Pride / Prejudice

by Ann Herendeen

  “What gift?”

  “The business with your late father’s estate occurring so providentially, allowing our successful remove to town.”

  “My dear.” Caroline took the chance of putting her hand on his arm. Even beneath the sturdy cloth of his coat and the linen of his shirt Fitz’s flesh crawled. “You have worked very hard and been most patient. It will all be resolved soon enough. Just leave it to me. I know how to manage these things. And if you wish to thank me later, I will think of a fitting reward.”

  She was becoming bolder every day. When would she begin winking and receiving him in dishabille? Why not just shoot me, Fitz thought, like a horse that has stumbled into a rabbit hole and broken its leg? It would be quicker.

  “I WAS WONDERING, Fitz,” Charles said the next day over breakfast, “if those vouchers were still good.”

  Fitz’s hand conveying his last bite of egg and toast was involuntarily halted an inch from his mouth. “Vouchers?” he said.

  “You know—for Almack’s.”

  “But my dear Charles, you made it quite plain that you have no interest in game,” Fitz said.

  “Well, I’ve been thinking over what you said, and it seems to me that maybe that is what I need—to get out of the house, enjoy a dance or two with a pretty young lady.”

  Fitz put the toast down and took a delaying gulp of coffee. “I’ll have a look,” he said. “I may have lost them or given them away.”

  Charles stared. “You never misplace things. And surely if you’d given them away you’d remember. What is it, Fitz? Don’t you want your old shooting partner anymore? Or have you found a new one? Is that it, eh? Someone at that disreputable club of yours? The Brotherhood of—what was it—Philadelphia? Not such brotherly love, though, is it?”

  Fitz, thankful that he had never delivered his planned lecture to Georgie about the dangers of keeping fashionable hours, and that the two of them were therefore alone in the breakfast parlor, stood up. “Charles,” he said, lowering his voice to its sternest, deepest register. “Remember that my sister is living in this house. It is ill done of you to breathe so much as a word about my private associations in front of her.”

  “Well, dash it all, Fitz, she’s not here now!”

  “But she could be,” Fitz said. “She could be right outside the door.”

  “God, Fitz. Anyone would think you—oh! Good morning, Miss Darcy!”

  “Good morning, Mr. Bingley,” Georgiana said. “Fitz.” She kissed her brother on the cheek and sat down. “Did I hear you mention Almack’s? That sounds like fun. When are you going?”

  Fitz, torn between triumph, exasperation, and imminent heart attack, settled for graceful surrender. It occurred to him that Almack’s had one great advantage as a destination. Miss Bennet, while unable to call on Fitz, would be more than likely to venture into this part of town to pay a second visit to Miss Bingley, whereas there was no possible chance her tradesman of an uncle could have obtained vouchers for Almack’s. “Tonight, I hope, if I can find the vouchers. I am sorry you won’t be able to accompany us.”

  “Oh no,” Georgiana said. “I’m very glad to be still in the schoolroom. Besides, I should only be in the way of you two sportsmen.” She looked up from under her lashes at her brother’s forbidding countenance, then to his friend’s more neutral demeanor. “I hope you bag some very plump partridges tonight, Mr. Bingley. Don’t let my brother constrain your efforts, or consign all the plain ones to your domain.”

  “Georgiana!” Fitz said. “Have you any idea how improper your speech sounds?”

  “Oh, it is nothing,” Georgiana said. “It is a private joke between Mr. Bingley and me. Merely a rhyming game.”

  ALMACK’S HAD BEEN a mistake, Fitz discovered early in the evening. Charles, while clearly not in the best of spirits, made an admirable effort to play the eager sportsman. He followed Fitz about like a devoted but untrained puppy, trotting at his heels and trying to discern and obey his master’s cryptic commands. But it was always toward Fitz that the game flew. Flush the quarry in whatever direction he tried, the mothers flocked around him to make introductions and he was besieged on all sides by nubile debutantes. And all of them so dull. Slow and stupid and, if not ugly, with no sparkle of originality. It would take a dozen of them together to scrape up the wit of an Elizabeth Bennet. No, even a score of them, ground up and sieved and their essence extracted, could not formulate even one of her quips, simper though they might, and say how dreary Almack’s was, but what was one to do, one had to meet suitable acquaintances somehow, and had he heard that Lord Bellingham was to hold a card party for a select company, and wouldn’t it be wonderful to secure an invitation…

  Fitz did everything short of physically pushing them toward Charles, but they recognized superior wealth and position when it was presented to them in so stark a contrast, as easily as they discerned height and aristocratic features. “It’s all right, Fitz,” Charles said to him once when a large, giggling, sweaty female by the unlikely and cloying name of Miss Lucy Lovelace, who had claimed at Charles’s inquiry to be sitting down all evening, jumped up and fairly planted herself in Fitz’s way when he attempted to find the card room. “I’m just as happy watching the others. You two great, tall figures make a very fine pair.”

  There was nothing to do, Fitz decided, but abandon the field. Sometimes victory was impossible; all that could be achieved was retreat in good order. He apologized to the girl, saying he was fatigued and was on his way home, finding himself strangely disturbed by her incredulous expression. Taking Charles’s arm, he moved them in the direction of the entrance, out of earshot of the eager dancers. “I’m sorry I subjected you to this, my dear,” he said. “Perhaps a visit to the Brotherhood would be the best remedy. We can have a brandy or two, maybe play a rubber of whist. Then, if you like, we can go upstairs.”

  “Faugh!” Charles said. His face contracted in what looked like genuine revulsion. “You go, Fitz. I never really cared for that place. Only went for your sake. All those mollies leering at me makes my flesh creep. Perhaps the so-very-obliging Sylvester Monkton will be there. I’m sure he’ll be only too happy to give you what you want.”

  “I don’t want Monkton,” Fitz said. “I want you. I thought you might feel more comfortable there. More discreet, no servants to spy.”

  “I’m sorry, Fitz,” Charles said, looking over his shoulder at the mention of spies. Nobody was paying any attention, other than a few girls still hoping for a partner. “I don’t mean to be a wet blanket. You go ahead and make a night of it. I’m perfectly capable of finding my own way home. And do give my regards to George Witherspoon. That is if any of you exchange any words.”

  “Bitch!” Fitz whispered in Charles’s ear as they said their good-byes. He bowed over Lady Jersey’s little hand and bestowed an invited kiss, then headed off at a brisk walk in the direction of Park Lane. The foul weather suited his mood perfectly.

  Eleven

  “WHAT EXACTLY IS wrong with this Miss Bend-over?” Monkton said during an uncomfortable silence.

  “Don’t call her that,” Fitz said. “The situation is not really her fault. If anything, it’s due to Charles’s immaturity. He fancies himself disappointed in love. All so predictable. I’ve seen it a dozen times. He stands to attention and salutes the first ordinary blond doll he sees, except that in this instance her sister is the most remarkable—” Fitz stopped before he gave too much away. “I’ve had to use some rather drastic measures to help him see reason.”

  “Drastic?” Verney said. “Very effective, I should think.” He clutched himself in a suggestive way, and in case there were any doubts of his meaning, began making pumping motions with his arm and loosely closed fist.

  How puerile. Fitz forced himself not to voice the thought aloud, saying, “Nothing so simple as that. Unfortunately, I’ve been driven to something close to deception. The woman’s been in town for months, but I have kept the fact from Charles, in his best interest. A clean and com
plete separation is always the easiest.”

  “For him? Or for you?” Carrington asked, not expecting an answer.

  “Well, just what is the matter with Miss Bent?” Monkton said. “Other than the fact that your Charles loves her. We all understand what a tragedy that is—in your eyes.”

  “Miss Bennet,” Fitz said. “Her name is Miss Bennet. And there’s nothing really wrong with her. It’s her family. The most egregious example of the decline of the country gentry you’re ever likely to see. The mother is the worst, but the daughters all take after her—that is, all except one.”

  “My word! How many are there?”

  “And what about that one, eh?”

  “Elizabeth,” Fitz said. Just saying the name gave him an absurd sort of pleasure. “The eldest, Charles’s objet d’amour, is exactly what you’d expect. Plump, curvaceous, wavy gold hair, like a painting in a brothel, only demure. But the second one, Elizabeth. I never imagined I’d enjoy sparring with a woman.”

  “You hit her?” Witherspoon asked, his voice high and childish with shock.

  “Verbal sparring, Witherspoon. Conversation. Genuine conversation.”

  “Any society lady can make repartee,” Verney said.

  “Precisely,” Fitz said. “Stale, commonplace phrases, repeated anecdotes and stories, the same caps to the same old jokes. No, this is something quite out of the ordinary. Original, contradictory, acerbic wit just short of impudence. She charged me with a propensity to hate everybody, indirectly laid both vanity and pride to my share of vices, and, as a final paradox, declared that I was not to be laughed at. All the while cackling with internal glee at what she clearly decided was self-importance.” He sat back and smiled broadly at the recollection, as pleased with these feats of verbal combat as if he had accomplished them himself.

  “A talented artist,” Monkton said. “She captured your likeness in one quick sketch.”

  “My God!” Pierce exclaimed. “Is that what passes for flirtation these days? I’d be sorely tempted to box her ears at least, if nothing more.”

  Fitz shook his head and frowned. “You wouldn’t say such an ungentlemanly thing if you knew her. She does have a predilection for saying things she doesn’t mean, but her manner is so innocent and sweet it cushions the blows and just leaves one eager for another round, so to speak.”

  “How do you know she doesn’t mean it?” Verney asked.

  After Verney’s earlier schoolboy behavior, Fitz decided to ignore him.

  “Nothing to look at, I take it,” Carrington said.

  “No, there you’re wrong,” Fitz said. “It’s her eyes that caught my attention. Very fine, big and bright, and radiant with intelligence. In fact, her entire face is the liveliest, prettiest, most expressive—well. As to the rest of her, at first I thought she had a boyish figure. Then I noticed how light and graceful she is. Very feminine, not like a boy at all; a womanly, soft form, but on a lesser scale. Really, just seeing her walk is enough to make a man catch his breath. And when she dances—”

  “Your breath, at any rate,” Pierce said.

  “When shall we wish you joy?” Monkton said with a snigger.

  “Yes, yes, I knew I’d be letting myself in for this,” Fitz said. “Charles’s sisters have already beaten that horse to death. It’s nothing, a chimera. I had almost given up finding such a rare combination—a superior mind with youthful, feminine beauty. But no man who values his place in society can afford to ally himself with that appalling family. I do feel sorry for the two eldest, though. They will suffer for it. There’s not a respectable gentleman in England up to the rigors of facing down the mother alone—much less the entire brood and all their low connections.”

  “You’re exaggerating, surely,” Carrington said. “An excuse not to become entangled.”

  “If I were exaggerating would I have convinced Charles to move back to town so soon after leasing the manor in Hertfordshire? Over some minor business of his father’s estate, something that could have been dealt with in a day or two? No, listen to the account of but one evening, a ball that Charles gave to repay his welcome to the neighborhood…” Fitz related the entire sorry litany, the long list of outrages: the vulgar, stupid mother, rattling on during supper about her eldest daughter’s imagined prospects, infecting the atmosphere of the entire company with jealousy and resentment at her boasting; the indulgent, ineffectual father, allowing his offspring to run wild, only stepping in when the damage had been done, then compounding it by shaming his one plain daughter, scolding her in company; the spoiled, ignorant younger sisters, practically offering themselves on the dance floor to anything in a red coat; and the middle sister who played the pianoforte abominably and sang worse—and fancied herself a philosopher to boot. “Their nearest relations are a village attorney whose clients are the local shopkeepers, and a merchant who lives in Cheapside. And to round out this commedia dell’arte,” Fitz concluded, “there is a clown of a cousin, the stupidest, most obsequious, groveling excrescence I have ever seen, who turns out to be—are you ready—my aunt de Bourgh’s vicar, the Reverend Mr. Collins. I know this because he interrupted my conversation to inform me of it.”

  Everyone laughed in the right places, but there was an undertone of discomfort.

  “You know, Darcy,” Pierce said, “you sound as if you’re trying to convince us of something you don’t believe yourself.”

  Verney cleared his throat. “I live in the country much of the time. If I spoke of my tenants and villagers the way you describe these people, I’d be strung up, assuming they were in a charitable mood. Else they’d use tar and feathers like the Americans.”

  “I can’t credit my ears,” Fitz said. “Do you honestly think poor Charles would have a chance, mixed up with a mob like that? Good God, he’d be eaten alive.”

  “He’s not like you,” Monkton said. “He just wants a wife and his own household. Who’s to say this Miss Bedknob wouldn’t suit him?”

  “Poor Miss Bennet,” Witherspoon said. “How hard it must be for her, with no money and a large family. And now when she does find someone, she has to fight a losing contest against a handsome, wealthy man like Darcy.”

  “Ah, Witherspoon,” Fitz said, turning to face the blond beauty. “Are you implying that I am competing for Charles? With a village girl?”

  Witherspoon swallowed and reached for Pierce’s hand. “You just now admitted that you—you lied to him. And it just seems unfair. A lady can’t win, because she can’t do the things that we can do.”

  Fitz stood up. “You rely too much on your supposed simplicity, Witherspoon. Someday someone will call you on it, and you may not like the way that conversation goes.”

  “Darcy,” Pierce said, standing up also. “You may find it easy to intimidate female rustics, but here in town you will learn there are consequences to riding roughshod over defenseless innocents.”

  Fitz put a hand on his hip and sneered at the small man whose head barely reached his shoulder. “I beg your pardon? You were addressing me, Pierce?”

  Carrington laughed. “Not again. Pistols at dawn, gentlemen? Or do you prefer swords? I wouldn’t mind refereeing that combat.”

  “Nor I,” Monkton said. “In fact, perhaps we ought to settle it now. Shall we draw straws for teams? Or simply match up in singlestick?”

  “Oh, teams, I think,” Verney said.

  The others looked ready to follow the disgraceful suggestion, sitting up and removing their coats.

  “Better choose by size,” Monkton said with a lewd giggle, unbuttoning his flap.

  “Haven’t used that third-floor room in ages,” Carrington said.

  “What room?”

  “The one with all the beds, like barracks—no doors.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Fitz said. “I don’t know why I thought to have a sensible conversation here.”

  “How about a game of piquet instead, Darcy?” Verney said. “I’ll give you a ten-point lead if you like.” He removed the equiv
alent article of clothing in the Brotherhood’s currency—his cravat—although he had to put it back on first, having already managed to lose several hands earlier in the evening, and began shuffling the cards.

  “Thank you, Verney, but until I reach my dotage my skill alone should suffice at cards,” Fitz said, heading for the door. “Gentlemen, I am not such a hothead that I am reduced to the level of this imbecilic contest. Good evening—and enjoy your free-for-all.”

  “Think that is what he needs,” Pierce said, moving to take the vacant chair opposite Verney. “A good hot head up his imbecilic arse.”

  “Just so long as you tell him, not me,” Monkton said.

  “More the sort of thing you’d say, Monkton,” Carrington said. “Tell you what. I’ll wager you don’t dare suggest it to Darcy the next time he visits.”

  Monkton smiled and raised an eyebrow. “What are you staking, Carrington?”

  “Oh, the full price, Monkton. The full price. If ever there was a sure thing, this is it.”

  “You’re on,” Monkton said, shaking Carrington’s hand. “Either way I win. Darcy’s favors, or yours.”

  “I’m flattered,” Carrington said. “But I don’t think he’ll pay up in quite the way you anticipate.”

  “I think it’s dangerous,” Witherspoon said. “Look at how close he came to losing his temper tonight. Don’t do it, Monkton.”

  “Nonsense,” Pierce said. “Should be an amusing spectacle. I bet Darcy bends Monkton over the sofa and skewers him right here in the drawing room.”

  “Actually,” Monkton said, “we’ve already done that. His initiation, remember? No, I think this will be a very interesting confrontation indeed.”

  “Aren’t we going to have that contest?” Verney asked.

  “No point in it now. Darcy’s gone.”

  “Don’t need him.”

  “It’s not worth it without him. No excitement. Just the same old faces.”

  “Since when do we care about faces?”

  “Oh, you know what I mean…”