An Assembly Such as This

Fletcher gathered up the discarded evening clothes and, bowing in acknowledgment of his dismissal, retreated to the dressing room door. “Mr. Darcy, sir.” He paused at the threshold. Darcy finished pulling his shirt over his head and looked at him inquiringly. “There is some brandy on the table next to the fire should you desire it. Good night, sir.”

Darcy looked over at the table as the door quietly clicked shut. He had not intended to partake at this late hour, but the idea now held an appeal. Perhaps it would still the competing voices in his head long enough to allow him to fall asleep. He poured himself a tumbler but left it on the table in indecision while he finished his ablutions and assumed his bedclothes. It stood there still when he had done, shining invitingly in the firelight. His hand closed around it, and with a quick motion, he downed half the glass. The liquid fire burned satisfactorily on its way down, its false warmth flooding his body within moments.

His duty! Yes, he knew his duty quite well — and the consequences of neglecting it. Georgiana had only just been rescued from his one instance of neglect of his duty. He would not fail Charles similarly. Not for all the “treasures” of Hertfordshire.

Darcy quickly downed the rest of the glass before her face could arise before him again and set it down on the tray. He walked over to the bed and pulled back the sheets, still warm from the heating pan, and slid between them, arranging his limbs in a position most likely to encourage sleep. He blew out the candle. Darkness enfolded him as the effects of brandy drunk too fast made themselves felt. A pair of fine eyes looked down upon him in confusion and sorrow, and Darcy turned in to his pillow to avoid them.

“Dear God,” he whispered into the depths of the night, “I pray I do right!”

Chapter 11 Certain Evils

With Fletcher’s help, Bingley’s man had his master ready to leave at precisely noon. By twelve forty-five they had left Meryton behind them and were bowling along down tolerably good road at a ground-eating pace in Bingley’s carriage. Although he was dressed and breakfasted, Bingley’s only contribution to the first hour or so of their journey had consisted of gentle snorts and snores. The sway and dip of the well-sprung equipage had been encouragement enough for Darcy to doze as well, as against all reason he had awakened at his usual early hour from a very troubled night. It was not until they made their stop at a coaching inn for a change of horses that Darcy put the first movement of his campaign in motion.

“Bingley! Charles, do wake up.” Darcy leaned over and, firmly gripping his friend’s shoulder, gave him an ungentle shake. “We are changing horses, and I, for one, need to stretch my limbs a bit. A pint would not be unwelcome, either. Shall we sample the local brew?” He cocked a brow at the muffled groans that issued from the folds of Bingley’s neckcloth. “Perhaps some coffee would answer better. Come, sir; up and out!”

Bingley opened one eye and, seeing the inflexible face before him, gave a great sigh and roused himself enough to stumble down the carriage steps. Darcy grabbed his arm and, laughing, propelled him toward the inn’s wide doorway. His query “A room, innkeeper?” was quickly answered, and a buxom daughter of the house curtsied them into a comfortable private dining room with a window that commanded the yard. An order for something hot and stimulating was given as Bingley slumped down into a worn but respectable couch.

“How can you be so infernally awake, Darcy?” Bingley yawned, squinting up at his companion’s profile against the sun streaming in through the window. “You were later than I to bed and up hours before me, I’ll wager, if your Fletcher had anything to do with it. That man is a positive martinet! He had my poor Kandle in such a quake he could barely hold my razor steady. I had to shave myself this morning, or he would have presented you with my corpse rather than — Don’t laugh, I swear to you, I’m not exaggerating!”

“Corpse, indeed! Bingley, you do nothing but exaggerate, or worse, allow your imagination to run away with you.”

“Now that is doing it a bit too brown, Darcy.” Bingley frowned, mildly affronted. “But if I am to be so accused, tell me, sir, how one is worse than the other so I may decide whether I am insulted or amused.” Bingley straightened his waistcoat and tugged at his coat. “Harumpf.” He cleared his throat sonorously and, picking up a spoon, solemnly tapped it on the table. “You may proceed.”

“The man who exaggerates is perfectly aware that he does so,” Darcy began as he leaned carelessly against the window frame, his arms crossed upon his chest, “and does not expect anyone to take his protestations to heart. He may come to employ it habitually, but he is still in possession of the truth of the matter and, if pressed, will admit it. But the man in thrall to his imagination has relinquished the command of his faculties to an illusion and will hold to it despite all facts to the contrary. Further, he will demand the rest of the world’s credulity in the matter and regard any who refuse as enemies or oppressors or —”

A knock on the door interrupted his discourse. The innkeeper’s daughter entered and deposited a steaming tray of mugs and covered dishes. Bingley’s study of the spoon in his hand prevented him from seeing the cheery smile of the maid as she dipped a curtsy in his direction and quietly closed the door on her way out.

“— Or at the least, a very dull fellow indeed,” Darcy concluded lightly. He crossed to the table and began lifting covers to examine what had been brought for their repast. “Charles, are you not hungry? This looks passable.” He held out a plate. “Charles?”

Bingley looked up at the sound of his name and, shooting Darcy a quick, wry grin, relieved him of the plate and joined him over the tray. “I believe I shall choose to be amused, particularly because you are such a ‘dull fellow.’”

“Just so,” Darcy replied before they fell upon the plain but honest offerings.

After a brisk walk about its environs, they were glad upon their return to the inn to find the coach ready for them. Heated bricks inserted, they clambered inside. Bingley gave the command; the horses leaned into their harnesses, and the two fell back against the squabs. When the horses achieved an even gait, Darcy leaned over and opened his traveling bag, withdrawing Fuentes d’Onoro from its hold, and settled in closer to the window.

“Oh, you wish to read?” Bingley’s voice held a note of disappointment.

“Yes, if you would not mind. There is no more than an hour of light left, and I promise to put it away before the lamps must be lighted. Would you like Badajoz? It is right here in my bag.” Bingley shrugged his acceptance, and Darcy handed him the volume, little worse for the wear of Miss Bingley’s perusal and its careen across the library floor. It was plain that Bingley wished to continue their discussion from the inn, but Darcy kept resolutely to his plan. Leaning back again into the light, he fingered the ends of the embroidery threads that held his place before sliding one finger into the slight breach and opening the book. The colorful threads lay nestled in the crevice of the binding, an intricately feminine knot gathering them at the top. With one eye on his friend, he quickly secreted the token into his coat pocket and then devoted himself to his book, not returning the mark to a new resting place until the shadows made it impossible to read any longer. As he put it away, Bingley returned the other and remarked that they were almost to London. “Do you join me for dinner at Grenier’s?”

“Your invitation is appreciated, Bingley, but I must remain at home. I have a full schedule of appointments to attend to tomorrow. What say you to dinner at Erewile House tomorrow evening?”

“ ‘Capital!’ as Sir William Lucas would say.” Bingley chuckled briefly and then sobered. “Darcy, I’m thinking of making an offer on Netherfield.”

“An offer? That is rather premature, don’t you think?”

“I thought you approved of Netherfield.”

“Yes, it is well enough” — Darcy measured out his words — “but I would not advise you to purchase it, at least not yet. This was but your first taste of country living. You found it agreeable. But I find it incumbent upon me to remind you, your sisters did not.”

“Oh, Caroline!” Bingley replied disparagingly. “Only something as grand as Pemberley would satisfy her, and even if I were to fall into such an estate, we both know that I am not ready for it. Netherfield is perfect!”

“Perhaps. Still, I should not call it wise to be hasty in this. You hold a contract to rent for a year? Take that year. Hertfordshire is not the only bit of country in England.”

The carriage slowed as they approached the Highgate Toll. The busy tollgate’s noise being inimical to further conversation, Darcy leaned back into the shadows and covertly watched his friend. Bingley’s brow was