Summary : This story is told from a teenaged Bingley's point of view. It involves the publication of a scandalous claim about Bingley's father and how he acquired his wealth. The story gives insight into how the Bingley family became wealthy, and how Bingley's friendship with Darcy began. Happy reading!

“Son, the horse matters not at all.”

“I do not grasp your meaning.”

“It is the man who sits atop the horse,” the father spoke gently. “For he might traverse a million miles in a thousand years, and still—no matter his animal’s breeding, pace, or endurance—never outrun his own character.”

“But do men never change for the better?”

“Aye, my boy, aye,” the man said as he leaned forward, removing his pipe from his lips with his right hand and patting his son’s knee with his left. “A man may change with the ebb of time, or a man may change in a single moment, but only if his mind is open to knowledge and his heart open to hope. If he is closed off to either, he is bound to remain as he has always been.”

The young man’s shoulders slumped as he leaned back in his chair. He was seventeen by just two weeks, tall and all limbs and sinew. His eyes were the color of the sky in summer, yet at that moment they were misty and troubled—which must have vexed his father who, like nearly all who knew him, was much more accustomed to the boy’s genuine and effortless amiability, his ea-gerness to take delight in the world around him, and his guileless smile.

As Charles Bingley chewed the inside of his lip and ran fingers through his sandy curls, he watched his father puff his pipe and marvelled to himself at how people could act with such cruelty to a man possessed of such excellence. Then, he took some solace in the reckoning that his own suffering on behalf of his father was but enhanced due to the quality of the man’s character, and therefore, any slights which might be endured on account of his family’s being a member of the nouveau riche were further proof that the transgressions of envy, spitefulness, and poor breeding were not confined by class.

His mind being, to some extent, set at ease by these thoughts, the younger Bingley let out a sigh and managed a half smile. “Might I have a glass of brandy?”

“Of course, my boy,” the father replied, his eyes full of warmth. He took his son’s hand in his and added: “For you are always with me and all I have is yours.”


* * *
Surely enough, the following morning, the story had hit the presses. Eoin Walters, whose enormous estate in Northumberland had been passed down by generations since the days of Rich-ard III, had publicly accused Frederick Bingley of fraudulently securing title to a vast acreage in the Dominion of Canada. In truth, the Ontario property which had been the primary source of the elder Mr. Bingley’s spectacular rise from the steps of the debtor’s prison to the parlours of the empire’s highest society in a matter of a decade had been the subject of quiet rumour for years.
However, as Frederick assured his children a thousand times over—despite his stubborn reluctance to discuss the subject in any manner of detail—that nothing untoward had taken place in his acquisition of the land which had underpinned his rapid ascension.

“Jealousy!” he would tell his children that very morning. “Nothing more than envy!”

“And what, pray, does Mr. Eoin Walters have to envy us about?” Caroline demanded through her sniffles, her slender fingers knotted around a kerchief. At but fifteen, her features were still childlike—lower lip protruding and brow furrowed in misery as she struggled, entirely without success, to keep closed a floodgate of tears—and she was yet to fill out her uncommon height with ladylike form. Certainly, over the next year or so, she would blossom into a moderately handsome girl—the extent to which her attractiveness would be improved by the enormous dowry she possessed was another point entirely. But at present, every limb was too long, too thin, and too angular.

“Look about you,” the father said, holding an open palm toward the room around them. At that moment, the father and his three children were seated in the breakfast room of their home in Grosvenor Street, which he had purchased eight months earlier. The spread before them included bread, butter, marmalade, cold ham—which the elder Mr. Bingley greatly enjoyed with the first meal of the day—eggs, porridge, and even chocolate, all laid out in silver. Two footmen stood silent, ready to pour tea or coffee at a moment’s notice, and the family ate from porcelain dishes imported directly from China.

“I built this life. Mr. Walters can make no such claim.”

“He did not have to,” Caroline retorted. “His family is not twelve years separated from destitution.”

“And you blame me?” Frederick answered with a chortle. “You blame me for the fact that I was born on his estate to parents who tended his pigs?”

Caroline barely suppressed a gag. “Please, do not remind me!”

“As if I had the choice of circumstances into which I would be born any more than Mr. Walters had?”

“Father—” Charles began, only to be abruptly cut short by his younger sister.

“You do not understand,” she moaned. “It is difficult enough having no name, no estate, and no familial connections with which to make impressions in the Ton, but having scandal hanging over my head makes my life… insufferable!” With that, she let her silverware clatter onto the plate in front of her and pouted most ardently.

After a moment’s silence, Frederick let out a sigh and said: “What say you, Charles?”

The young Bingley shrugged, and his eyes fell to his lap for a moment. “Father, I have not a single doubt that these reports are untrue, but if you will not address them, I fear they can only serve as fodder for further rumours and escalating inuendo. And while I do not share the… magni-tude of Caroline’s feelings, I do share her concern that should the record not be set straight, so much of your toil and labour remain at risk of being undone.”

“Louisa?” the father asked, turning his attention toward his eldest child. “This report affects your prospects, perhaps, most directly. Will Mr. Hathcock’s attentions dwindle in light of this pre-posterous claptrap?”

The young lady’s eyes were resolute, and her lips slightly curled in pompous confidence. “Mr. Hathcock is a man of upstanding character,” she declared. “Far be it from him to be dissuaded by such a glaringly Banbury story as this.”

“Fine then,” Frederick answered, lowering his eyes and shifting his gaze between each of his children. “I shall not condescend to make an answer to such folly. I am not some costermonger, selling baubles on street corners.”

“But father, certainly you can—” was all Caroline managed.

“There are two things that speak loudest in this world,” Frederick interrupted, raising his voice for the first time. “The first is money; the second is character. Mr. Walters may have the for-mer, but he is devoid of the latter. And by the end of my life, children, it is my endeavor and most sincere desire that you might venerate me as a man who had both.”

“Of course, Papa,” Louisa answered.

“If men like Eoin Walters have the time on their hands to coddle a dudgeon then so be it, but I am possessed of no such luxury.”

“I do not understand your meaning, Papa,” Caroline sulked. “You may indeed have charac-ter but if you do not defend yourself against the slander of those with money, you will find your character besmirched and your accounts empty—and then what will become of us?”

The father snickered under his breath and folded his napkin once more and placed it on the table. “We will go back to what we were before we had money, my daughter.”

Caroline visibly gagged. “And what was that?—nay do not remind me.”

“Happy,” Frederick answered. “We were poor, and we were happy.”

“Poor,” Caroline muttered with disdain.

“And the pigs,” Louisa chimed in, her gaze cast askance toward the windows overlooking the alley where a stableboy passed, leading a horse behind him.

“Yes, daughter, the pigs,” Frederick answered, leaning forward and putting his left forearm on the table in front of him. “And may I remind you, that two cousins of mine and four uncles on your mother’s side—may she rest in peace—are still raising pigs to the man. Your brother some-how managed to convince me to allow him to spend a fortnight with them learning to ply the trade last year, if you recall. And if I am not mistaken, he even took part in culling the herd, or whatever a group of swine is called.”

“A drove?” the younger Bingley chimed in.

“There you have it: a drove of pigs,” Frederick sat back in his chair. “Your brother helped cull the drove. So should we be reduced to once more to poverty, at least we shall not starve.”

At this, Caroline grimaced.

“While that particular part was, albeit, not so pleasant, as one indeed can imagine, I quite enjoy country living,” the younger Bingley started.

“No one asked your opinion,” Caroline barked.

“My point is, my dear children,” Frederick continued. “The men who have had money and titles running in their families for centuries have the time to sit around and bicker and point fingers and hold grudges. But I, being possessed of no title and no guarantees of any sort, must remain industrious if I am to remain among the Ton. You would still wish it that after the new year we oc-cupy the house in Grosvenor Street, would you not?”

The two girls perked up at this. “Of course, Papa.”

“Then I must be off—to earn it,” he replied, standing from the table and bidding them all good day.

The three siblings sat in an unusual silence for more than a brief moment. The heavy quie-tude was only broken by a single word which escaped Louisa, somewhere between a sigh and a whisper: “Fraud.”

After another minute’s time, Caroline added: “Such an ugly word.”

The young Bingley answered: “It cannot be. We all know that our father is not capable of such a thing.”

“We know that he is now incapable of such a deed,” Louisa replied. “But really—what do we know about his former self?”

“We know that he fought during the American War when he was still very young,” Bingley recalled.

“And that he was thereafter stationed in Canada,” added Louisa.

“Where he worked as a timberman from the end of his commission,” her brother continued.

“He was industrious enough to save and purchase a swath of land from an Inuit chieftain.”

“From that land he began exporting lumber, bought more land, and invested in other suc-cessful business ventures.”

“Then he came back to England and married our mother, whom he had known since child-hood,” Louisa recollected.

“And here we are,” Bingley finished. “Aside from mother, of course.”

“Then that is all,” Louisa concluded, forcing a smile across her lips. “Where, pray, is the scandal?”

“It matters not what the truth is,” Caroline finally joined in. “For we are still to be pariahs in the eyes of our peers if he will not clear his name. In fact, his silence will only serve to confirm the rumours. And on a day, no less, when we shall be thrust into the public eye, only to face jeers and whispers and innuendo and what other tortures I cannot fathom.”

“A night at the Theatre Royal is hardly being thrust into the public eye,” retorted Bingley. “Unless of course you intend to make your debut on the stage,” he added, causing a chuckle be-tween him and his older sister.

“It is not a laughing matter,” Caroline declared through freshly arrived tears. “For he will be there, and if by this evening our father has not fully vindicated himself, he will undoubtedly turn his attentions elsewhere, and then the strongest of bonds between us will be shattered beyond rem-edy.”

“Pardon, but of who are we speaking?” Bingley asked, glancing at Louisa who seemed to be in on the secret already. “I did not realize my youngest sister was so closely attached to—ah!” his eyes lit up. “I had no idea you were so smitten with Mr. Richards!”

“What?” Caroline demanded, her mien turning toward indignation.

“Roger?” Bingley replied. “You danced with him at the—”

“Mr. Roger,” Caroline pronounced slowly and one syllable at a time. “Richards?”

“I dare say, he may not be the most handsome chap—”

“Ro-ger Ri-chards,” the gait of her words increased in tandem with her vexation. “That ba-con faced... with the goiter and the… the droopy eye?”
Louisa covered her mouth with her hand.

“He is a nice fellow from a good family,” Bingley remarked.

“You are quite mistaken, brother,” Louisa chimed in before Caroline truly lost her temper. “I believe our dear sister has become quite taken with Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

“Mr. Darcy?” Bingley challenged.

Caroline forced her words through clenched teeth: “We are to be married.”

“Sister, you have not yet been introduced,” Bingley pronounced with a chortle, looking toward Louisa as if he might find good sense there.
“We may not have had a formal introduction,” she began.

“We have not had any introduction,” her brother answered.

She pursed her lips and glared at him, though he cast another playful glance toward their elder sister, which was again met with merely polite recognition, before continuing on undaunted: “When the fates have ordained two hearts to be thus intertwined, no trifling protocol could dare keep them asunder.”

This time, Bingley looked to Louisa, raising his eyebrows and leaning forward as if to pray for help. In response, she lowered her eyes toward her plate and dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a napkin. It appeared that for the time being, the task of dampening their younger sis-ter’s more imaginative and potentially perilous reveries had fallen upon him alone. He thought that a rationale exposition must cut through the tumult of her sensibilities and awaken her to the veracity of her position and Mr. Darcy’s. Yes, certainly a calm invitation to reason would soothe the com-motion of her mind.

“You see, an introduction is more than mere protocol, as you would have it,” he began. “Rather, it serves the interest of propriety. A young lady must have protection against making an unbecoming acquaintance. And for the gentleman—well, first of course, it allows for the preserva-tion of rank—”

“Oh!” Caroline cried, slamming her napkin on her plate, the clattering of which caused Bingley a small startle, and leaving the table—causing her brother to instinctively rise from his seat, whilst the word “insufferable” was muttered under her breath as she quit the room.

“Brother,” Louisa said with a smile. “You know we have seen Mr. Darcy from afar many times.”

“I concede, we have,” he replied, taking his seat once again. “And yet, as we must all be aware, that is quite a different thing from being introduced.”

“Our dear sister has taken quite a shine to him.”

“And no doubt the ten thousand a year he stands to inherit.”

“Brother,” Louisa chided. “Do not be unkind. Caroline is nearly sixteen and fancies herself in love. This dreadful rumour is, to her mind, the end of her hopes and dreams. We must be gentle with her.”

“Of course,” Bingley answered, eyes cast toward his hands. “But I remind you she is not yet sixteen, which is quite young. And on top of it, she was only presented at court because of your engagement to—” He quit when he saw Louisa’s expression contort. “My apologies, dear sister,” he said kindly.

“It is quite all right,” she answered, dabbing now at her eyes with her kerchief.

“Mr. Coombes was the best of men,” Bingley consoled. “And gone far, far too soon.”

Louisa forced a smile. “I agree,” she said softly. “But grief is an unavoidable consequence of living… and Mr. Hathcock is a fine man, himself.”
“Yes,” her brother agreed. “He is a most agreeable gentleman.”

Louisa sniffled a time or two and then rose suddenly, which again caused Bingley to stand. “If you will excuse me, brother,” she said. He nodded and bowed slightly as she went.

When she was out of sight, he plopped down in the chair in precisely the manner of a man of seventeen who was easily exhausted by gossip and rumours and silly younger sisters who fan-cied themselves already yoked to wealthy gentlemen to whom they had not yet been introduced.
“Wilshere,” he called to the footman. “Would you have Jensen make apple pudding for this evening? Be sure to tell him it was I who asked.”

“Of course, sir,” Wilshere answered.

The young Bingley drew in a deep breath through his nose and let it out slowly through pursed lips. As much as he wished not to dwell on the subject, the business with Mr. Eoin Walters could indeed have a drastic impact on his family’s reputation, and that evening at the opera would provide the occasion for the family to gauge how much stock their peers had put into such reports.

“And Wilshere,” he began while standing to his feet. “Have my horse readied. I believe some time out of doors would do me much good this morning.”

“Fine, sir,” the footman replied while the young master quit the room.


* * *
The sun shone brilliantly through a scattering of woolly clouds, the undersides of which were smeared with lavenders and azures as if Abraham Pether had erected a scaffold the size of the Tower of Babel and plied his trade on the sky itself. A dusting of snow—and not more than a dust-ing—blanketed the tree limbs and rooftops in all directions and the air left Bingley’s mouth in a plume of smoke. He rode a Cleveland Bay with a small white star just above its elbow down Grosvenor Street in the direction of Hyde Park at a leisurely pace.

That evening would see the debut of We Fly by Night, a play by George Colman the Younger at Covent Garden which had not been yet ravaged by the fire which would, mere months before the Treaty of Dardanelles was concluded between Britain and France, consume not only Handel’s organ but also the lives of more than a dozen Londoners and many more taken to hospi-tal, as described in the words of John Feltham, “most miserably mangled and burnt.” Bingley was, naturally, unaware of the theater’s eventual fate. His mind was at that moment consumed with the tenuous position into which his family had been thrust by the likes of men with power and fortune enough that whatever modest gains the Bingleys might make would not put them out in the least. Whilst it was certainly true that he was accustomed to the finest of everything the axis of empire had to offer, Bingley was sure that he would have been equally contented with a modest country house and a coven of steadfast friends. Thus, as his walk penetrated the deep interior of the park, far more forcefully than he feared the loss of his own status in society, he dreaded the prospect of his father’s being the subject of ridicule by men far more deserving of it themselves.

Just then, the young man was roused from the recesses of his introspection by the sudden and startling shriek of a woman. Bingley looked up to see a fair-headed child of eight or ten knelt down in the middle of the path. Beyond her was the child’s governess, shouting and flailing her arms. Behind him and over his right shoulder was instantly heard a violent beating of hooves. Without so much as thinking, he flung his own horse into the path of the oncoming equine and up-on impact was himself flung to the ground. At that moment, the girl looked up and, eyes full of panic, made the effort to scream but no sound left her. The loose horse had been, by its collision with the mounted Bingley, diverted into the brush just long enough to avert catastrophe before cor-recting course and continuing unbridled down the lane. Bingley and the girl locked eyes from the ground, both breathless, though for reasons altogether different.

A moment before her discomposed governess reached her, the girl asked: “Are you all right, sir?”

He smiled meekly, doing his best to assure her of what he was not yet convinced: “I am quite fine, I assure you.”

“You saved me, sir,” she answered, her eyes bright with gratitude. “I must have your name.”

“Bingley,” he replied with a slight grimace.

“Come now, come now!” the governess castigated, gathering the child, and unceremoniously lifting her by the underarms. “Look at you—all covered in filth and could have nearly been killed! What wrath you would endure should your father or your brother behold you in such a state!”
Bingley watched from the dirt as the girl was whipped around and forced off in the same direction to which the loose horse escaped.

Yet, over her shoulder, the child called: “I thank you, Mr. Bingley—I thank you!” He waved and lowered his head instinctually, and in a moment’s time she was gone. After another moment he propped himself up to a seated position and took account of himself—nothing broken. His horse, who was perfectly unhurt, watched the man with curiosity as he eventually rose to his feet and dusted himself off. Though Bingley would wake the following morning with mild bruises and aches, the truth was that had he been much more than seventeen, he would have most assuredly suffered more than the momentary deprivation of his wind.

* * *
The Bingleys arrived at Covent Garden that evening in their town coach, which was no older than eight months from the date of its manufacture. The ride had not been long, though it had been tense. Louisa was uncharacteristically sullen, though the young Bingley had hardly noticed. He was, himself, grappling with something of a bout with melancholy. Caroline, for her part, was a cottage pie of nervous excitement at the thought of meeting with Mr. Darcy and saturnine churlish-ness at the fact that her father sat silent across from her, yet to address in any public manner the very public accusations against him. There, Frederick Bingley sat, his gaze directed out the window at the city as it passed, his mind elsewhere altogether.

He would never be accused of being an enthusiastic theatre patron, yet he had made it a habit to attend regularly during the several years since he had begun to amass his fortune. For the elder Bingley, the theatre was a means to an end—an apparatus by which old faces might become accustomed to new ones over time. Ultimately, Frederick took very little pleasure in the screeching of a soprano or the morbid pageantry of Don Giovanni. What diversion, if any, was to be cultivat-ed there, came at the opportunity to forge new connections in the upper echelons of society. And more than these connections, even, was the notion of his—of their—acceptance among such con-nections. Thus, it would have been a shock to his children that his thoughts were not preoccupied during that short journey, with what whispers were at that moment making their pernicious journey around the Ton, but rather, that his mind was much more agreeably engaged.

When they arrived, the footman opened the door and Louisa emerged first, her chin held high, and her lips pursed in her best impression of dignified nonchalance. The eldest sister was fol-lowed by Caroline, Frederick, and finally Charles. The young Bingleys glanced about eagerly, but not too eagerly as might make them appear anxious. They were however, observing—or perhaps imagining—disapproving stares from every direction. The Bingley patriarch merely tapped a fine layer of snow from his shoes with his cane as he stepped onto the carpeted stairway toward the entrance. His children followed behind him, the inner monologues of all three echoing the memory-seared instructions of their governess to keep their heads aloft and their shoulders back as they went.

Once inside, and to their most pleasant surprise, the opening act of the night progressed quite uneventfully. There were no sneers, no condescending critiques, no rotten fruit thrown in their direction. In fact, the siblings found themselves much relieved to sit in a room that seemingly hummed with anticipation of the performance, rather than any furor to confirm the ruination of a family. It was certain they had not met with several of their more regular theatre companions, but after all, it was a bitterly cold night and a good number of acquaintances had recently been affected by a variety of maladies from trifling coughs to ailments of a more grievous nature. Still, their spir-its were buoyed by the seemingly typical greetings and genteel interactions they experienced among those friends with whom they did meet. Caroline was particularly encouraged by this, and her mood was heartened quite cheerfully on the observation of the father and son taking their places in the Darcy box.

Louisa had, with some sanguine expectancy, hoped to meet with Mr. Hathcock, as his family were regularly in attendance at most premieres. On this occasion, however, she observed only his mother and father in their typical places. Though she would not at that moment have con-fessed it, her suitor’s absence did cause her more vexation than it might have on a more typical evening. This evening, however, Mr. Hathcock’s company, his cavalier smile and his whispers in her ear which too often made the blood run to her cheeks, would have assured her that his affections toward her remained unchanged, and therefore that her life remained intact.

After the performance, it was the family’s custom to linger. This tradition had begun with their father’s wishes to be seen by as many of the wealthy and powerful as possible on a single night. It had more recently become a thoroughly anticipated opportunity for the Bingley children to mingle with friends and hope for introductions to strangers. Caroline, particularly, hoped that this evening’s loitering might finally provide an introduction to the young man who had for months consumed her imagination and—as she would put it—her heart.

Once the curtain fell and the applause died to a murmur and much of the audience had relo-cated out into the foyer, the Bingleys followed suit. The elder Bingley did not seem to notice that no one went out of their way to converse with him. The younger Bingley did not seem to notice either, as he had been greeted from several rows behind by his acquaintance, James Garfield. Once the young Mr. Garfield had caught up to him in the aisle, the two talked of everything and nothing, prattling away about the Garfields’ upcoming holiday to Naples, Bingley’s effervescent desire to see the city, and naturally, as two teenaged boys would, the exotic allure of Italian ladies.

In the lobby, the crowd mulled about—many wisely choosing to remain indoors while they awaited the arrival of their carriages. Thus, there was something of an impasse which resulted in bumped shoulders and “pardon me’s,” and polite nods of acknowledgement. Frederick had finally been pulled into a conversation, albeit a slightly one-sided one. Mr. Rupert Edwards, who was physically quite sprightly for eighty-two, had through his thick spectacles, recognized the elder Bingley from their social club, and begun to speak in a steady stream of incoherence, only pausing ever so briefly to suck enough air into his lungs to continue on. The topics covered by the elderly gentleman in rapid succession ranged from the hatching of turtle eggs on the shores near his home in Ramsgate, to the Emperor Napoleon’s favorite meals and the unfortunate passing of his own late wife and back again. Frederick Bingley struggled to get a word in—either to initiate a subject change or simply to achieve a measure of clarification—but remained genteel and treated Mr. Ed-wards with the utmost respect.

There was, at one moment, a group of five or six people, all perhaps ten or so years the Bingley father’s younger, who at one point drew all their heads together suddenly and then in unison shot a glance in the family’s direction. Once it was clear that they had been noticed by the objects of their interest, the party quickly diverted their eyes either toward the ceiling or the floor, though it was obvious to at least Charles and Louisa that their conversation continued on, quieter, yet unabashed. When suddenly, something of a piercing commotion arose down the hall in the op-posite direction. Charles craned his neck to observe at a better angle and was immediately horrified to behold his sister, Caroline, standing at a distance of perhaps forty feet from him, but only four feet from the younger Mr. Darcy. A small crowd had converged around the handsome young aris-tocrat—as it often did—and the youngest Bingley sister could be viewed tossing her head back in an exaggerated and excruciatingly overt attempt to draw his attention upon her.

“Oh, dear,” Charles muttered, taking his eldest sister’s elbow and directing her attention toward the impending debacle.

At once, the pair of elder siblings made their way through the crowd, both of them straining to ascertain how the object of Caroline’s attention might react to her glaring faux pas—whether he looked upon her in haughty amusement or, even worse, outright disdain. Worse yet, they feared, he would come to know her name and realize her connection to the scandal swirling about in the ether over their heads. The nearer they approached, the more it became apparent that their younger sister paid no attention to the content of the conversation, but rather, that she was fiercely determined on-ly to find that every pronouncement from the young Darcy’s mouth was the most humorous utter-ance ever to emerge from human lips. Though they could not yet discern the topic of the conversa-tion of the group, the young Bingley and his older sister were positive that Caroline’s response was far out of character—and volume—for the nature of the dialogue.

“Darcy,” one young man was heard to say. “Will your father take you on holiday to Rome again next month?”

“Undoubtedly,” the young Darcy answered, a small smirk creeping across his lips. “Do you mean to ask him for permission to stow away in his trunks?”

The young man, and those amongst him possessed with more appropriate decorum, looked back and forth and managed smiles and chuckles between them. That is, until their attention was drawn back by Caroline’s abrupt and boisterous cackle.

“Oh, Mr. Dar-cy,” she exclaimed. “You are ever so clever!”

Darcy looked askance and his brow narrowed. “Why, thank you. And pray, may I–” he began before being halted by Caroline’s next pronouncement.

“In his trunks, no less!”

The group of young patricians now smirked and spoke to their neighbors in whispers with mouths obscured by gloved hands. Bingley had inadvertently left Louisa behind in his haste to draw nearer to his younger sister, hoping to divert her away without further incident or embar-rassment.

He was but an arm’s length away when she roared: “And where, pray, would your father keep his breeches?”

To the young Bingley, the mere seconds between the utterance of that ridiculous phrase, followed instantly by another bellow of aggrandized laughter from his sister’s diaphragm, and his reaching her, seemed like half a lifetime. If he had thought the performance that evening was dread-fully prolonged, he felt in that briefest of moments as if he could have sat through it three times more and still not closed the distance between them. Had he been queried later that week—or later that night, even—upon how many thoughts had rushed through his mind in that urgent passing of but a few beats of the heart, he likely would have answered that he could not recall. The truth was, however, that a crashing sea of ideas battered his mind in that short interval between the utmost chaos and any attempt at curbing whatever injury might yet occur on account of Caroline’s thoughtless escapade. During those brief seconds, he could not help but ponder how materially the credit of his young and senseless sister would be damaged by such impropriety of conduct. Then, in the midst of the quiet sneers and vain smirks, he reached her at last.

“Pardon,” he panted, taking her by the forearm with a firm hand.

Then, as if there was nothing left which could mortify him, she tore herself away from his grasp theatrically, her long arms flailing about over her head, and then she glared at him as if he had somehow breached decorum. Though, at most only ten observers had witnessed this act of re-calcitrance, Bingley felt a thousand pairs of eyes boring deep beyond his well-trained manner and deep into his innermost vulnerabilities. Over the pulsing of blood in his ears, he thought he heard a lady’s voice remark: “Obstinate, headstrong girl.” It was all too much.

“A thousand apologies,” he muttered to the onlookers, his throat seemingly closing after the words left it. Then, turning to Caroline he nearly begged: “Sister, please.”

“Thank goodness we have found a brother,” a redhaired gentleman announced in a tenor laced with scorn. “I thought for a moment we might have a slighted suitor ready to sport his canvas on account of Darcy, here!”

A surge of laughter burst forth and Bingley felt sick as a cushion.

“Good news, Darcy!” a pockmarked and buttery young man exclaimed. “This tempting armful may still be yours!”

At this, the small gathering erupted again, and through his distress Bingley keenly observed a haughty smile curl on Darcy’s lips as he glanced about the group. The young Bingley felt the colour rising hot in his face and wanted nothing more than to toss Caroline over his shoulder and leave the place—and perhaps England—at a gallop, when just then, and to his utter disbelief, his plight worsened considerably more:
“Mr. Hathcock?”

With Caroline on his left, Bingley’s head now spun to see Louisa on his right.

“What are you doing here?” she queried with an uncharacteristic and genuine naivety.

Immediately, Bingley realized that standing silently next to Mr. Darcy the entire time was Louisa’s suitor, Mr. Hathcock. In the din of his attempt to rescue Caroline, and his family entirely, he had failed to see the man his sister had hoped to marry right in their midst. Mr. Hathcock looked briefly to Louis, then to Bingley. His dark eyes flickered in the candlelight, and it was at first diffi-cult at first to distinguish whether they revealed contrition or conceit. It was the next subtle altera-tion in his expression which, to Bingley’s dismay, revealed not the least bit of shame. Instead, Mr. Hathcock briefly bit the tip of his tongue and then looked toward Darcy, who looked back at him, hoping perhaps for some remark which would elucidate the fog of confusion which had now descended yet again.

“Will you be so kind as to introduce us?” Darcy asked with a chuckle.

Mr. Hathcock smiled broadly, that winsome smile which had allowed Louisa to begin to hope of a future during a night of the soul where daybreak once seemed impossible. She smiled back, guileless and sanguine, utterly unaware of the drastic change in fortune which would mo-mentarily overtake her. Her suitor leaned in and titled his head toward her.

“Have I made your acquaintance?” Hathcock inquired, his tone so curt and lacking in civili-ty that there should have been no mistaking his intention.

Louisa’s laugh, however, was an amalgam of surprise, nerves, and an artless confidence that he was playing some sort of game. “Mr. Hathcock, it is I—” With that, the breath caught in her chest and the realization dawned on her that all was not as she had hoped. For an ever so brief in-stant, a hint of penitence crossed his face as he witnessed the betrayal in her eyes. However, it was gone just as quickly as it had arrived, and he straightened up and looked back to Darcy. Hathcock shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, and pursed his lips. Darcy turned away without so much as a bow.

“Mr. Hathcock,” Caroline now interjected, further illuminating her own naivete. “Have you gone mad? It is Louisa,” she called as he took the slightest of bows and turned off to follow Darcy. The rest of the onlookers cast their final disparaging glares before they, too, were off down the hall and melded back into what crowd remained.

“I am utterly befogged,” Caroline declared. “Are you not confused?” she asked, with far more cheer than was appropriate. She then turned toward her sister for the first time. What she ob-served when her eyes fell upon Louisa would stay with Caroline for the rest of her life. White as a sheet, Louisa’s lips were mashed shut and yet quivering; a veritable river of tears racing down her cheeks in an uninterrupted stream. “Oh, Louisa,” Caroline groaned, as the meaning of that final spectacle finally dawned upon her.

Their brother, who had been frozen between them, looked to his eldest sister as well. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, which to his surprise caused her to recoil. She looked at him, her eyes suddenly wide and full of fear. “Let us find Papa,” was all she said as she turned back in the direction from which they had come.

The four Bingleys rode back to the house in Grosvenor Street in silence—the children in bewildered grief and the father in blissful ignorance. He was only happy to have finally escaped the endless ruminations of old Mr. Edwards. (continued . . .)

* * *
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.