Page 41 of Mr. Darcy and the Mysterious "Miss B"
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That evening at Darcy House, the dining room felt suffocating despite its grandeur. The mahogany table gleamed under the candlelight, but tension hung in the air like smoke from a poorly tended fire. Bingley sat in melancholy silence, moving food about his plate whilst Caroline prattled on about the latest fashions with forced gaiety.
Georgiana had arrived only moments before dinner was announced, her cheeks still pink from the cool evening air and her eyes bright with what appeared to be genuine pleasure. Darcy had been burning to enquire about her afternoon since the carriage returned her, but with Caroline and the Hursts present, such questions were impossible. Any mention of the Bennets would provoke Caroline into either raptures or hysterics, depending on her mood.
Mrs Hurst seemed rather more interested in the wine than the conversation, leaving Darcy to observe his sister whilst trying to appear otherwise occupied. Georgiana seemed unusually animated, contributing more to the discourse than was her custom. Whatever had transpired during her visit to Gracechurch Street had clearly lifted her spirits considerably.
Had she seen Elizabeth? Was Elizabeth there, taking tea with her aunt? Did she enquire after me at all?
He immediately castigated himself for such foolish preoccupations. Elizabeth Bennet was nothing to him now—could be nothing to him. He had made his choice when he interfered with Jane and Bingley. There was no path back from that decision.
But still, his eyes kept drifting to his sister’s face, searching for any clue about what—or whom—had brought such light to her countenance.
Darcy found himself counting the minutes until this torturous meal would conclude and he could speak privately with Georgiana.
“Good Lord!” Mr Hurst exclaimed suddenly, his voice cutting through the subdued atmosphere. He held up the evening paper, squinting at the print through his spectacles. “Listen to this morsel of scandal.‘Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy, nephew to the Earl of Matlock, was observed in most compromising circumstances with a Miss B at a recent soirée. The lady was seen departing a private anteroom in disarray, followed moments later by the gentleman himself. Are wedding arrangements to follow?’ Darcy, what on earth have you been doing?”
The reaction was swift and dramatic.
Caroline’s fork clattered against her plate with a most ungraceful sound. “Miss B?” she gasped, her hand flying to her throat in a gesture worthy of Drury Lane. “Merciful heavens, they are speaking of me!”
Darcy felt his blood turn cold. “What?”
“Miss B!” Caroline’s voice rose to a pitch that made the crystal sing. “Miss Bingley! At your uncle’s soirée last week! Oh, this is beyond dreadful—they are saying I was in disarray, that we were… that you and I…” she fanned herself frantically. “Everyone will think the worst! My reputation is utterly ruined!”
Georgiana’s eyes widened in shock. “But surely people will know it cannot be true? You were never alone with—”
“It matters not what truly happened!” Caroline interrupted, her voice growing shriller. “What matters is what people believe happened. And now they are saying we were caught in a compromising position, that wedding arrangements are being made!” She turned to Darcy with desperate eyes. “We shall both be ruined.”
Darcy felt as though the walls were closing in around him. He remembered the evening in question—Lady Banksley’s soirée the previous week. Caroline had indeed disappeared for a time, claiming a megrim. He had stepped out onto the terrace for air. But together? Never.
“Who else could it be?” she continued, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes with theatrical precision. “I was there, you were there. The Hursts can attest to it! Oh, Mr Darcy, this is ruinous beyond measure. People will expect… they will demand…”
Darcy set down his napkin with deliberate care. “It is a complete fabrication,” he said through gritted teeth. “We were never alone together at the soirée. Never.”
Within his chest, fury burned like a coal. Someone had not merely manufactured a romance—they had crafted a scandal so specific, so damaging, that denial would seem like desperate lies. Who would dare publish such calculated poison?
“Fabrication or not, the damage is done!” Caroline’s voice pitched even higher. “When people read this—when your uncle reads this—what will they think? My reputation hangs by the merest thread. We shall both be utterly destroyed.”
“There is nothing to discuss,” Darcy replied with stiff formality, rising from his chair. “I shall not dignify such foolishness with acknowledgement.”
He departed the room with swift purpose, Caroline’s protests echoing behind him like the cries of disturbed peacocks.
An hour later, Bingley discovered him in the library, staring into the fire with a tumbler of brandy clutched rather too tightly in his hand. His thoughts kept drifting treacherously to Elizabeth—was she truly so disappointed in humanity as Lydia claimed? Did she think of him at all, or had she dismissed him entirely from her considerations?
Stop this foolishness,he commanded himself.
But even as he formed the thought, he knew it for the lie it was.
“Darcy?” Bingley settled into the chair opposite, his countenance troubled. “Caroline has taken to her chamber with the vapours. She claims her nerves are quite overset.”
“I am certain they are.”
“You do not suppose…” Bingley hesitated, then pressed forward. “You do not suppose she might have orchestrated this herself? Arranged to be seen leaving some room, then claimed you followed?” Bingley hesitated, then pressed forward.
Darcy had been pondering the same dark possibility. “She was present, as were the Hursts. Any of them could have supplied such particulars.”
“To risk her reputation on such a gamble?” Bingley rubbed his temples wearily. “Even Caroline would hesitate at such extremes… would she not?”
