by Nia Farrell
It seemed necessary for her to make this circumstance a matter of pleasure. I do not for a moment believe that Mrs. Bennet will happily stay at home whilst her daughters go out, without her there to match or meddle.
“I do hope, Lady Lucas, that you might soon be equally fortunate, to find your Charlotte so well matched.”
Mortification stains Miss Elizabeth’s cheeks, that I should overhear the conversation and know her mother’s rumored plans. Again, she entreats her mother to be still.
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Bennet cries. “What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say nothing he may not like to hear.”
“For heaven’s sake,” Miss Elizabeth hisses. “Madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be for you to offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to his friend by so doing.”
Her mother, of course, ignores her. She values none but the firstborn and seems determined to care not a whit. Miss Elizabeth blushes with shame and vexation. Casting furtive glances across the table, she seems very concerned with my reaction. Tamping down my contempt, I school my features and manage to look serious rather than indignant whenever she dares to look at me.
Conversation gives way to eating. Eating is followed by entertainment. Mr. Bennet thankfully stops his middle daughter Mary after the torture of her second song.
“If I were so fortunate to sing,” Reverend Collins pipes up, “I should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with an air; for I consider music as a very innocent diversion and perfectly compatible with the profession of a clergyman.”
I nearly smile. Obviously he has never heard Miss Elizabeth’s sultry voice, like strokes of a velvet tongue upon the senses, inspiring hedonistic fantasies.
“I do not mean, however, to assert that we can be justified in devoting too much of our time to music, for there are certainly other things to be attended to. The rector of a parish has much to do. In the first place, he must make such an agreement for tithes as may be beneficial to himself and not offensive to the patron. He must write his own sermons, and the time that remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and the care and improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making as comfortable as possible.”
I can hear Aunt Catherine now, dictating the exact “improvements” that she wishes him to make.
“And I do not think it of light importance that he should have attentive and conciliatory manners towards everybody, especially towards those whom he owes his preferment.”
Lady Catherine, again.
“I cannot acquit him of that duty; nor could I think well of the man who should omit an occasion of testifying his respect towards anybody connected with the family.”
Heaven help me.
Reverend Collins acknowledges me with a bow and ends his speech, spoken loudly enough to be heard by half the room. Many stare. Many smile. None look more amused than Mr. Bennet, who seems to share his second daughter’s love of the absurd. No one is prouder of Reverend Collins than Mrs. Bennet, who proclaims him remarkably clever and a good kind of young man.
I manage not to snort my disgust. The Reverend is an attention whore, and not above groveling.
Bootlicker.
No wonder Aunt Catherine favours him.
Reverend Collins is like a burr, stuck to Miss Elizabeth’s side. As much as it displeases me, his presence ensures that she has no other partners for the rest of the evening. Her only respite comes from Miss Lucas, who does not hesitate to engage the cousin in conversation.
The Bennets are the last to leave, a full fifteen minutes after everyone else has gone. Caroline and Louisa are subdued. Complaining of fatigue and anxious to have the house to themselves, they repulse every attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation. Unfortunately, Reverend Collins is only too happy to fill the void, complimenting Bingley and his sisters on the elegance of their entertainment, and the hospitality and politeness which marked their behavior to their guests.
Charles and Miss Jane stand together, a little apart, engaged in private conversation. Mr. Bennet does not protest but stands silently enjoying the scene. Miss Elizabeth is equally quiet—unlike her youngest sister Lydia, who yawns violently and exclaims how tired she is.
When at last they rise to leave, Mrs. Bennet is most pressingly civil in her hope of seeing the entire family soon at Longbourn. She addresses herself especially to Mr. Bingley, assuring him how happy he will make them by eating a family dinner with them any time, without the ceremony of a formal invitation.
Bingley is all grateful pleasure, blast it. He pledges to take the earliest opportunity of waiting on Miss Jane, after his return from London, whither he is obliged to go the next day for a short time.
This is news to them, except for Miss Jane, whose smile seems forced. No doubt he was breaking it to her gently in these minutes past. I warned him not to dampen the mood by telling her earlier in the evening and have kept my plan secret from everyone, to persuade the rest to follow shortly behind him. Caroline certainly would crow, and Virginia will likely cry at thoughts of leaving the kennels and its master behind.
They believe that Charles has business in town that will take him three or four days to complete. He wished to do it from here, by correspondence, but I have convinced him that it is best done in person.
The truth is, I am making him go, for his sake and for mine. Once we are in London, Caroline and I will strive to keep Charles there. Between us, I intend to fill his calendar so full of outings and engagements that the Miss Bennets will become but distant memories.
As for me, I am pledged to see my sister and cousin. Word came today that Hugh is in London. He is staying at his club. To avoid the temptation of venal sins with my sister went unsaid. I have no wish to think of the two of them as a couple, and yet I have no choice. I understand Hugh’s nature perhaps even better than Georgiana’s. Though young, she is no innocent Miss. She knew the baser instincts of men before Hugh came to her bed. But I have a hard time believing that she will accept all of his…proclivities. I simply cannot and do not wish to think of my sister in that way.
Charles, on the other hand, needs to see Victoria out—and not with the master of his hounds. I have nothing against Gavin, but Victoria has never been allowed in the company of single men (save for me). She needs to be made aware that there are choices. I yet hope to talk Charles into sending Caroline to live with her bosom friend Patrice Hurst, separating her from her younger sisters, sparing them her sharp tongue and cutting words.
Victoria will need a new wardrobe, fit for coming out. The twins can resume their music lessons and provide a needed distraction for Georgiana, who pines for Hugh these days. Most of her friends are gone from London and will not return until the holiday season. If her personality were more assertive, she could have more friends. As many as she wished. But she is shy. Submissive. Even so, she has always been highly selective in her choice of company. Few meet her standards, and of those, the ones who fail to maintain the degree of honesty, civility, compassion, intellect, and good humour that she expects will find themselves swiftly and forever banished from her sphere.
Like me, she does not forget.
Once in London, I hope to enlist Hugh’s aid to learn more of George Wickham’s commission. In particular, I wish to know how he came to be in Meryton, and how long he will remain. I trust and hope that Miss Elizabeth sees through any guile that he weaves, but her two youngest sisters—the ones who are so very fond of officers—are exactly the types of innocents that he preys upon.
Charles has not been gone an hour before I persuade the others to follow him. Victoria is the only one of our party to cast a regretful eye at Netherfield’s shrinking silhouette. She does not know, of course, the tentative plans being made for her. Everything in its time. Caroline first, then Victoria. As for myself, I will check on Georgiana, then seek out Hugh.
I find him at the club, watching four
dominants with a submissive male, a pretty young man who has been persuaded to try a version of the double oracle. There are two cocks in his arse and one down his throat while he milks the shaft of the fourth man. One of the unattached women here is particularly fascinated. The four men promise to attend to her next.
After a time, we withdraw, putting us distant enough to carry on a private conversation. Rather than lead, I motion Hugh to go first. He rubs his jaw and eyes me surreptitiously.
“A year,” he says, frustration in his voice. “I must wait a year. If I prove myself worthy, we have her blessing.”
“It’s only a year,” I tell him, grateful for the reprieve. Georgiana is so young, it worries me to let her go.
Hugh slices a telling look at me. “Only a year, you say. Except for those twelve months, I am to be celibate. No releases except by my own hand. Jesus fucking Christ! The woman is evil. Pure evil. May the devil take her!”
I arch a brow and ask him bluntly, “Is Georgiana not worth it?”
He shoves five fingers into his hair and growls, “Of course she is, Darcy, but—”
“Surely a year of self-sacrifice is a small price to pay for the lifetime that follows.”
“Yes,” he grudges, “but how do I explain it to Georgie? She will wait if Aunt Catherine demands it but she will not be happy.”
“I suspect not,” I say, sympathetic to his plight. Hugh is caught like a cock at first light, ready to crow for a dawn that shall be twelve months in coming. Knowing our aunt, she has likely forbidden either a declaration of commitment or a betrothal until her trial has passed. “But she must understand that it is not by choice.”
I know my sister. Eventually, she will think to tempt him. If she cannot be dissuaded, she will need to be disciplined—a disaster in the making, given what followed his last session with her.
“I will speak to Mrs. Annesley,” I tell Hugh. “Advise her of the situation and discuss appropriate punishments that she will administer as needed. There is still a paddle in the nursery. I suppose that I should order the cook to keep an extra ginger root on hand.” I make due note of it when the very thought of figging makes Hugh shudder and wince. “If we are fortunate, the threat will be enough.”
Hugh is not happy, but he knows as well as I that there is nothing more to be done than abide by our aunt’s wishes. She knows what she is about. There is a reason behind everything that she does. While she is an iron mistress, in the end, she makes certain that those who submit to her will are ultimately rewarded. Pity that she has not found another husband willing to worship the ground that she walks upon, let alone be walked upon by her, but such is life. Idle hours must be filled, and she does so by training the occasional female student in the art of domination.
Rosy bottoms at Rosings are nothing new. How Hugh’s came to be figged is another story.
One that he might never share without being deep in his cups.
Two hours later, I leave his room at the club with full knowledge and the utmost confidence that my sister will remain celibate for the next twelve months, if it is Hugh that she wants.
There is no doubt that he wants her. Beyond their stations, beyond our connections, the man is…enchanted with my sister. Her beauty. Her voice. Her musicality. Her proficiency in languages and the arts. Her quick mind, clever speech, and her thirst for knowledge, great reader that she is. But, more than anything, her broken spirit calls to him to do everything within his power to mend it, and this he is pledged to do, even if it takes to his dying day.
I have never seen Hugh in love, but damned if he does not sound like it.
Chapter Fourteen
The household is abed when I return; my talks with Georgiana and Mrs. Annesley are deferred. Sleep is elusive. Although my conscience is clear (I am convinced that I have done the right thing, separating Charles Bingley from Jane Bennet), my dreams are plagued with sapphire eyes, hard as diamonds, shining with tears and full of accusations that I have dared to meddle.
At breakfast, Georgiana is upset and blames me for not fighting for her against our aunt. She returns, sulking, to her room, allowing me the time I need discussing various courses of action with Mrs. Annesley, whose nature lies somewhere between my dominant aunt and submissive sister. On one hand, the governess submits to my authority yet she does not hesitate to take the lead with Georgiana in the mistress’s role, a firm taskmaster who can administer a stinging hand or tender touch and has the wisdom to know which is needed. Recognizing that Mrs. Annesley was a switch, with the strength and compassion that my sister so desperately needed after Wickham, made her the clear choice when I interviewed applicants to oversee my sister’s continuing education.
I have never regretted my decision.
It seems that Mrs. Annesley has more experience with discipline than I imagined. Most of her punishments are mental, rather than physical, and will be used with due consideration to Georgiana’s fragile psyche. Darkness nearly consumed her once, and she still struggles with it. Infinite wisdom and judicious administration will be required to maintain the balance needed to keep Georgiana in line without pushing her over it. Mrs. Annesley, having experience with this, assures me that she can do it, and I believe her.
With my own house in order, I turn my attention to the Bingleys.
The morning is crisp, and the earth wears a thin veneer of frost, thanks to last night’s dip in temperature. The sky is gloomy and overcast with gray clouds that hide the sun and keep it from melting the layer of crystals which have whitewashed the world since early this Saturday morn.
George Hurst has a home in Grosvenor Street, which is residence to all the Bingleys whilst the family is in London. If they are elsewhere and Charles is alone, he either takes a guest room at my town house or, if I am at Pemberley, he stays at a hotel.
The weather is as cold and harsh as Caroline Bingley, whose mood is no sweeter despite her return to London and its society. Charles is gone, meeting with his agent about an investment opportunity that he would do well to accept. I decide to wait, and use the time to discuss the Bennet situation with Caroline.
“My wishes are unchanged,” I tell her. “I hope to persuade your brother to remain here for the winter. The girls have their lessons. You have your friends, and my sister will benefit from seeing yours again.”
In an instant, Caroline’s eyes take on that sly look, which she just as quickly masks. “And how is dear Georgiana?” she coos. “I must pay her a visit and see her take on the latest trends. Her taste is immaculate. And she is so very clever. I do not see how she does it, managing to have her own unique look for styles that everyone else is wearing.”
The secret is her seamstress, whom I know better than to name when she is not in the business of dressmaking. It is something she does only as time allows and mainly for the joy of it. Madame Solange Lumière has made Georgiana’s garments since graduating from nursery wear to the couture of a young heiress. A hobby, she calls it, refusing recompense beyond expenses incurred and accepting small gifts only when pressed to do so. In performing this service, she honours the memory of our mother. Although the two women were but distant cousins born a generation apart, they were as close as some sisters before death divided them.
“Nor do I,” is my safest truthful response. The creative process of dress design is Madame Lumière’s realm, not mine.
Caroline’s pout is lost on me. I know her tricks. Know the bend of her mind, the strength of her will, the lengths to which she will go in order to have her way. What I do not know is what she is hiding, and I vow to learn it before I leave.
“Well,” she huffs, “please convey my greetings to Georgiana and tell her that I shall call upon her as soon as things have settled.”
“Settled?”
Caroline swallows, as if she has misspoken, or said too much.
Ah.
“How so?” I ask, pinning her with my gaze.
She fusses with her dress, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle. “Nothing,” sh
e says. “Unpacking. Settling in. You know.”
No, I do not, but I will.
“Miss Bingley, I will ask kindly but once. What have you done?”
She mutters beneath her breath. “Before we left, I penned a letter to Miss Jane Bennet, to have it delivered after we had gone. We want Charles to stay here. I told her that it was our intention to remain in London for the winter. To further discourage her…I may have mentioned Miss Darcy, and intimated that Louisa and I would not be averse to calling her sister. I know. I know!”
I am speechless. Caroline truly is an evil genius. What she did was brilliant, even if it was so very, very wrong. I should condemn her actions. She knows how I abhor deceit, but…
Fuck.
“Please,” she begs, sounding genuinely distressed, as if she fears upsetting me further. “I was pressed for time,” she stammers, “and it was the surest way I could think to keep her from trying to contact him.”
“Tell me,” I order brusquely, appalled by her machinations. “What was in the letter, from beginning to end?”
“Mm, well…” She bites her lip and looks away, her gaze focused beyond this room, searching the recent past. “I told her that I had no regrets leaving Hertfordshire save for her society. As if I would miss her, but really, she will never know otherwise. I wrote that we were following Charles. That I didn’t wish to see him in a hotel and we would be dining together here, with Louisa and George. I said that you were impatient to see your sister, another truth sprinkled on the page, where I praised Georgiana’s many virtues and confided that Louisa and I entertained the hope of her being hereafter our sister. If I remember aright, I deemed it ‘an event which will secure the happiness of so many.’”
How easily lies slip from her lips.
“Hmmfph. And you think this will dissuade?”
“Yes. Certainly. She would be stupid to follow him, and a fool to write to him. After that, it will only make her appear desperate. Of course, letters can be intercepted, if need be.”