Darcy glanced about the room. Mr. Hurst was already approaching a state of repose, his wine glass empty on the table beside him. Bingley was talking to Mrs. Hurst while she idly browsed through sheet music, looking bored.
Whatever Miss Bingley had in mind, she did not wish to be overheard; otherwise there would be no need to walk the room.
Darcy typically took pains to avoid the suggestion of intimacy between himself and his friend’s unmarried sister. They were thrown together often and he considered it far beneath his character to allow even the suspicion of a greater intimacy, be it the public’s suspicion or Miss Bingley’s herself. Darcy admired the woman, but there his feelings ended.
The request was unusual, even for Miss Bingley, and so he consented.
She waited until they had crossed the entire room before she spoke again.
“My lord, let me just express once more my deepest sympathies for the loss of your uncle,” she began. Darcy nodded but did not reply. “You must now be facing an immense amount of pressure.”
“Any title comes with some responsibility. It’s not much different than that of having an inheritance, or having estates to maintain.” At least not so far, he thought privately.
“If I may be so bold, my lord, there I must disagree. The expectations of any man of fortune and breeding are high, to be sure. We are speaking now of a man who is simultaneously of good fortune, breeding, and serving as a peer of the realm.”
“Say what you mean to say, Miss Bingley,” said Darcy, growing more tired with each passing moment. Her comments trod precipitously close to his own reflections earlier that afternoon.
“As you wish,” she said demurely. “Excuse my frankness on the subject, my lord, but I strongly believe your new title is going to make you, quite simply, the most sought-after unmarried man in all of England.”
Darcy felt a blush start on his own cheeks.
“As it happens, you’re the second woman to point this out to me today,” he said, struggling to contain his irritation. “What compels you to point this out?”
“I cannot speak for the woman who mentioned it to you first,” said Miss Bingley, looking rather put out that she wasn’t the only one to bring the matter to his attention. “When news of this gets out, Netherfield will collapse under the deluge.”
At that, Darcy stopped walking.
“You think I should quit Netherfield,” he said tonelessly.
“Not at all!” she cried. “On the contrary. However I do think we, all of us, will need to arm ourselves accordingly.”
“There is no need for you or Bingley or the Hursts to involve yourselves,” said Darcy. But he was intrigued; Miss Bingley clearly had a plan. “In what manner do you propose we ‘arm ourselves’?”
Miss Bingley steeled herself visibly, taking a deep breath.
“I think you need to get married.”
“That’s not much of plan, Miss Bingley,” he said, underwhelmed. “Lady Catherine suggested as much in her letter to me this afternoon.”
“Your aunt is a woman of keen insight,” said Miss Bingley. “I mean, quite frankly, that if you wish to avoid the oncoming storm of unmarried ladies and their country mamas, every one of whom will say or do anything in their power to land you as husband, you need to become engaged. Immediately.”
Her direction, and on such a personal matter, galled; yet she persisted.
“I assure you, I speak only as your friend,” continued Miss Bingley. “And with that sentiment in mind, I would like to offer my help.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I suggest we announce our engagement immediately, to stave off the coming interest in your title. Those people do not know you, my lord,” said Miss Bingley, with no small degree of fervor in her voice. “We here at Netherfield have known and cared for you for ages now. With the power of our family’s status and fortune supporting that of Darcy – and now Matlock – we can help you weather the transition.”
Darcy cleared his throat.
“Let me be perfectly clear on this point: You are offering to pose as my fiancée for the next several weeks or months to stave off this… supposed hoard of women who might approach me because I’ve inherited a title.”
She nodded solemnly. “I am, for however long it takes.”
Darcy excused himself for the night shortly after his conversation with Miss Bingley, blaming the trying events of the day. No one challenged him, though Miss Bingley obviously wished to continue their conversation. He’d thanked her for her friendship and told her he’d consider her offer.
His character demanded he consider it seriously, since Darcy had explicitly told her he would. He could not allow himself to lie; though Miss Bingley’s offer –this foolish idea– it was little better. Lying to the whole world to spare himself some inconvenience. Caroline and his aunt were both firm in their respective opinions that the inconvenience, the coming trouble, would be vast indeed. He was not yet convinced on that point.
Darcy could see some merit in the idea. A public engagement to his dear friend’s sister would raise no questions. There would be little need for theatre, as they already travelled together frequently.
But for the audacious, undeniable duplicity, Miss Bingley’s plan might actually have worked.
Even so, Darcy could not bring himself to take the idea seriously. No; he’d simply keep his head down, attend the minimum required amount of social events, and catch up on the workings of Matlock and Pemberley until the gossipmongers had moved on to juicier fodder. With any luck at all, some other unmarried peer would arrive on the scene and society would forget all about Fitzwilliam Darcy, newest Earl of Matlock.
The next morning started out the same as most of his mornings at Netherfield.
Darcy breakfasted early, accompanied at the last by Bingley, who’d risen earlier than usual to say goodbye to his now-healed guests. The Bennet sisters had made an early exit, thanking their host profusely and having already extracted promises from Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley for visits at Longbourn. Darcy felt a bit bereft now that their charming, pretty companions were gone but his thoughts were quickly occupied elsewhere.
He would have to answer Miss Bingley’s offer one way or another, and soon. She was not a woman to be put off for long. Darcy shook his head and returned to the paper, still warm from the morning’s press.
Bingley was about to leave the room a few moments later when the sound of Darcy’s fist on the table stopped his exit.
“Good God, Darcy. What’s happened?”
“My aunt,” said Darcy in a voice tight with restraint. “Lady Catherine has happened.”
“What do you mean?”
“Read this.” Darcy thrust the paper blindly over his shoulder into Bingley’s hands.
“The whole sheet? It’ll take me ages.”
“Not the whole sheet. This item here in the middle.” Bingley laid the papers down. Darcy found the paragraph and pointed. Bingley read it aloud.
“F------ D----- of Derbyshire, is rumored soon to bear the name of M-----. If true it bodes well for our ladies this Season, for he must be in want of a wife.” Bingley looked up. “It doesn’t mention Lady Catherine.”
“It doesn’t have to,” said Darcy. “She wrote yesterday to offer her help should something like this arise.” She’d also written to offer her daughter’s hand, but Darcy did not mention that. He trusted his friend implicitly but it would hardly help.
“You think she wrote the announcement?”
“If she didn’t, she instructed the man who did. I am sure of it.” Darcy pushed the paper away and sat back. Bingley took the chair next to him.
“Right,” he said. “So… what do we do now?”
“We carry on, Bingley, same as always. Lady Catherine has an agenda; this is nothing new to the world. Half-mourning or no, I have a host of things to do in the name of Matlock in the next few weeks. Have you chosen a date for your ball?”
“I thought I’d consult you on that first, as you’re to be my guest of honor.”
“Good,” said Darcy. Bingley deferred to him often enough, he’d been counting on this very circumstance. “Have it Wednesday next, if it pleases you. That will give me enough time to collect Georgiana and make some arrangements at Pemberley.”
“You’re leaving?” asked Bingley.
“As soon as possible.”
A servant approached. “Yes, Milton,” said Bingley. “What is it?”
“Visitors, sir,” said the man, looking a bit sheepish.
“At this hour?” said Bingley. Milton set down the small tray he’d brought into the room. “Good God. That must be eight – no, ten cards. What’s going on?”
Darcy leaned forward and took a card from the stack. A local well-to-do matron. The next was her unmarried sixteen-year-old daughter.
“How many woman are out there, Milton?” asked Darcy tonelessly.
“There were thirteen when I come to find Mr. Bingley, sir,” said the man. He did not so much as bat an eye at the number. “But I saw Stevens letting in some more on my way in.”
Darcy closed his eyes.