P&P The Untold Stories: Bingley Hears Darcy’s Confession

Darcy Spills the Tea

23 September 1812

“Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his friend. He bore it with noble indifference, and she would have imagined that Bingley had received his sanction to be happy, had she not seen his eyes likewise turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing alarm.”

Bingley dismounted with a lightness that could scarcely be contained, tossing the reins to the waiting groom and barely waiting for Darcy before bounding up the steps to Netherfield. His face, flushed with excitement, seemed to reflect the hope that had been so long absent from his expression.

“She was—Darcy, did you see her?” Bingley exclaimed, his words coming out in a rush as they crossed the threshold. “Miss Bennet was so—so kind, so warm! I daresay I’ve never seen her look so pleased in all my life. There can be no doubt now—none at all!”

Darcy, slower to enter, took a moment longer to remove his gloves and coat, giving the servant an almost deliberate nod. His heart pounded in his chest, each word from Bingley pressing down on him with greater weight. He knew what had to be said, but how could he speak, knowing it would tear the joy from his friend’s face?

“Darcy,” Bingley continued, his voice bubbling with an optimism that had long been suppressed, “you must have seen it yourself! She was sincere, every bit of it! You—you cannot doubt me now, surely? You cannot still think she is indifferent!”

Darcy clenched his jaw, turning slowly toward Bingley. “No,” he said, his voice low, “I cannot.”

There was a pause, the space between them heavy with something unspoken. Bingley, oblivious to Darcy’s tension, laughed softly, shaking his head. “I—I scarcely know what to think. To have imagined all this time that she might not care for me, and now—now it feels as if the world has turned on its head!”

Darcy’s stomach tightened. The moment was slipping away, and still, Bingley looked at him with that unguarded trust, a trust Darcy had already shattered once without Bingley’s knowledge. He could not bear it a second longer.

“Bingley,” Darcy began, his tone halting, “there is something you must know.”

Bingley blinked, still smiling, though there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “What is it?”

Darcy drew in a breath, steadying himself, though his chest felt as if it were constricting around him. “I was wrong—about Miss Bennet,” he said, the words heavy with guilt. “Terribly wrong. When I advised you to leave, when I spoke against her affections… it was all based on my mistaken judgment.”

The air seemed to still between them. Bingley’s smile faltered, confusion clouding his face as he took a step toward Darcy. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice sharp now. “What are you saying?”

Darcy’s throat tightened. He forced himself to continue. “I convinced you that Jane Bennet did not return your feelings. I believed it at the time, but I see now that I was blinded by my own pride, by my determination to guard you from what I perceived as—an unsuitable match.”

Bingley stared at him, as though not fully comprehending. “But—you saw her today. You know I was right! She does care for me, Darcy. She’s cared all along!”

Darcy’s silence was enough to break the last vestiges of Bingley’s hope. The colour drained from his face as the truth began to settle in, and when he spoke again, his voice was laced with anger. “Wait… You knew?” he whispered, his tone sharpening. “All this time—you knew?”

“I did not know,” Darcy replied, his own voice strained. “Not at first. I believed I was protecting you. I thought—”

“Protecting me?” Bingley interrupted, his face now flushed with an entirely different emotion. “You thought you were protecting me by lying? By keeping me from the woman I—” He broke off, clenching his fists at his sides as he struggled to control himself. “You let me think she was indifferent. You let me leave, when she—when she loved me!”

Darcy braced himself for the blow, for the break in their friendship that seemed inevitable now. “I allowed you to be misled,” he admitted. “Even perpetuated that falsehood, confident in my belief that I was correct. I truly… truly thought she was indifferent. And I have never been more wrong. You have every right to be angry, to—to despise me for it.”

Bingley turned away, his hands running through his hair in a gesture of disbelief and frustration. He paced the length of the drawing-room, each step punctuating his anger. “Why did you not tell me sooner?” he demanded, his voice rising. “Why wait until now? You saw her today—you saw for yourself how wrong you were! Why didn’t you confess before?”

“I did not realize until recently—until…” Darcy trailed off, knowing how hollow the explanation would sound.

“Until what?” Bingley’s voice cut through the room, sharp with accusation. “Until it was convenient? Until you could no longer keep me in the dark?”

Darcy’s chest tightened further. Bingley had every right to feel betrayed. His trust had been broken, his happiness delayed, and it was Darcy—his friend—who had caused it all.

“I thought I was doing what was best for you,” Darcy said, though the words felt weak, even to his own ears. He could tell Bingley about Miss Elizabeth… how she had told him what he had refused to see for himself. But he would not bring harm to her reputation. She was lost to him, and this… this disaster was all his own making.

“I believed I was saving you from pain, from disappointment. I was wrong, but my intentions were never to hurt you.”

Bingley stopped his pacing, his eyes narrowing. “Your intentions?” he repeated bitterly. “Your intentions have cost me months of happiness, Darcy. Months! Do you have any idea what that feels like?”

Oh, too well. Darcy could not meet his gaze, the shame too great. “I cannot make amends for it,” he said quietly, “but I am here to admit that I wronged you, gravely. If you cannot forgive me—if you wish to sever our friendship—I would understand.”

For a long moment, there was silence. Darcy stood still, bracing himself for the end of their long-standing bond, the inevitability of Bingley’s anger driving them apart. He had feared this outcome for weeks, knowing it was likely, and yet, standing here in the drawing room of Netherfield, facing the reality of it, the loss felt heavier than he had imagined.

Bingley was breathing hard, his fists still clenched, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, the tension in his shoulders began to ease, and he let out a long, weary sigh.

“Darcy,” he said at last, his voice quieter, though still strained. “I—dash it all, I don’t know what to say. I am angry. Furious, in fact. You’ve lied to me, and—yes, I have every right to be furious with you.”

Darcy nodded, accepting the words without flinching. “You do.”

“But,” Bingley continued, his expression softening, “if Jane Bennet still cares for me—if there’s still a chance that she might—” His voice broke slightly, and he turned away for a moment, regaining his composure. “Then I cannot waste my time in anger. I won’t let you stand in the way of my happiness, Darcy—not again.”

Darcy’s heart ached at the words, knowing how deeply he had wounded his friend. Yet there was a flicker of hope, however small, that perhaps not all was lost.

“I do not deserve your forgiveness,” Darcy said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “But if you will grant it, I shall not forget your generosity.”

Bingley turned back to him, the anger still lingering, but tempered by a deeper understanding. “You were wrong, Darcy,” he said, his voice firm but without malice. “But I cannot hold onto this—this”—he gestured between them—“when Jane might still welcome me.”

Darcy nodded, a small weight lifting from his chest, though it was not without a measure of grief. “She will, Bingley,” he said, his voice steady now. “She will.”

Bingley sighed, the last of his frustration ebbing away as a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “I hope so,” he said softly, and then, after a moment, “No—I know so. And if she does, I’ve you to thank for putting me back in the way of happiness.”

Darcy felt a faint smile cross his own face, though his heart was heavy with the knowledge that Bingley’s joy was now his to regain. Darcy would never know that joy for himself—aye, Elizabeth Bennet was as lost to him still as she had ever been. But for now, he would be content to see his friend find the happiness he so richly deserved.

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