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Darcy set down his cup. “I said what I went to say.”

Bingley waited; apparently, he had decided that pressing would be less effective than patience. Though the method was one he had adopted from Darcy himself, it had never stopped him from applying the technique against its originator.

And indeed, there was no reason to hide most of that had happened from his old friend; Bingley ought to know everything except the discovery of his sister’s guilt. “Miss Elizabeth received the confession of my feelings well,” Darcy said.

Bingley’s face twitched as he was trying not to show the full extent of his reaction and was not succeeding. “How well?”

“Well enough that I can describe my feelings best as content.” He looked at his friend over his cup. “Very well, Bingley.”

Bingley set down his fork with a triumphant flourish. “I knew it,” he said with satisfaction. Darcy looked at his friend narrowly. If he was not much mistaken, Bingley was telling himself that he had been right for a very long time, had not been given sufficient credit for it, and was awarding himself credit for it now.

“You did,” Darcy said tolerantly. “I will not pretend otherwise.”

“I told you in the billiard room. And weeks ago, I said she was not counting the days!”

Darcy smiled, despite himself. “You were right. I am aware you will not let me forget it.”

“No, no,” Bingley protested. “Certainly I will allow you to forget it, for I am a generous man. I only reserve the right to remember it privately and feel satisfied about it on occasion.” He looked at Darcy with an expression that moved from satisfaction into something more earnest. “She is good for you. I have thought so for some time. She makes you less —” He gestured, searching for the word.

“Cautious, perhaps,” Darcy suggested with a chuckle.

“I was going to say armoured, but cautious will do.” Bingley picked up his tea. “I am very glad, Darcy. Truly.”

“As am I,” Darcy said. “Thank you. For saying the things I could not say to myself.”

Bingley waved this away. “You would have arrived at it eventually.”

“I would have arrived at it in approximately ten years’ time, having made everyone considerably more miserable in the interim.”

Bingley laughed, and the two friends settled into the comfortable quiet of two men who have known each other long enough that silence requires nothing of either of them. Outside the Netherfield windows, the morning was cold and bright; the frost holding on the park’s outer edges, the sky a pale blue.

“There is something else,” Darcy said.

Bingley looked up at him from his breakfast.

“I want to speak to you about Jane Bennet.”

Bingley’s expression became carefully guarded. He was, perhaps, not quite ready to hear what Darcy had to say, but so be it: he would have to listen anyway. “Yes?”

“You care for her,” Darcy said. “Is that not so?”

“Yes,” Bingley said softly. “Though perhaps it is only foolishness, after all. I am sure my sisters would tell me I am being dreadfully rash.”

“Perhaps they would,” Darcy allowed, and kept several other observations to himself. “But it does not follow that their criticism should rule your actions.”

Bingley looked at him curiously. “I would not have thought you would approve. But then, of course, we would be married to sisters. Certainly the Bennet family is good enough for me, if they are good enough for you.”

“I suppose I cannot deny it,” Darcy said ruefully. “I could never claim to be free of pride. But I hope I have learned better what is of real value. And if you feel half as much for your Bennet sister as I feel for mine, she ought to be your wife.”

For a moment, Bingley was speechless with surprise. “I have never heard you speak so, Darcy,” he said at last. “Indeed, I never could have imagined you speaking so openly, let alone saying such a thing.”

Darcy set down his cup. “I am saying it now. Go and speak to her; the sooner, the better. Why not today?”

Bingley’s eyebrows rose. “Today,” he repeated.

“If your happiness depends on her, and I believe it does, why delay?”

Bingley turned his cup in his hands, not drinking from it, looking at the table. “The talk,” he said carefully. “There are things being said about the Bennet family, about Miss Elizabeth’s situation, that I cannot entirely—”