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

by Nia Farrell

  *****

  Hugh is not at the town house, nor at his club, when I return. I suspect that he is keeping tabs on Wickham, but I shall have to wait until I see him and hear his latest report. No news is not necessarily good news, where George Wickham is concerned.

  We catch up that evening. As I suspected, Wickham has been allowed unlimited visits to the Gardiners’ home, no doubt to silence Miss Lydia’s whining. Hugh followed him home, where Higgins the Runner will keep an eye on things this night.

  Hugh arrives too late for supper. Having missed his own, he complains of being as hungry as a bear at winter’s end. To the kitchen it is. I watch while he raids the pantry with nearly as much glee as having a submissive at his mercy.

  “And how is Thomas?” I ask, hopeful that between them, certain needs are being met. Thomas craves the sense of exculpation arising from mortification of the flesh; Hugh is a man driven to inflict pain as well as dominate. While most reciprocative pairings of my acquaintance share a sexual component, I know a few other Dominants and submissives in dynamic yet platonic relationships, some of them quite long-term.

  Hugh finishes chewing and swallows before answering. “Ready for me, I should think. I do hope he’s been a bad boy. I’ve a lot of frustration that needs worked out. Watching Wickham, knowing what he’s done, what he did to Georgie…” He breaks off abruptly and shakes himself like a bull before a matador’s cape. “I’ve never killed a man. Strange, being a soldier, having served, I know. I have never killed anyone. Never wanted to…until now. Christ, it was tempting. It would have been easy enough to slip a blade in his back or up his belly and gut him like fish. In the old days, I’d have seen him castrated, drawn and quartered.”

  Hugh takes another bite of his late night repast, his appetite undiminished by thoughts of Wickham’s bloody end.

  “To kill him would be lunacy,” I remark, referring to the full moon that lights the distant sky tonight. “He is not worth the consequence. Why risk anything when George Wickham will hang himself eventually? You may count upon it. A gaming debt owed to the wrong party, and he will not live to turn another card. That far North, any word sent requesting aid will surely come too late. Hopefully, his widow will choose more wisely the next time around.”

  “Ah.” Hugh angles his head and slices a knowing glance at me, as if to say, Now I understand.

  When I insisted on Newcastle, Hugh had pointed out a number of alternates, citing the inconvenience such a distant post would pose to the remaining Bennet family. Well, too bloody bad. I want George Wickham gone. Once he is wed nine days hence, I intend to wash my hands of him. Wickham can meet his end in a darkened alley, die on the field of battle, or live out his life a changed man, grateful for the second chance that has been given him. For better or worse, makes little difference to me, so long as I never see him again.

  “Ah.” My exact echo earns me a smile. “Admit it, Hugh. You wish him there, too. Or better yet, on a ship bound for America to join the fight. That may well happen, now that he is with the regulars.”

  Hugh agrees. “I confess, I shall be glad to see him go. Whilst Georgie was in London, there was always the chance that she might run into him. It is hard enough to soothe her nightmares where he stalks her still. To see him…to meet him…It is good that you sent her to Pemberley.”

  His fingers tighten on the glass. I am surprised it does not shatter.

  “Nine days,” I say. “Surely we can manage for nine more days.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  There are eyes on Wickham any time he dares to emerge from his lair. Other than the final fitting for his wedding suit, I have little to do with him myself. Instead, I depend upon the keen eyes of Hugh and Higgins the Runner for surveillance which lasts until George Wickham enters St. Clement’s, the parish church that I have rented, to marry his youthful bride.

  The wedding is set for eleven o’clock. The Gardiners arrive late, delayed by a last minute money matter being handled by Mr. Stone. There was a discrepancy between one of the figures that Wickham provided and what his creditor claims is due, necessitating an unscheduled meeting that made Mr. Gardiner run behind. He was barely back in time to share the carriage with his family. They get to the church with mere minutes to spare.

  I accompanied Wickham. An unpleasant task, yet necessary for my own peace of mind. I breathe easier, knowing that he has arrived safely. I’ll breathe easier yet, once I hear the exchange of vows, witness the minister pronounce them man and wife, and know that the biggest obstacle to my future happiness has been removed.

  Miss Lydia Bennet looks lovely but she is annoyed with her aunt, who despairs at her low-cut bodice and casts a disparaging eye on her feminine charms, visible despite the lace tuck that has been added. Wickham has no problem with it. Indeed, he enjoys the show, ogling her cleavage whilst their vows are exchanged.

  No matter. The deed is done. The bride is delivered into the care and keeping of her new husband. The rest of us are free to go home and toast them, or not.

  Mr. Gardiner catches me before I can escape and asks if I will call on him tomorrow. He has instructed Mr. Stone to return. He wants me to hear the story first person, rather than have it retold by someone who remains confused on certain points. I can see that this latest mess is an onerous weight and agree to call in Gracechurch Street.

  The next morning, Mr. Stone presents the revised claim from one of Wickham’s creditors, a gambling debt plus exorbitant interest that should be illegal. I tell him to pay it. The longer it goes, the more expensive the settlement will be, and I want this to be done.

  Stone leaves and I stay for dinner. Mrs. Gardiner insists. She likes me, I can tell. Her voice is warm, her smile genuine. She speaks fondly of her favourite nieces, Miss Jane and Miss Elizabeth, but mostly the second-born, likely remembering the saloon at Pemberley, where it was clear to everyone that she had captured my interest. Or perhaps Miss Elizabeth has confided in her, has told her of my declaration in the parsonage at Hunsford. I say nothing about my proposition—not when it was mistaken for a proposal and summarily rejected. But Mrs. Gardiner has spent time with Miss Elizabeth since then. They came to Pemberley, toured my home, and walked the grounds. Surely that means something.

  “How long do you stay?” she asks me.

  “Tomorrow or Wednesday,” I say, looking forward to going home. The youngest Miss Bingleys are likely there by now, and I have good news for Georgiana. As soon as we have a private moment, I shall happily share it.

  She will be disappointed when Hugh does not arrive with me. He is journeying to Scarborough, enjoying a much-deserved break, whilst keeping himself removed from the temptation of my sister. We both agreed, it is best this way. Georgiana does not yet have Aunt Catherine’s official approval. Until then, she must keep her love for Hugh tucked, hidden, in her heart. No one is to know, not yet, not even her closest friends.

  Caroline Bingley is among our guests at Pemberley. Mrs. Ashcroft continues to enjoy my sister’s hospitality and seems in no hurry to leave. I suppose it was too much to hope that the addition of the three youngest Bingleys would hasten their departure.

  Georgiana is on pins, biting her lip until we have a chance to speak. Excusing ourselves from cards, we adjourn to her private drawing room on the far side of the house and closet ourselves, with strict instructions that we are not to be disturbed.

  “Well?” she asks, her cherubic face shining with excitement, since I have done nothing but smile at her since I arrived.

  “You must say nothing until she makes the official announcement, but yes. Yes. Aunt Catherine has agreed to your and Hugh’s engagement.”

  Georgiana bursts into tears, weeping for joy.

  “No one is to know,” I remind her. “No one. You must comport yourself when you see Hugh as if he is your guardian only. Aunt Catherine invites us to visit three weeks hence. We go for the autumnal equinox and stay for pheasant season. Meanwhile there are grouse and partridges to be taken…and an engagement
to announce.”

  She slaps at my sleeve, pretending to take offense when I rank hunting higher than her.

  “Do not tease, Fitzwilliam! It is nearly three weeks—an eternity, having waited so long already! Is there nothing that can persuade her to up the date? How am I to keep my love for him a secret when he comes? One look, and they will know.”

  “That.” I sigh softly. “Hugh is not coming. Wait. Wait!” Tears threaten to ruin her joy. “You said it yourself, Ana. One look, and your tendresse would be secret no more. Hugh has gone to Scarborough, and journeys to Rosings from there.”

  “Sticky-wicket,” she grumbles. “She shall likely send him on all kinds of errands, just to keep him away from me and prolong our suffering.”

  “Probably.” She knows our aunt’s nature almost as well as I. “But you will see him soon. Now smile,” I order her. “And until your engagement is official, keep your hand to your heart.”

  The Bingleys, Hursts, and Mrs. Ashcroft are deep into cards when we return. What I have to say to Charles must wait another week, until after the Wickhams have gone. They went to Hertfordshire straight from the church and are not to remain in Meryton above ten days. George must report for duty in Newcastle in a fortnight; I want him with one foot out of Longbourn’s door before raising the subjects of Netherfield and the eldest Bennet sister.

  I know Charles Bingley. He will order bags packed, the carriage loaded, and be gone in the course of one day. Since George and his bride will leave Longbourn no later than Thursday next, I shall speak to Charles on Wednesday.

  The week is ungodly long. Caroline is in rare form, and Louisa is nearly as bad. Victoria spends more and more time sketching outdoors, usually in the gardens or my kennels. Even Georgiana has begun closeting herself away (“to practice,” so she says). The twins are only too happy to join her.

  Mrs. Ashcroft is strangely content. That makes me wonder what hold Caroline has over her. Perhaps the widow is one of those people who find humiliation to be sexually arousing. If so, she and Caroline Bingley are well matched.

  Finally, Wednesday morning dawns. Charles accompanies me on my rounds, as he routinely does when he is here. I have ordered horses saddled today. I plan to range far and wide, to guarantee privacy for the conversation we must have.

  Pemberley’s park is ten miles around. When we reach the point farthest from the house, I have Charles dismount. Securing our steeds to a low-hanging limb, we follow a side path leading to a scenic overlook that delights the eye and feeds the spirit.

  After a moment’s quiet contemplation, I tell Charles that we should return to Netherfield.

  His mouth opens, wordless. Confusion clouds his eyes.

  “For several reasons,” I say. “First, your youngest sisters need away from Caroline. As she and Mrs. Ashcroft seem loathe to leave here, removing ourselves, Victoria, and the twins seems a logical choice. Make it plain to Caroline and her friend that they will be welcome to visit later, if they wish to attend the last of the Meryton balls in October. The same goes for the Hursts. George and Louisa have their own house in London to see to; they do not need to trespass on yours.”

  “They will not like it,” he murmurs, shifting his feet uncomfortably.

  “They will not like it either way,” I tell him, “because Miss Jane is sure to be there. Charles, I know that you admired her. No man dances two sets each time, despite the warnings you were given. I must know…tell me now if you still have feelings for her.”

  His head snaps up, eyes blazing with conviction, alive with fresh hope. “Yes!” he exclaims. “God, yes! She is perfection!”

  “I am glad you think so,” I tell him sincerely. “Before I say more, I must have your solemn oath that what is said here remains forever between us. Charles, do you so swear?”

  “Of course, Darcy! Yes! Yes! Upon my soul, you have my word!”

  What follows is a confession of my failure as his friend. I did not recognize the depths of his feelings for Miss Bennet. I did not see the potential for a relationship, given their natures. But if he wishes to pursue her, if they are to have a chance at happiness, I know someone who can provide counsel and training that offers their best hope for a future together.

  “It is your nature to serve. It must be her choice to command. This person will instruct you both, if you agree. But be warned. Whether or not Miss Jane says yes, she must first be sworn to secrecy. Such things as these—what we do…who we are—can never be made known. Not a breath of it must escape.”

  I am not worried about Charles. He has known and kept my private life a secret since the night I introduced him to my club. Watching him confirmed what I had sensed, that our natures balanced rather than matched each other’s. He was intrigued by the play but has hesitated exploring it. That may change soon enough, if he has indeed found his Mistress.

  Aunt Catherine’s identity as their potential teacher shall be revealed, if and when the time comes. First, we must introduce the concept of being the dominant partner to Miss Jane. We must see how open she is to the idea, and how willing she is to assume the role of Mistress. When she is ready to learn how to give Charles what he needs to be happy, then and only then will I divulge more.

  We return to Pemberley in high spirits that shield us from the worst of Caroline’s trenchant tongue. Unable to get a rise out of us, she turns it on poor Victoria, until Charles cries enough.

  Caroline has given him the perfect excuse to announce his intention to relocate to Hertfordshire. Only the youngest Bennet girls are invited. He will see the rest of them in late October, should they wish to come for the Meryton ball.

  Caroline’s eyes bug. Her mouth opens and closes, wordless. She looks very much like a fish that ha been freed from the hook and lies on the riverbank, gasping for air. Caroline throws down her cards and leaves the game, taking Mrs. Ashcroft upstairs with her—hopefully to pack.

  Victoria, Clarissa, and Marissa threaten to smother their brother with kisses.

  I pull Georgiana aside and let her know that I go, too. “He needs me,” I tell her. “And I need you here. As soon as you see Caroline and Mrs. Ashcroft off, go to Rosings. Hugh will be there shortly, if he is not already there, waiting for you.”

  I have never seen such an evil grin from her as when Georgiana vows to help them pack.

  Excusing myself, I write to Hugh and Aunt Catherine, to let them know the change of plans. I will journey to Rosings not from Pemberley but from Netherfield Hall. Any correspondence should be sent there.

  Aunt Catherine is quick to respond. She pays extra for express delivery that places her letter in my hand while we are still in Derbyshire. She is hosting a party on Friday, the twenty-fifth of September, and wants to make certain that we come well ahead of time. As early as the twentieth, is her “suggestion.” Effectually, it translates to a summons demanding time above what we had discussed.

  The autumnal equinox is on the twenty-second. The party is on the twenty-fifth. Georgiana will leave here when Bingley and I go to Netherfield; my sister will not stay happily in Derbyshire, when she can see Hugh in Kent.

  The packing is complicated by the arrival of monthly courses, smiting one female after another after another. No wonder Caroline was such a witch. The younger girls take turns pampering each other, seeking to ease their common “complaint.” Finally, finally, the trunks are packed and Bingley’s servants are sorted. The Hursts, Caroline, and Mrs. Ashcroft leave for London. Georgiana and Mrs. Annesley are off to Rosings. The remaining five of us depart in two conveyances, using Bingley’s carriage for his sisters and my curricle for Bingley and me.

  Along the way, we discuss stratagems. It will not do to rush to Miss Jane’s side. No woman wants a man who seems desperate. The trick is to let it be known that he has arrived. I suggest waiting at least two days—although more would be better—before calling on Mr. Bennet at Longbourn. This will give the girls a chance to unpack and settle in, and allow Netherfield Hall to be made fully ready to receive guests.r />
  Charles will wish to offer timely reciprocation of visits made and invitations extended. With luck, among the earliest callers will be the two eldest Bennet sisters.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  It takes three full days to ready the house. The Creator can divide darkness from light, separate land from sea, and cover the earth in plants in the time it takes to change bed linens, beat rugs, approve menus, and press the wrinkles from gowns.

  Jesus God.

  No one is smiling save Victoria, once she has seen Gavin again. Officially it is the hounds, of course, not their young Scottish master. Her time spent in the North seems to have made her fonder yet of his burr, and today when she spied him in his kilt…

  I fear her heart may be lost.

  At least she has the sense to recognize a good man, regardless of his station. Which is more that I can say for the youngest Bennet sister. Ah, well. She has made her bed. Now she must lie in it.

  As for the eldest Miss Bennet, Charles hopes to see her when he and I call at Longbourn this morning.

  The ride is a pleasant one. The sky is clear, and the wind is fresh after an early morning shower that yet clings to the grass. It reminds me of when Miss Jane was ill and Miss Elizabeth arrived with flushed cheeks and muddy hems, her sapphire eyes filled with concern for her sister.

  At Longbourn, a servant shows us in. Mrs. Bennet greets us, but I am distracted by the sight of Miss Elizabeth, looking as lovely as ever, accompanied by her eldest sister Miss Jane. Miss Elizabeth is dressed in a simple day dress that hugs her apple breasts and drapes her supple form. Her cheeks are flushed, as if she has hurried here to see us. Her fine, dark eyes tell me this is so.