The Travails of Mr Charles Bingley, Part 1

Hello everyone!

Today, I’m posting the first part of a short story. I’m not sure exactly how many parts there will be—three or four. I sought inspiration in the July monthly theme, “When One Travels in the Summer”, but when I needed a little more to get the ideas flowing, I went back to another source, my little book of quotes from Nancy Drew, which I’ve previous used. The quote that particularly resonated this time was: “Call before driving a considerable distance to talk with someone,” from The Mystery at the Moss-Covered Mansion. Thanks to it, Mr Bingley paid me a visit, and here we are. I don’t ever spend much time inside Bingley’s head, which made this a bit of a challenge, but that only added to the idea’s attraction for me. I hope you enjoy!

The Travails of Mr Charles Bingley Part I

Charles Bingley had not known a day, no, a minute—a second—of pleasure since his sisters, brother-in-law, and good friend, Fitzwilliam Darcy, followed him to town from Hertfordshire and convinced him Miss Jane Bennet did not care for him. He had been so certain she felt exactly as he did, that their connexion was real, the moment of their meeting had marked the beginning of a great love story, et cetera. But he had been mistaken. She was poor and had few prospects, by the standards of her place in the world, and he was rich; that was why she befriended him and the reason for each of her charming blushes and sweet smiles.

I ought to have known better. He listlessly spun his teacup around and around and stared out the window of his rooms. It was now June, almost seven months since the glorious night they had last been together at the Netherfield Ball. To think, I was on the point of proposing. All I needed was another week or two. I suppose I ought to be grateful they helped me see the truth about her and the Bennets. Caroline and Louisa certainly tell me I should often enough. He sighed and spent an interval, longer than it warranted, debating whether he wished it would stop raining so that he could go out and do something active, such as ride through the park, or hoped it never would so that he could he continue to hide away and refuse to see anyone. He was obliged to call on Darcy the next day, but perhaps the rain would get worse, and he could avoid even that.

For a time after the Dreadful Disclosure, as he had come to think of it, Bingley tried to act as though he was not particularly affected. After all, there were many, many other beautiful young ladies, and he was bound to meet one to rival Jane Bennet sooner or later. All through that December and into the new year, as he attended every possible social event, he examined the ladies, searching for just such a one, without success. It might be true that he spent more time wondering how many young women there were in England than actually talking to or dancing with those around him, but if he did, what of it?

The masquerade he attended on Twelfth Night was his undoing. Usually, he enjoyed everything about a masquerade—planning one’s costume, the disguises and having to guess who everyone was, the opportunity to behave just a little bit outside of the usual social strictures—but that year, he was miserable. Louisa scolded him just as she did when they were children, using her five years of seniority as a weapon against him. Caroline was little better, berating him for mooning over ‘an unworthy chit’ and saying—for perhaps the hundredth time—that they would have been better off never having met the Bennets. She blamed him for Darcy leaving town, thus not seeing her in her guise as Aphrodite. Bingley thought she looked ridiculous, but he did not dare voice such an opinion. If he lived to be a thousand, he would not hear the end of it from either of his sisters.

Instead, he contented himself by reminding her, “Darcy always planned to go north after Christmas. Besides, if he was in town, he would be at Lord and Lady Romsley’s ball, not here, and we were not—likely never would be—invited to it.” His sister persisted in believing that they could secure an invitation to Fitzwilliam House if only he would pester Darcy for one. He would not, and even if he did, he doubted the outcome would be what Caroline desired. “As I keep telling you, Caroline, he will never fall madly in love with you and make you Mrs Darcy, regardless of what you wear or how you flatter him. I beg you, give up that daydream and find another man to marry.” And let him be more worthy, and solvent, than Hurst. Then, if I am exceedingly fortunate, I will be able to rid myself of at least one of my bothersome sisters. You would think Hurst would be ashamed to be dependent on his brother-in-law for shelter and food. I suppose I should be grateful he does not ask me for an allowance. If only I had not inherited a town house. I could live in rooms somewhere, separate from them. He sighed. My sisters would only have badgered me until I found a house for us all.

Offended, Caroline had stamped away, which was just what he intended.

Unable to bear having to pretend to more cheer than he felt any longer, he left town first thing the next day, leaving a note with his butler. He made the long, slow journey to Scarborough to visit relations, not knowing where else to go. The uncle, two aunts, and assorted cousins remaining to him were not particularly agreeable people, and he had little in common with them, but they were family.

If he had considered it before leaving London, he would have envisioned spending a few weeks, maybe so long as a month, in Yorkshire before returning south, but in actuality, he had simply not gone back. Part of the reason was malaise, but it was also because of Jane Bennet. In November and December, he thought about how disappointed he was by what had happened, and he would readily admit his trip north was to give himself time to recover, to lick his wounds, so to speak. By the end of January, or the middle of February at the very latest, the disappointment had turned halfway inward. Why exactly changed from day to day. On Monday, he might berate himself for not seeing that Miss Bennet did not return his affection for himself, leaving it to others to save him from an imprudent match. On Tuesday, he might decide that, while Darcy and his sisters insisted she only liked him for his wealth, he did not have to abandon her completely. He could have tried harder to make her love him with the same devotion he still felt for her, to convince her they were fated to live a grand love story if only she would let herself believe it.

Wednesdays, he would spend muttering, “I should have made a proper farewell to her, to the entire neighbourhood. I know better than to be so rude, especially when everyone was so amiable and welcoming.”

The pattern repeated itself week after week. All the while, he told himself he ought to return to town, he had been away long enough, yet he made no arrangements to travel. Indeed, he felt vaguely ill whenever he imagined partaking of the gaiety and busyness of the Season.

But then the tenor of his sisters’ letters changed. Louisa wrote,

Really Charles, I do not understand you. You must return forthwith. You have responsibilities to this family, and it is wrong, unconscionable, to ignore us. Caroline requires you here to escort her around. I expect to see you within the next week.

One of Caroline’s letters included,

If this childish behaviour of yours has to do with Jane Bennet, I really despair of you. What good can being in Scarborough do? What you need is to be here, find an eligible lady to marry, and forget the whole business of Netherfield. I knew at once you had made a terrible error taking the estate, as I told you not long after we first went there. Come back to town at once. I already have two or three girls in mind that would be appropriate wives for you.

It was all so wearisome.

“But they are right to say I have responsibilities in town. It is not as though I enjoy being here so much. Oh, very well. Return I shall.”

He left the following day after saying a hasty farewell to his relations and a few others he had developed an acquaintance with over the previous months. Before May was a week old, he was ensconced in his town house, often avoiding the drawing room and the sounds of his sisters’ voices. It invariably gave him a headache, which was a new development, and he wondered if he ought to consult a physician about it.

“What could they tell me that I do not already know? The cure is seemingly so simple—avoid Louisa and Caroline, and Hurst for that matter—but that is exactly what I cannot do.” He spoke to a porcelain figurine of a woman and child which stood on the mantlepiece in his bedchamber. It had been much loved by his mother, and he kept it because it reminded him of her. “I was so young when she died,” he reflected. “I wonder if my sisters resemble her? I do not recall her being so…difficult, but at that age, all I really knew was that she was beautiful and caring towards me.”

While his family had a right to demand his attention, he could, and did, neglect most of his friends. It was easy with Darcy. He was in town, but somehow it happened that they did not see each other until the beginning of June. Darcy sent a note asking Bingley to call. It was not an unusual request; they often met at his town house in Berkeley Square or at their club so that Darcy could avoid Caroline, Louisa, and Hurst.

Bingley was shocked by his friend’s appearance. He had circles under his eyes and appeared to have lost weight since they last saw each other.

“You spent the entire winter in Yorkshire?” Darcy asked.

Bingley nodded. His eyebrows drew closer together as he examined his companion, and once he realised it, he forced them apart. “I came back last month. Were you at Pemberley?”

“Georgiana and I were there for a time after staying at Romsley Hall with my aunt and uncle. Then I…went to Kent to see my other aunt. At Easter.” His voice faded as he spoke, and his eyes drifted to the window.

“Oh. I recall you mentioning something about that in a letter. I say, Darcy, is everything well? You do not seem to be quite yourself. Miss Darcy is not ill, is she? Or your family?”

Darcy shook his head and took a long drink from his glass of wine. “Everyone is in perfect health. I”—he cleared his throat—“I do have something I must tell you, and I am afraid you will not like it. More to the point, I am afraid it will injure and anger you.”

Bingley scratched his jaw; he often did when he was confused. “I cannot imagine what you could say to cause such a reaction in me. Whatever it is, I can see it is worrying you, and I wish you would just tell me. Then we can put it behind us, perhaps find something amusing to do, pull ourselves out of the doldrums.” He regretted speaking, because he did not want Darcy asking about his mood. Fortunately, Darcy did not seem to notice.

After rubbing his eyes and taking more wine, Darcy began his tale. “When I was in Kent, I saw Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

Bingley’s body jerked, and he gaped at his companion. Darcy spoke on before he could demand to hear more.

“Seeing her, speaking with her, made me wonder if, perhaps, I was mistaken about Miss Bennet’s sentiments. I refer to when I told you last autumn that she did not return your affection. I ought not to have interfered as I did, though I hope you believe I only did so because I did not want to see you disappointed.”

“But-but now you think she might have liked me?” An odd sensation overtook his stomach, a sort of fluttery cramp that made him set his glass on the table and push it away.

Darcy gave a curt nod. “She might be…modest, which can mask what one is feeling. I did not take that into account when I told you I saw no evidence that she felt a regard for you. I do not necessarily believe I was wrong to voice my concerns to you, but I was wrong to tell you to stay away from Netherfield and Miss Bennet. Now, I believe the best course of action would have been for me to express my doubts and leave you to decide what to do. There is more, Bingley, and it is that which I know, without a doubt, was wrong.”

Stupidly, all he could do was nod and continue to stare at his friend. As he attempted to attend to Darcy, the same thought kept racing through his mind. He ought to have returned to Hertfordshire. Had he not decided that himself weeks ago?

“Miss Bennet was in town last winter. She called on your sisters, and I understand they made it plain they were not interested in furthering the acquaintance.”

“H-h-h-how do you know?” Bingley sounded like an idiot, but at the moment, he was beyond caring.

“Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley told me and asked for my advice. Their description of their actions when she called and when Miss Bingley eventually returned the visit convinced me of their rudeness. Your sisters decided you should be kept ignorant of Miss Bennet’s presence—she was staying with her uncle—and wanted to know my opinion. I agreed with them and am ashamed by the deception. I was reluctant, but ultimately, they—who had been in your company more than I—insisted it was for the best. If I recollect correctly, it was the day before I left for Pemberley. I do not seek to excuse myself. I ought to have behaved better, less…certain I always know best. You must be aware that if you decide to do anything with this information, if you decide to seek out Miss Bennett, it is unlikely your sisters will ever be happy with your decision. Mrs Hurst is married, and although she and her husband reside with you presently, that may not always be true. Miss Bingley remains unwed, and it is always possible that she will remain so, which means she may make her home with you and your future wife, whoever that is.”

Slowly, Bingley began to nod. He stood and walked towards the door, only realising he had not spoken when he reached out his hand to open it. Turning back to Darcy, he said, “I appreciate you telling me. I need to consider everything you said, especially the last. Do you think I would be wrong to pursue Miss Bennet—if I decide to—knowing Caroline and Louisa would not approve my choice?”

“I cannot advise you, Bingley. This is a decision you will have to make for yourself, based on what would make you happiest.”

“Right. Well, I shall see you soon. Riding or the club or some such thing.” With that, he was gone.

***

Think he did. He supposed he should say something to his sisters about their lie of omission, but he decided it was not worth the inevitable lecture they would give him about why he was wrong and what they did was perfectly right. Again and again, he wondered, Should I go to Miss Bennet? What would I say? Would she even receive me after so long a time? Does she still care for me?

He dreamt that she did. He would go to Longbourn, enter the drawing room, and there she would be, her beautiful, angelic visage displaying excitement—and a bit of wariness, which would only be natural after so long—her bright blue eyes wide and full of hope, her lips slowly curling into a smile, and her cheeks turning a delightful pink as he assured her he had never stopped thinking about her.

On the other hand, he could not dismiss what Darcy had said about Caroline and Louisa never approving of his choice of wife. Unlike reasonable ladies who recognised he was his own man, they would be sure to tell him, unceasingly, that he had made a poor choice. Worse, they would not be kind to his Jane. Was it right to pursue her, knowing it would distress his sisters? Should he risk it, knowing they would treat Jane dismissively, if not worse?

On the first day of summer, he woke up, leapt out of bed, and startled his valet by exclaiming, “That is it! I shall go to Longbourn today, and I will not leave until I have won Miss Bennet as my own.” After a brief pause, he added, “Or she convinces me I have no hope.”

He ordered a bag packed and the carriage readied, quickly got dressed and stuffed some food into his mouth, and was off. It was only when he crossed over into Hertfordshire that he remembered he had not left word to his sisters about his impromptu trip. Oh well. I shall send them a letter later today, after I have seen Miss Bennet. I suppose it is for the best I did not tell them before I set off. They would have found a reason to prevent me from going.

“Go directly to Longbourn,” he told his coachman when they made their final stop before reaching Meryton. Having decided I need to see her, the thought of any delay is torture to me. Soon, soon I shall be with my darling Jane again, and this time, no one shall convince me to give her up!

The Bennets’ housekeeper, Mrs Hill, was surprised to see him. “Mr Bingley, sir!” she said. “We-we did not expect you.” She looked over her shoulder into the corridor. “Mr and Mrs Bennet are not home. Only Miss Bennet is, if you should wish to see her.”

He grinned and nodded his head. “Yes, yes I would. She is exactly whom I have come to see.”

Mrs Hill narrowed her eyes and regarded him for a minute, before she gave a shrug so slight he thought he might have mistook the gesture. She went away to ensure his visit was acceptable, then returned and escorted him to the smaller drawing room.

She was standing by the window, bright sunlight masking her features. After Mrs Hill announced him and retreated, leaving the door ajar, his heart began to race with anticipation as the figure turned and stepped into the room, revealing…

Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

That’s it for the first part. I’ll be back in two weeks with part two. In it, Bingley will learn why he should have ascertained if Jane was at home before rushing from town to see her. I hope you enjoyed my bit of fun.

© Lucy Marin 2022