Page 61 of Miss Bingley’s Return

Within moments, Mrs. Gardiner left the room, and Lizzy took herself to the far side near the door as she had promised she would. Elizabeth produced a book and opened it, though Jane suspected her sister would not read much. Elizabeth would not try to eavesdrop or overhear what they said, but her curiosity sufficed to render her attention to her book uncertain.

“Miss Bennet,” said Mr. Bingley, “though I wish to clarify matters between us, I find myself in the peculiar situation of not knowing what to say.”

“Perhaps the beginning would be a good place to start,” said Jane. “At least, that is what Lizzy always says.”

Elizabeth looked up when she heard her voice, but she said nothing. Though such a comment would have provoked mirth from the gentleman not long ago, the experiences of the past weeks seemed to have tamed his spirits if only a little.

“Very well, the beginning. As you know something of my origins, I shall leave that out. Of most interest to you must be my history with Miss Whitcombe.”

“We have pieced together some of it, and Miss Whitcombe made a few comments.”

“Of course, she did,” murmured Mr. Bingley. “Our fathers were friends, Miss Bennet. The Whitcombes are from the north, a town near to the one in which my father raised me. During my childhood, I remember nothing of not knowing Miss Whitcombe, though I am told that our families did not become friends until I was four.”

“Miss Whitcombe is younger?” asked Jane.

“By two years,” agreed Mr. Bingley. “My first memories start when I was about six, and by then, she was a pixie of a child, always following me about when we were together. You can imagine what I, as a six-year-old boy, thought of that.”

“Yes, Mr. Bingley, I can.”

With a smile and a nod, he continued. “Mr. Whitcombe moved his business to London when I was about eight, but even then our families stayed in contact. When I was eleven, my father secured a place for me at Eton, then I attended Cambridge where I first made Darcy’s acquaintance. I saw little of Miss Whitcombe in those years.”

“But she remained in your heart and mind,” said Jane.

She received a wry smile for her trouble. “No, Miss Bennet, I would not have you suppose that ours has been some mythical story of star-crossed lovers finding each other. Starting in my university years, I saw her more frequently—she often visited family in the north, and by that time, my family had established a presence in London. I am . . . unable to describe that time adequately, as she was always in the back of my mind, though I believe I yet had no concept of my affection for her.”

It appeared this interview was costing Mr. Bingley something; though Jane did not think he was lacking in seriousness, he was far more comfortable being the jovial gentleman. Furthermore, there was a hesitance in his manner, as if he thought Jane far more affected by his defection than she was. Before he left, Jane determined to ensure he understood she was well.

“It was not until after my graduation that matters altered,” continued Mr. Bingley. “Since I left Cambridge, and more particularly since Louisa and Hurst married, we have made our home in London, only returning to the north for occasional visits. Since Mr. Whitcombe’s estate is not far distant, it was natural that we should be in their company often.

“Caroline, however, did not appreciate my growing closeness with her, and she advised me against giving her consequence. Then about two years ago she began directing me toward other young ladies of whom she approved.”

Mr. Bingley shook his head with regret. “It was not until after Netherfield that I understood what she was doing. As I am certain you have noticed, I am naturally open and gregarious—Caroline introduced me to her friends, and my character took over.”

“But something always held you back,” said Jane. “Miss Whitcombe.”

With a smile and a nod, he said: “Yes, though I had not the wit to understand what was happening. Last summer, I began to suspect, and I lost interest in offering anything more than basic civility to anyone to whom Caroline introduced me. Miss Whitcombe was there, always patient, always gracious and kind. That was the first time I understood what I was feeling.

“Then Caroline suggested that I should be about the business of finding an estate.”

The pattern was obvious, as were Miss Bingley’s motives. “She could not distract you with other women, so she fell back on your desire to purchase an estate.”

“You see clearly,” said Mr. Bingley softly. “That is exactly what happened, though Caroline will not confess it. Darcy had been advising me for some time that I should begin learning estate management, and he advised me to lease for a time as the market was strong for leased estates, offering experience in exchange for not having ultimate responsibility.”

Mr. Bingley shifted in his chair, uncrossing his legs then crossing them in the other direction. “By that time, I was half thinking about Miss Whitcombe as a potential bride. Her father owns his estate and has no heir—it is almost certain that he will pass it to his daughter.”

“And it will become her husband’s property.”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Bingley. “Darcy’s advice seemed good, so my man of business made inquiries, and I took the lease at Netherfield.”

Mr. Bingley uncrossed his legs and sat forward, his eyes meeting Jane’s, an intensity in them Jane would have attributed to Mr. Darcy.

“I want you to know, Miss Bennet, that I cared for you at Netherfield. Nothing we shared was feigned on my part.”

“Yet you were not free,” murmured Jane.

A grimace, then Mr. Bingley shook his head. “As usual, I let my enthusiasm get the better of me, and my behavior toward you was far too open.”

“Then you returned to London to distance yourself from me?”