Charlotte, Sir Richard... And Mr Darcy

by C P Waterman

  He thought for a moment. “I think my sojourn is drawing to a close here anyway,” he said. “Allow me to escort you home, and I can travel onwards to my house. We can take Darcy's second coach. And I can return here to visit at any time I choose. I have an “open door” arrangement with Darcy.

  She looked at him blankly for a moment. An ‘open door’ arrangement with Darcy. A vision of the previous night’s incident shot into her mind, when she had glimpsed through the open door of Sir Richard’s chamber and observed him with Darcy enjoying anal sex. An explicable fit of laughter overwhelmed her for a moment, and it was followed by a wave of relief when she realised he had offered to accompany her on the homeward journey.

  Sir Richard was bewildered at her laughter, and she refused to offer an explanation. He was in no mood to waste time, and merely shrugged it off.

  Shortly, Darcy and Eliza were approaching on horseback after their ride in the park. Sir Richard had a quiet word with Darcy; Darcy turned to speak to Eliza.

  “What is this, Charlotte?” she asked. “Is there a sudden change of plan? What has happened?”

  “I'm sorry, Eliza, but I really must go as soon as I can.”

  Darcy stepped forward. “If it really is as urgent as you suggest, you could go this afternoon if you wished. But I doubt whether you would reach Kent before nightfall.”

  “I shall make sure that she comes to no harm,” said Sir Richard. “If you can lend me a carriage, I can take her safely home, and then your driver can convey me to my estate. I can look after your driver and return him safely to you tomorrow.”

  “Is that wise?” asked Eliza, thinking of social proprieties.

  “I would like to think that it won't raise too many eyebrows in our circle,” said Sir Richard. “A baronet is escorting a parson's wife home – the eldest daughter of a knight of the realm – and I believe we should be above suspicion.”

  After an early midday meal, farewells were said, and Sir Richard and Charlotte had their luggage packed on Mr Darcy's second coach. Men bowed and ladies curtsied. Eliza spoke softly in Charlotte's ear before she mounted the steps into the coach. “Your visit here was much too short. You should encourage your husband to go away on more conferences so you can come and sketch some more intimate scenes of Pemberley. Some days can be very dull here, and we need friends to spice up our lifestyle. Please say you’ll come again soon.”

  Charlotte squeezed her hand, climbed aboard the coach and she set off with Sir Richard.

  “The driver is not going very fast,” she observed after they had travelled less than a mile. “I can’t imagine that I shall reach home tonight at this rate.”

  “You’re right, my dear Mrs Collins. I think we might have to consider staying at an inn overnight and making a more leisurely progress in the morning.”

  She returned his smile, but turned to look out of the window. She was still pondering Eliza's final words to her. Did it mean that Sarah had disclosed the contents of the sketchbook to her hostess, the Mistress of Pemberley? Or, when she had caught Sarah with the book in her hand, was she really tidying up? Or had she been in the process of returning the book to the room, having shown it to other servants in the house? Could she ever find out if her dignity had been compromised?

  4.

  Mr Darcy's Rude Pictures

  Charlotte Lucas Collins had spent several days at Pemberley, the guest of Mr Darcy and his wife Elizabeth, while her reverend husband was away on a diocesan conference. During that time, she had sketched a number of intimate drawings depicting her host and hostess, and another guest, Sir Richard Walden. She had entered into a clandestine relationship with Sir Richard, and the affair had opened her eyes and sparked her libido in such ways she had not known possible. She had become a changed woman - but only for as long as she was away from her husband. Further, she had discovered that Sir Richard and Mr Darcy had been making love secretly.

  Whilst staying at the house, an incident occurred where she had been assigned a maid to look after her, but she caught the girl rummaging through her personal belongings and had discovered her private sketchbook. Mortified that she might be compromised, if the maid had examined the contents, Charlotte decided that the only course of action was to make her excuses and depart almost immediately. She had enjoyed herself so much during her visit to her old friend, and was sorry to leave. But, being the daughter of a knight of the realm, and the respectable wife of a clergyman, Charlotte was anxious to preserve her personal dignity, and nothing must be allowed to imperil her social status whilst in such company.

  Sir Richard – who also lived in Kent – offered to take Charlotte back to the Parsonage at Hunsford en route whilst returning to Oakhurst, his country estate; she considered the social improprieties of travelling unchaperoned with a gentleman to whom she was not related, but any consideration of inappropriate behaviour was overridden by her urgent need to return home as quickly as possible. What strangers might infer about her conduct - being alone in a carriage with a man - was of no account.

  “We shall have to stay at an inn overnight,” Sir Richard remarked during the coach ride back to Kent. “I have some minor business to transact in London, and I thought we might spend the night at a hostelry on the Kent Road. That way, you will get home not long after breakfast tomorrow morning. And I will continue to my home near Canterbury.”

  “What business do you need to do in London?” she asked.

  “It’s nothing significant. I promised a friend I’d purchase something for him at a bookshop. It won't take long.”

  They sat close together in the carriage. He put his hand up her gown and it came to rest on her knee. She looked at him, and they kissed. As soon as I arrive home, all this will be a distant dream, she thought. I shall never have the opportunity to re-live the paradise of the last few days.

  She felt his fingertips sliding slowly up the inside of her thigh. The coach had an inadequate suspension, and the frame was rocking them both as the wheels ran over the uneven road. Full sex would be impractical here; as soon as his finger reached her crotch, there was a sudden jolt to the carriage and any thoughts of intimacy quickly evaporated.

  “This is impossible,” she said. “I was feeling stimulated, but these sudden movements in the carriage are distracting me.”

  “I have an idea,” he said. “I'll get down on the floor and you can come on top of me – you can use me as a mattress to soften the impact.”

  “I'm not sure whether it will work,” she replied. “But I'm willing to give it a try.”

  He got down on his back, and unbuttoned his breeches. He was already aroused, and all she would have to do - once she was in position - would be to take his erection between her finger and thumb, and slide him into herself.

  But she was concerned about him. “You can't be very comfortable. Are you sure you can get a climax this way?”

  “I've never tried it before,” he grinned. “Come on, Mrs Collins. Let's get grinding!” With that, he thrust his erection deeper into her.

  She mirrored his action, pushing her pelvis down so far to capture the root of his cock before raising her body again and then crashing down once more on his crotch. It was not long before she lost any concern about his discomfort, and presented her bare breast to him to suck the nipple.

  Soon the road surface became smoother and there was less jolting in the carriage. It did not take him long to reach orgasm and, in his moment of ecstasy, he reached to kiss her lips. It took her less than another minute before she too hit her climax.

  Rather than linger in silence on the floor in their embrace, he suggested that they get up and sit down again. “My back is killing me!” he laughed.

  She tried to soothe him. “You poor thing! Wait until we get to the inn this evening. I’ll massage your back for you.”

  Two hours later, their coach was moving steadily through the streets in the centre of London, slowing down at the far end of the Strand. “We shall have to stop soon,” he said. “There’s a
bookshop I want to visit.”

  He alerted the driver at a convenient spot where the traffic had lessened.

  “Stay here,” he said to her. “I won't be more than five minutes.”

  It was getting late; the street was busy with people looking in shop windows with a view to making their final purchases for the day, while others were walking quickly from one place to another, and occasionally stopping to greet an acquaintance. She wanted to get out of the carriage and stretch her legs after so long a journey.

  Looking towards Drury Lane, she noticed Sir Richard walking out from a bookshop on the corner of Holywell Street.

  “I have my friend's purchase,” he said as he approached. It was wrapped in brown paper. “I am sure he will be very pleased with this.”

  “Your friend is building his own library?” she asked, remembering her husband boasting how long it had taken him to build his collection of theological books.

  “Yes,” Sir Richard replied. “Occasionally he lets me borrow some of his acquisitions.” He called the driver to continue to Southwark; once on the road to Kent, they would seek rooms at an inn for the night.

  “Are they on any particular subject that interests you?”

  “I think it would be improper of me to give you an honest answer. I am not sure whether you are aware of the reputation of some of the businesses in Holywell Street?”

  “Indeed I am not,” she smiled. Her interest was piqued.

  “Most of these shops sell books containing… dubious material. Erotic works and occasionally pornography. My friend has a particular interest in this subject.”

  She felt herself blushing. If Sir Richard only knew of the pictures she had drawn in her sketchbook…. But she dare not risk embarrassing herself. What would her husband say if he saw them and learned that they were her own creations?

  They soon crossed Blackfriars Bridge, and then followed the old main road down to Kent. The sun had already set, and they soon arrived at a coaching inn where they could spend the night. Sir Richard alighted first and entered the establishment to arrange their accommodation; he suggested that Charlotte and the driver remain outside in case the inn was already full.

  He soon returned. “They have two rooms available,” he announced. “Our driver can take the smaller chamber, and we shall have to share the larger. I’m sorry if that’s going to be an inconvenience, my dear,” he said loudly for the driver’s ears. “I shall sleep in the chair and won’t disturb you.” He smiled and winked at her.

  “I am sure we can observe the proprieties, Sir Richard,” she replied with a raised voice. The driver was an employee of Mr Darcy, but she doubted whether he would report the situation to his master on his return to Pemberley.

  Once their luggage had been delivered up to their room, they returned downstairs and dinner was served.

  The meal was quite plain, but Charlotte was confident that, once she had returned to the parsonage the next morning, her cook would spoil her with one of her favourite dishes for lunch. When they had finished, and the empty dishes removed from the table, Sir Richard feigned a yawn.

  “It has been a long day,” he said. “I fear I must retire before I disgrace myself and fall asleep in your company.”

  “I shall also retire, Sir Richard. It would not be seemly for me to remain here unchaperoned.”

  They raced up the stairs and, once the door to their bedchamber had been bolted, they could not stop themselves. At last she had him alone to herself again. He pulled off his jacket and shirt, and she deftly unbuttoned her gown before removing her shift. They stood before each other naked, and they slowly approached each other; when she clasped his warm body tight against hers, her palm stroked his muscular shoulders, his neck and his back.

  “I had promised you a massage tonight, to ease you after our encounter on the coach floor earlier.”

  He went down on the floor, resting on his stomach. “Then let's get started,” he said.

  She knelt beside him and caressed the muscles in his back and his shoulders, tracing her hand down his backbone until she reached the crease of his butt. She placed her palms on the globes of his buttocks and squeezed them gently before putting her fingertip down further between his thighs and softly traced it over the back of his testicles. He groaned in satisfaction.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” she asked.

  “No, thank you,” he replied. “I am almost satisfied now. Come down on the floor beside me.”

  She obeyed, and his hand raced down to her crotch and he began to massage her little bud.

  “My goodness, Mrs Collins! How wet you are down there.”

  “The blame rests entirely with you, sir. I only want to give you pleasure.”

  “Do you remember… at Pemberley… in the temple by the lake… I took you in your anus. That gave me great pleasure. Would you allow me to do that to you again?”

  “Willingly. But, quite frankly, I would prefer it if you penetrated me in the conventional way.”

  Without another word, he rolled over on top of her and slid his erection inside her vagina. He began driving back and forth in a wild fashion; she matched his movements, thrust for thrust, and she quickly reached her climax. He followed not long afterward.

  They did not move; they savoured the silence while she reflected that this might be the final time she might enjoy the body of another man who was not her husband. And tomorrow… tomorrow she would get into bed and wait for Mr Collins to join her. Then, wordlessly and in the dark, he would climb on top of her to assert his rights in order to produce an heir. And, motionless, she would count each lunge he made before he finally spent his seed.

  Then the thought came to her that she might already be carrying a child, a child fathered by Sir Richard. Nobody could know; nobody would know. But she considered a son who might inherit Sir Richard's personality would be far more tolerable than a younger facsimile of Mr Collins with all his faults. She had thought herself pregnant three months earlier, but it had been a false alarm. Her husband had been most disappointed and - before bed each night - had resorted to supplementary prayers for a more favorable outcome soon.

  Sir Richard whispered, “I think it’s time we should get to bed.” He rolled over to his side of the bed.

  “I’m getting cold now. I must put on my night shift,” she said. She went over to her trunk and opened it while he reached for his shirt.

  He approached her and looked down at the contents of the trunk. “There’s your sketchbook,” he remarked. “I’d love to look through it. May I?”

  “No. It’s private,” she said, and pulled out her shift. In her haste, the shift knocked against the book and it tumbled to the floor, scattering the loose pages that bore the most intimate sketches she had made whilst staying at Pemberley.

  Sir Richard’s hand was too fast for her. He reached down and swept up a handful of the sheets.

  “Give them back! Please!” She was on the verge of tears.

  He ignored her, and walked across to one of the flickering candles to examine her artwork in better detail. “These are very, very good, my dear. I am truly astonished at your talent.”

  “I just draw what I see.”

  “You are too modest. Look at the faces. You have captured the desire, the passion, and the urgency of two souls eager to consummate a lust forbidden by society. I am aroused again, just by looking at these pictures. Are you not stimulated by them? Do they not stir up something inside you?”

  She declined to answer.

  “Of course they do,” he grinned. “Who could not fail to sense an inner stirring in the loins at such intense… longing?”

  She held her breath. Surely he had recognised the faces of the men she had drawn?

  “Of course, these must be kept under lock and key,” he continued. “I do not think your husband would like to see them.”

  Charlotte was trembling. She had humiliated herself, and felt mortified. She had to offer some kind of explanation, but n
o words were forthcoming.

  “If you had skills as an engraver, you could make yourself a decent living with imagination like this.”

  Imagination? Did he not see the faces of the naked lovers? She was unable to understand why he was not angry at her drawings; they depicted him with Darcy, enjoying anal sex and fellatio at the lakeside at Pemberley. Had he not noticed?

  “But I would make one observation,” he smiled, looking across at her. “My cock is usually a little bigger than this when it’s fully erect. But perhaps it was a cold day, and it couldn’t attain its full splendour.”

  “Sir Richard,” she stammered, “I really can’t tell you how sorry I am. I just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  He made no reply, and returned his attention her sketches. “These pictures are dangerous. But they are too good to destroy. Darcy and Elizabeth must never know of their existence.” He held on to the papers and, with his other hand, he passed her a package. “Look through this bundle. I purchased these for Darcy in London this afternoon when we stopped off at Holywell Street. I think the standard of your craftsmanship is superior to most of the contents here.”

  She looked through the pile of papers. They were prints and engravings, illustrating naked men copulating with each other in various positions, and performing numerous other sex acts together.

  “Needless to say, Mrs. Collins, there is an active market for this kind of… art. And you have demonstrated a natural aptitude. Don’t you think that your creations are better than these mediocrities?”

  “I… I am not in a position to judge.”

  “Put your modesty aside here. Let me tell you that, if you can get these pictures into print, you would stand a chance of earning a decent private income. Unfortunately, I think your clergyman husband would have a heart attack if he were to find out. I think it would be best if you were to sell them to me. May I suggest… five guineas? I’m not interested in the landscapes of Pemberley. Just the figures. You can keep the others.”