Pride / Prejudice

by Ann Herendeen

“Leave it alone,” Fitz said.

  “First love,” Charles said, not heeding the advice. “A beautiful face, an enormous prick, and then—ah, the falseness of men.”

  “An enormous prick,” Fitz said. “You’re right on that score. He’s a walking, breathing, goddamned prick.”

  “I’ve never heard you talk like this,” Charles said. “Why can’t you just ignore him?”

  “Why can’t you just shut it?” Fitz said.

  Charles saw the look on his friend’s face and regretted his careless, teasing words. “Did he hurt you very badly?” He dared to lay a hand on Fitz’s arm, noting the bulging biceps and clenched fist, and felt the vibration of intense and suppressed emotion.

  “I can’t speak of it to anyone,” Fitz said. “If you care for me at all, you will never refer to him again. Do you understand?”

  “No,” Charles said. “I don’t. But I will do as you ask, Fitz. My God, to think of you burdened with all this rage. Is there anything I can do?”

  “You know there is,” Fitz said, feeling the anger flowing like water from a broken cistern, draining down out of his mind and pooling in his nether regions at the sympathetic words and touch. He kissed Charles with fierce hunger, devouring him with his longing, his wounded pride, his humiliation. And the worst of it all was, Fitz thought, as he rolled Charles over and entered his firm bum-hole, so tight and hot and ringed with dark fur, the worst of it was, when he had recognized George Wickham in the street this afternoon, his body had betrayed him. Knowing who it was, recalling all that had passed between them, yet Fitz had gone hard immediately, like—like a stallion sniffing out a mare or a bull brought to service the heifer. Like an animal. Not a rational, intelligent being, but just one rutting prick scenting another.

  He thrust with rough, angry motions until Charles was moved to cry out. “Damn it, Fitz, I want to dance at the ball, not spend a week lying on my stomach.”

  No, even that was not the worst. Fitz reached the height of pleasure, pressing deeper into Charles’s guts, provoking more moans and complaints, made inarticulate with pain and smothered by Charles’s face being pushed into the pillow. The worst of it was, even here, with his dear, sweet Charles accommodating his ugly mood, it was George whom Fitz imagined, George’s perfect, slim body, his skill at all the attitudes of passion, and his delicate responsiveness. Had all that really been feigned? Had he felt nothing of Fitz’s love?

  Fitz groaned as the last of his hardness spent itself in poor Charles’s receptive arse. He slumped over his friend’s back, as Charles manfully tried to control his breathing, not to show how he had been roughly used, not to whimper or cry.

  That was the worst. Even now, Fitz wanted him. Him. George.

  Start with the greatest hurdle, George had always told himself. After he jumped the broad stone wall, the lower, narrower fences would seem like molehills by comparison, and offer as little challenge. Only he had not expected to encounter that bastard Darcy quite so soon. That had been a facer, just in the process of getting acquainted with some of the daintiest bits of muslin he had met in quite some time—pity they none of them seemed to have much in the way of blunt—and seeing that proud, aristocratic sack of shit and his pretty little Ganymede come riding along…George could almost blush at the reaction that untoward meeting had caused in him, but he shrugged it off. It was human nature—at least men’s nature. The man was good-looking, George was willing to give him that, active, strong as a blacksmith, and possessed of the sort of hauteur that never failed to arouse one’s antipathy—and desire.

  But things were in the way to turning out just as well as George had hoped. He couldn’t quite see it as yet, but there was clearly a wide range of possibilities opening in front of him, like a line of opera dancers all spreading their legs at once. Typically, Darcy had done most of George’s work for him, somehow managing to alienate all the goodwill to which he would naturally have been entitled by his immense fortune, handsome features, and noble bearing. All George had to do was fill in the particulars. The same sad story, much of it true. Son of old Mr. Darcy’s steward, but godson to the master and reared with the master’s son. Treated like a younger brother, educated and provided for, until the death of his benefactor had left George at the mercy of the firstborn, through whose jealousy and resentment he had been cheated of his inheritance and robbed of the living he had been promised.

  “I have said something amusing?” George asked as his narration was interrupted by an inappropriate giggle.

  “Oh no,” Elizabeth assured him. “Please forgive me.” Elizabeth was savoring the contrast between the lively conversation of Mr. Wickham and the coldness of that last Sunday at Netherfield. She had spent an entire half hour alone with Mr. Darcy without exchanging a word. Not one single word, while he attended steadfastly to his book. Something scholarly and dull, she was certain. Not a novel or even poetry. Sermons, probably, or philosophical essays. Latin or Greek for all she knew. Greek, undoubtedly, she decided, which had led to her laughter. “I was recalling the last time I was in your supposed patron’s company. He could not bring himself even to look at me, much less speak. I am convinced he does not care for women.”

  Mr. Wickham met her gaze for a quick, meaningful glance, then lowered his eyes along with his voice, softer even than the murmur in which they had been conversing. “Indeed he does not, but it is hardly a subject for a lady.”

  “No,” Elizabeth agreed. “But I have seen for myself, having spent nearly a week at Netherfield, that his romantic attentions are all directed at one who, while perfectly genteel, is not a lady.”

  “Well put!” Mr. Wickham permitted a gentle, almost melancholy laugh to escape. “Since you have found out that much, I will therefore reward your acumen by adding that, in addition to my wrongs of income withheld and professional advancement thwarted, I have suffered similarly at that gentleman’s hands; he has spared me nothing.”

  Elizabeth gasped and covered her mouth. “Do you mean…?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Wickham said. “That. Of course, once I was of age I made it quite clear that I would no longer submit to his unnatural demands. That was when he threw me out, with no living as had been promised, no position, and no income.”

  “And if you had agreed to his terms?”

  “I might even now be vicar of my own parish, sufficient for my modest needs, and well situated in a prosperous neighborhood of a southern county.”

  “Oh!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “This is intolerable! Is there no end to his impositions?” Remembering the nature of the subject, she attempted to moderate her voice. “But surely you can fight. Is it not against the law?”

  “My dear Miss Bennet,” Mr. Wickham said in a whisper, moving his chair closer to Elizabeth’s and taking her hand in both of his. They were sitting apart from the rest of the company, who were engrossed in cards, and the gesture went unnoticed. “You are innocent in the ways of vice. For a man to accuse another of such a crime, he must necessarily admit his own guilt and be prepared to pay the same penalty.”

  “But if he abused you, forced you, as a youth?”

  “The age of consent is thirteen. In my recollection, it was on my very birthday that he began my initiation, as he called it.”

  Elizabeth closed her eyes in sympathy, but found to her consternation that a livelier picture occupied the dark space behind her eyelids: a very young, very pretty Mr. Wickham embraced by a slightly older, robustly handsome Mr. Darcy, much the way Mr. Bingley had been with Mr. Darcy the night she had seen them at Netherfield. This would never do. She opened her eyes and tried to find her place in the conversation. “You said he threatened you, and you refused at first. Is not that in itself a crime, no matter the age of the respective parties?”

  “He would not tell it that way, you see,” Mr. Wickham said in his unaffected yet knowing manner. “On his side, it would be I who had proposed our sinful activity, or who had acquiesced and was now turning to extortion.”

  “Still, he would ha
ve to account for his misdeeds.”

  Mr. Wickham shook his head, turning away in partial profile, in the process showing off his fine-boned face and translucent complexion. “It would be his word against mine, and which of us do you imagine would be believed? The son of a steward, or Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of Pemberley, with ten thousand pounds a year? And even if some of my story was accepted, all it would accomplish is to send us both to the pillory—or the gallows.”

  “Oh no! You could not, must not, suffer that.” Elizabeth removed her hand from Mr. Wickham’s, which was squeezing now and attempting to capture her other hand as well. People were looking in their direction. “Impossible! How can he live with himself, with the memory of committing such injustice?”

  “How indeed?” Mr. Wickham said with a brave smile. “I rather think our mutual acquaintance revels in his blackness, like Mephistopheles counting up his wicked triumphs.” His natural lightheartedness animated his features, rendering what was merely pretty in repose into exceptional beauty.

  Elizabeth had to stop and catch her breath at the transformation. “It was generous but reckless of you to share such a secret with me. How do you know that I will not betray you?”

  “You?” Mr. Wickham said. “You are all goodness. I would trust you with my life.”

  “As you have,” Elizabeth said. Why was it, the heavier the content, the more flirtatious the conversation? “You may be sure, Mr. Wickham, that your life and your honor are safe with me.”

  IT WAS DISAPPOINTING somehow, Elizabeth reflected, that the prompt granting of her wish for a suitor should not be more appreciated by her friends. Charlotte’s jealousy was understandable, but Jane’s unwillingness to participate in righteous indignation at Mr. Wickham’s wrongs was the more galling by its reasoned, evenhanded fairness. Jane looked at everything from Mr. Bingley’s perspective. If Mr. Darcy was his friend, then he could do no wrong. If he had abused and mistreated a man who ought to have had the support and protection owed to a younger brother, it must somehow be due to a fault in the injured party. Mr. Bingley’s friend could not be a villain.

  “Sometimes I just want to shake some sense into her,” Elizabeth complained to Charlotte. “She is my sister and I love her more than anyone—except you—but there are times when her defense of the indefensible makes me want to scream.”

  “Elizabeth, dear,” Charlotte said, stopping for emphasis in their shortcut across the barren field. “I hope you won’t scream now, but I must concur with the substance of your sister’s objections. Is it not strange that a man, unknown to everyone in the village until a few days ago, should pour out such intimate secrets to a young lady he has only just met?”

  Elizabeth waited until she could speak calmly. “Ordinarily I would agree. But you see, Charlotte, I gave him reason to know I would be sympathetic. That I knew about Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley.”

  “That was most imprudent,” Charlotte said.

  “Why? It was the very thing he was subjected to himself.”

  “So he claims.”

  “Why would he allege such a thing if it were not true?”

  “Think if it were a woman accusing a man of forcing her,” Charlotte said. “If she had truly been mistreated in this way, would she not feel an overwhelming sense of shame and keep the crime to herself? Whereas a woman making a false accusation of that sort proclaims her ruin to the world.”

  “That’s outrageous!” Elizabeth protested. “And unfair. How is anyone to obtain justice in such cases?”

  “No one gets justice in such cases,” Charlotte said. “All the law allows is further degradation and loss of character to the honest, and a chance of notoriety to the dishonest.”

  “But if the crime involves two men,” Elizabeth said, “there can be no monopoly of ruin or virtue on one side. Both must have a share in the guilt. I can’t imagine a man making such an accusation without some truth in it.”

  “On the contrary,” Charlotte said. “With such strict laws against sodomy, there’s all the more incentive for desperate men to level baseless charges against the innocent. For the plaintiff, if he has lost everything else, it is a last great gamble, staking all or nothing on one roll of the dice, while his victim, respectable and wealthy, has everything to lose, and will the more readily submit to blackmail.”

  “Mr. Wickham is neither desperate nor rash,” Elizabeth said. “If he is in need of income, and has been prevented from pursuing his true vocation, it is not his own misdeeds that have brought him to this place, but his abuser’s.”

  “I’ll grant you this much,” Charlotte said. “Mr. Darcy has been doing an excellent job of ruining his own character through his own unaided efforts. Now Mr. Wickham, with your help and that of all the other gossiping women—and men—in the neighborhood, has been provided with the perfect opportunity to accuse him of something far worse than snubbing a lady at a ball or thinking himself above his company at a village assembly. And all behind Mr. Darcy’s back, sinking his reputation without giving him the chance to tell his side of things. It’s like a Star Chamber of innuendo.”

  “You certainly take all the pleasure out of rumormongering and backhanded dealing,” Elizabeth complained. “But I have virtual proof of the justice of Mr. Wickham’s claims. I saw the meeting between them. My sisters and I had walked to Meryton and met Mr. Denny, who was introducing some new officers in the regiment. Well, who should come riding down the street but Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley. For one exciting moment it looked as if we would be treated to a first-rate exhibition of the cut indirect, but at the last possible minute Mr. Wickham touched his hat and Mr. Darcy was forced to return the salute. He followed it up by turning an alarming shade of white and cantering off with the look of one who had several dogs and a serf or two to flay alive before dinner.”

  Charlotte was forced to grudging laughter at the vivid picture, but unconvinced. “How do you know that it is not Mr. Darcy who is wronged, and furious at being trailed by his adversary?”

  “Oh, but Mr. Wickham is so handsome and charming, he must be another of Mr. Darcy’s conquests. There’s probably a list long enough to rival Don Giovanni’s.” Elizabeth blushed rosily at the words, a sight not lost on Charlotte.

  “Never tell me you are in love with Mr. Wickham only because he’s been subjected to Mr. Darcy’s unnatural attentions!”

  Elizabeth blushed even brighter at being found out. “Not only for that,” she said. “Mr. Wickham has been mistreated just enough to merit sympathy, without being so broken as to provoke contempt.” She knew better than to feign—not with Charlotte. “But there is something appealing about it, don’t you think? I have been going over it in my mind, and although it was most indecent, it made a very pretty picture, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley together. And now, imagining Mr. Wickham, who is more beautiful than Mr. Bingley…”

  “Scandalous!” Charlotte laughed with genuine pleasure this time and pulled Elizabeth to the edge of the woods. “Come, then. Go over it again with me, and give me kiss for kiss, for I think it makes you amorous.”

  FITZ KNEW THE ball at Netherfield was not a good idea, but he had to allow dear Charles his simple pleasures. It was only right that the new tenant of a manor should open his house and offer hospitality to the neighborhood, nor would Wickham dare to put in an appearance after that disconcerting meeting on the street. Lord, but Fitz could almost wish he would, just to have the pleasure of throwing him out…

  Yet as the time drew near for the festive evening, Fitz was surprised how little thought he had wasted on his old nemesis. It was another face he hoped to see, a rather different shape and form he hoped to partner, if only for a country dance or two.

  It was her wit he missed. That and her sparkling eyes. Her intelligence seemed to shine out through her eyes, even if the proof of it necessarily emerged through her small, thin-lipped mouth. Charles was sweet and true, bright enough, pretty and deferential, the perfect combination to arouse Fitz’s physical love and the protection due from an
older and wiser mentor to a youth. But only this impoverished young lady with a vulgar family and no connections met Fitz’s need for an equal. An equal of the mind.

  It had been a great relief when the two sisters had quit the house after Miss Bennet’s recovery from her cold. Fitz had been careful that last day to repeat nothing of the previous days’ indiscretions, the teasing and the prodding, poking at the woman to see what she would do in return, and always rewarded with just that much more than he had expected; enough that he could not resist trying again, but not so much that he must retreat in disorder. Although she had come close to routing him a few times. The remark about the acquiescent friend had been most unfortunate, bolstering poor Charles in all his misguided notions of matrimony and independence. But the worst of it came toward the end of the visit, when she had said, in her arch yet innocent way, that “Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at.” Laughing at him all the while, as such a statement implied.

  Only after a week had passed did he begin to miss the pricking of her barbs and the strife of the contest, what the Greeks had called agon. The damage she inflicted was not like that of the flesh, which itched and tormented the sufferer, leaving behind a faint scar if one was lucky, and the memory of pain endured and overcome. No, her wounds left one seared to the heart at first, then miraculously healed and wishing for another combat. Even were she to prevail, the result would be not death or bloody defeat, but something sublime, something Fitz had never known, but that all men aspired to…the loss of self in the love of another.

  Oh, to have a dance with her, and to probe, ever so subtly, attempting to discover her thoughts, perhaps a hint of her true feelings. Just to promenade beside her, to touch the tips of gloved fingers, to press sheathed palm to palm in the turn.

  And what had come of that? Nothing but the pain of learning that, like every less discerning intellect, she had fallen under Wickham’s spell. That she had no more perception than any other human creature, man or woman. Asking pointed questions about Fitz’s resentment, and making none-so-subtle allusions to a certain gentleman. From anyone else it would have been offensive.