A Gentleman's Rescue: How Bingley Met Darcy Pt 2

* * *
Back at the house, Louisa announced that she was not hungry and would not sit for dinner. Her father announced that she must eat, and eat with the family. Truthfully, the elder Bingley was the only one who would in any substantial way touch his food that evening. The younger Bingley sat as taciturn as his sisters but managed to chew mindlessly on a crust of bread.

“Well,” Frederick began flippantly. “Thoughts on the performance?” Upon hearing no re-ply, he looked up from his plate and around the table, seeing the sullen faces of his children but being unwilling to confront the obvious fact that something was, indeed, amiss. He raised another bite of lamb to his mouth and chewed vociferously before announcing: “Rather uninspired, I grant you.” Looking about briefly for a reply, he took a small potato off his fork and chewed some more. “I daresay,” he went on, his tongue puckering over his teeth as he swallowed. “In a month’s time, no one will remember it at all.” The disconsolate silence continued on until the father gruffly placed his silverware on the plate. “Well, what is it? The three of you act as if we have just departed a funeral. In fact, I have not heard the lot of you so quiet since Mr. Coombes was killed.”

The young Bingley looked up in disbelief. While he could see that his father perhaps regret-ted the intonation, it was also clear that Frederick was not ready to back away from it either. Just as he was about to reply in his sister’s defence, Louisa spoke through tears:
“It is quite predictable that you might be unfeeling in such a moment, but must you be cru-el, as well?”

Frederick saw the pain in her eyes but was unwilling to look at it. “Cruel? I would not have thought you as mawkish—”

“Mawkish?” she demanded. “My fiancée…” her voice trailed off, but when it became clear that her father would speak again, she anticipated him: “I may be a year removed from mourning clothes, but my heart grieves as though he was here this morning and is this very instant departed.”

“My child—”

“And tonight, we are ruined and you will not even tell us why.”

“Ruined? We are ruined?” Frederick sat back and crossed his arms. “Young Wilshere?”

The footman stepped forward. “Yes, Mr. Bingley?”

“Go to the front door.”

“The front door?”

“Yes, the front door,” the father continued, his head bobbing to look at all three of his children. “Open it, close it, and report back what you see.”
The young man nodded and obeyed with the eagerness of wishing not to become a participant in the family’s turmoil. The Bingleys sat in silence whilst they awaited his return, the eldest with his hands on his knife and fork, though he did not eat. When the footman did return, he was asked: “And what did you observe?”

“Nothing, sir,” he answered with hesitation, unsure if he had accomplished the task to his master’s satisfaction.

“Nothing?” Frederick asked incredulously.

“Just Grosvenor Street, sir.”

“And that is all?”

“A stray dog walked past.”

The father looked about at his children and leaned back in his chair again. “Imagine that,” he remarked. “Young Wilshere—a dog! And are you positive that you observed nothing else?”

“I am not—no, Mr. Bingley, I observed nothing else,” Wilshere answered with increasing uncertainty.

“No creditors demanding payment?”

“No, sir.”

“No constables queuing to put us out?”

“There was no one, sir. Only the dog.”

Frederick Bingley ran his tongue over his bottom lip and breathed out through his nostrils, placing his silverware gently but audibly on the plate before him. “It appears then, that at least for evening, we are not ruined.” They sat in silence until he said: “And, if I may speak plainly to my children, a measure of gratitude might put other perceived misfortunes in their proper place.”

“No,” Louisa declared, leaning forward on the table, and pointing her finger at him. Charles and Caroline looked up and locked wide eyes. “You shall not wave it away as you always do. I shall not allow you to dictate my feelings any longer.”

“Dictate your feelings?” the father snapped back. “I demand that you be grateful for what you have and nothing more! I remind you only that you have never known deprivation, you have never known hunger. To the extent that your troubles cause you vexation, you may be grateful that you may indulge them in Grosvenor Street without a second thought as to whether or not you will eat tomorrow.”

“And is money everything to you? Comfort? Have riches shielded you from loss?”

“Loss is inescapable. I can assure you that if you live you will suffer, you will grieve. But I can also assure you from experience quite my own that it is far more bearable to do so on clean sheets and a full stomach.”

Louisa’s breath quickened and in an instant the chair underneath her fell backward with a clatter and she was gone from the room. Caroline’s face was ashen, and her eyes were cast down to her hands knotted tightly in her lap. After another few seconds she stood and quit the room as well.

Frederick scoffed and stabbed another hunk of lamb, grinding it between his back molars as he spoke: “An ounce of perspective and gratitude—tell me, Charles, is that too much to ask?”

The son folded his napkin and placed it over his plate. “It is not too much to ask, father,” he answered slowly. “But perhaps, this evening, it is the wrong question.” The young man stood and with a slight bow, went up to ready himself for bed.

Frederick watched his son’s back round the doorway out of sight. He sighed and took a sip of wine. “The wrong question, eh?” he asked rhetorically, looking at Wilshere who did his best to imitate a marble statue. With another long sigh, the elder Bingley stood to his feet. “Young Wilshere, I shall be in my library, and not to be disturbed.”

* * *
The night passed and the sun rose, yet in the morning, the gloom of the previous day per-sisted. None of the young Bingleys came down for breakfast, and while typically, their father would have seen to it that they did, on this morning he was more than content to dine alone. Half-way through his meal, however, he glanced up from his plate and cast his eyes around the room, empty save for Wilshere, who stood silent, perhaps grateful himself for a morning devoid of the kinds of discourse which he had witnessed the previous evening.

Frederick wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin and sat back in his seat with a leaden sigh. Perhaps his children were ungrateful—they were; he knew it. Yet, how could it be that they should know any other way? In spite of his efforts to rear them in such a manner that they might have a comprehensive understanding of how truly remarkable was their position in the world, he understood himself at that moment that he had been blinded by it, as well. Certainly, he had taken them to meet their cousins and their uncles and aunts alike, who still toiled in weather and mud, who still feared the cold. And if he, who had known hunger, had known deprivation, could lose himself in the opulence with which he was now surrounded, how could he possibly ex-pect anything else from his children whom he had worked so tirelessly to shield from any real ex-perience of want? As his eyes moved across the room, he wondered where so many objects had even come from. Objects and baubles and trinkets. He remembered not purchasing the half of them, the other half he recalled not their purpose—assuming they had one.

In his rumination he decided that he had, perhaps, been too harsh. After all, it was he who had decided upon and travailed so tirelessly to bestow such a life to them. How then, could they be expected to remain rooted on a foundation of quicksand into which he found his own feet sinking? He was not wrong—such a life was far preferable to the one into which he was born. But his chil-dren had also been right—he had asked the wrong question, and perhaps he had been unfeeling and even cruel, as unintentional as it might have been. Certainly, Louisa had been dealt a terrible blow by the untimely death of Mr. Coombes, and their engagement had unquestionably been a good match. But more importantly, it had been built on mutual affection and even love. And Fred-erick knew full well that for richer or poorer, the loss of one’s love is an affliction like none other, borne in the solitude of one’s own being and impervious to the inducements of comfort. This time, he put his napkin to his eyes and resolved that he would speak with them that evening.

So it was that when Charles finally appeared downstairs that morning his father was al-ready out. The young Bingley sat in the dining room alone, save the same young footman, and ate a small portion out of necessity rather than any true inclination. When he was through, he had word sent to have his horse readied and then spent the ensuing hours meandering Hyde Park and even wandering down Oxford Street in the direction of Soho Square before deciding to journey back by smaller lanes and alleys.

Upon entering back home, he was immediately greeted by Wilshere: “A Mr. Darcy here to see you, sir.”

“Mr. Darcy?” the young Bingley exclaimed while the footman removed his coat.

“Yes, sir, the younger.”

“Are my sisters in?”

“They departed shortly after you did for Harding and Howell.”

“And when did he arrive?”

“Nearly a half hour ago.”

“A half hour?”

“Aye, sir,” Wilshere answered. “He asked for your father. I informed him that he was at his office and then he inquired after you. When I advised him that you were also out, he prayed to be allowed to await your return. He has been in the drawing room ever since.”

A wave of anxiety and even nausea gripped Bingley suddenly, and his thoughts darted to-and-fro in a muddle of incoherence. He was at once perplexed, relieved, and absolutely confounded as to the meaning of this visit. Yet in the mood in which he and his sisters had been recently en-gulfed, he had a strong suspicion that the sudden appearance of so consequential a gentleman could not be advantageous. Rather, he imagined, the young Mr. Darcy had come to voice his family’s disapprobation regarding Caroline’s unfortunate and puerile behavior the previous evening. Perhaps his youngest sister’s lapse in propriety was so grave that Mr. Darcy felt obliged to address it with any male member of the family, and perhaps his admonitions would be correlated to the recent scandal in which the family had unwittingly become enmeshed. Uneasily, Charles ran both hands through the curls above his ears and then tugged at the hem of his waistcoat before turning the cor-ner into the drawing room. Darcy was seated in an armchair, one long leg crossed over the other, portraying every measure of self-assurance which Bingley at that moment lacked, his attention drawn out of the window until he heard his host’s footsteps.

“Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy,” Bingley said, extending his hand and doing his best to appear confident as his counterpart rose to his feet. “How do you do?”

“Fine, I thank you,” answered Darcy, taking Bingley’s hand and bowing his head slightly, his voice steely and rich.

“Please, sit,” intoned Bingley, motioning toward the armchairs separated by a small, lac-quered table. “To what do I owe the honour of your call?” Darcy’s face was the picture of gravity. His brow was stern, and the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly, as if he were pensively preparing to deliver unpleasant tidings. Thus, the young Bingley reasoned that it would be better to get out in front of the cart before it plowed him over. “Mr. Darcy, if you have come to speak to my Father, erm, I can assure you that he has taken under advisement the comportment of my young-er—”

“Your father, certainly,” Darcy answered. “But it was my father who wished to call upon him. Unfortunately, he took ill this morning and thus, sent me in his stead.”

Bingley felt his face drop and a hard lump swell in the back of his throat. If the elder Mr. Darcy had been unable to come, but dispatched his son nevertheless, the situation was every jot as bleak as he had feared.

“I am so sorry to hear it,” Bingley muttered. “I am certain that my father would be delighted to receive you this evening.” Darcy nodded, his mouth twitching ever so slightly again. When he didn’t speak, Bingley felt compelled to fill the void: “Please be assured, and assure your good fa-ther—and best wishes for his health, of course—that my sister—”

“In truth, it is not on behalf of your sister that I have come.”

Bingley’s breath caught in his chest momentarily. “Oh?” he intoned.

“No,” Darcy began with a touch of smile. “You see, we both of us have younger sisters who bring us great joy, though they are perhaps given to puerility at times. Such sisters may dis-play imprudence at times and may even act out of turn, but where good manners and wisdom are present to rear the young, a measure of clemency ought to be extended for juvenile lapses in decorum.”

“I see,” came the uneasy reply.

“Let me speak more broadly,” said Darcy, shifting back in his chair with a natural air of self-assurance. “My father possesses the habit of remaining informed in society, perhaps more than most. Though our families have not had the occasion to become acquainted, your father’s reputa-tion in business is well known.”

Believing that the published reports of fraud were about to become the subject of discourse, Bingley again intended to head off the most uncomfortable subject. “I can assure you, I hardly have any knowledge of the reports,” Bingley offered meekly.

“I would not expect that you would,” Darcy answered, his eyes calm and patient. “I gather you are perhaps three years younger than me? My father did not begin to involve me in the work-ings of the estates and our businesses until after I had completed my time at Cambridge. I am not in the least then, surprised that your father has kept much of his endeavors from you. However, I wish to assure you that he is known generally as a man of great energy, ambition, and candour.”

“I see,” Bingley offered, his brow furling. “Your account of his reputation surprises me not.”

“Naturally then, my father wished—and still wishes—to become acquainted with him,” Darcy said, his face turning wholly toward Bingley.

“Particularly after we discovered the great debt that is apparently owed to you, Mr. Charles Bingley.”

“Debt?” Bingley uttered. “Whatever can you mean?”

Darcy smiled warmly. “The reason for my call, then: it seems that you very much saved my dear sister’s life yesterday.”

“That was your sister?” asked Bingley. “In Hyde Park?”

Darcy leaned forward and nodded, a slight chuckle under his breath. “Aye, my sister Georgiana.”

“I had no idea,” Bingley remarked.

“I, myself, was unaware of the incident until last night—after coming home from the theatre. I went in to see her before she went to bed, and dear Georgiana could scarcely catch a breath relaying how a wonderful stranger had thrown himself unreservedly into danger’s path, risking his own life and limb to prevent her being trampled by a runaway steed.”

“I would not so much say I put myself in the way of any kind of harm.”

“But you were thrown from your horse?”

Bingley shrugged meekly. “I was indeed.”

“Well, I would agree with my sister then, that you acted very bravely, and that I and my father both are in your debt. You see, my dear mother passed away some years ago, and it would have devastated my father had something happened to Georgiana.”

“You have my condolences for your mother’s passing,” said the young Bingley. “My own dear mother is gone, as well.”

“I am very sorry to hear it,” answered Darcy. “You must know then, how dearly your father cherishes your sisters.” Bingley smiled and nodded, thinking over the discord which had taken place the previous evening between Frederick and his children. “With that said,” Darcy continued. “I feel that I owe you and your sisters an apology for my behavior last night, and even for my choice of company.”

“No apology is necessary—”

“You see, it also came to my attention that a certain Mr. Hathcock is acquainted with your family, despite his apparent wish to deny it.”

“Yes, oh, I am afraid there is some history there, and more recent developments—”

“You refer to the reports about the origins of your father’s fortune,” Darcy stated. Bingley nodded sheepishly, preparing to offer some sort of defence or explanation, when Darcy again con-tinued on: “I am ashamed of Mr. Hathcock, frankly. I confess, I have known him for some time as he was introduced to me by Mr. George Wickham, a childhood friend who was acquainted with Mr. Hatchock from Cambridge. However, it has just been recently that I have come to understand Mr. Hathcock’s character, or lack thereof, and I am therefore disinclined to continue my acquaint-ance with him. While I admit that I do not naturally possess the kind of charms that recommend me to quickly make friends with strangers, I would not wish to remain friends with a person who so easily abandons connections whenever his own interests are jeopardized. I would much rather acquire and maintain friendships with persons who are inclined to sacrifice themselves for the good of others.”

Bingley smiled, feeling a rush of color to his cheeks. “I am much obliged,” he finally re-plied. “Then the reports regarding my family—”

“Idle gossip,” answered Darcy with a wave of his hand. “Mr. Eoin Walters may be extraordinarily wealthy, and certainly is influential in certain circles, particularly in the north, but he is also hasty to make enemies. Assuming no actual proof of wrongdoing, I estimate the Ton will have forgotten the report altogether in a fortnight’s time.”

“Do you really believe it so?”

“I do,” Darcy replied. “And furthermore, should you and your family become personally acquainted with certain other influential families, I am sure that the vexation you no doubt feel now will soon be but a trifle.” With that, Bingley felt a long breath leave his chest. “Having said that, we are having a small gathering at our townhouse in a week’s time. I can speak for my father and my dear sister in assuring you that it would be our pleasure for your family to attend. And I can assure you that Mr. Hathcock will not be present.”

“That is very kind,” Bingley answered. “We would be honoured to attend.”

“Good then,” Darcy said, rising to his feet with grace. “And in the spring, you and your father should be our guests at Pemberley, granted you enjoy the hunt and fishing for trout.”

“We certainly do,” Bingley replied, standing to his feet as well.

“Well, Bingley, I thank you again for saving my sister, and look forward to being further acquainted with you soon.”

“As do I.”

The two young men shook hands and Darcy departed.

* * *
An hour before dinner, word arrived that Louisa and Caroline had accepted an invitation to dine with the late Mr. Coombes’s mother, herself a widow who was still inclined to see Louisa particularly, and as often as possible. Thus, the Bingley men dined alone. The elder listened with quiet interest to his son’s recollection of the unexpected meeting with the younger Mr. Darcy earli-er that day. Frederick remarked that such an alliance was certainly advantageous to the family, and to Charles particularly. When they had eaten, Frederick invited his son to stay and smoke with him, and had the younger Wilshere fetch a rather fine bottle of port.

After taking a long puff of his cigar, the father began: “My son, you and your sisters are always on my mind and close to my heart, but this day in particular, my heart has been heavy with the realization that my silence on certain matters has caused you all discomfort. Since you were small children, it has been my aim to allow you joy—to allow you the briefest years unfettered by responsibility and sorrow. I wished you to know where our family came from, but to be free of the hardships we have endured. But alas, the death of your dear mother caused us all the deepest heart-ache, as you well know. As I remarked last night, grief spares not a soul.

“And now I see the young gentleman you are becoming. I see in you, Charles, humility and a deep maturity that a casual acquaintance might overlook entirely because of the ease and gaiety of your bearing. Furthermore, you have always possessed a natural empathy and even a desire to de-fend those who are in pain. Therefore, in light of the reports swirling about regarding my past and the origins of my accomplishments, I feel that you, particularly, are owed the truth. You see, I was married once before I met your mother.”

“Married?” queried Charles, leaning in on his elbows. “I had no idea.”

“Truly,” answered the father, “this fact is known only to perhaps half a dozen persons on this side of the Atlantic, and several of them are dead; one is my steward, and two of them are in this very room. But aye, this single fact is as plain and as unremarkable as any other, and yet, it is the source of all the misapprehensions about my early life and the beginnings of my success.”

“And Mama?”

“To set your mind at ease—yes, you and your sisters are your mother’s children,” Frederick said, puffing smoke from the corner of his mouth. “You see, I was a widower when I met your mother, and she knew full well that I had been previously wed.”

“That is something of a relief,” remarked Bingley, taking a strong swig of liquor. “So, who was your first wife? What happened?”

“You know that I fought in the American War,” began Frederick, sipping from his own glass. “I was barely sixteen when my regiment set sail for New York harbor. My first sight of bat-tle was at Newtown, less than a month later. I saw with my own eyes eight of the thirteen colo-nies—states as I suppose they are now known—and killed in all but one of them. When it was over, and after having learned that my mother, your dear grandmother, had succumbed to scarlet fever back home, I felt no great urge to return. Similarly, I felt no great urge to remain amongst the rebels, so I traveled north and crossed into Canada.

“At that time, there was a great need for labourers in logging and fur trapping, and I was grateful to find employment. In due time, I became adjutant to the foreman of a rather large logging operation, learned the principles of business and the business, and found myself quite happily overseeing a camp at the edge of the Ottawa River and within a stone’s throw of an Algonquin logging settlement. The proprietor of that operation was known to us Europeans as Soaring Falcon. His bravery on behalf of the French in the battle of Fort Oswego led to a land grant of several thousand acres, much of which right along the Ottawa River. Soaring Falcon had a keen mind for business, and I developed a friendly relationship with him, despite managing a competitive opera-tion.

More importantly, however, for our purposes, is that he was a father. His daughter’s name was Alawa, and she is still, frankly, the handsomest creature I ever set eyes upon. Her hair was black as coal and ran to the small of her back. Her eyes were dark and entrancing—I assure you, I spent many a night staring into them. And her smile—ah, her smile, it was warm, and bright, and…”

The young Bingley was enthralled with his father’s display of emotion. Frederick had cer-tainly never spoken of their mother in such terms, and frankly, Charles was rather at peace with that fact. He knew that his mother was loved by his father–that he treated her with kindness and even affection was undoubted—but this tale began to make the young man realize, as silly as it sounded, that an entire history existed before he was born. Hearing the emotion in his father’s voice made him suddenly aware that entire lives are lived and live on deep in the recesses of each soul, and that one’s exterior bearing does not always betray the deep inner workings of the heart, where loss, burdens, and love may be carried unseen.

“As you have no doubt surmised, son,” Frederick continued. “Alawa and I were married.”

“A native girl?”

“Aye, a native girl, who was at once free and unrestrained by the trappings of conceit and unconcerned with the judgements of others, and yet, not a soul who met her could fail to admire her. She was graceful, she was humble, and more than anything else she was kind.”

“She sounds lovely,” Charles remarked.

“She was lovely, so lovely,” answered Frederick, taking a long, deliberate sip of his wine. Then, looking back toward his son, he said: “You would do well to take for yourself a wife with such qualities.”

Charles swallowed a swig of wine from his glass. “And must she be a native girl, as well?” he asked with a smile.

“You would have my blessing if she were, but alas, such a union would be difficult—and I speak from experience. The truth is that any marriage requires effort and attention, but a marriage where the two parts are viewed as improperly matched by those in society is all the more difficult. Though at the time, I had no intention of returning to England. Thus, any speculation or rumour bothered me not in the least. Alawa and I were happy, perhaps even deliriously so.”

“What happened, then?”

“It was her father’s intention to leave all that he owned to his children—Alawa and her brother whose name I could never pronounce, so I affectionately called him James—but Soaring Falcon could not by law leave anything of value to a daughter, so he took me on as his own son. When he died mere months after I was married to his daughter, he left to James all of his land, and left to Alawa, through me, his business.”
“And the land, then—how did we acquire it?” asked the son.

“We never did. Today it is still owned by James’s offspring—Alawa’s nephews. Our fami-ly owns the rights to all logging and trapping on the land, and in exchange, we continue to pay a percentage on the raw materials to support Alawa’s family. Additionally, we have agreed that for every tree our company fells, a new one is planted in its place. And furthermore, we agreed to leave a particular tract of nearly two thousand acres untouched in perpetuity.”

“Then, there is no fraud?” Charles mused.

“There is no fraud.”

“Then the scandal is—your marriage?”

“That is the entirety of it,” answered Frederick. “Which is precisely why I see not the need to address it. No one will ever expose a counterfeit document or forgery of a deed—because no such thing exists. What does exist, is a lease between a business that I lawfully own and operate, and a family which owns the land upon which that business thrives. That family just happens to be native.”

“I understand,” said the son, puffing once more on his cigar. “And what happened to Alawa?”

Frederick looked down toward his feet and sighed, his chest rising and falling as if suddenly breathing was a burden. Then, the father looked toward his son. “In a single night, the founda-tions upon which my life was erected gave way, and I was plummeted from the highest of moun-tains to the depths of the deepest despair. That night—or rather, the early morning hours of Octo-ber the 12th 1784, Alawa died in the throes of childbirth. Our son—your half-brother—lived only but a few short hours thereafter.”

The young man sat back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the fire, though his mind was else-where entirely. He’d had a brother. How different might his life be today had that brother survived. But more particularly did this revelation provide keen insight into his father—and oh, how his fa-ther had suffered in ways he had known not.

“I am so terribly sorry,” said Charles. “I cannot even begin to fathom how difficult that must have been.”

The older man shrugged and leaned his elbow on the table, turning toward his son. “Just days after, I knew I must quit the place, or the grief would tear me asunder. The landscape itself, the raw and daunting beauty of it, became a source of affliction. For it was the land to which she belonged and the land to which her remains were committed. I could not continue to exist in a place where her presence had radiated with such resplendence—like the rays of the sun at dawn, lustrous and piercing through the pines along the river, as every morning would bring with it a fresh re-minder that she was no longer. It was all too much for my heart to bear. Thus, I set my affairs in order and returned to England shortly after the new year.

“When I arrived home, I threw myself head long into the business of perpetual work—anything to keep my mind occupied. And in that year, I managed to build the seeds of a reputation in business. It was New Year’s Day 1786, nearly exactly a year since I had returned, that I saw your mother for the first time since before the war. As you will recall, we grew up not three miles from each other. Your mother was lovely, and perhaps what meant more to me than anything, she believed in me. We were married within six months—I was still quite young, I remind you—and it was during the next decade or so that I managed to turn what had been a small enterprise into a much more substantial venture, branching out and investing in new undertakings with every oppor-tunity which presented itself. With success came money, and with money, a modicum of recogni-tion in society. And of course, with a happy marriage, came children—first, your sister Louisa, and finally, a son.”

“I understand now, Father,” Charles stated. “Can you forgive me for being so troubled about those reports?”

“There is nothing to forgive between us, Charles,” said Frederick, putting his hand on his son’s knee. “If I had been a wiser father, I might have shared these things with you—all of you—sooner, but my work has always kept me very busy, and perhaps my own pride motivated me to raise you children in such a way that you felt as though you belonged in the society we have re-cently attained. I cannot help to feel like an imposter here—from my humble beginnings to my mar-riage to a woman this society certainly would not have welcomed or accepted—and I never wanted you or your sisters to feel inferior. Those like Eoin Walters would have us convinced that us Bingleys are of inferior stock, and that the society to which we aspire is not within our reach. In fact, such men have worked tirelessly to discourage our interests and muddy our name. And so alas, perhaps my own stubbornness in refusing to be plain with you about the origins of our suc-cess as a family left a cloud of doubt and uncertainty over your heads—the very thing I had always aimed to avoid. I wanted you to be proud of me, yes, but ever so much more, I desired you to be proud of yourselves. So, perhaps now, it is your forgiveness which should be sought.”

“Father,” the young man began, putting his hands over Frederick’s. “Should I forgive you for being a man of outstanding character, a man who cares for his children and seeks to protect them from harm? Should I forgive you for working tirelessly on behalf of your family and for se-curing a name and a place for us? Should I forgive you for making my own young life a thousand times easier than what yours had been?”

“Then you do not think less of me because I did not build this life without the kindness and even charity of others?”

“That is the horse, father.”

“I do not grasp your meaning,” answered Frederick.

“The horse may be the circumstances in which you achieved success,” Charles replied. “But you are, and have always been, the man atop the horse. And such a man deserves the admira-tion of all who know him.”

* * *
The Bingleys did attend the gathering at the Darcy’s home in London, the families having been properly introduced. In perhaps the most heroic display of courage in this entire tale, Caroline managed to keep her intense inner commotion at bay throughout the entire evening, doing the fami-ly much credit. The elder Mr. Darcy took quite congenially to the elder Mr. Bingley, and a friend-ship was thus born which lasted until Frederick’s death just three years later in 1809. The entire party was enamoured as young Georgiana regaled them with her account of having been snatched from the very jaws of death itself by the young man with the curls and the guileless smile, seated atop the handsomest horse in the country. It must go without saying that Charles and Fitzwilliam also found each other agreeable. Much more has, of course, been written of their friendship, and eventually of their brotherhood.

– Fin.