Page 131 of The Matchmaker’s Mistake

Just to the left of Elizabeth, Mr. Bingley was telling a story that made Jane laugh. Mr. Aldridge stood at Jane’s shoulder, wholly undisturbed by it.

Mr. Bingley had come back from Yorkshire after Easter last spring and had somehow never got round to going away again. He was out every night of the week, he had given up Netherfield without a pang, and in November he had told Fitzwilliam that he did not mean to marry anybody until he was thirty. He looked so contented now that Elizabeth believed him.

Lady Anne appeared at her elbow.

“He has been very pleasant to Jane,” Elizabeth said.

“He treats everyone precisely the same, which means he is not yet ready to wed. I shall allow him a few years and see how he gets on.” Lady Anne lifted her wineglass and took a sip.

“It would seem that your interference in the Netherfield visit accomplished very little,” Darcy said.

“On the contrary. You went there with your friend, and there you met your wife. My theory held beautifully. I always said you were most likely to find her through a connection you already trusted.”

“You meant Miss Bingley.”

“I was mistaken about the lady, not the principle.”

Fitzwilliam clasped his hands behind his back and held his tongue.

“Which reminds me,” his mother said. “Neither of you have asked me about Miss Bingley.”

Fitzwilliam relaxed at this and offered Elizabeth a little smile. “We have been more agreeably occupied, madam.”

“An excellent reply.” Lady Anne set her glass down. “But I must crow a little on this score. She was becoming very nearly unmarriageable, but I have matched her despite it.”

“Whatever happened?” Elizabeth asked.

“She was beginning to speak with some bitterness about you, your sister, and the Gardiners,” Lady Anne said.

Elizabeth was unsurprised, but she could actually feel her husband’s glower.

“Not to worry. She was only feeling slighted,” his mother said. “And so I found her Mr. Havard’s cousin. Four thousand a year clear, a house in Berkeley Square, and searching for a wife. He is not the cleverest of men, to be sure, but he is passably handsome. Better still, he holds a firm conviction that Miss Bingley is the most fascinating creature he has ever encountered. He repeats her remarks to other people, which is wise, for his own are a great deal duller.” Lady Anne permitted herself one sip. “Other than George and Emmeline, I consider it the finest work I have done. But I shall never claim the credit of it to anyone outside the family.”

Elizabeth understood why they were not to speak of it. “You have done well, Lady Anne.” Her husband grunted, and so Elizabeth added, to both his mother and to him, “A contented Miss Bingley is a great deal safer for everybody. Even Miss Bingley.”

“Precisely,” said Lady Anne.

After seven months of marriage, Darcy had learned that his wife would follow him very nearly anywhere, provided he refused to tell her where they were going. She was a very curious woman. And she trusted him. It was still a wonder to him that she did.

But it did not keep him from using the trait to his advantage.

The small drawing room was cold and dimly lit. A holland sheet had been thrown over the sofa, and the whole room smelled of new plaster. He shut the door.

“This house is your mother’s triumph,” Elizabeth said rather wryly, considering a hole in the floor.

“It is my mother’s expense.” He had been civil for three hours. “There are so many people here. Five minutes, Elizabeth. That is all I ask.”

She regarded him seriously. “You have been magnificent. Lady Macomber herself informed me that you were quite altered.”

“I am not altered. I am the same man, happily married.” He drew her in close and touched his lips to hers. She returned the kiss, and they were thus engaged for a good deal longer than five minutes.

She pulled away at last. “I have done something,” she said, and caught her lip in her teeth.

“I am delighted to hear it.”

“You have not yet heard what it is.”

“I have no need.”