like oil and water

[Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy]

Tag: Mr. Charles Bingley

T'wasn't often that Darcy was given the opportunity to truly relax, or indulge in the things he enjoyed purely for the sake of enjoyment. Even riding on occasion became something of a chore, something which caused the gentleman no small amount of consternation. Horses and riding were his absolute first love, should he have any, and what few things Darcy exhibited true passion for, he exhibited true passion for.

The morning air was frigid but not entirely unpleasant, though still cold enough so that his breath and that of his mare, Isabeau, misted out in front of them with every exhalation of oxygen. The air was still something of a fine mist about them, but so too was the sun beginning to battle it's way through to shine on the landscape...it would undoubtably be a beautiful day. And even should the society be absolutely tiresome, and more often than not, he found himself incapable of being alone lest Caroline find a way to track him down in that cursed manner of women - speaking of things that left him truly unable to relax... - Darcy could not fault Netherfield, nor Hertfordshire for it's rustic country appeal. T'was not Derbyshire, and it had little of his love compared to the affection he felt for beloved Pemberley, but still...it was a small thing in a long list of things he found himself utterly wretched at dealing with.

T'wasn't the riding itself he found tiresome, he concluded. T'wasn't that at all. It was the fact that he had to ride to places to conduct this business. Or see that person. It was that which was tiring, not the riding. He gained too much joy from it for it to be as such. The wind in his hair, even in his hat. The scent of horse and crushed grass underfoot. The beat of hooves almost perfectly in sync with his rapidly beating heart. The absolute willingness, the spirit, the terrifying power of the creature as it strode out underneath him, as eager as he to be gone and yet more steadfast, more reliable than many a human he had met...many a woman he'd met, at that.

Cruel as it was to think as such, Darcy truly believed his favorite mount to hold more sway over him and better control over her graces than many a woman he'd met. It was why he had chosen her in the first place, he a stripling eighteen year old and she a yearling filly, when many a man preferred the impetuous nature of the stallion -- Isabeau, so aptly named as he'd ensured she would be after a favorite story character, had just the right amount of spirit when her blood was up to be a challenge of the most joyous kind...and yet otherwise, she was as reliable and as loyal as any dog he'd ever known. She'd yet to fail him, nor betray him as a stallion might. He would even sit Georgiana upon her if and when he must, so great was his trust in her. Even on her foulest of days, he loved his favorite horse dearly.

As if to test the validity of such a point, Isabeau whuffled and nosed against the clean folds of her master's coat, and Darcy both winced and stifled a chuckle at the pressure of warm, carroty breath against his ear, stirring the errant curls there. Even here on the path between stable and manor, awaiting Charles to join him, he still remembered propriety (the stable hands and the ostlers were about somewhere, no doubt), though it did not stop him turning to rub a hand still ungloved against her neck with undisguised affection, fingers warmed underneath the thick black mane, tangling gently in it.

"Easy, my gallant love," the usually stoic man murmured, though with a little amusement, "He will join us in due course."

[MR CHARLES BINGLEY]

Bingley was fond of Darcy, and the two were closer to each other than they were to any other men. It was possible that he knew things about Darcy that no one else did, as he was something of an enigma to people that he did not already know, and he didn't seem to greatly desire getting to know anyone else. For a man who was open and unaffected, he appreciated that, to him at least, Darcy spoke with honesty and precision when he did speak. Bingley knew that he could trust Darcy to say what he needed to say without affectation. He knew Darcy had his best interests at heart. He also could be contented to sit with Darcy in companionable silence – though sometimes that meant Darcy being in silence while Bingley chattered on unthinkingly.

That said, even though many other people in Hertfordshire might have seen Darcy as cold and aloof, Bingley could see things that other people might not. He knew that Darcy was perfectly capable of affection. He'd seen his friend with Georgiana, and with his horses. When he felt creatures were worthy of affection, he cared for them with extravagant generosity.

He observed this as he approached Darcy with his own mount. “Darcy!” he greeted cheerfully. “A very good morning to you.” He smiled as he watched Darcy and Isabeau rubbed each other affectionately. “Please do forgive my tardiness.” He wasn't really that late; Darcy had a tendency to be early to things, that was all. Though it was true that in his willingness to rush from one thing to another, instead of being early, Bingley was instead late because he had too many things running through his mind at once. Well, so it was; Darcy was surely accustomed to it by now. “It seems you weren't too lonely in my absence, at least.” He gave a slight smile, admiring his friend's mare for a moment fondly.

As much as Bingley enjoyed his morning rides every morning, he did not enjoy them necessarily for the solitude, and he was glad to have Darcy join him for the company. “Caroline insisted that we breakfast together, and we spoke for a while about Miss Bennet,” he quipped, perfectly innocently, as he led his horse, groomed and saddled by Jonny naturally, out of the stable and into the light. He mounted, swinging into the saddle easily and settling. “I am happy to say that she has improved, and Caroline thinks that she might be able to go home soon – not that we would want her to leave, of course, especially sooner than necessary.”

His brows furrowed and he blinked as he spoke of this, looking slightly disconcerted. He nudged his horse's sides with his heels gently, heading towards the green fields by the river that he loved so. “What do you think of having a ball here at Netherfield, when she is well again? Darcy?” He glanced at his friend, expecting an answer, even though he had scarcely stopped for a moment to breathe so that Darcy could speak. Sometimes the man remained quiet and Bingley would just prattle on happily, though he was also capable of being quiet himself, especially when Darcy and Caroline got to talking.

[Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy]

"Do I not always?"

Darcy's tone was level, almost cool in the response he gave to Bingley's apology. That was, of course, to the unknowing or the prejudiced eye. For if one looked at the gleam in the older gentleman's eyes, the slight twitch in the right hand corner of his mouth, they would find that he was more or less amused by his exuberant friend, and quite possibly even teasing him. Nay, he was teasing him, for the gleam was nothing short of mischievous even in it's dimness and perfectly naturally so -- as sure a sign of Darcy's sense of comfort at the present as the way in which he easily mounted Isabeau and followed after Bingley and his gray, content to let the red head lead the way on their ride.

For now, anyway. There'd likely be some tussle for authority later on during the ride, most likely in the form of a playful competition, a race or something or other. Particularly if the flats alongside the river was where they were headed, which even in the clearing mist, Darcy surmised as the way in which they were indeed headed. Men could still be boys, after all, even gentlemen of high standing. They merely needed the incentive to be so.

As was often the way, Darcy gave Isabeau a loose rein so that she could walk alongside Bingley's horse, and listened quietly as Bingley prattled on, flitting to this topic and that in a way that was entirely his own and somehow, in ways Darcy himself actually struggled to fathom at times, without annoying the broodier Master of Pemberley. He was more inclined to express himself through actions rather than words lest the topic at hand require him to actually respond, and he did so, grimacing in half-sympathy at the mention of Caroline for a start, glad he had left earlier this morn. so as to avoid such an encounter. It was not that he loathed the woman, it was just...that...well, there was superior breeding. And then there was the illusion of it. And more often than not, Fitzwilliam was left biting his tongue by the tip of it's gentlemanly coattails even when he did agree with what Charles's sister had to say on any given topic.

Never mind the occasions she managed to find him alone. Regardless of it was simply a feminine instinct or not, that might have downright scared him if he'd been a man less in control of his emotions and flights of fancy.

Isabeau shucked her head as the sound of the river coursing assailed her ears. The movement was not done in misdemeanour, but it was enough to take Darcy from his musings and back to the conversation at hand -- just in time to catch mention of a certain Miss Bennet, going home, Caroline, mention of a ball...and what he swore was a certain best friend's ears turning pink underneath his hat.

He'd had a feeling there'd been more to it than a willingness to simply ride with his friend.

Oh Charles.

Darcy stayed quiet for a moment, fingers fidgeting through and over and under his reins as he considered his thoughts. On one hand, he did not wish to wound his friend. Certainly not before their ride had even begun; they did not get time enough to simply relax these present days, which was ironic, considering they were in the country. But at the same time, he knew Charles far, far too well. He knew his disposition -- the man's propensity for befriending every fop and vagabond that came his way was the least of Darcy's worries, to be honest. And while Miss Jane Bennet was indeed a sweet-seeming girl...well, colour him a cynic, but it still made Darcy uncomfortable. After all, the sweetness of an apple on the surface did not always guarantee the sweetness of it underneath. There was a reason apples were oft. referred to as tart...Caroline was a perfect example of that.

Even if Miss Bennet was the sister to a pair of very fine eyes. Very fine eyes that had refused to dance with him and yet, far from insult him, had merely piqued his intrigue. Fine eyes that had appraised him fearlessly, which was no mean feat.

Confound it, Fitzwilliam, pull yourself together. Think of Georgiana, for goddsakes.

Pushing aside stubbornly -- savagely even -- all thoughts of fine eyes and long, dark eyelashes against rosy cheeks, Darcy shifted in the saddle, doing his best to look as natural as possible without making it too obvious. Another moment of consideration before he eyed his friend, and he decided on a wry response, the tone of his voice dryly playful. Low and safe, even if such teasing was likely not the response Charles was after.

"I would think it to be a marvellous idea, if you would be so kind as to conveniently pick a night where I too may be as conveniently ill as Miss Bennet has been and therefore unable to attend lest I spread and splutter disease amongst the masses."

[MR CHARLES BINGLEY]

“It couldn't be helped!” Bingley defended himself, but he knew that he was forgiven, and he chuckled as he noticed the gleam of amusement in his friend's dark eyes. Even Darcy knew how impossible it was to say no to Caroline. Darcy was just better at avoiding her, as he was not a blood relation, aside from the fact that Darcy tended to find better ways to hide.

He sighed. At least they were away from her for the moment. Not that he minded being around her all the time, but sometimes... it was nice to get a respite.

It was tranquil as the morning mist began to evaporate, the two friends' horses walking abreast of each other along the river bank. Soon, as Bingley chattered, they heard the chattering of the river along the rocks and banks. His mount began to toss its head, aching for a run. As the horses picked their way along the even path in the grass, Bingley glanced over at Darcy, who was characteristically silent. It was not quite so characteristic for him to be fidgety, however. Bingley licked his lips as he searched his friend's face for some indication of what he was thinking.

Darcy shifted and Bingley glanced forward again. His brows furrowed in confusion and then frustration as Darcy spoke. Darcy didn't want to get sick to protect other people, but himself! "Darcy! How can you be so unfeeling?" his friend scolded lightly. Affronted by this perceived insult to Miss Bennet, it did not occur to Bingley that Darcy might not have implied that he wanted to be conveniently ill like Miss Bennet, only that he wished to be ill like Miss Benet at a time that was convenient to avoid the ball.

"Miss Bennet was not conveniently ill. Headcolds are horrific, the poor creature. You have not seen her as I have." Bingley had sat dutifully by Miss Bennet's bedside, sometimes chattering away, blissfully ignorant of her exhaustion, thinking that his presence might raise her spirits - or at least knowing that it would raise his - and othertimes he had observed in quiet worry as her sister had attended to her.

He supposed Darcy had somewhat less reason to take a personal interest in Miss Bennet's health than Bingley did. Not that anyone couldn't see how beautiful and kind Miss Bennet was, of course. But whatever Darcy might be saying about Miss Bennet, he was further bothered by Darcy's fussing about the ball. Bingley huffed. "Whatever your excuse is, I care not. I have friends enough to entertain, and I shan't have you spoiling everyone else's charming evening!"

Nudging his horse's sides, he urged the creature onward. They had raced along the river before, and it would be just the thing to cheer him up. Sometimes Bingley could be quickly bothered by Darcy, but he returned to his cheerful self just as quickly. “But if I reach the bend in the river first, you must come!” he called over his shoulder.

[Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy]

If Darcy had been of a more open disposition, less concerned as he genuinely was for what he felt was unfolding, he would have laughed outright. Or in the least snickered, as ungentlemanly as that was. He definitely smirked a little, the motion habitually crinkling his bridged nose in that slight fashion that he'd never lest from boyhood and was his and his habit alone. It was a little mean, yes, but in that same way he did with Georgiana, he could not help it. Elder brothers were the worst kind of playful bully; their greatest enjoyment was watching their proverbial prey rise to the bait.

And as always, Charles did magnificiently.

"Yes, but none are me," he retorted lightly, brows raising dubiously at the mention that Charles indeed did have many other friends to entertain. Who -- Sir William Lucas? Bah, what did it matter, and Darcy rolled his eyes under his hat at the continued scolding he recieved and the absolute transparency of it -- as if he didn't know what troublesome things head colds were. Troublesome, most certainly, and that was all -- Charles was being downright dramatic now, and it was all the darker gentleman could do to bite the inside of his cheek and not do more to rile his friend up. Best to put him out of his misery now, before he exhausted himself--

"I was going to s--"

Darcy cut off, blinking in surprise at the challenge issued. He'd been expecting it, just...not so soon. And especially with such a...prize? involved. Prize for Charles perhaps. Regardless, Darcy was almost physically incapable of saying no to the challenge, and even if he hadn't been so, Isabeau made certain in her jibbing movements underneath him that there would be consequences of the most hellish kind to pay if the competition was not met with ardour.

Thus, without a word bar a very obviously affected look of whithering hauteur, Darcy squeezed his thighs hard so that his mount would spring forth from walk to canter direct, and so roused was his playfulness and competitive spirit that the elder man took a moment mid-racing past his friend to push at him as playfully in the side. Not enough for him to ever fall -- of course not, he'd never do such a thing! -- but most certainly to provoke him on

[MR CHARLES BINGLEY]

Other than a huff, Charles had no suitable comeback when Darcy replied that none of Bingley's other friends were him. “That was the point,” he declared. Unfortunately, Bingley was capable only of l'espirit de l'escalier, staircase wit; he never thought of funny responses until it was too late, on most occasions. However, if he had been able to think of it at the moment, he would have told Darcy that it was fortunate that none of his other friends were like Darcy! Of course, he did not think he was quite cruel enough to say such a thing to Darcy. Perhaps that was why the man was so proud – Bingley was uncertain if anyone ever teased him.

The man was not all solemnity and sobriety, however – Charles saw the evidence of this when Darcy gave him a nudge while riding by, eliciting a cry of surprise. How dare he! That was rather dangerous. ...and rather suited to motivate him to race harder.

Bingley's expression hardened into one even more resolved, after the initial surprise of getting shoved, of course, and he spurred his mount on. “Unsportsmanlike!” he cried. He was not too greatly irritated, but there was something at stake here, and he was a little irritated with Darcy for being so... so tiresome sometimes! There were few things that could wear on Bingley's nearly-boundless energy, but he hated it when he was having a pleasant time at a ball and Darcy's dour expression and cynical comments made him feel like he was doing something wrong just for enjoying himself. Perhaps it would have been wiser not to insist that Darcy attend a ball at Netherfield, but in spite of Bingley's former comment about having other friends, it was true, none of them were like Darcy. The ball would be different if his most intimate friend wasn't there. Maybe better, but! Different nonetheless.

Darcy lived to provoke him, he sometimes believed, and was quite successful at it; Bingley had no idea how well he was suited for such a purpose, how easily his friend could take advantage of it. But Bingley would get him back now. This was the good-natured, sweet-tempered, long-suffering man's way of working out any frustration he might have and getting over it. Sure enough, when the reached the bend in the river, he felt at ease again. And that had nothing to do with whether or not he won; Bingley was not an especially competitive man. He didn't care a whit whether he beat Darcy in a race... well, maybe a little, but that was beside the point. He wasn't ever angry if Darcy won. The joy was in the ride itself. Breathless, he took off his hat, fanning himself with it as his mount slowed to a trot and then a walk. “You don't have to come, if you don't want,” he acquiesced, glancing to his friend with a sympathetic expression. “I do so hate to see you unhappy, and it wasn't a fair race, after all; I had a head start.”

[Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy]

Darcy's dark chuckle was lost on the wind at Bingley's outraged cry, for at that moment did Isabeau find her wind and throw them into full throat. Any thoughts too of what one might find irksome or resentful about the other were in fact far from his mind -- all thoughts upon the race at hand and the steady drumbeat of hooves underneath him, the pounding of his heart. He was slightly more competitive than Charles -- okay, a lot more competitive -- but even he, for the moment, could do little more than enjoy the ride and the thrill of the chase.

It had been far too long.

Though he most certainly might have won if he'd willed it hard enough (for Isabeau was swifter than quicksilver at dawn when so pushed, the swiftest horse he'd ever known, and he'd ridden many a mare and stallion at this age), he did not particularly wish to wind Isabeau before the ride was even half through. Nor was Bingley's elegant grey to be discounted by any stretch, for while an experienced horseman often found greys to lack heart in the thick of the moment, Darcy rather found himself often amused and impressed in different turns by the docile creature. Docile, but with Isabeau about, he rather seemed to find the fire in his belly.

As such, when they came to the bend, the horses were matched stride for stride; it was entirely a draw. Even if Isabeau was doing her best to stretch her nose out to a quarter length, and it took Darcy several more strides to pull her up. She quieted eventually, though, and after a half circle of turn, they were back at Bingley's side. Fit as they were, both horses barely seemed blown, though even Darcy's quite fit state was not enough to stop him panting a little, though his mouth twitched as he regarded Charles for a long moment, the light in his eyes still bright with the exertion and the thrill of the chase in that timeless manner of mankind.

His brow drew a little at those words, though. The sympathetic expression, too, for he did not like sympathy, though he knew on Charles it was nowhere even closely related to pity. His younger friend might not understand why he was so ill at ease in company, might grow frustrated on occasion with his tendency to avoid furthering acquaintance, even snap a little at his heels somewhat more rarely if his ire was truly up...but he was still giving him an opening. An escape clause.

It made him feel quite guilty. So often did he like to play the protector, the all-knowing one...and if he truly wanted to play on his streak of self-recrimination so carefully hidden from the world, then he would admit to himself he was somewhat failing as a friend. He was the more experienced one, he was the one he felt should know better...and for all his dour looks and dislike of the common crowd, he knew that this business of hosting such a large gathering on his own merits, in his own new estate, was not something his younger friend was a million times blessed with the experience of.

The least he could do, Darcy thought with a sigh, was deal with his inhibitions for Charles.

"You had better set yourself a date quickly, then," he said ruefully, nudging Isabeau once more into a walk. "Caroline will have your hide as a new display in the foyer if you don't give her the time to prepare." He paused again, before adding with a sigh as rueful as his tone, but a sigh that was acquiesing nonetheless. Not quite a direct promise to come, but from Darcy, it was the same thing.

"I must return to London for several days in the coming week, but I shall endeavour to be back by the 23rd."

[MR CHARLES BINGLEY]

Pulling up on the reins, Charles let his horse slow gradually, not too abruptly, and after the race, which had come to a draw, they could amble along the side of the river at a more comfortable pace. Though he was flushed from the pleasant sting of the wind on his cheeks, no one seemed too winded, and they could continue the remainder of their ride in no discomfort. The ride was, however, made more comfortable knowing that Darcy had more or less assented to attend the ball. There would be no more discontent on that point.

London. The place had long been dear to him, but now he had no desire to go there, not when he had a ball to plan and look forward to, and a certain young lady to invite to aforementioned dance, where he was sure to dance merrily with her once more. “As soon as you return,” he decided, so that the man would not be able to change his mind about the decision to attend – which Bingley believed Darcy had made in the affirmative. “Say... the 25th or 26th?” It would give Darcy enough time to recover from his journey, should that be necessary (he would never admit that it was), or give him a one- or two-day grace period, in the event that he needed it.

He knew that Darcy probably did not want to talk any more about the ball, since he did not seem particularly elated about it (but at least he was not indignant enough to refuse outright!), so he said no more about it, except to offer as incentive, “Nicholls' white soup will be superb, I am certain,” before riding on in companionable silence. The river babbled on quietly beside them and there were birds chirping in the early morning as the mist began to lift. It was glorious. He didn't have to worry about much for planning the ball; he knew that Caroline liked to take care of such things. If anyone embodied the old proverb “If you want something done right, do it yourself,” it was Caroline, and he adored her for it. He should be rather a mess were it not for her. But Darcy was right – if things did not go her way and she did not feel that she had ample time to ready the house for a ball, then she would have his hide. So it was.

For a while, he walked on quietly, happy to enjoy their surroundings. Darcy had better enjoy them too, while he was here, before he returned to the city, where there would be carriages and criers on every corner. “It is,” he declared, “a most beauteous day.” He tilted his head back, holding his hat on his head so that it did not fall, and let the sun's gentle rays warm his face, smiling at the sky that blessed him. “Do you not like, Darcy, the idea of a picnic?” He spoke mostly for conversation with himself to fill the empty air, and did not expect his friend to answer.