by Nia Farrell
She kisses Patrice, a patently neutral brush of lips, considering what the two of them were doing last night. Patrice nods us off and returns to the embroiderers, charged with overseeing the application of needles and silk to taut-stretched linen grounds.
I wait until we are away from the house before speaking. “This dinner on Tuesday,” I say.
Caroline looks at me, her gaze sharpening as she tries to figure what I am about. “Yes, Mr. Darcy?”
“If we are to have any adult conversation with Miss Jane Bennet, it would be best if your sisters are informed that the younger Miss Bennets are all out, scandalously so. They should be forewarned to not speak of it, lest Miss Jane be made to feel ashamed of having a mother who would allow such a thing. Certainly no one of our acquaintance would do so. I cannot imagine what she was thinking."
Caroline (vain bird that she is) preens, thinking that I approve of what she has done and continues to do. It suits my purpose to not correct her misassumption.
“I would go so far as to be present when you tell them, to show my support for your position and quell any objections that may be raised. They are young and eager to experience life. Let the Bennet sisters illustrate the wrong way to go about it, and the Bingley sisters remain shining examples of propriety that will attract the right kind of notice and one day see each of them well-matched, hmm?”
“We can only hope.” She sighs dramatically. “You are right, of course. I had hoped to avoid the subject, but all it will take is one mention of her family and the floodgates will open. Addressing such questions ahead of time seems the wisest course of action, particularly if we present a united front that allows no dissention on the subject. The girls are, well, oblivious at times. They believe themselves old enough to be out in society and yet they cannot conceive the disaster that awaits at the first misstep. They would grasp at straws and drown when they need to learn to swim with the current.”
“Yes, exactly.”
The light in her eyes shifts. She drops her gaze. “Yes, Sir.”
She breathes the honorific. Despite the dampness left by the morning’s dew, she is willing to drop to her knees to further her cause, but I cannot, will not allow it. Her desire to top would clash with my need to dominate. I need a submissive, not a switch. It is a shame that she is Charles’s sister. She has enough steel in her corset for the both of them.
“No, Miss Bingley.” My words are softly spoken, but there is no mistaking the underlying meaning in my voice. I will not go there. Ever.
The faintest pink tinges her cheek. Not willing to add to her embarrassment, I suggest that she play the piano for Miss Bennet and name some titles from her repertoire. That I have paid enough attention to remember such details serves to smooth her feathers, and soon she is preening again, willing to forego and forget, as if the suggestive portion of our conversation never happened.
*****
Caroline takes my words and runs with them, performing a small concert for our dinner party on Tuesday. Charles’s pheasants are done to perfection; Miss Bennet is doubly impressed with his hunting prowess and his chef’s presentation.
I listen and observe her closely, finding no great flaws in her character beyond her easy smile. She is amiable, intelligent enough, and has a certain sense of style that makes last year’s gown blend in with the London fashions worn by the other females present.
The younger girls, having been forewarned about Miss Bennet’s sisters and the improprieties exhibited by her family, watch her almost like anthropologists observing an indigenous species (which, in fact, she is). Thankfully, they heed our instructions to listen and to leave the speaking to adults more practiced in handling such things. Caroline and Louisa are in their element, discussing the latest gossip and trends among the ton.
Miss Bennet is, for the most part, content to listen rather than engage, bestowing her easy smile equally along the table from head to foot, regardless of age. Having younger sisters, she is used to mixed company. If the oldest Bingley sisters were not here, I do believe that she would engage the youngest in conversation, all congeniality. The most spirit that I see from her is at the end of the meal, when Caroline denies Victoria dessert and chides her for allowing her waist to thicken. Miss Jane Bennet bites her lip and says nothing, which is the proper thing to do, given that she is a first time guest and it is no business of hers, but the stiffening of her spine makes me think that she may have more steel in her corset than I have given her credit for.
We adjourn to the parlour, where Caroline commands the piano and Miss Bennet’s attention, much to Charles’s dismay. He craves conversation but cannot compete with Mozart, Boyce, and Bach. At the end of the evening, he insists on accompanying her home. His attachment has been growing all evening, and not even Caroline can sway him from his single-minded pursuit of finding favour in Miss Jane Bennet’s eyes, which are not half so fine as her sister’s.
Charles returns with the news that Miss Bennet will again be joining us, on Thursday morning hence. It seems that she is at least a casual reader. When she questioned him on Netherfield Hall’s library, rather than betray his ignorance of it, he invited her to peruse it herself—a ploy that works doubly to his benefit and mine. Charles has tomorrow to familiarize himself with its contents. Whilst he catalogues shelves, I shall catch up on personal and business correspondence.
There has been no word from Hugh since I left him at the club with the submissive kitten and her pierced nipples. I direct my first queries to him, asking about his evening and about my sister Georgiana. She spends much time in denial; for what reasons, I can but guess. She is ashamed that the incident happened (blaming herself for allowing it, when it was Wickham’s fault for luring her away, innocent that she was). She wants to forget (as if pretending that it never occurred might make it so). She does not wish to worry me. True, but I worry nonetheless. How can I not, when she is plagued by night terrors and sometimes awakens screaming?
In Hugh’s letter, I enclose a note to my banker, allowing an advance, should Georgiana need it. Georgiana is a bright, gifted girl, but she has few friends left in London. Her closest, Clarissa Bingley, is here. I need to know how my sister fares, and I depend on Hugh to tell me. I ask her, of course, in my missive to her. Following my initial query as to her health, I pen descriptions of Bingley’s kennel, his master of the hounds, our pheasant hunt, and last night’s dinner. I mention a guest but leave it at that, certain that Clarissa will happily fill in the blanks when next she writes. The girls correspond regularly. Georgiana sometimes includes little sketches or a small watercolour for Clarissa’s amusement, which irks Caroline to no end. Unlike Clarissa, who is drawn to my sister’s shared talent and sweet nature, Caroline covets Georgiana’s friendship as a means of social advancement. She would use her, and that I cannot…will not…allow.
I inform my steward, to let him know to send his reports here for the next three weeks, unless instructed otherwise. I have saved the most dreaded for last, a nephew’s dutiful letter to his aunt, except this is Lady Catherine, whose presence is every bit as commanding as mine. Male and female servants quail and bow before her. Fortunately, she recognized the Dominant in me and arranged a mentor to teach me what I needed to know.
He showed me the ropes, as it were.
Having a dominant nature is one thing. Knowing what to do, how to initiate, how to respond, when to slow down, when to stop—these are things to be learned. That must be learned, along with types of bondage, different forms of play, the effects of various toys and implements, the techniques of wielding them, any dangers they might pose. Thanks to my training, I can keep my partners safe and see to their satisfaction as well as my own.
Aunt Catherine and I are not exactly oil and water. Rather we are like two countries who share a border, each of us determined to keep our claim without yielding to the other. We are too much alike to fully enjoy each other’s company. There is admiration and familial affection—and a degree of tolerance, so long as her daugh
ter, my cousin, remains planted on the de Bourgh side of things. Aunt Catherine believes that we should wed. Unite our countries, as it were. While it is true that Miss Anne de Bourgh has a submissive nature, she would sooner welcome an intimate friendship with Caroline Bingley than share a marital bed with me. Why Aunt Catherine refuses to see this, I do not know, nor do I care. Miss de Bourgh’s choice of partner is no concern of mine.
I do my duty. I inquire after my aunt’s health (undoubtedly stellar) and that of my cousin (routinely less than shining). For all that she has an iron-mistress mother, Miss de Bourgh appears anaemic, far too pale and prone to illness—or so she would have it. Methinks she doth protest too much. She seems well enough when she wants to be. I have long suspected that a goodly number of her days abed are spent there not because she is fatigued but simply tired of her mother’s constant demands. Cry once too often, and I can guarantee that she will be twice bitten for it.
Informing Aunt Catherine of my current situation (my stay at Netherfield Hall, with its unknown end date), I also let her know that Hugh has charge of Georgiana in London. With his rank of colonel and the tenuous peace that we are now enjoying, he has the luxury of spending time away from his unit. Come spring, all that will change, but troops are currently settling into winter quarters around the country. For the next few months, a soldier may see more action in his bunk than out of it.
My correspondence completed, I venture into the library to see how Charles is progressing. He is as nervous as a cat in a kennel, afraid of being put to the test and failing miserably. Having listened to the table conversation, with particular attention paid to Miss Bennet (albeit in hopes of finding the fatal flaw), I know that she plays the piano a little, sings a little, and enjoys a little of embroidery, watercolours, and reading. Either she is very humble or has not yet found her passion.
I take pity on Charles and pull a few titles that she might wish to borrow, a few novels, plus two reference books. One is a collectors’ edition filled with coloured plates of birds, domestic and foreign. The other is bursting with wildflowers of the British Isles. I point out that both contain images that lend themselves to replication, copied in paint or stitched with embroidery threads.
“Thank you, Darcy!” he exclaims, relieved beyond belief that he has something to offer her, at least.
“You still need to demonstrate a passing acquaintance with the contents of your shelves, Bingley. Do not depend on these alone to distract her. Now, is there anything you need to ask while I am here? As soon as breakfast is done, I shall ride into Meryton to post the letters written today. Give my regards to your guest before you send her home with treasures. And do send her home, Charles. It does not do to appear overly eager. Humans by nature do not value things easily acquired. Make her work for it, hmm?”
I am pleased to find that he takes my advice—possibly because Caroline proffered the same, but no matter. I return from my circuitous ride, having deliberately meandered to delay my arrival, to find that Miss Bennet has indeed come and gone, taking the wildflower book with her. Thus borrowed, it will need to be returned, but that is an ordeal for another day. For now, Netherfield Hall is Bennet-free, and I am glad.
For a moment only.
“She is invited to Sunday supper,” Charles gushes, all but wagging his tail at the thought of it. “And she has promised me the two second tomorrow night at Meryton’s assembly, the same as we first danced there.”
Somehow I manage not to roll my eyes. I take a breath. Release it. Turn the full force of my gaze upon him. “Please tell me that this is not a weekly occurrence, otherwise I will start inventing things to do on Fridays nights and send you off with your sisters.”
“Darcy, please. Don’t.” Charles cants his head and looks at me, all wide eyed innocence, damn him. “It won’t be every week, I swear. It’s just…well, Meryton happens to host public assemblies each Friday in October—a sort of seasonal celebration, is my understanding of it. Harvest and all that.”
“Mm hmm.” There are simply no words to offer that will not wound him to the quick. His blessing is my bane. I can only hope that attending with him will allow me to keep his passions in check, force him to limit himself to one pair of dances (not two as he did last time), and learn more about the Bennets that can further my cause of separating them. Miss Jane is not Aunt Catherine, to know how to bring a man to heel. Suggesting a collar and leash, or binding and blindfolding Charles for a little cock-and-ball torment would surely send her into a fit of vapors.
She might use him as a footstool. That, I can possibly see.
Meanwhile, there is another ball. Public, not private. Likely with the same attendees from the previous Friday, and the same dearth of suitable females. To escape the meddlers who would otherwise try to pair me with any number of unwanted partners, I decide to launch a preemptive strike. I shall carry a walking stick and employ it as a wordless excuse to remain unattached. If Caroline is unhappy with it, she needs to focus on the larger picture. I shall be watching, listening, learning what I can about the Bennets in general and Miss Jane in particular.
Caroline arches a brow when I join the others who will share the carriage that Bingley keeps. No hack chaises for his family and guests. Louisa controls the conversation en route, suggesting the firing of a servant and the hiring of another. From the tinge of colour in George’s face, I suspect that there is more to the story than “Blake has airs above his station”—possibly involving the young man’s talent for giving oral pleasure and his willingness to kneel (or bend over) for his betters.
Surprisingly, Charles comes to Blake’s defence. Not that he has used him thusly, but he knows of no complaints about the performance of the duties for which he was hired. And so, Blake’s position remains secure for now.
The ball is as I feared. The same sea of faces. The same calculating gleam in the eyes of matrons who view me as marriage mart material for their daughters. The younger women with dance cards attached to their wrists look either relieved or disappointed when they spy my walking stick. Of ebon wood topped a hallmarked silver knob, it was a gift from my Aunt Catherine, who instructed me to employ it well. The stick, however sees little use in Room 366, where crops, rods, floggers, tawses, strops, belts, and canes abound but are seldom employed. Unlike Hugh, I prefer ropes to rods, and blindfolds to bits. There is nothing like a willing woman in bondage.
And if said woman needs disciplined, or punished for pleasure, I prefer the use of my hand, and the feel of flesh upon flesh when counting out the blows.
The Bennet family arrives shortly after we do. Mrs. Bennet leads the way, a hen with five chicks trailing behind her. The younger two peel off as soon as they spy a clutch of red-coated officers by the punch bowl. Bingley makes a beeline for Miss Jane and converses briefly with her mother before luring her away with the excuse of a libation. The middle daughter—the one who plays piano—darts her gaze and clutches her reticule, looking as if she would rather be anywhere else than here.
I know the feeling.
But Miss Elizabeth Bennet, with her dark eyes and last season’s dress, looks excited. In her element. Ready to take on all comers brave enough to request a space on her dance card. She sees her friend and warmly greets Miss Lucas, who is still single despite being closer to my age than Miss Bennet’s. Their two heads press together as they walk and talk, taking seats on the side of the room opposite the banquet table where Charles is serving Miss Jane a cup of punch.
And by serving, I mean that in every conceivable way, God help us.
The need to dominate rises in me. I wish to order Charles to cease, to desist, to resist whatever pull he fancies himself experiencing. If I could, I would separate them. As it is, I am forced to watch a potential disaster in the making, like a massive wave barreling toward the shore that will either lose its power and fade to nothing or smash whatever stands in its way.
Sir Lucas notes the craftsmanship of my walking stick and remarks upon its beauty. He is too polite to inq
uire why I have it. I am no military man, wounded in battle, but I am a horseman and more than one rider has been left with a limp. Fortunately, that is not the case with me, but I say nothing and allow him to keep guessing.
Charles dances every dance. Two of them are with Miss Jane Bennet. He dances once with her sister. Miss Elizabeth, with her throaty voice and dark eyes, may not have her oldest sister’s beauty, yet watching her dance, I cannot help but notice her grace, her lightness of foot, her ability to execute perfectly the most intricate of steps. She is the ideal partner, allowing Charles to mislead her, following his missteps when she clearly knows better.
Hmm.
No.
No. A thousand times, no!
I cannot risk the distraction that she poses. I cannot allow myself to envision what she would look like, stripped, naked and kneeling at my feet or bound to a whipping bench, her derriere marked with red handprints and her mouth at the perfect height. I must keep my faculties sharply focused on my mission. It is not enough that I see the deficiencies in Miss Jane’s nature, where Charles is concerned; Charles must see them too. It must be his decision to break things off. His decision to quit this place. His choice to not renew the lease on Netherfield Hall when the year is through.
The problem is, Miss Jane Bennett is a pleasant person. She greets everyone with unfailing politeness. No cross words escape her lips. Caroline and Louisa may pick other women apart like harpies, but Miss Jane disparages no one. She dances with any man who approaches her, allowing the most ill-favoured to enjoy her company for the length of a pair of dances. She seems to like Charles well enough, but then she seems to like everyone. It occurs to me that she does not particularly show him favour. Rather, he is one of many. There is nothing in her behavior that marks him as more.