Page 41 of The Briar Bargain
Darcy froze in place.
“He is not a man to trifle with a woman's expectations, and you do him no credit by assuming otherwise."
Miss Bingley protested.
“If your behaviour does not improve, you shall make a visit to Yorkshire,” Bingley said warningly. “You can look for a husband there. Plenty of eligible men, good men, are known to Aunt Bingley, and she would enjoy introducing you.”
He heard the crash of a chair toppling over, followed by the decisive scrape of furniture being pushed aside.
Miss Bingley was clearly preparing to retreat, and Darcy realized with horror that should she exit the room, he would be standing directly in her path.
He looked about. Maids down the hall to the left, Mrs. Nicholls to the right—there was no chance of dashing away and then pretending he had just arrived. His eyes landed on the tall-case clock in the alcove next to the study door. It was just a bit taller than he was. Moving with more haste than dignity, he slipped around to the far side of it, pressing himself into the narrow alcove.
The space was barely wide enough for his shoulders, but it would have to suffice. From this position, tucked between the clock's substantial mahogany case and the wall, he would be invisible to anyone emerging from the study provided they turned towards the main staircase rather than the servants' quarters.
But he had miscalculated. Miss Bingley did not emerge immediately. Instead, the clock began to chime.
The first note erupted just above his left ear so suddenly that Darcy nearly jumped out of his skin. The sound reverberated through the wooden case like thunder in a barrel, each subsequentbongseeming to only grow louder.
By the fifth chime, Darcy's ears were ringing so violently that he could barely make out the voices from the study, and certainly not what they were saying. All he heard was “BONG.BONG.BONG.”
When the eighth chime mercifully faded, Darcy found himself slightly deaf in his left ear and unreasonably resentful of clocks in general.
As the clock resumed its quieter timekeeping and he began to feel some relief, Miss Bingley emerged from the study. Darcy peeked around theclock to see that her jaw was tight, her steps swift and measured, her expression composed. Thankfully, she turned away from him and marched in the direction of the stairs. He watched her disappear around the corner, waited several moments more to allow Bingley time to collect his thoughts, then approached the study door and knocked softly before entering.
Bingley was sitting at his desk, his eyes tilted up at the ceiling and his arms crossed behind his head. At Darcy's entrance he drew himself up properly.
"Your footman said you wished to see me," Darcy said carefully, closing the door behind him with deliberate precision. "But you were otherwise occupied when I arrived."
Bingley gave a rueful smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "Ah. Yes. My sister was up rather early. She and I had words. Long overdue words."
Darcy gave a slight nod, unsure how much to acknowledge of what he had inadvertently overheard. "I did not mean to intrude upon a private conversation."
"Did you hear enough to know that I was serious?" Bingley asked, his tone direct and uncompromising. "Because I was, Darcy. I am."
Darcy studied his friend with new respect. It seemed the flood hadwashed away the last of his habitual indecision and revealed a core of resolve that had always been there, merely obscured by his natural desire to please everyone and avoid conflict. Bingley was not weak; he never had been. He was simply young. And dealing with an emergency had helped him find his way.
"She will not believe you," Darcy said honestly. "Your sister has always assumed that your affection for her will overcome your opposition to her wishes."
"Because it always has," Bingley said. "She will not believe me immediately, and I shall give her time to adjust. But not much. I will no longer allow her to mistake my desire for family harmony as weakness of will."
Darcy moved so his good ear was closer to Bingley.
"She has crossed a line, Darcy. She has attempted to sabotage my happiness, and I will not permit it." Bingley stood to pace.
He offered Bingley no immediate reply, hoping that his friend would hold firm. Only time would tell, he supposed. “Why did you send for me, Bingley?”
“Ah, yes. I had meant to ask for your assistance in drafting a report on the cottages worst affected by the flooding.” His friend exhaled heavily. “But when I arrived, Caroline was already waiting, and . . . Well, you heard the rest.”
Darcy had only heard the one side, but he would not explain why. He turned again to keep his good ear closer to his friend. “Did you say you wish me to serve as your secretary?”
Bingley looked alarmed. “No! Well, yes, in fact.” He continued to pace. “You know very well that if I write the notes myself, I shall be unable to decipher them when Mr. Grant finally appears.”
Darcy wished his friend would stop moving. “Say again?”
Bingley did stop, then, but looked at him strangely. “What is wrong with your ear?”
When they had finished, Bingley leaned back in his chair with evident satisfaction. "There. That should serve admirably when Mr. Grant arrives to assess the situation. Thank you, Darcy. I know this is hardly the most stimulating way to spend a morning."
