Sneak Preview of Chapter Three!
Fitzwilliam has his uses, but if he ever suspects how often I have purposely disagreed with him to effect the outcome I desired, he will not receive the knowledge happily.
So, at last, I was relieved of one sister-in-law. I knew and understood Andrew’s reasons for refusing the match with Hurst, and for myself, I could not but agree. The man was all but intolerable. However, Louisa had no desire for felicity in marriage. Just the marriage part suited her, and I knew this from the moment I met her.
Therefore, when she crassly decided to use the occasion of Andrew’s death to further her ends, I held my line firmly. Had I agreed to her desire without a fight, she surely would have found the confrontation less appealing and might have even cried off the engagement. As it was, I would still have to live with her for at least six more months, and I felt it would be more comfortable for all if she sensed that she had carried a victory over me.
The next time I had words with Fitzwilliam was at Louisa’s wedding, on the first Tuesday in September. Charles, the dear fellow, was quite lost after being thrust into his new place in life, and as I understand it, he had joined Fitzwilliam’s club for the express purpose of following him like an abandoned pup.
No, that is not charitable. I did encourage my brother in law to seek Mr. Darcy’s company and guidance, and his sisters, for once, agreed with me. I think Charles was delighted, for he had few sources of male guidance, and Mr. Darcy was, if nothing else, quite accomplished at managing things. I suppose Charles could have done far worse, for at least the man was well disposed towards Charles, for his brother’s sake. They were in company several times a week. Anyway, the result was that by the time Louisa marched down the aisle, Fitzwilliam Darcy had been pressed into accepting an invitation to the wedding.
It was more than an invitation, I discovered. Charles, who thinks that everyone whose company he enjoys must also like each other passably well, had asked Fitzwilliam to escort Caroline and me to our seats while he was occupied with Louisa. Caroline was greatly in favor of this scheme. I was less so, and Fitzwilliam even less than that.
He did approach me later during the wedding breakfast, and I waited for whatever shocking thing he might have to say. “Mrs. Bingley, I fear we may have begun our acquaintance on the wrong foot. May I extend an olive branch?”
He offered me a glass of wedding punch, and I believe this was the first time I had allowed him to be quite pleasant to look upon. “Very kind of you, sir,” I said as I accepted.
He stood in awkward silence for a while, and I have since learned that is usually his way around people he does not know well. He is woefully inept at forming acquaintances, and I often wonder how he managed so long without me.
“I fear I have done little to recommend myself, Mrs. Bingley,” he announced abruptly.
I choked a little on my drink. We had, after all, been standing in silence together for more than five minutes when he deigned to speak. “Sorry?”
He frowned and examined his glass. “I never properly expressed my condolences on the loss of your husband.”
“Ah. And I expect you did not find me properly bereft at his passing,” I guessed.
Fitzwilliam squirmed—he does that, though he will swear to the moon and stars that he does not. “Far be it from me to judge the sentiments of another.”
“Oh, I do not believe you for an instant,” I replied, rather pertly. “It is in all your looks, how ill my behavior sat with you that day, and you do not strike me as a man to brush off something you perceive as an insult to your friend’s memory. If it brings you comfort, I did sincerely mourn my husband, but your rather untimely arrival caught me at an awkward moment.”
“Let it be forgotten. Charles has taken care to inform me that he holds you in the highest esteem, and though he is a brash fellow who judges in haste and seldom repents of his mistakes, I believe his assessment of you may be based on fact rather than fantasy.”
I laughed. “On what do you base that, Mr. Darcy?”
He swirled his glass and did not look me in the eye. “On the circumstances of your marriage and the good that is reported of you during those months.”
I remember sighing as I looked out at the merry wedding party. No such felicitations had marked my wedding to Andrew. No… felicitations… at all, in fact, as he had been too ill to remain on his feet after the ceremony, and he spent most of his remaining months in his sick bed. “You must have heard how it came about, then. My husband was… quite generous to my uncle.”
“You do yourself too little credit, Mrs. Bingley. Andrew knew his years were numbered—though I do believe he thought it was to be years rather than months, and he desired a capable, intelligent wife to manage his affairs. I understand he chose well.”
“Rubbish. He chose the first woman desperate enough to accept a dying man.”
Fitzwilliam has this peculiar smile that he takes great care to disguise as a frown, and he bestowed it on me then. “There, you are mistaken. I know for a fact that there were other… options. One of them turned out to be already enceinte, while another was exposed as a fortune hunter whose father was deeply in debt.”
“Ah! Then I stand corrected, for it seems I won out over a highly eligible field. How marvelous for me!”
“I only meant to illustrate that he was as discerning as he had leisure to be,” Fitzwilliam answered stiffly.
“And the arrangement was to everyone’s benefit, yes. My uncle got the contract with Burley Mills, Andrew ‘hired’ someone to govern his sisters… as well as Charles… and my mother saw a daughter married.”
He pretended interest in an actual, normal conversation, or at least that was what I thought at the time. Perhaps it was genuine, but I doubt I shall ever know. “Have you much family in Hertfordshire?”
“Prepare yourself for something terribly shocking. I have four sisters and a mother who has once tasted success in matchmaking. There, you may consider yourself warned and retreat to a safe distance, lest I see fit to ensnare myself yet another brother.”
“I am not easily caught.”
“Oh! A challenge, then!”
“Others have tried and failed,” he warned me, with that quirky little smile of his.
“But with four sisters to dispose of, each more beautiful than the last, surely the odds are in my favor. If you ever care to test your luck against mine, Mr. Darcy, I dare you to stop in Hertfordshire for a month or two.”
“Do you intend to return to Hertfordshire?” he asked idly, swirling his glass again.
“Now that I am in half-mourning and Louisa is married, yes. After speaking with you, Charles says would like to try his hand at managing an estate, and my father writes that there is a fine one for lease not three miles from my family home.”
“Does Miss Caroline share your enthusiasm for this venture?”
I smiled like a Cheshire Cat. “No.”
His hand stopped swirling, and his eyes narrowed slightly. “Indeed.”
“But she will come, regardless, because whatever she might say, she despises Hurst even more than she dislikes me. It will chafe her beyond reason that I shall be Charles’s hostess and not herself, but I suppose she will rub along until another opportunity presents itself.”
Fitzwilliam smiled in earnest this time and raised his glass to me. “If Charles would care for any advice as he embarks on this new venture, tell him I would be at his disposal.”
“And mine?” I teased.
“Naturally.”
“Very well,” I declared, “let us have a private wager. Oh, nothing indelicate!” I cried when he looked scandalized. “For amusement only, and the winner will claim a forfeit of their choosing.”
“What is your wager?” he asked cautiously.
“Why, that by my means, I will see one of my sisters well settled, of course. Let us say by Christmastide?”
“Then I shall take care not to arrive in Hertfordshire until late December.”
“Foul, I say! We hope to be settled by Michelmas, and it would not be sporting of you to delay, sir.”
“Very well, I will risk it. After all, I have prevailed against all the belles of the ton. I am confident that it will be I who claims the forfeit.”
I flashed him my most impertinent smile. “I am willing to bet that country girls from Hertfordshire have something that the London debutantes do not.”
“Probably mud on their skirts,” he scoffed, and finished his drink. “Until Michelmas, Mrs. Bingley.”
He dipped me a very proper farewell and left the breakfast shortly after that.