Page 7 of A Different Impression

Soon, they arrived at the house, dismounted, and headed into the study. Bingley poured them both a glass. Darcy took his, sipped, and stared into the fire for several minutes before speaking.

“Charles,” he began, then stopped.

Bingley settled into a chair opposite him and waited.

After a moment, Darcy tried again. “This summer, at Pemberley, your sister attempted a compromise. I hoped, after what I said to her, she would put aside her... her... well, her obsession with me—not with me, precisely, but with the idea of becoming Mistress of Pemberley.”

He paused and took another drink. The amber liquid swirled in his glass as he turned it slowly in his hand.

“She was in my bedroom, naked in my bed, when Marston entered the room before me. He quickly sent her away before she realised I was there and warned her never to attempt anything like that again.”

Bingley’s glass halted halfway to his lips.

“The next day, she approached me at breakfast to complain about my valet’s high-handedness with her.” Darcy’s mouth tightened. “I told her then, in no uncertain terms, that nothing she did would ever induce me to marry her.”

Silence fell between them. The logs shifted in the grate with a soft crack.

Darcy rose and moved closer to the fire, one hand resting on the mantelpiece.

“I hoped, after all this time, she would have dropped the matter. Given what I said to her then, I believed she would finally understand. But after tonight, I am no longer certain.” He glanced back at Bingley. “Coming here was a mistake. I worry she may attempt something again—something more public and far harder to prevent.”

For a long moment, Bingley said nothing. Then he set his untouched drink on the table with a sharp click.

“Why did you never tell me?”

“She was embarrassed,” Darcy paused at that and tried again, “well, most likely furious when I spoke to her that day,” Darcy said, remembering the brief conversation. “Bingley, it was not something I wanted to remember. I hoped not to have to relate the story to you because I intended to avoid her long enough that she would marry someone else.”

Again, Darcy paused, looking at his friend’s face. “I truly am sorry I never told you; I should have. But I arrogantly believed I handled it in the best way; I see that I was wrong.”

At that, Bingley jerked his head up, “You are admitting to being both arrogant and wrong in the same conversation,” he exclaimed, shock rolling off him.

That took Darcy aback; both the words and the apparent surprise of his friend. “Surely, I have confessed to being wrong before, Bingley?”

“You do tend to think you are right, Darcy,” Bingley told his friend. “You rarely speak unless you are absolutely sure about what you are going to say, and typically, people listen to you because of this. Even at Eton, you rarely were wrong, and after your father passed, well, let me say that you became even more used to people listening to you and you making decisions for others.

“Do not get me wrong, Darcy, you typically do know what to do, and most people do listen to you to their benefit, but I am not sure I have ever heard you admit to an error in judgement.”

“Many people depend on me,” Darcy justified. “I cannot afford to make mistakes in judgement. However, I do try to make amends when I realise that I have made a mistake.”

“But do you acknowledge those mistakes and apologise like you just did to me?” Bingley asked. “Or do you try to ‘fix’ the situation without publicly admitting to the wrong?”

Darcy stopped at that. This conversation was taking a decidedly different turn from where he had intended it to go, but it made him consider several other actions he had taken recently. Darcy knew he rarely changed a position once he had made up his mind because he typically thought through every decision meticulously and carefully.

As he considered decisions, he thought about the ones that were most weighing on his mind. He thought about Georgiana; he had made several errors in judgement there, not that Bingley was aware of that situation. On his way to Netherfield, he considered again what he had been thinking about—he needed a wife, and Georgiana needed a sister. But not one of the artificial women of the ton. Not one like Caroline Bingley.

His mind wandered back to the assembly. He typically hated such gatherings: the dancing, the noise, the endless parade of strangers. Yet he had enjoyed meeting Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She was intelligent, witty, and completely charming, not to mention observant, sympathetic, and genuinely kind. Perhaps she was not a classical beauty like her older sister, but she was still stunning in her own right. Her eyes—those flashing, challenging, articulate eyes—had captured him as none before hers ever had.

After several minutes of reflection, Darcy interrupted the silence that had descended on both of them: “Bingley, if you think I have rarely made errors in judgement, I have another confession that might surprise you.”

He related his error in judgement about George Wickham. He admitted to his best friend how he had chosen, along with Colonel Fitzwilliam, not to tell Georgiana about the perfidy of the man she had known when she was a child and how that decision had almost led to her ruin. How Georgiana was heartbroken, too young to understand how any man could be so ruthless and finding it so difficult to trust almost anyone now. How she had been shy before, but now it was almost painful for her to even speak in company, particularly to strangers.

“I believe I need a wife,” Darcy finished. “One who can help draw Georgiana out; one who can help draw me out and to help me find humour again in life. Richard told me that I have become an arrogant, depressing bastard, and now you say the same. That is why, as much as I need to stay far away from Miss Bingley, I find that I really do not want to leave Meryton just yet.

“I want to get to know Miss Elizabeth Bennet better. Tonight, I found myself speaking more to her than I have ever spoken to any young lady before. I felt comfortable with her. To be completely honest, I think I could fall in love with this lady. You fall in love with a new ‘angel’ every other month, but this is the first time I have ever felt this way. I have been in society for nearly a decade, and Miss Elizabeth is the first woman I have ever even remotely considered as a possible wife.”

Once again, Bingley’s eyes widened at Darcy’s confession. His friend simply stared at him for several moments, his glass forgotten in his hand.

Darcy resisted the urge to fill the silence. He had already revealed more of himself in the past quarter hour than he had in years. It felt strangely unsettling—and yet oddly relieving—as though some of the weight he had carried since Ramsgate had finally been set down. Whether Bingley thought him a fool or not, he had at least spoken the truth.