley doesn't care for the shop or the work—she belittles it at every opportunity. If she even thinks of the shop, it's merely as a means to more fortune, more connection, more power. The actual labour, the craftsmanship, means nothing to her. And as for the idea of her working in the shop—let's be honest, she wouldn't last a moment. I can just picture her tearing other ladies' hair out in jealousy over who has more money or the better connection than the wife of a jeweller. She'd be far too busy positioning herself for something greater, like fawning over Darcy, who could offer her far more than my jewellery ever could."

Mrs. Wickham snorted. "Fitzwilliam? Hmph! She fancies him and Pemberly, doesn't she? He won't give her a second glance. No, she's only interested in his connections and his fortune—far more massive than what her father or you could ever offer. And she knows it. But mark my words, she's wasting her youth if she pins her hope on latching your cousin. Fitzwilliam would never entertain the idea of such a nouveau riche vulgar lady, especially one whose ambition outweighs her sense of propriety."

Wickham nodded slowly, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "I thought as much. But what's truly infuriating is her complete lack of subtlety. She tries to make Darcy think she's the rare beauty of the world and above it all, while all she's interested in is his money and name. And perhaps—if she's lucky—his favour. I couldn't live with someone like that. Not in any capacity, and certainly not as a wife."

His father added. "You've done well with your shop. But don't let pride blind you to opportunities. There are practical matters to consider as well."

Wickham shook his head with quiet resolve. "It's not pride. It's principle. I've seen the kind of person Miss Bingley is, and I can't respect her. How could I ever build a future with someone like that?"

His mind lingered on the thought of Caroline's a moment longer, whose beauty was skin-deep, whose sophistication was rooted in wealth rather than character. The idea of her working alongside him to build the jewellery business was inconceivable. She would tire of the labour, disdain the very craft she had no true respect for, and likely demand a life of fashion and ease while looking down upon the trade she had desperately wanted to leave, yet remained tied to.

Mrs. Wickham softened, her voice taking on a pleading tone. "You are being too harsh, George. She could change. People do change."

"Change?" Wickham's tone was contemplative, but there was little hope in it. "Perhaps. Like I have changed. But I cannot marry someone with the hope that they will be someone different. It would be unfair to both of us."

His father sighed, a note of resignation creeping into his voice. "So, what then? Do you intend to remain single forever?"

"You are 26, George," Mrs. Wickham said, her tone tinged with impatience. "You should be thinking of children, of restoring the Wickham name to the gentry."

"No, I do not intend to remain single," George replied firmly. "But I wish to marry for the right reasons, like Uncle and Aunt—love, respect, and mutual understanding. Not for convenience or social standing."

Mrs. Wickham placed a hand on her son's arm. "It is a noble thought, George, but sometimes practicality must take precedence over idealism."

"I understand the practicalities, Mother," George said softly. "But I won't compromise my values. Not even for our family's sake."

His father studied him with an intensity that spoke volumes. "If you won't marry Miss Bingley, then you must find someone else suitable. Quickly."

"I will. But on my terms. And someone who shares my values," Wickham promised.

"We only want what's best for you," Mrs. Wickham said, her voice filled with hope.

"I know. And I want the best for us all," Wickham answered, a slight smile on his lips, though it was tempered by the weight of the conversation.

His father nodded. "Very well. But remember, our family's future depends on the choices we make."

Wickham met his father's gaze, determination in his eyes. "I understand."

The door to another guest chamber closed softly behind Mrs. and Miss Caroline Bingley as they stepped inside. Caroline's cool demeanour hid the sharpness in her eyes, the calculation of her thoughts barely veiled beneath her composed exterior. Mrs. Bingley, on the other hand, had a smile on her face that bordered on satisfaction, as if the very air around them buzzed with the certainty of their success.

"Well, Mother," Caroline began, "it has been a fortuitous stay, hasn't it? The Darcys may not yet see the full extent of our... appeal, but Fitzwilliam Darcy, in particular, is ripe for the taking."

Mrs. Bingley let out a low, knowing chuckle. "Of course, darling. We must play our cards carefully, but there's no doubt we'll succeed. With our wealth and your beauty, we need only make him aware of it."

Caroline's lips curled into a smile, but there was no warmth in it. "Oh, I'll have no trouble charming him. I know just what to say and how to behave. I'll start by offering his bratty sister some kind advice on managing her... delicate emotions. Darcy will no doubt see me as the sensible, caring lady his family so desperately needs. He may be brooding, but even he can't resist a woman who knows how to soothe his troubled mind.

She paused, letting her words linger as her mind drifted to the next part of her plan. "And as for Lady Anne—well, I've heard the rumours about her poor health, especially in the cold weather. Netherfield was chosen precisely for that reason, wasn't it? A bit of southern warmth to keep her frail constitution in check. It will be easy to flatter her with suggestions of gentle remedies, teas for her constitution, perhaps even a warmer shawl. The more I make her believe I am a woman of taste and compassion, the more she will see me as the perfect companion for her son. Once she's softened, Darcy will have no choice but to see me in the same light. But, after I'm married to Darcy, I'll make sure the bratty sister is sent off to one of those far-off, dreary boarding schools. Out of sight, out of mind. She's not fit to share my space anyway."

Mrs. Bingley nodded approvingly. "That's the spirit, my dear. We'll make sure that no one stands in your way. The last thing we need is a reminder of who we aren't, not when we're about to become the very picture of high society."

Caroline continued, her voice growing sharper with each word. "His parents will have to be persuaded to travel, of course. Somewhere nice, a sea voyage, perhaps. Somewhere far enough that a little misfortune could strike them. It's not as if they're young anymore, and the sea is known for its... unpredictable ways. Can you imagine the devastation when they meet with a tragic end? It would be a great loss to the family, and of course, I would be so heartbroken—no one would suspect a thing. And once I'm in mourning, I would use my womanly wiles to insist that Darcy accept the Lordship that I heard his father had refused. Such a stupid old fool, refusing it for his son!"

Her mother's smile widened, a dark gleam lighting up her eyes. "Yes, my dear. Just as you said. If only they could be taken away—how tragic for everyone, and yet, how advantageous for you. The estate, the title, all of it would be yours. You'd be free to reign as the Mistress of Pemberley without anyone's interference."

Caroline's eyes gleamed as she imagined the life that could be hers. "Of course, I would mourn their passing, and I would be ever so gracious in their absence. But the reality is, once they're gone, nothing could stand between me and everything I've ever wanted. And if that's not enough to solidify my place, I can always turn my charm elsewhere—after all, what good is power if it isn't used to its fullest?"

Mrs. Bingley placed a hand on her daughter's arm, the satisfaction clear in her voice. "You're right, Caroline. We've worked so hard to get to this point. It's time for you to claim what's yours. You deserve the best, and with Fitzwilliam Darcy, you'll have everything."

Caroline straightened, her posture regal as she looked toward the door, as though already preparing for the life that awaited her. "Darcy is simply a stepping stone, Mother. Once I have him, everything else will fall into place. And should anyone stand in my way—well, I've always known how to ensure my interests come first."

My dear friends, might I beg the favour of your keen insights on my latest chapter? Your feedback would delight me as much as the finest cup of tea and a perfectly baked scone!