When her screams did not avail his pleasure, he expressed his disappointment with a braided whip—and a backhand across her cheek. Together, the two brought him to a spectacular orgasm. He fell to his knees, lowing like a cow.
———
The next morning her head pounded with the weight of a thousand disappointments.
She avoided her looking-glass, knowing that she would see a new test for her talent with cosmetics. It was crucial that she cover the contusions. Touching her cheek gingerly, she winced. At one time her looking-glass had been her dearest friend. Now it had become an ever-encroaching enemy. She ceased to gauge her general decline and merely looked at herself to see what repairs had to be made. After her subtle application of powder, her bruises were barely detectable. She sighed with relief. Even her severest critics would not have deduced her true age—or the extent of her husband’s blundering brutality.
She set to fluffing her curls over her forehead and around her magnificent cheekbones. In the months that she had been arranging her hair in what was essentially a contrived fashion; other ladies of the ton began to copy it. What a laugh. She twisted another curl about her forefinger and placed it just so. Her greatest prayer was that her dunce of a husband would not accidentally blacken her eye. Even her talent could not disguise that.
Satisfied that she had done all she could; her hands fell helplessly to her lap. With Howgrave’s seat secured, seeing to hers was an ever-pressing concern. Unfortunately, the sands of time were flowing faster than her erratic menses. Without thinking, she caressed her abdomen. It felt youthful, plump, and fertile. She sighed.
Her husband had begged her forgiveness, presenting her an enormous floral apology. She had accepted it, for she could not afford to turn him away. She must conceive. That left her on the prongs of a nasty dilemma. Upon those occasions when she could bring him to achievement, more and more frequently he cast his seed across her blistered buttocks and not inside the increasingly-arid terrain of her womanhood. She had been reduced to the most demeaning measures to overcome this particular obstacle, but to no avail.
A child was imperative. Without one, she would be cast aside, penniless and alone.
As it became evermore unlikely that Howgrave would do the job, she saw only one way out. She must take a lover with more customary inclinations. To that ends she began to fill her idle hours by enumerating likely candidates and imagining intrigues. From the comfort of her chaise lounge, she took stock of her footmen. They were a fit lot, but far too lowborn to further the thought. As Howgrave was bent on begetting a true heir, she dared not dally with the men of their London circle either. Should word get back to him, no doubt he would exact the ultimate revenge upon her. He was no more disposed to be cuckolded as the next husband—unless the interloper was of a royal strain.
That was the only officially sanctioned liaison. A duke would not do, the gentleman in question would have to be in line for the throne. She investigated the Carleton House set for possible lovers, but was disappointed. The Prince Regent was more interested in his dinner plate than her charms. Copulating with the corpulent monarch was uninviting (so much so that it took the sting out of any rejection she might have otherwise felt).
Her search led her to the young man assigned to ghost-write Howgrave’s memoirs. He was a handsome boy. He had an aquiline nose and aristocratic accent, but he was easily excitable. Ere she could compleat his seduction, he lathered the front of his trousers. The phenomenon was not unknown to her. If one was too young, he went off in the bush. If too old, he could not maintain the saddle.
Meeting with repeated defeat, the manoeuvring incumbent of such an enterprise looked to be increasingly tiresome. Moreover, she dreaded the ordeal of submitting herself unto another sweating male body. Any spark of passion she still harboured had been all but extinguished by her husband’s weaknesses. This frustration ultimately led her down the familiar road of decadence. More than once she fell to prowling gambling dens and low theatres (accompanied with men-friends who enjoyed the all arts save that of admiring the female sex).
To have no occupation but to look handsome led to morosity. Her gambling debts began to mount, but her husband covered them, boasting that he had the means to do so. She was never seen without a glass of wine in her hand. Knowing full well that a woman of her age should not partake of wine in abundance, she still welcomed that escape. She did not stop even when she began to trip. She did not curtail her drinking until her husband removed a glass from her hand, reminding her that she must not pollute the vessel with which he would attain his son.
She nodded complacently. Guarding her womb was a perfectly good excuse to sleep half the day (and she did so by way of successive doses of laudanum). When she arose and the weather permitted, she fled to the air of Kensington Gardens. Anything was superior to overseeing the tedious drawings for the renovations to Kirkland Hall. Her husband insisted that they finally take possession of the place. As it was not a mere five miles away from Pemberley, but thirty, she had lost her enthusiasm for the project. Still, Howgrave insisted they tarry in Derbyshire whilst he trolled the surrounding towns for political support.
Having taken to her bed for a fortnight upon learning that her husband had traded estates with Charles Bingley, she despised being reminded of it. As Howgrave had understood that his wife did not enjoy country pursuits, her reluctance seemed quite reasonable.
She eventually acquiesced to a visit to Howgrave Manor, lying, “I look forward to seeing your ancestral home.”
“It is hardly that,” he said. “My grandfather took it in a game of cards.”
The moment passed without further comment. (He was happy to be untroubled and she was happy for him to remain unwitting of her dashed designs.) Howgrave had always spoken of Darcy with derision. She was convinced that his hatred for Darcy was both personal and longstanding. Therefore, it was wholly unconnected to her. That was to be expected. Her husband had been far too busy attempting entrance into the first circles to know what went on within them. Few women dared flaunt past lovers in their husband’s face. Juliette kept her own council about hers as well.
Her affaire with young Mr. Darcy was, at his request, one of the utmost privacy. One might have called it clandestine. Those few people witting of it did not know that to Juliette, theirs was more than just an arrangement. Darcy was more than a handsome man of good leg and handsome equipment—he was one that she had never quite given up.
When the winds shifted in Juliette’s quest for an estimable lover, they swung about gently.
Upon the reintroduction of Mr. Darcy’s name into their conversation in regards to their Derbyshire estate, her expression did not alter. Sipping a cup of tea, she noted demurely that, for political considerations, it would be a shrewd move for him to have a man of Mr. Darcy’s influence in his camp. Indeed, once the seed was planted, the notion of it had Howgrave all but salivating to secure the man. Howgrave saw the invitation to the ball at Pemberley as fortuitous.
Juliette did as well.
Chapter 16
A Ball for the Bingleys
The Howgraves arrived at the Pemberley ball just late enough to serve fashion.
When they gained the room, guests parted before them as if by Moses’ hand. It was a momentous appearance. Fresh from London, Howgrave was the man of the hour—at least in Derbyshire. Those gentle-people, who had cut him cold in his youth, now squabbled to have his ear. The last whiff of Freddy Dumbstitch’s shameful stench had been expunged. He took the room with a swagger worthy a West End fop.
His wife tugged at his sleeve, whispering, “For God’s sake remember yourself.”
That was enough to bring him to his senses and his airs hastily evaporated. Still, he only perfunctorily presented himself and his wife to his host. Mrs. Darcy was in an animated conversation with an ageing dowager with mulish teeth and freckled arms. Mr. Darcy stood firmly at her side, but spoke little. As Howgrave took his hand and began to pump it, Juliette looked away.
As well-rehearsed as Lady Howgrave was in all regards, one would have expected that her lowered eyes were meant to serve some higher design. As it happened, it did not. She did not look at him because she was unprepared to brazen out that particular encounter. Like her husband, she needed time to collect herself. She left Darcy with no clear vision of him, but with an exceedingly strong desire to secure one.
The Howgraves could not tarry in the receiving line, and Howgrave begged away.
At any gathering, the moneyed class was always much in want of reassurance that their wealth was not endangered. Upon this or any subject, Howgrave was happy to hold forth—thereby cornering possible campaign contributors whilst doing so. This prototypically was a two-part procedure. First he would explain that their fortunes were in dire straits; and second, he would convince them that only his re-election stood between them and all out ruin.
With great dispatch, Howgrave divested himself of his wife, eschewing her company for that of a contingent of local squires. Being abandoned was neither a surprise nor a disappointment to her. Social functions were for being seen, not to be entertained. And seen she was. As was expected, word of her arrival undulated through the crowd as if a small quake. Every pearl in her hair, every thread of her gown was inspected and remarked upon to another. She was quite satisfied that in reference to her handsome aspect, there was nothing that anyone—man nor woman—could find wanting. For a moment, she was blissfully happy. But then knowing oneself to be perfectly turned out was a consolation seldom found—even in prayer.
Renewed purpose engulfed her as she looked about the ballroom. It was the peak of the evening and a crowd still congregated near the door. She could see Darcy’s head as he towered over everyone else. It took her only a moment before she was certain she caught his eye. She hastily looked away. It was enough that he had seen her.
The Bingleys, of course, were midmost in the room. She would allow them to find her.
Juliette was unacquainted with the northern counties. She had gone twice to Bath and once to Brighton. (She once spent a fortnight at a forbidding estate in Hampshire—it was so dank that it put her off of the country altogether.) The northern ladies were as she expected. Openly envious, few of them dared to converse with her. That was no great loss. Juliette disliked making pleasantries with fat-necked women of little breeding and no taste. They spoke of nothing but incorrigible cooks and dull parables. To her, conversation should be like a very graceful edition of a society newspaper—anointed with a large dollop of malice.
The silence was excruciating to those poor ladies who awaited her ladyship to deign a remark. At last, one lady (wearing a serpentine bracelet and abused expression) asked another about a mutual acquaintance, saying, “I dislike spreading rumours, but....”
“What else is one to do with them?” interrupted Lady Howgrave.
Before the tittering died down, Juliette lifted her skirts just above her ankles and made her away. The ladies were left in fluttering admiration, thrilled beyond words to have been privy to one of her ladyship’s outrageous witticisms.
Happy to escape, Juliette took a glass of (rather good) champagne and allowed herself a more detailed observation of the house. She had never set her pretty foot in either of Darcy’s homes. (When they were... acquaintances, he had always come to her.)
It had not been difficult to convince herself that propitious fate had rekindled their affair. Despite being thrown in Darcy’s path, she had conceded that due to the throng of guests, a private chat was unlikely. Hence she saw herself on an investigatory excursion. She did not care to admit to curiosity. A woman of her sophistication should be above such banality. However, she was curious—exceedingly curious. Had she been a cat, her tail would have twitched with anticipation.
Other than their brief encounter across the channel, she had never known Darcy in any milieu save her house in Mayfair. They did not dine out nor attend the theatre. No one saw them together save a smattering of servants. He never stayed the night. At the time it had been a distinct vexation that she could not be seen on his arm. (Indeed, that vexed her yet.) Although he had never invited her there, she had observed his Park Lane house from the street. It was a handsome home, but not above others.
Pemberley, however, was of great repute. A number of sources had described it as quite élégant. With one expert glance about at the painted ceiling and alabaster doorcases, she saw that it had not been over-praised. The house was testimony to what good taste, centuries of attention, and a substantial fortune could achieve. It was certainly not Versailles, but it bettered the battered Kirkland Hall twenty-fold. She could see how Darcy influenced and, in turn, was shaped by such a home. Seeing Pemberley made her believe she knew him better.
Her good opinion did not pass as an expression on her countenance. It had long been her practise to claim compleat impassiveness as such aloofness piqued the interest of admirers and allowed her forehead to remain unvexed by loathsome creases. As time marched on, she was even more mindful of such seeming trivialities.
Observing Pemberley’s august halls pricked another vanity.
She was given renewed incentive to restore Kirkland Hall. Its parquet floors and rosewood wainscoting had been beaten to its knees by the Bingleys’ ungovernable offspring. Fortunately, the damage looked to be mostly to the paint and finishes. (Mr. Bingley or his minions paid good heed of the roof.) If she were to inhabit such a wreck, it would take a half-year and a hundred men to refurbish it. She would not settle for anything less than the magnificence surrounding her then.
Juliette had taken a visit with Mrs. Bingley at Kirkland Hall just days before, ostensibly about their removal. In truth, Juliette wanted the opportunity to sketch her character without the intrusion of others. Their conversation had been most enlightening. Jane was nothing like her sister, either in looks or manner. She was soft-spoken and graceful, emanating an inner beauty equal to her countenance.
It had been a test not to inquire after the Darcys. But then, that was not necessary. Jane warbled on over the felicity of the Darcy household with an easiness that meant she was both a most genuine lady and that she was entirely unaware of Juliette’s connection to them.
Jane’s opinion notwithstanding, the likelihood that the Darcys’ marriage still flowered with any portion of its original passion was remote. It had been a compleat astonishment to her that Darcy had formed such an unlikely alliance in the first place. Miss Elizabeth Bennet was decidedly below his class. At the time Juliette saw it as a sort of insanity—one of such violence that she had no power to divert him. Never in her life had she had such little influence over a man. It confounded her then and for some time thereafter.
For years after she travelled the Continent, often spending winters in an Italian Palazzo. When the Napoleonic wars intruded, she and an entourage quit the place to make their way back to England. Consequently, it had been beyond astonishing when she chanced upon Darcy one evening in a chateau near Lille. It had been at the trembling culmination of the war, therefore the last person she expected to see there was an impeccably-dressed and haughtily-composed son of the English aristocracy. In a bat of an eyelash, all her feelings and wants had been excited once again. Unfortunately, he had been in the middle of a single-minded pursuit. (It was a reprise of the behaviour that had so bewildered her the night he had ended their affair.) In Lille, he had been quite alone and altogether distracted. The desire to reach out to him—to becalm his brow, arouse his spirit, enjoy his touch was almost too much to bear. To her great chagrin, she found that she still had no rule over him. He spoke only of his wife and his need to contact her. In the end she agreed to carry a missive, full of dear words, no doubt, to his wife.
The letter was destroyed.
When she returned to London, an odd whim overtook her. She decided to meet with the woman who had stolen Darcy’s heart. Simply by professing to be in possession of a letter from Darcy, she commanded Elizabeth Darcy to hie to town to meet her. Tres enci
ente, Mrs. Darcy had not hesitated to come, leaving Juliette almost chastened to have enticed her on what could have been accused of being a pretence. After their talk, Juliette harboured a certain admiration for her. No other gentlewoman would have gone to such lengths merely to hear word from their husband. (Therefore, there were few gentlewomen who had Juliette’s good opinion.) Theirs had been an unusual encounter, leaving Juliette with an odd sense of need. For a while she became the self-ordained champion of the Darcys’ union. It was an odd caprice, nothing more. Her life’s work had been to avoid encumbrances such as friendship and affection—especially when one’s own interests were at stake.
Time, it is said, makes more converts than reason. And in time, another conviction comforted her. It was the unassailable truth that time was any marriage’s most insidious enemy. To maintain steady ardour for so long would have been unthinkable. To sustain passion, one must create unease, cause jealousy, cast spells. No doubt the Darcys’ wedded bliss would be on the wane. Nothing Mrs. Bingley said altered that conviction.
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