by Nia Farrell
Miss Jane was well enough in London when I left, but I cannot tell her that.
As if divining my thoughts, Miss Elizabeth answers in the usual way, pauses, then asks about her sister. “She has been in town these three months,” she says. “Have you never happened to see her there?”
Have I? Possibly. I choose not to mention the phantom sighting at the frost fair when I answer, carefully and honestly. “No. I have not been so fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet.”
She cannot seem to fathom it but says nothing to challenge me. Sensing the tension between us, Hugh does his duty and entertains them with what soldier stories he can share in genteel company, until time comes for us to go. We take our leave, clearing the laurel hedge, headed for Rosings, half-hidden by the trees in its park. The half mile passes in intimate conversation that will be impossible once we are back.
“And…?” I ask, fishing.
Hugh clears his throat. “I can see your fascination with her. She has spirit, and intelligence. I noticed the snap of her eyes, how badly she wished to challenge you. You have never liked them too easy.”
Which was the problem last night. My aunt’s submissive repeatedly misbehaved, knowing that she would be punished. She yielded too easily, bent too quickly…characteristics which might appeal to someone with less patience.
“You know me too well,” I tell him. “I would rather wait, and work, to have what I want. And when she yields, I will treasure her all the more for it.”
“Ah, but will she yield? And if so, how much are you willing to take from her? She is a virgin, yes?”
“Of course,” I say a bit too sharply. “I believe that she is. But then, Wickham was in Meryton when I left it. I do not know what damage he hath wrought.”
Hugh looks speculative. “Perhaps I can find out. What say you to my visiting the parsonage alone? Engage the females in idle conversation. One of them may know something and be persuaded to let it slip. I am an officer, after all.”
His plan, on the surface, has merit. Aunt Catherine has vowed to make the girls pay for their insolence and has rescinded dinner invitations until further notice. This ploy works twofold, denying them my company and forcing me into my cousin Anne’s. I cannot believe that Aunt Catherine still harbors hope of a union between us. On paper, the joining of our houses and fortunes makes sense, of course, and cousins still wed for such reasons, but we do not suit. We do not. If Anne had Mrs. Annesley instead of Mrs. Jenkinson to attend her, my aunt would see the truth of it.
Hugh pays several calls on the parsonage, after which we walk and talk, away from the ears of the others. He has learned something of Wickham, which is next to nothing in the scheme of things. Miss Bennet had not heard of him before his entrance into the militia. It seems that he ran into a prior acquaintance, bought some rounds for old times’ sake, and by evening’s end had secured an invitation to join up. Of his former way of life, nothing is known in Hertfordshire but what he tells himself. No one questions him, when his countenance, voice, and manner establish him as a gentleman, possessed of every virtue.
“She is too trusting,” Hugh growls, bristling with the need to protect her. Miss Elizabeth is growing on him, I can tell. If he were not committed in spirit to my sister, and Miss Bennet was a more adventurous maid, I believe he would be happy to have her between us. Like me, he admires her fine, dark eyes. Her wealth of chestnut hair, perfect for pulling. Her supple mouth and sensitive breasts.
“I bet her arse is as tight as a fist,” he speculates, sighing. “Wouldn’t you love to be the one to loosen it with yours?”
“Somehow I do not think she will find the idea of fisting appealing. In the beginning, I’ll be lucky to manage a finger up her arse while I lick her to orgasm. She is stubborn, that one. And sheltered. The introduction of oral pleasure may leave her senseless.”
Hugh chuckles. “She has more common sense in that head of hers than a dozen London debutantes. Do you know that she was raised with no governess, and yet she reads voraciously, devours everything in sight? She’s trying to teach herself Latin, of all things. It is the preferred language in scientific classifications, and she is interested in botany. That’s why she walks so much, you know. Plants. Trees. Wildflowers. Anything green appeals. Have you noticed, her eyes are never still when she is outdoors? She takes everything in.”
“I have not had the pleasure of accompanying her outdoors. And in Hertfordshire, while indoors, Caroline Bingley made certain that we were never left alone for any length of time.” Half an hour at most, and that wasted, thanks to my stubborn pride.
I shake my head, keenly aware of a missed opportunity.
Hugh claps me on the back. “Cheer up, man. You’ll see her soon.”
I look at him blankly.
“Church! Have you forgotten? Easter is Sunday. You can skip services the rest of the year, but Christmas and Easter, you had best be in a pew with a pious face and a pocket full of coin for the collection basket.”
“Of course.” Though aware of the date, it had slipped my mind. Back in London, Charles will be taking his sisters and mine to services. Here, I am expected to sit with Cousin Anne and Aunt Catherine. I do not know what it will take, but surely reconciliation with the Collinses and their guests is appropriate for such a holy day.
Aunt Catherine is easy enough to persuade. In truth, I think she fears losing Hugh’s company to the Collinses again. Her invitation for that evening, summarily extended as they exit the church, will keep his entertainment at home and immediately available to her ladyship.
At the proper hour, the Collinses and their two guests join us in Lady Catherine’s drawing room. My aunt is barely civil and basically ignores them, clearly preferring her nephews to her guests. Most of her remarks are directed to me, leaving Hugh free to engage Miss Bennet in conversation. He seems genuinely glad to see her—but then, why wouldn’t he? Anything to break the monotony that rules our days at Rosings. I hear but snippets, talk of travelling, of pursuits at home. Kent and Hertfordshire. New books and music. But when she starts describing the early spring wildflowers that are popping up, she grows so animated that she draws my aunt’s attention as well as my own.
“What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam?” she demands of Hugh. “What is it you are talking of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.”
Hugh slices a glance at me. “We were speaking of music, madam,” he prevaricates, choosing a subject near and dear to our aunt’s heart.
“Of music! Then pray speak aloud! It is of all subjects my delight. I must have my share in the conversation if you are speaking of music. There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had even learnt, I should have been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her health had allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have performed delightfully. How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?”
It is my turn to glance at Hugh, sitting with my Elizabeth. “Very well indeed,” I say, “when there are no distractions. She enjoys her friends…but she is faithful—” Hugh has the good sense to look discomfited “—in her practice. Her piano master praises her proficiency.”
Aunt Catherine, too, looks at Hugh. “I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,” she says pointedly, “and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel if she does not practice a good deal.”
“I assure you, madam, that she does not need such advice. She practices constantly.”
“So much the better. It cannot be overdone. When I next write to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often tell young ladies that no excellence in music is to be acquired without constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times, that she will never play really well unless she practices more; and though Mrs. Collins has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often told her, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the pianoforte in Mrs. Jenkinson’s room. She would be in nobody’s way, y
ou know, in that part of the house.”
Miss Elizabeth sits straighter, stiffening her spine and biting her tongue, no doubt, at my aunt’s insensitive remarks. The disregard that Lady Catherine seems to have for the feelings of others makes me wonder how she handles after-play care of her submissives. Then again, perhaps she leaves Lady Catherine at the training room door, and Mistress Cat is fully focused on her submissives.
I will have to ask Hugh his opinion.
Our aunt continues to share hers until after coffee, when Hugh prods Miss Elizabeth to play for him. He is curious to hear her perform, after I told him of hearing her sing in Meryton, and how luscious she sounded with that rich, throaty voice of hers. When she sits down at the pianoforte, Hugh draws up a chair. Lady Catherine listens to but half the song before she starts talking again. She asks about Georgiana’s lessons and if there are any recitals scheduled that she should know about, in case she would wish to come.
My aunt has no real interest in hearing Miss Elizabeth play and no compunction about speaking over her performance, which I wish to hear. Excusing myself, I walk away from Aunt Catherine and position myself by the instrument, opposite the keyboard and directly across from the woman who plays it, making my presence well known.
She finishes the piece and turns to me with an arch smile. “You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear me? I will not be alarmed though your sister does play so well. There is a stubbornness about me that can never bear to bow at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to dominate me.”
Hugh flushes, looking guilty as sin. Cheeky girl. What has he been telling you on those nature walks of yours?
“I shall not say you are mistaken,” I tell her, suppressing a smile, “because you could not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are not your own.”
She laughs at this, a rich throaty sound, and looks at Hugh. “Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky in meeting with a person so able to expose my real character, in a part of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous of you to mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire—and, give me leave to say, very impolitic too—for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such things may come out as will shock your relations to hear.”
So she threatens to tattle on me? Aunt Catherine already believes that she would benefit from a spanking. I need only an excuse to make it a reality.
Smiling at the thought of bending her over my knee, I tell her that I am not afraid of her.
Hugh is enjoying this a bit too much and begs to hear what she has to accuse me of. “I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.”
“You shall hear then,” she says primly, “but prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball. And at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce, and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.”
She noticed exactly how many sets I danced. Noticed and remembered the two sets of two dances each that belonged to Louisa and Caroline. “I had not at the time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party,” I offer in my defence, knowing that it is her wounded pride speaking. She is still hurt at my rebuff. I called her not enough to tempt me and left her sitting.
What an arse.
“True,” she allows, then adds, “and nobody can ever be introduced in a ballroom.”
She is trying to be facetious, but there is a fragile, brittle quality to her voice when next she speaks. “Well, Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders.”
“Perhaps I should have judged better, had I sought an introduction,” I tell her, wishing I could rewind the clock, relive that night, and dance with her instead of denying us both. “But I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.”
She is clearly skeptical and looks to Hugh for corroboration. “Should we ask your cousin the reason of this? Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend himself to strangers?”
Hugh says it is because I will not give myself the trouble. There is more to the story, and I offer another piece of it.
“I certainly have not the talent which some people possess of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.”
A holdover from childhood, when I was late to speak and stuttered when I did. Eventually I would master it, control it—a trait that ingrained itself and defines me still.
“My fingers,” says Miss Elizabeth, “do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I will not take the trouble of practicing. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable as any other woman’s of superior execution.”
I smile, thinking of what else I could teach those fingers to do. “You are perfectly right,” I tell her. “You have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.”
“Darcy!” My name, sharp as the crack of a fowling piece, kills the mood. “What are you talking about?” Miss Elizabeth does not wait for my response but launches into her next number. It is a pretty piece, and performed masterfully, despite her low opinion of her talent. Even my aunt is impressed. She is drawn to the pianoforte, where she actually stands beside me and listens.
And then she spoils it.
“Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss if she practiced more, and could have the advantage of a London master. She has a very good notion of fingering, though her taste is not equal to Anne’s. Anne would have been a delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn.”
At this, Miss Elizabeth eyes me curiously. No doubt, on those nature walks of hers, Hugh has mentioned my aunt’s wishes, but I have made no promise to Anne, nor shall I.
She is not the one I want.
I smile and request another tune, and another. Miss Elizabeth plays, at our urging and despite Aunt Catherine’s running critique, until the carriage is ordered to carry them home.
Chapter Eighteen
I should apologise. I need to apologise.
After a nearly sleepless night, spent in recriminations, I am determined to set things right between us. I pride myself on being a gentleman, but I acted like an arse in Meryton. My aunt is just as bad here. Miss Elizabeth deserves better, and I am pledged to give it to her.
Reverend Collins comes to Rosings as we are finishing breakfast. He spends ten minutes apologising for the interruption and another five describing what they ate at the parsonage. When asked, he says the women are at home. Leaving him to my aunt (or vice versa), I walk the half mile to the parsonage, ring the bell, and wait.
No one comes.
Remembering last time, I let myself in and make my way to the drawing room. Miss Elizabeth freezes, eyes wide to see me, her face slightly flushed. She has a letter in her hand, without folds, something she was writing and I have interrupted.
“I am sorry,” I tell her. “Please, forgive my intrusion. When Reverend Collins came to Rosings, I understood that all the ladies were here.”
“No,” she said, shoving the letter into a drawer and shutting it. “Mrs. Collins and Miss Lucas have business in the village. They should return any time. Please, sit.”
I take a nearby chair. She sinks down in hers. “How
is your family?” she inquires, all politeness. She would not be so prim and proper if she knew what I did last night whilst thinking of her. “And your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam?”
“They are well enough,” I tell her. “Miss de Bourgh has a ticklish cough. Seasonal. Nothing dangerous.”
We fall silent, remembering her sister’s illness, and how worried she had been for Miss Jane. The long, thankless hours spent at her bedside, and Caroline’s abuse of her when she dared to come downstairs.
“How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy!” she says. “It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you all so soon. If I recollect right, he went but the day before. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London?”
“Perfectly so, I thank you.”
Just that quickly, I am plagued by uncertainty. Charles is on his own and Miss Jane is still in town. It would be a minor miracle for their paths to cross. So far, our luck has held. I pray that it continues to do so. The moment that it doesn’t, if their shared breath fans a flame that has not died, then I shall arrange for Miss Jane to meet Aunt Catherine, to see if there is hope.
Miss Elizabeth smoothes her skirt and looks toward the window, her mind working furiously behind those dark eyes of hers. She catches her lip between her teeth and worries it.
I wonder how she tastes.
“I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever returning to Netherfield again?”
I wish I could give her hope but I dare not. “I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend very little of his time there in the future. He has many friends, and is at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually increasing.”
She looks crestfallen, then shakes herself. “If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for the neighborhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we might possibly get a settled family there. But perhaps Mr. Bingley did not take the house so much for the convenience of the neighborhood as for his own, and we must expect him to keep it or quit it on the same principle.”