by Nia Farrell
Caroline intercepts me before I am five steps into the room. “No cards,” she whispers. “Do not begin anything that will keep them here any longer than necessary. Remember the plan.”
I do remember the plan. Separate Miss Jane from Charles. Quit Netherfield. Forget Hertfordshire ever happened.
Forget Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
I should. I should. But can I?
I congratulate her sister on her continued recovery. George bobs a bow and says that he is very glad. Charles…Charles is happy. Joyful. Sympathetic and attentive. He builds the fire to warm the room and has Miss Jane move away from the door where the draft is the least likely to reach. Sitting beside her, he engages Miss Jane in conversation to the exclusion of nearly everyone else. Miss Elizabeth watches from her chair in the corner, clearly delighted at Charles’s undivided attention to her sister.
After tea is served, George suggests a game of cards. When no one wants to play, there is nothing for him to do but stretch out on one of the sofas and go to sleep. I take up a book. Caroline does the same. Louisa fidgets with her jewelry, sitting near enough to Charles and Miss Jane to listen to and occasionally join in their conversation.
At some point, I realise that Caroline has selected the second volume to the book that I have chosen. Would that Patrice and Minerva were here to distract her, but they are not. For whatever reason, she seems determined to secure my full attention, if only to keep my mind off the woman she perceives as her competition, which is far from the truth. I have never considered Caroline as a potential partner. Her eyes have never haunted my dreams. Her lips have never given rise to erotic fantasies. Her mouth, frankly put, is toxic. There is no way that I would let it anywhere near my body.
She yawns. Beneath her innocuous-sounding words lies poison ready to spew out. “How pleasant it is to spend an evening this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.”
I keep reading and say nothing. Determined to be the center of someone’s attention, Caroline yawns again and tosses her book aside, looking around, seeking her next diversion. Overhearing Charles recounting the Bennet family’s visit, including their youngest sister’s request, Caroline interjects, “By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at Netherfield? I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure.”
“If you mean Darcy, he may go to bed, if he chooses, before it begins,” Charles declares, knowing full well that I shall not. “But as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing. As soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough, I shall send round my cards.”
Caroline sniffs. “I should like balls infinitely better if they were carried on in a different matter, but there is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing were made the order of the day.”
“Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be near so much like a ball.” This earns Charles a smile from both Miss Bennets and a frown from his sister. Dissatisfied in the extreme with the way that things are going tonight, Caroline perambulates, her circuitous path about the room coming deliberately close to where I sit reading. When she fails to draw my attention away from my book, she enlists the unwitting aid of another.
“Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude.”
I know Caroline’s game. Likely, studier-of-people Miss Bennet knows it too. When Miss Bennet readily agrees to join her, I must wonder what she is about, if anything other than deliberately vexing me?
Looking up, I meet Miss Elizabeth’s merry gaze, amusement at my expense, no doubt. She turns away and begins walking with Caroline, moving like a melody through the room. My book is closed when they come back this way. Seeing it, Caroline invites me to join them, but I decline. “I can imagine but two motives for your choosing to walk up and down the room together, and my joining would interfere with either of them.”
Miss Elizabeth’s fine eyes blink, certainly curious, perhaps intrigued. Caroline feigns a gasp. “What can he mean? I am dying to know what can be his meaning? Do you understand him at all?”
Miss Elizabeth shakes her head, her chestnut hair gilded in the candlelight. “No,” she admits. “Not at all. But depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask nothing about it.”
Clever girl.
Miss Bingley, being more devious than clever, insists upon an explanation of the two motives that were mentioned. I have no objection to explaining the obvious, as soon as she finishes her monologue and allows me to speak.
“You either choose this method of passing the evening because you are in each other’s confidence and have secret affairs to discuss,” I say, as if it were a real possibility, “or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking. If the first, I would be completely in your way. If the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire.”
And admire one of them, I do. The light penetrates the shifting fabric of Miss Elizabeth’s dress, seeking to infiltrate the layers beneath, tempting me with a form that I can only imagine—the exact shape of her breasts, the neat dip of her waist, the swell of her hips, the firm, smooth thighs, the muscled calves shaped by countless miles of walking.
I would bind her with her wrists high above her head, standing on her toes, just to see the flex and play of those muscles while I tease her with ice, circling her nipples, dipping in her navel, tracking down her spine.
Charles coughs.
The sound is enough to pull me from my fantasy and hear the last of Caroline’s diatribe. She thinks I should be punished for my speech.
If she knew my thoughts, there would be hell to pay.
Miss Elizabeth, at least, seems wise enough not to bait my wolf. “Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!” she exclaims. “That is an uncommon advantage, and a great loss to me. I dearly love a laugh.”
Does she? Has she? Given my past behavior towards her, how I shunned her the evening when first we met, I bristle to think that I may have been nothing more than a joke to ease her injured pride.
I meet her fine dark eyes and hold them with my searching gaze. I would have the truth, know it now, better sooner than later and free myself of this growing infatuation with her. “Miss Bingley has given me more credit than is due. The wisest and the best of men—nay, the wisest and best of their actions—may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke.”
She does not quail under my regard but meets my look steadfastly. “Certainly there are such people, but I hope I am not one of them. I hope I never ridicule what is wise and good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, do divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can. But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without.”
A backhanded compliment, to be sure, but I shall take it. “I do not know if that is so, but it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which can be ridiculed.”
“Such as vanity and pride.” The words that she meant to merely think escape her lips before she can stop them. Guilt stains her cheeks.
“Yes, vanity is a weakness,” I agree. “But pride—where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation.”
There is warmth in my voice despite my gentle reprimand. Vastly relieved, she ducks her head to hide her smile.
Miss Bingley is not pleased. “Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume. And pray, what is the result?”
Miss Bennet knows better than to trifle with me but cannot resist teasing Caroline. “I am utterly
convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise.”
Wait. Did she just call me perfect? Yes. Yes, she did.
Fuck.
“No,” I insist. “I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding—certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost forever.”
She thinks about this for a moment and agrees that, with implacable resentment, I am not infallible. “But you have chosen your fault well. I really cannot laugh at it. You are safe from me.”
But is she safe from me? Even now, if I allowed it, my body would stir at the thoughts of her willing submission, of showing her the many paths to pleasure, guiding her through the darkness and into the light.
“There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil.” Caroline’s head snaps up on my confession. “A natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.”
My “defect” is the need to dominate. Given the chance, I would to bend her to my will, would push her to her limits and help her go beyond, become the woman that I know she has the potential to be, given the right teacher.
Miss Elizabeth eyes me suspiciously, trying to discern my meaning. “Your defect is to hate everybody,” she says, knowing better.
“And yours,” I reply with a wolf’s smile, “is willfully to misunderstand them.”
We stare at each other, locked in a strange kind of struggle that neither of us wants, yet we cannot seem to let it go. Caroline breaks it for us when she calls for music, asking her sister’s permission to wake Mr. Hurst.
The pianoforte is opened. Our moment has passed, and I am glad for it. I should know better than to engage her so, but my better judgment seems impaired. I should distance myself. Instead, I spar with her. I understand the danger in paying Miss Elizabeth too much attention, yet therein lies the appeal.
That night, lying alone in my bed, having brought myself to climax while envisioning her, I understand that, for better or worse, she has awakened a part of me that has heretofore been dormant. The dominant who wants a life partner, not just a play partner, someone whose nature is a true complement to my own. Despite our social disparities, I cannot deny that she attracts me. She intrigues me. Elizabeth Bennet makes me feel.
Jesus God.
I should not want her, but I do.
Chapter Twelve
Miss Elizabeth wants to go home.
After last night, I should be grateful that one of us has the sense to put some distance between us, but learning that a note has been sent to Longbourn, begging for a carriage, is unsettling, to say the least. I do not know what she is thinking.
Clearly, she does not wish to impose. Or perhaps she refuses to create a predicament for Charles. She could have asked him, and Bingley would have agreed, but only grudgingly. If petitioned for a carriage, he would have been either forced to comply or compelled to offer excuses, and lying does not suit his nature. Bingley is open and honest—somewhat awkward, sometimes inept in his dealings with others, but truthful nonetheless.
He has no more wish to see Miss Jane leave than I do Miss Elizabeth.
We hold our proverbial breaths from Saturday’s breakfast until afternoon tea, when Mrs. Bennet’s response comes.
She cannot possibly spare the carriage before Tuesday.
Hmm.
Charles beams. I scowl. The whole thing smacks of base manipulation, as if forcing her daughter’s continued presence will win her to him. The thought that a parent would do such a thing leaves a bad taste in my mouth, made worse because the mother in question is Miss Elizabeth’s, too.
Miss Elizabeth sees through her mother’s devices. That much is clear in her reaction to the letter clutched in her capable hands. She is resolved to go. Impatient to be home. Fearful of intruding needlessly long, she enlists her sister’s aid and Miss Jane asks Charles for the carriage that their mother cannot (or will not?) send.
There is a general uproar when word gets out that the Bennet sisters wish to leave us. The three youngest Bingleys are close to tears. Caroline and Louisa look at each other and tut their “concern.” Between Charles and their sisters, enough is said of wishing them to stay that they agree to delay their departure, at least until the following day, to further Miss Jane’s continued recovery.
Caroline is agreeable with it all, until she overhears Charles telling the housekeeper that Miss Elizabeth will be staying, too. The claws come out then, and teeth, and tongue.
Charles now has it fixed in his mind that he should have Miss Jane until Tuesday next and seeks to sway her to think the same. He is very persuasive. Indeed, in the time that I have known him, I have never heard such eloquent appeals. Repeatedly, he does his best to persuade Miss Bennet that it is not safe for her, that she is not enough recovered. However, Miss Jane is firmly set on going.
I silently applaud the notion. The Bennets have been at Netherfield quite long enough. Charles is as smitten as ever, and I am attracted more than is wise. Caroline remains a bitch, ruthlessly uncivil to Miss Elizabeth and relentlessly demanding of me. All things considered, I resolve to keep my admiration of Miss Elizabeth to myself. To say nothing, do nothing that might elevate her with the hope of influencing my felicity.
Steady to my purpose, I scarcely speak ten words to her through the whole of Saturday. When we are left alone at one point, I will not even look at her. For a full half hour, I keep my gaze fixed on the book in my hands.
That does not stop me from hearing her. Every measured breath. Every subtle sigh. Every mmfph of exasperation that manages to escape her.
I contrive to not smile.
On Sunday morning, she is gone. I should feel relieved, yet there is a disturbing sense of loss, an emptiness that is unsettling. Learning that she has only gone to church makes me feel better than I should.
At some point today, however, she and her sister will go home. Caroline is almost giddy at the prospect. Her civility to Miss Elizabeth grows expansive very rapidly. Her affection for Miss Jane increases by leaps and bounds. When the carriage arrives and things are loaded, she manages a civil handshake with Miss Elizabeth and embraces Miss Jane, assuring her of the pleasure it will give to see her either here or at Longbourn.
Charles looks like a kicked puppy. Miss Jane pats his hand, assures him that she will continue to recover, and promises to be in fine form to dance whenever he has his ball. Miss Elizabeth is anxious to leave; the prospect of returning home to familiar surroundings and the bosom of a loving family appeals far more than staying here, where she does not belong.
The house is strangely empty. The younger girls mope about, lost to all good reason. Louisa arranges her jewelry whilst her husband naps. Caroline writes to Patrice, begging her to hurry home from wherever it is that she and Miss Iles went, or else let her come to where they are. I try to distract Charles with a game of cards, since he refuses to play chess with me. Everything reminds him of her. The smell of the fruitwood added to the fire. The melody that Clarissa and Marissa choose to play. The abandoned needlework. The table of books.
He is absolutely maudlin. Morose. There is no encouraging him, not when I would sever any ties that could bind them. Monday is no better. I write Aunt Catherine to inquire after Hugh, preferring to learn from her how things are rather than hear from Hugh how he thinks them to be, which in Aunt Catherine’s world can be decidedly different. Come Tuesday, I make Charles get dressed to ride out with me, headed to Meryton to post my letter to Rosings.
The town seems always busy, due in large part to the presence of the militia. A pair of red coats down the street are engaged with a group of young women who prove to be the Bennet sisters. Miss Jane is
evidently well enough to come to town. Miss Elizabeth and the two youngest sisters are with her. There is a man as well, a civilian by appearances, with no hint of military bearing. Charles tells me that he must be the expected cousin and heir apparent, Reverend William Collins.
I recognize the name. Reverend Collins lives, by my Aunt Catherine’s graces, in the Hunsford parsonage near Rosings. By English law, he will inherit Longbourn upon Mr. Bennet’s death and displace all who dwell beneath its roof, unless—
Bloody hell.
He has only to marry one of them, and the futures of the rest are secured. Mrs. Bennet has designs on Charles Bingley for her eldest. If she is, as I suspect, playing at matchmaker, it is not with Miss Jane and Reverend Collins. Given her hopes of a match between the eldest daughter and my friend, she would focus on the next in line.
Miss Elizabeth.
My Elizabeth.
As if attuned to my thoughts, she swivels her head and catches me watching her, assessing her receptivity to Mr. Collins. Judging from the distance between the two of them (Miss Elizabeth having drifted as far from him as humanly possible, to the end of the line of Bennet females), I surmise that she either wants to appear coy or wishes to escape him. I notice that she stays put when the two officers manoeuvre closer to engage her in conversation.
One of them says something that makes her laugh. That deliciously low, honeyed voice rolling down the thoroughfare stirs my inner beast. I want to mark her. Claim her. Drag her from here and have my way with her. Do every decadent, hedonistic thing I can imagine and make her beg for more.
God, she is dangerous. So fucking dangerous. Yet I cannot seem to help myself from riding towards her, fully prepared to ask her to save a dance whenever we next shall meet.