Pride and Punishment: An Erotic Retelling of Jane Austen's Beloved Classic

by Nia Farrell

  It is a shrewd, if rather cutting, remark. Unfortunately, she is correct.

  “I should not be surprised,” I say, rather disappointed that I am denied an excuse to chasten her, “if he were to give it up as soon as any eligible purchase offers.”

  It is not what she wishes to hear. Unhappy with me, or the news, or both, she tightens her lips and says nothing, just stares silently out the window, looking for her friends to come and rescue her from me.

  Not that she is in any danger. Yet.

  “This seems a very comfortable house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr. Collins first came to Hunsford.”

  She blinks, shakes herself, and forces her gaze from the window to meet mine. “I believe she did—and I am sure she could not have bestowed her kindness on a more grateful object.”

  Submissive groveler that he is, Reverend Collins is the kind of man who would receive gratification from abject humiliation. Marriage to him would have condemned Miss Elizabeth to a miserable existence. “Mr. Collins appears to be very fortunate in his choice of wife.”

  “Yes, indeed.” She looks out the window and brightens at her escape. “His friends may well rejoice in his having met with one of the very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made him happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding—though I am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins the wisest thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however, and in a prudential light it is certainly a very good match for her.”

  “It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within so easy a distance of her own family and friends.”

  She swivels her head to look at me, her dark eyes alight with mischievous humour. “An easy distance, do you call it?” Her honeyed voice drips with skepticism. “It is nearly fifty miles.”

  “And what is fifty miles of good road?” I challenge. “Little more than half a day’s journey. Yes, I call it a very easy distance.”

  “I should never have considered the distance as one of the advantages of the match. I should never have said Mrs. Collins was settled near her family.”

  Ah. She dares to disagree. Now we are getting somewhere.

  “It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire.” When she bristles, almost imperceptibly, I smile, enjoying her spirit, taking satisfaction that I’ve finally gotten a rise out of her. “Anything beyond the very neighborhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far.”

  She blushes becomingly, properly humbled. “I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her family. The far and the near must be relative, and depend on many varying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expenses of travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not the case here. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not such a one as will allow frequency of journeys—and I am persuaded my friend would not call herself near her family under less than half the present distance.”

  Determined to push her some more, to probe her defences and discover her limits, I draw my chair closer to her. “You cannot have a right to such a very strong local attachment. You cannot have been always at Longbourn.”

  But she has. I can tell from the look on her face. My words work against me, making her close up tight as a virgin on her wedding night. I draw back my chair and take up a newspaper, pretending to read, cursing my ineptitude at idle talk. My inability to articulate as a child continues to plague me.

  When it comes to conversation, I am her inferior.

  She says nothing, just sits in stony silence, no doubt wishing me gone.

  “Are you pleased with Kent?” I demand to know. I refuse to let her shut herself off from me.

  “It is pleasant enough,” she says. “The flora and fauna are much the same, but I am told there is a species of orchid that blooms in May and turns Marden Meadow magenta well into June. Have you seen it?”

  “I have,” I say, enjoying the rapt attention I now suddenly command. “My sister Georgiana wished to paint them. Green-winged orchids. Anacamptis morio.”

  Oh, I have impressed Miss Elizabeth with my knowledge of the Latin name. Perhaps the morning is salvageable after all. “You will need to be up early and out on the meadow before first light,” I tell her, “when the dew is caught in the spider webs that span the blades of grass. On a clear morning, the meadow appears to be decked in diamonds, magenta orchid blooms with splashes of yellow buttercups.”

  Before I can invite her to view it with me, Mrs. Collins and her sister Miss Lucas return, ending any chance of more intimate conversation. I repeat my misunderstanding of Reverend Collins. When Mrs. Collins fails to empathize, I announce my departure and bid the ladies adieu.

  I return the next day with Hugh. Miss Elizabeth seems comfortable with him and relaxes in his company. A conversationalist himself, he draws her into lively discussions that I am pleased to listen to, and learn from. Eventually I am brave enough to visit alone, armed with a volume on the botany of Kent.

  I have not my cousin’s easy manners, but I manage to engage Miss Bennet in critiquing its colour plates.

  I suppose I should bring books more often. Not practiced in idle talk, too often I sit mute, waiting for someone else to speak so that I may respond, letting them set the course of the conversation. It is not a comfortable silence. It is awkward and humbling but I am reminded of how far I have come, to say a series of complete sentences without stammering, to be perceived as an intelligent man, not judged an imbecile child.

  What does she think of me now?

  I look upon her with an earnest, steadfast gaze, willing her to return it. She rarely does when Hugh is with me. He commands her attention and draws her laughter, having fallen into an easy camaraderie. To be clear, so as not to unwittingly inspire false hopes or unknowingly lead her on, during one of their walks, he swore Miss Elizabeth to secrecy, confided that he has a sweetheart, and solicited her opinion on what trinkets would best please someone her sister Kitty’s age. Georgiana is Miss Lydia’s contemporary, but Hugh already risked putting off Miss Elizabeth with news that his heart is engaged and he still needed to learn about Wickham.

  If Miss Elizabeth is disappointed that Hugh is taken, she hides it well. Without the pressure to impress him in order to engage his affection, she seems comfortable indeed in my cousin’s company. Comfortable enough to have told him of Wickham (at least in the present day).

  When Hugh fished for information about his activities in Meryton, he got it. Miss Elizabeth, on the other hand, has heard nothing from Hugh’s lips on Wickham’s past, save to confirm what she already knows, that he grew up at Pemberley, the son of my father’s steward.

  I say nothing of Wickham. It is enough that he is housed in a barracks in Meryton instead of languishing in prison for what he has done, but my sister was so fragile, Hugh and I feared for her and rightly so. To expose Wickham would necessitate revealing Georgiana as his victim. She would be forced to testify, seen as tainted, shunned.

  Twice ruined.

  And so Wickham went free.

  *****

  I learn, quite by accident, that Miss Elizabeth has a favourite path leading to a particular haunt. I chance to encounter her there once. The second time is by design. Today marks the third time that we are here together, and possibly our last.

  Hugh and I will be leaving soon, headed back to London to attend business and celebrate Georgiana’s sixteenth birthday. Miss Elizabeth will return to Hertfordshire…to Meryton, brimming with single local men. Soldiers. Officers.

  Wickham.

  She is not my submissive, yet I feel the need to protect her, understand her, learn what gives her pleasure. And so I do what any good dominant does. I ask questions, make observations, and listen to her responses. She has enjoyed visiting her bosom friend Mrs. Collins. She feels that the Reverend and Mrs. Collins are well suited and are pleased with each other. She has enjoyed the change of scenery. She has always loved to walk alone.

&nb
sp; She prefers to walk alone…and yet she is sharing her walk with me.

  I wonder what else she is willing to share. What is she adventurous enough to try? I glance at Rosings in the distance, its training room so close and yet so far from where we are at this stage.

  She follows my gaze to the prospect of Rosings and turns back to me with unspoken questions in her eyes.

  “I was thinking,” I tell her. “Of my aunt. Of Rosings. How they are both commanding presences, and appearances can deceive. There are layers to Rosings, things that must be seen to be appreciated, experienced to be understood. Without them, you will never have a perfect picture of the house.” And I will never see the perfect picture of her, in the training room, naked and kneeling at my feet. “Perhaps when you come again into Kent, you might stay there too.”

  She blinks, unsettled at the idea of spending the night at Rosings. Was it the thought of Aunt Catherine, or thoughts of me that sent gooseflesh sluicing along her arms? Wrapping her shawl tightly about her, she cocoons herself in a swath of patterned wool, tucks her chin, and heads for the parsonage, eager to distance herself from wherever she thought that our conversation was headed.

  I let it go, respecting her wishes. Rather than press her, I send out Hugh. Having been informed of where he might find her, Hugh takes a path that intersects with her favourite and finds her frowning over a letter that she is reading as she walks. He clears his throat. Alerted to the fact that she is not alone, Miss Elizabeth shoves it into her reticule and looks up. Surprised to see my cousin instead of me, she forces a smile that does not reach her eyes.

  Hugh leads the conversation. He lets her know that I have delayed our leaving—more than once—but stops short of telling her the why of it. He broaches the subject of my sister, lets her know that we are joint guardians. Instead of extrapolating the fact that my parents are gone, and realising that she will never be put in the position of having to pass inspection or receive their approval, she latches onto the subject of my sister.

  “And pray what sort of guardians do you make?” she asks him. “Does your charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age are sometimes a little difficult to manage, and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she may like to have her own way.”

  Hugh wonders if Wickham has said anything, and asks Miss Elizabeth to explain why she supposes my sister would give us any uneasiness.

  She quickly puts his mind at ease, confessing that she never heard any harm of her. “I dare say she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world.”

  Tractable? Only a handful of people know that Georgiana is a submissive. Hugh nearly chokes, thinking that Wickham has indeed told Miss Elizabeth something of her.

  “She is a great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance,” she continues. “Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them….”

  Hugh pauses in his account and shifts uncomfortably, looking about the study where we have withdrawn for privacy. When he deigns to meet my gaze again, his face is flushed with guilt.

  Dread stabs me in the stomach. “What?” I demand. “How did you answer?”

  “Um, I said that I knew them. She remarked that you are uncommonly kind to Mr. Bingley and take a prodigious deal of care of him. I, um, damn it, Darcy! I had no idea that her sister was involved.”

  Christ. Feeling the floor fall from beneath my feet, I wonder at the damage he has done and if there is a chance in hell to repair it.

  “Tell me,” I order. “Word for word.”

  Hugh clears his throat. “Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy does take care of him in those points where he most needs care. From something that he told me in our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that Bingley was the person meant.”

  Jesus God.

  “I told her it was all conjecture,” he stresses, “that I had no real reason to suppose it to be Bingley that you had saved from an imprudent marriage. You mentioned no names. No particulars. I told her that you would not wish the circumstance to be made known. That if it were to get round to the lady’s family, hearing that there were some very strong objections to her would be an unpleasant thing. I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort. And I knew that the two of you were together the whole of last summer. Shite.”

  I am pacing now, one hand shoved in my hair, the other rubbing my face and kneading the knots in my neck, boot heels rutting the carpet. “Jesus, Hugh! I sent you in hopes of advancing my cause, not sabotaging it!”

  “I know. I know. God damn it. I know!” Hugh throws up his hands in supplication. “She asked what arts you used to separate them. I told her I didn’t know. You had not said. You only told me what I told her. Nothing more. She walked away, silent, but what I said clearly weighed on her and I asked her why she was so thoughtful. She said that she was thinking on what I had said, that your conduct does not suit her feelings. She wanted to know why you were to be the judge.”

  I growl beneath my breath. Hugh puts another step between us and says that he defended me when she called my interference officious. “She said, ‘I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his friend’s inclination, or why, upon his own judgment alone, he was to determine and direct in what manner his friend was to be happy. But as we know none of the particulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed that there was much affection in the case.’ I admitted that that was not an unnatural surmise, but it sadly lessened the honour of your triumph. It seemed to sting her pride just a bit, and she quickly changed the subject to botany. We talked of other things until I left her at the parsonage. Aunt Catherine has invited them to tea.”

  “Wonderful,” I grate. “What the fuck am I to say to her?” Master that I am in giving a submissive commands, the art of witty repartee continues to elude me. “If she asks me, I cannot lie. You of all people know how I abhor deceit. If pressed, I will take her aside, tell her what I did, explain why I did it, and hope she does not hate me for it.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  She did not come.

  The Collinses are here, and Miss Lucas, but Miss Elizabeth is at the parsonage with a headache. Perhaps it is true. If so, I hold joint responsibility with Hugh for it, but I’ll be damned if I let him come with me to assuage it.

  I walk the half mile briskly, needing the exercise to burn off some of my excess energy. I am leaving in two days, headed with Hugh back to London. I have delayed as long as I can, not wishing to separate myself from Miss Elizabeth. I have been letting her grow used to me, walking, talking, getting to know her and offering her the chance to do the same. I need her to trust me. I want her to like me. What I desire from her…with her…requires both of those things.

  No one answers the door. Again. Shaking my head, I let myself in, leave my hat at the door, and make my way to the drawing room, where Miss Elizabeth sits, surrounded by letters. When she sees that it is I, not Hugh, come to call, her eyes grow cold as ice.

  “You did not come,” I say, struggling with the last word as long-tamed memory muscles stretch dangerously close to a stutter. “They said you were unwell. Please tell me, are you better? Well enough to hear me, before I have to go?”

  She says nothing, just curls one hand into a fist and plucks at her skirt with the other.

  I sit down, thinking furiously what I should say, and how to phrase it. Damn it. I have no wish to stammer like a school boy forced to recite before a classroom of his peers, but I must say something. Anything.

  “In vain I have struggled.” I push out of my chair and head to where she sits. I need to be able to reach her, make her stay and listen if she tries to run. “It will not do.” I tell her. “My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and desire you.”

  She is…shocked. Astonished. She stares at me, coloured, doubt
ed, silent. Before she can reject me, I confess my infatuation with her that began at Netherfield and has only increased in the time since.

  “At first, it seemed an impossibility,” I admit, “given our stations. My peers will see not you but your rank—or rather your lack of it. Perceiving inferiority, they shall protest the degradation that my aunt most certainly will feel. Despite what they will say, however much my aunt objects, I want you, Miss Elizabeth. I want what I have dreamed—you, naked, bound to my bed. You, draped across my lap with your skirts rucked, your blushing bottom cheeks rosy from my spanking. You, offering your willing submission, kneeling before me, calling me Master. I want you to be mine.”

  Her eyes are wide now, her gaze fastened on the front of my breeches, misshapen by the column of rigid flesh. I catch her hand, pluck her from her chair, and spin her back against me, holding her with one hand claiming a breast, the other hand splayed on her stomach, pressing her against the evidence of my desire. I breathe in the scent of her hair, her jasmine skin. Lips skimming the white column of her neck, I fasten my mouth on the back of it, biting the base, marking her as a stallion would a mare.

  She shivers, whimpers, trembles in my arms. “Submit,” I say, “and I can show you pleasures beyond imagining. Things that you have never dared to dream. Say the word, and I am yours.”

  She gasps when my hand cups her secrets. Lifting her dress, I push my fingers into her folds. “Sir!” she cries, wriggling like a minnow, shocked at my intimate touch.

  “Close,” I whisper, relishing the one title as much as I crave the other. “Do you ever touch yourself here? Have you ever had an itch that you were compelled to scratch, and in so doing, discovered your pearl, here, begging for attention?”

  She buckles when I find it. “Please,” she bleats, clamping her thighs together and trapping my hand. The move, meant to discourage me, has the opposite effect on her, and she begins to grind against it. “You should not! We must not!”