by Nia Farrell
I smile and nod my approval.
Mrs. Bennet curtseys and gushes to see Mr. Bingley again. She is cold and punctilious towards me. The disparity embarrasses her daughters, who have the grace to blush with shame on account of their mother’s ill manners.
Mrs. Bennet offers us seats, which we take once the women are settled.
As much as I wish to speak to Miss Elizabeth, to assure her that her mother’s actions do not reflect badly upon her, I have come to support Charles and so keep my opinions to myself. I do, however, ask Miss Elizabeth how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner are doing.
She seems confused. Puzzled that I would ask.
Hmm.
“I believe that they are well enough,” she says finally, “now that Lydia is wed.”
Any conversation on that score would involve Wickham. She spares my feelings and says no more. I fall silent as well, focusing my attention on Charles and Miss Jane, who seems glad that he is here.
Mrs. Bennet seems happier yet. “It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away.”
“Yes,” he says, risking a glance at Miss Jane. “I hope not too long.”
Miss Jane sits a bit straighter but otherwise does not react to his comment, either to confirm or refute what he is really asking. Are her affections engaged, or is she free of entanglements? Has he returned in time?
Mrs. Bennet clucks. “I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People did say you meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas; but, however, I hope it is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighbourhood, since you went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled. And one of my own daughters. I suppose you have heard of it; indeed, you must have seen it in the papers. It was in The Times and The Courier, I know; though it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said, ‘Lately, George Wickham, Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,’ without there being a syllable said of her father, or the place where she lived or anything. It was my brother Gardiner’s drawing up too, and I wonder how he came to make such an awkward business of it.”
Perhaps because he needed to get the bloody thing to the papers ahead of their deadlines. There was no time to write more.
Mrs. Bennet asks Charles if he saw the notice.
“Yes,” he says. “I did. Please accept my congratulations on the happy event.”
Miss Elizabeth crimsons, ashamed of her sister’s behavior. Mrs. Bennet beams. “It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well married, but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very hard to have her taken such a way from me. They are gone down to Newcastle, a place quite northward, it seems, and there they are to stay I do not know how long.”
Forever. Or until he gets himself killed. Or he heads off to war.
“His regiment is there,” she explains. “I suppose you have heard of his leaving the militia, and of his being gone into the regulars. Thank Heaven! he has some friends, though perhaps not so many as he deserves.”
The remark is clearly leveled at me. To draw her mother’s line of fire, Miss Elizabeth asks Charles if he means to stay in the country at present.
Bingley’s future—both immediate and long-term—hinges on how things progress with Miss Jane. “A few weeks,” he says lightly.
Mrs. Bennet takes heart at the news. “When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley, I beg you will come here, and shoot as many as you please on Mr. Bennet’s manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy to oblige you, and will save all the best of the covies for you.”
Miss Jane remains quiet and allows her mother to lead the conversation, directed almost entirely at Charles. He is hard-pressed to respond quickly with his attention so divided, and takes to following his responses to Mrs. Bennet with an observation directed at Miss Jane. His attempt to draw her into the conversation is noble, but she remains in a quiet mood, a far cry from her mother’s jackdawing.
As we leave, Mrs. Bennet remembers her manners, bids us farewell, and extends an invitation to dine on Tuesday. Charles accepts, and I am stuck. He needs me worse than Georgiana. She and Mrs. Annesley must carry on at Rosings a little longer without me.
“I will be there for the party,” I had promised as I left Pemberley. Now I write three letters, to Georgiana, Hugh, and Aunt Catherine, sent express to ensure a safe and timely arrival. I am certain to answer for it, but I let each of them know that Bingley and I are invited to dine at Longbourn and I cannot get out of it. I will attend the party but cannot be there much ahead of time.
Tuesday comes. Charles changes coats three times before settling on the one he feels will please his mistress best. We arrive to find a large party assembled. Seeing the number of carriages, Charles slumps in his seat to think that he must vie for Miss Jane’s attention. She was so quiet last time we were here.
“Quiet,” I agree, “but watchful. Do not doubt her interest if she does not speak first. Engage her. Ask her something—anything. Dare to meet her eyes, but as soon as you make contact, smile and demur. Nod and acquiesce. Keep your face turned towards her like she is your sun and you a flower in her garden. Make yourself her humble servant. See where she will lead.”
There is no time for more. The carriage door is opened. We disembark and make our way inside. The few minutes to spare before dinner allows us to mingle. Dedicated to reacquainting ourselves with those gathered, we greet Sir William Lucas and his wife, who seem determined to keep us with them, posing question after question on Rosings and Hunsford and the de Bourghs.
I can feel Miss Elizabeth’s eyes upon us. As much as I wish that her look is strictly for me, I sense that she is as eager as I am to see her sister and my friend come together. Mrs. Bennet invites Bingley to sit beside her—and he might have done so, except that Miss Jane smiles at him when he enters dining room, deciding his fate.
Bingley is eager but insecure. I can almost see the thoughts churn inside his head. What should I say? How should I act? How can I please her?”
“Just be yourself,” I murmur for his ears only, and free him to sit with her.
Miss Elizabeth looks singularly pleased with their situation. Not so much with mine. Fate places me far away from her and immediately beside her mother, too distant to hear and too removed to intervene if she becomes intolerable.
Mrs. Bennet is as ungracious to me as ever. Fortunately, she keeps the conversation focused on cuisine. Admitting that the partridges are remarkably well done, I suppress a sigh, wondering what it will take to make her truly warm to me. Likely, nothing short of a proposal and the promise of ten thousand pound a year.
Well, we shall see.
Bingley and Miss Jane engage in conversation. She rewards him with smiles. He blushes, her humble servant. Promising. Promising. Even Aunt Catherine would approve.
Seeing them settle in, I turn my thoughts toward my own situation. I had hoped to speak to Miss Elizabeth at some point in the evening. Surely the whole of the visit will not pass away without an opportunity to enter into something more of conversation than the mere ceremonious salutation attending our entrance. After dinner, the genders part, men to their drinks and women to the drawing-room. Eventually we rejoin them. The ladies are crowded around a table where Miss Jane is making tea and Miss Elizabeth is pouring coffee. Elizabeth is a queen bee, swarmed by women bent on having a hot beverage. Rather than risk their stings, I take a cup and distance myself. Robbing a leaf from Bingley’s manual, I work the room, greeting and speaking to each person present, making myself known to them, cultivating a more favourable impression than last time I was here. While I mingle, I can feel Miss Elizabeth watching me.
I wonder what she must think, to see me so engaged. Does she know it is for her alone that I would do this, when conversing with strangers is so damnably hard for me?
Finally the crowd thins enough around her, I bring my coffee cup back myself, hoping to talk to her, to gauge how receptive she might be to my attentions.
Miss Elizabeth speaks first—always a good sign.
“Is y
our sister at Pemberley still?”
Hmm. How to answer that? Hugh and Georgiana’s engagement has not yet been announced. Rather than reveal that she visits Rosings, I choose to interpret the question as to where my sister currently resides: the London town house or Pemberley.
“Yes,” I say. “She will remain there till Christmas.”
“And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?”
“Mrs. Annesley is with her. The other—” the most important one “—has been gone on to Scarborough, these three weeks.” Although Hugh will join her soon enough, if he has not already.
Miss Elizabeth and I fall into an awkward silence. As much as I wish her to speak, if only to bask in the honey of her voice, I have vowed to respond, not to lead. I am here for Charles and Miss Jane. I cannot lose sight of that. If I start to tell Miss Elizabeth what is on my mind, my Priapus is like to follow. It was bad enough that the Gardiners witnessed my desire for her. To display it here would be disastrous.
I stay where I am, close enough to occasionally catch the soft fragrance of her skin. I capture it, tuck it away in the corner of my memory, to be taken out later tonight, when I lie in my lonely bed.
A young lady whispers to Miss Elizabeth, commanding her attention. I use the opportunity to escape the hold that she unwittingly has on me.
Cards follow coffee. Methinks it by design that Mrs. Bennet seats Miss Elizabeth and me at different tables, as far as we can possibly be from each other. It chafes to be denied her company. I must console myself with enjoying the view and turn often towards her side of the room. Distracted as I am, ‘tis little wonder that my playing is so poor.
We do not stay for supper. Our carriage came later and thus is brought out near the first. On the way home, Charles relates his conversation with Miss Jane in precise detail. We discuss his next steps; he swears that he will follow them.
Before I go to Rosings, I give Charles my confession. I tell him the truth, that Miss Jane was in London last winter, staying unto spring. Although I never saw her, I knew of her presence and kept it from him for the reasons I have already given.
Charles stays silent, unmoving save for the clenching of his fists. “How?” he asks, hurt lacing his voice. “How did you know she was there?”
I blow out softly. There is no getting around it. “She visited Caroline.”
He curses beneath his breath. Caroline had been at the Hursts, which meant his two sisters had confided in me and kept it from him. It smacks of conspiracy, one designed to keep them apart.
“No one wished to see you hurt,” I remind him. “And Charles, if your feelings for her were so very strong, a single letter to Longbourn would have alerted you to her presence in London. But you did not write. You carried on without her.”
“Barely,” he sighs. “You of all people must know that I pined for her. Yearned for her. Even when others—” he says pointedly “—sought to persuade that she was so very indifferent to me, I remembered her laugh, her scent, the feel of her in my arms as we danced. For Christmas, I wished for nothing more than a second chance to make her mine.”
“And now you have it. She is restrained, not indifferent. She keeps her emotions as closely hidden as a Whist player’s winning hand. Observing the two of you tonight, it is clear that your feelings are mutual. Your attachment to her is undiminished, and the attraction seems as great on her side as yours. I hope that you pursue it whilst I am gone. Will you, Charles?”
Bingley beams a smile so broad, his face threatens to crack. “I will! I shall! You may depend upon it!”
I nod my approval. “Good. I shall expect happy news when I return.”
Rosings first, business second. By the time I come from London ten days hence, I want them to be engaged.
“No bans,” I remind him. Aunt Catherine was very specific. They must be assessed and instructed, tried and tested. Bingley and Miss Bennet must demonstrate their compatibility before she will approve of their marriage. Although her consent is not required, my aunt’s favour is something to be curried, not dismissed as inconsequential, when she has innumerable ways of making life easy or difficult for someone. Better friend than foe, I have admonished Charles. “Not until you have both been trained.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Apprehension scrapes at me like fingernails on a slate tablet, adding to the unaccustomed nerves that make my stomach clench. There are so many things at play that I cannot control. Knowing and feeling it are sensations that do not sit well with my dominant nature.
I like order, not the chaos that seems to embrace the Bennet household like a churning flood that eventually recedes but leaves a layer of mud in its wake. I fear nothing will ever be neat and clean when it comes to my dealings there, not so long as Mr. Bennet is installed in his library, leaving Mrs. Bennet to rule the roost. Having observed the two of them, I am amazed that the eldest two daughters turned out so well, particularly when they had no governess’s hand to guide them.
Perhaps Mrs. Bennet was more sensible in her youth.
Perhaps.
I arrive at Rosings with a slight headache. Aunt Catherine notices that I am “off.” When asked how I am, I answer truthfully and admit that I have been better.
My aunt has little patience for dis-order and dis-ease. One quelling look and she orders me to my room like the child I once was. But the man I have become knows how to placate and manipulate a woman—even my aunt. Soon I am ensconced in the study with the drapes drawn and a cool cloth across my eyes, courtesy of Aunt Catherine, who assures me that my mind and eyes are strained from overwork.
I cannot argue. It may well be. Whatever the cause, the cool wet cloth feels good to me, and so I leave it.
Georgiana comes next, noticeably alone.
Recognizing her musical footfall and the soft tones of vanilla and heliotrope that compose her favourite fragrance, I greet her, sight unseen. “Hello, sister.”
“Unfair!” she pouts. “I swear, you are a changeling, left by gypsies or fairies or the like, able to see with your eyes closed.”
I smile despite myself. “Your height gives you a longer stride but you are naturally graceful and light on your feet. You glide when you walk, almost as if you are dancing. And really, how many other young women wear heliotrope?” Removing the cloth, I can see that she is indeed alone. “What of Hugh?”
“Gone again,” she sighs. “Aunt Catherine has made him her personal errand boy. I am certain she does it to keep us apart. She has him at the parsonage, watching Mr. Collins work in his pond, as if their servant could not do it.”
“The Collinses’ servants cannot be bothered to answer the door,” I tell her. “They would be of no use, were the Reverend to fall into distress or need assistance. Hugh, at least, can swim.”
As can I. Our mother nearly drowned once and made certain that I learned.
“Just the same, she delights in making him dance to her tune.”
“New dress?” I ask it to distract her, but she preens just a bit, happy that I noticed.
“Yes, it is. Do you like it?”
“I do.” My sister has a formed figure; she was an early bloomer whose generous bosom makes her appear womanly despite her tender years. The cut of her dress is flattering, and the pale blue fabric enhances the colour of her eyes. “You should add Mother’s pearls,” I tell her. “She would want them worn.”
Georgiana’s gaze softens, then saddens. “I’m afraid they’ll break.”
Reaching out, I take her hand and pull her to sit beside me on the davenport. “If they do, we shall have them restrung. A length of knotted silk thread is destined to fray. Hopefully you will not lose a pearl, but even that can be replaced, hmm?”
She sighs wistfully. “I suppose. All right. Next time I wear this dress, I shall adorn myself with pearls.”
“I hope you will wear the pearls sooner,” I say. “I can think of nothing more fitting than to see you in them when Aunt Catherine announces your engagement tomorrow night.”
>
“Will she?” A flash of panic streaks across my sister’s face. Unfortunately, her fear is well-founded. Aunt Catherine does as she bloody well pleases. It would be just like her to change plans, chart a new course mid-stream, and keep Hugh and Georgiana dangling like fish on her line.
“She will,” I insist, managing to sound convincing.
Georgiana puts on a brave smile. “Then I shall wear the pearls.”
My sister remains true to her word, as does our aunt. Before a houseful of celebrants, Lady Catherine de Bourgh introduces Hugh Fitzwilliam and Georgiana Darcy, places my sister’s hand in his, and pronounces them engaged to be wed on her seventeenth birthday next April.
Georgiana smiles, but I know that she is crestfallen at having to wait seven more months. What is an eternity for someone her age is but the blink of an eye to me. I would wait seven months and seven months again, if it meant having my heart’s desire. I pray it will not be that long.
I have given Aunt Catherine an update on Charles Bingley and Miss Jane Bennet, and expressed my hopes that things will be settled between them by the time I return from town. As soon as the weekend is done, I am off to London. Apparently there is an account that Wickham forgot (so says he, with the promise that this is the last).
His letter was posted from Meryton but made its way round about before finally reaching me at Netherfield Hall. Evidently when George was at Longbourn with his new bride, he was “reminded” of monies owed to a London cobbler for a pair of green leather boots.
Green boots. That he supposedly forgot.
I heave a sigh and shake my head. How such footwear could slip anyone’s mind eludes me.
Normally Mr. Stone would have handled the transaction, but he has gone on holiday and the fewer people involved in Wickham’s business, the better. Mr. Gardiner could have settled a smaller account, but having seen their circumstances (comfortable but no more than that, with four children and a household to support), this was of a size, I felt it best not to burden him further than his investigation of the claim and determining that it is legitimate.