Pride / Prejudice

by Ann Herendeen

  WHEN FITZ ARRIVED home, having taken the long way around, through St. James’s Park, Georgiana and Charles were engrossed in a game of backgammon, giggling like two schoolgirls over the rattling of the dice and the clicking of the counters. They looked up at his entrance, as guilty as clandestine lovers.

  “Oh, it must be very late,” Georgiana said. “Did you dance with lots of beautiful ladies, Fitz? Mr. Bingley said that you were getting all the game—I mean, that you made lots of introductions. I hope you had a pleasant time.”

  “Charles,” Fitz said, using their previously agreed-upon excuse for parting ways, “you claimed to be too tired to bear me company, yet now I find you keeping my sister up long past her bedtime.”

  “I’m just going now.” Georgiana pecked Fitz on the cheek as she went by. “You need a bath, Fitz,” she said, wrinkling her nose and running swiftly upstairs before he could reprimand her.

  “I’m sorry if I kept Miss Darcy up too late,” Charles said. “We were having such fun we lost all track of time.”

  “How original,” Fitz said. He laughed, seeing that perhaps things were on the way to working themselves out without his interference. “It’s all right, Charles. It’s not so very late. Only a little past midnight.” He put an arm around his friend and kissed his cheek. “Perhaps you’ve reconsidered and would like some company?”

  Charles slipped out from under the encircling arm. “Sorry, Fitz. Georgie’s right. You really do need a bath.”

  “JANE,” SARAH GARDINER said, “I hope you don’t mind another quiet evening with the Pooles.”

  Jane Bennet looked up from her needlework and immediately assumed the bland smile that was her habitual expression. “No, aunt,” she said. “I quite enjoy their company. And their children are a delight.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “But at least they are well behaved. And you do seem to have a way with them.” Sarah had to fight to keep the pity out of her voice. Jane had held up admirably over the months of her visit. Her composure even as she absorbed the devastating fact of Miss Bingley’s rejection had been extraordinary. Sarah wished so often to take her niece in her arms and let her cry her eyes out, but if her brood of young children had taught her anything, it was that all heroism crumbled at the slightest hint of sympathy. Jane’s entire existence depended on acting as if her recent loss were only a slight disappointment, when in fact it was, in many ways, the end of the world for her. “I wish we could offer you more exciting excursions occasionally—Almack’s or at least a Mayfair ball, but of course we have few acquaintances in that end of town.”

  “Oh no,” Jane said, too quickly. “I’m very happy here.” She waited until her aunt had left the room and gone downstairs before putting her work aside and shielding her eyes with one hand. I will not cry, she told herself, as she did at least once every day. I will not. It is pointless, and it spoils the complexion and makes the eyes red. “As if it mattered anymore,” she said aloud, shocking herself into dry-eyed fear.

  For no reason she found herself recalling the man—what was his name? Richard? Rupert? She could not remember his Christian name, if she had ever known it. As for his surname, she had decided long ago never to repeat it, even in her thoughts. He had written her poems, courted her as if he were a medieval knight, calling her his Lady Greensleeves, which she had known even then was most improper. But she had been only fifteen, only just become a woman, and it had been flattering, and oh! so exciting. He was too old, almost thirty, and she had been frightened by his passionate pursuit. He had tried to kiss her once, late at night after a card supper, when the other guests had gone home, following her into the corridor and pressing her against the wall. Mama had known, Jane was sure of it, yet had done nothing, said nothing! Jane could still recall the feel of his hands on her, the way his thumb slipped inside her bodice and her nipples had gone hard all at once. And how she had felt the sensation move through her body, inside, to the place between her legs.

  She was going to cry again. Charles had felt like that. He had never once touched her other than to hold her hand during a dance, and when she had been recuperating at Netherfield and had been able to come downstairs for dinner, he had naturally taken her hand and bowed and even kissed it, saying how pleased he was that she was better. That had felt just like Mr. Richard-Rupert, only a hundred times nicer, because Charles had done nothing wrong and yet she had felt it, working its way down, shivery and hot at the same time, just from his kissing the back of her hand…

  And now it was over. She was going to be twenty-three this year, and she had been in love only once and had never had an offer unless you counted Rupert-Richard, which you really couldn’t because he hadn’t been serious; and anyway, who would want to marry at fifteen before being out or even having danced at a ball? But here she was, her life ended without having ever begun. This was it. Forever. An old maid, stuck living with Mama after Papa died, and bearing her scolding and carping and sighing. And being pushed at every middle-aged, paunchy, balding old widower with ten children.

  Stop it, she told herself. Just stop it. Women did get married at twenty-three and even older. Look at Charlotte Lucas. Well, that was a mistake, to think of her. Mr. Collins certainly made Richard-Rupert seem like heaven in comparison. At least he had been nice-looking, and with wit enough to write a passable poem or two. He’d be what? Thirty-eight now, probably paunchy and balding. But at least she’d be married and have some children of her own…

  Oh, this was stupid. She didn’t want Richard-Rupert, or anyone else. Just Charles. She had not known such a feeling existed until she met him. Although she must remember always to think of him only as Mr. Bingley. And she couldn’t speak of it with anyone, not even Lizzy, because when a woman loved a man and he didn’t return the love it was the most shameful thing she could admit to, other than actually giving in without being married. But it was the same idea, just not all the way. It was halfway to losing one’s virtue, because that’s how it started. A man who loved you wouldn’t ask for that. He would ask you to marry him.

  That’s what Lizzy didn’t quite see: that if Mr. Wickham truly loved her he would propose marriage instead of flirting at assemblies and neglecting his militia duties to hang about in Meryton on the chance of meeting ladies on their errands, all the while making it very clear he couldn’t face marriage on less than ten thousand pounds. If you really loved someone money shouldn’t stand in your way.

  Shouldn’t it? Jane thought it over. Well, it wasn’t her concern any longer. She wasn’t going to be married, because gentlemen did need money to marry, and if they had a good fortune they wanted a woman with a portion equal to theirs. Only Charles hadn’t cared, or so she thought. He had told her his secrets, everything. She had been sure he was going to call on her after the ball at Netherfield. And then, instead, he had gone to town and everyone in his household had followed and Caroline had made it clear that now they were back in society where they belonged she had no reason to keep up the acquaintance, because it had only been for her brother’s sake and Charles had no interest in Jane anymore. Didn’t love her. It had just been amusement, a casual flirtation gone too far. Not Charles, she told herself angrily. Mr. Bingley.

  Perhaps she had been vain. She had been serene, secure in her beauty. Mama had gushed over her eldest daughter’s beauty for as long as Jane could remember and she wondered if perhaps she had put too much stock in it. But what else was she to do? A young lady could only trust in her looks, if they were good, and her accomplishments, if any, and hope, and wait. Jane hadn’t minded the waiting. She had been certain that he would come along, the one who was meant for her. It had been a long wait, but he had come. And then he had turned out not to be what he seemed. Not the one after all.

  Never show it, she said to herself, feeling the tears welling up and blinking rapidly. Never. What she had told herself every day for eight years and more. Being the eldest was so much responsibility. If she failed, if she ever once let down her g
uard, they were all doomed to spinsterhood, because the eldest set the pattern. Although surely Lizzy would find someone. Then it wouldn’t be so bad. Lizzy would not abandon her. Once Lizzy was married, Jane could live with them and be free of Mama’s—

  “Oh dear, haven’t you started dressing yet?” Aunt Gardiner popped her head in the door without knocking first. “And I was hoping you’d look your best tonight, because Mrs. Poole thought perhaps their eldest, Josiah, will be up from Birmingham. Mr. Poole has often mentioned to Mr. Gardiner and me how lucky he is to have a son like Jos who can take over for him when the time comes. But he’ll need a clever wife to manage the household and help run the business. A very promising young man, Josiah Poole. A bit shy with pretty girls, but I’m sure you’ll make him feel at ease.”

  “I will try, aunt. I’m so sorry. I must have been woolgathering. I’ll be down directly.”

  Sarah Gardiner shook her head as she descended the stairs. She would like to march over to Grosvenor Street and shake some sense into that idiot Charles Bingley herself. Of course, if that would do any good she’d have done it by now. It was a pity she had never set eyes on the man to discover what his character was like. Probably decent but weak. And under the thumb—or more—of that Fitzwilliam Darcy. Typical of that world, the men with money and university educations. They always had some friend who would bend over for them, or kiss their arse when commanded. Although what the friend got out of it Sarah never understood. Perhaps it just made them feel loved, as everyone wanted.

  Sarah sighed. She would have to go on acting as if Jane had not suffered a great loss. The only way Jane was ever going to get back to her old self was if they all pretended that nothing had happened. After enough time had passed, surely it would feel that way even to her.

  She found herself remembering that man, what was his name? Cooper? Hooper? His Christian name had been Richard, she thought. Unless it was Robert? It had been only a couple of years after her marriage to Mr. Gardiner, and she had had other things on her mind. But she remembered the intensity of his look, the way he followed Jane with his eyes wherever she was in the room. He had written poems—disgraceful, but impressive to such a young woman. A girl, really, at fifteen still in the schoolroom, assuming her sister-in-law had ever taught her poor girls anything besides indolence and hypochondria. But that Hooper-Cooper man had claimed to love Jane, and what had come of it? Nothing. And now, seven whole years later, another one not come up to scratch.

  Funny to think how it was her sister-in-law, Mrs. Bennet, who had married the gentleman, and look what it had got her. Comparative poverty on two thousand pounds a year, and no prospects for her girls. But Mrs. Bennet’s brother, Henry Gardiner, had stayed in trade, and Sarah wouldn’t change places with any country gentlewoman for twice that amount! Thank goodness Henry made a decent income and they would bring up their children in the same style, no pretension or false hopes. The boys would go into the business or another respectable trade. The girls would have decent portions, more than enough for any industrious young man of their sphere. They would not have to wait and sigh over irresponsible so-called gentlemen, but would marry men like their father, men who would give them a good home and would not be marrying them solely for their name or their money. Men who expected to work and who needed a wife who was a true helpmeet and companion. Real love, not fairy-tale romance and poetry, or the airs and refinements that made this Mr. Bingley so beguiling that he courted and discarded sweet, innocent young ladies for no better reason than that he could. And there wouldn’t be any Mr. Darcy hovering in the background to make his friend disdain the best girl in the world, just because some of her family were not of his level…

  Jane came slowly downstairs, dressed in one of her old gowns that showed off her voluptuous figure, her hair dressed simply, needing no elaborate coiffure to embellish its thick waves of lustrous gold. “There you are,” Sarah said. “Looking as beautiful as ever. I do hope that this change of scene has cheered you a little.”

  “Indeed, aunt,” Jane said. “But there is nothing to cheer. I am quite happy. It is good of you to have me to stay all this time.” She kept her smile in place all through the short walk to the Pooles’ and while Josiah conversed animatedly and at length about the minutiae of expanding a mercer’s trade. Strange how Charles could talk of even less momentous topics but it never sounded tedious or dull. The slightest commonplace phrase had an air of grace and charm when Charles…Mr. Bingley, Jane reminded herself. “How diligent you are, Mr. Poole,” she said when there was a split second’s break in the flow of words. And not the least bit shy.

  “You are very kind, Miss Bennet. Do you understand bookkeeping? Now that is a most interesting subject. There are two entries, you see, for each transaction. Then at the end of the month you add everything up and the two sums should match…”

  Jane smiled and nodded until her neck was so stiff and her jaw so clenched she thought she might never be able to utter another word, not that anyone would notice. Jos and all the Pooles talked enough for the rest of the evening, often all at once, and on several different subjects.

  “Did you have a pleasant evening?” Mrs. Gardiner asked. She had to ask twice and then a third time before Jane realized that they were at home and it was just the family again.

  “Very nice, aunt, thank you.”

  “Jos Poole is a most ambitious, hardworking young man. I daresay he’ll make something of himself before long.”

  “Quite an up-and-coming city, Birmingham,” Mr. Gardiner said. “If I were thinking of expanding my business, that’s where I’d choose. And not too far from the south and London.”

  “Very true, dear,” Mrs. Gardiner said with a wink and a nod in Jane’s direction. “But time enough for that. It will be some years before our Henry is ready to branch out.”

  “Henry?” Mr. Gardiner said. “I thought we were talking about—”

  “Yes, dear,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “So we were. Do you know, I’ve always envied mercers’ wives. They have first pick of all the new stuffs.”

  “You don’t do so badly as it is,” Mr. Gardiner said.

  “Never said I did,” his wife replied. “I have done very well indeed.”

  Twelve

  THERE WAS NO more gloating now, Elizabeth thought. How her aunt Gardiner must have seen through her blithe denials during her Christmas visit. Mr. Wickham, having apparently discovered, or decided—Elizabeth wasn’t sure which was worse—that she had not sufficient charms to overcome her lack of fortune, was in hot pursuit of a Miss King, whose sole claim to his interest was the sudden demise of her uncle and guardian, leading to her acquisition of ten thousand pounds.

  Elizabeth reflected on the two men, so very different, who had awakened the same inconvenient desires in her. Both lost to her now. Mr. Darcy she had never had and did not regret. But George Wickham—oh, that was misery indeed, and made almost intolerable from being the kind of loss that a lady can never speak of or admit to having felt.

  Charlotte’s letters continued to arrive, neatly written, not so much as a tearstain or an inkblot to betray any other emotion than calm satisfaction at her married state. If Elizabeth did dare to infer a slight distress beneath the placid surface in the repeated pleas for a visit, it was no more than she could have expected. She herself would have been long gone, run off to town in disgrace, with Mr. Wickham or alone, sinful or not. No, you wouldn’t, she told herself. It was unthinkable. Yet marriage to Mr. Collins was just as unthinkable, and Charlotte, so similar to Elizabeth, or so she had once believed, had done it without wasting much thought on the subject. Probably the only way to swallow him—without thinking. Like a draught of foul medicine. Close one’s eyes, hold one’s nose, and perhaps a spoonful of honey after. That worked once or twice. But marriage was forever. Day in, day out, and every night for an eternity of nausea.

  As March approached, Elizabeth felt the need to get away. Even a visit to Charlotte was preferable to staying at home, rehearsing her losses
, retracing the path to Meryton and back, and always the view toward Netherfield reminding her of her different circumstances such a short time ago. At least the way to Kent and Mrs. Collins led through London, which allowed the two sisters a brief reunion.

  Elizabeth was glad to see Jane looking so well, older and wiser in her reassessment of Miss Bingley’s character, never once having crossed paths with her erstwhile suitor. Elizabeth found it easier to confide in her sister now that they were in more or less the same abandoned condition, but found she had little inclination. She must try, otherwise the two of them would mope themselves into early spinsterhood, begin wearing caps and neck ruffs, and refuse to stand up with anyone except grandfathers at assemblies. “You have been three months in town, but have gained nothing by it except, I suppose, more soot in your lungs,” she said to Jane. “Now it is my turn to visit Kent and sicken myself with the smell of hops.”

  Jane smiled bravely. “I’m glad to see that you have not given up your friend after all.”

  “Oh, as to Charlotte,” Elizabeth said. “That is finished. But I will enjoy a change of scene, and of course there is so much in Kent that cannot be found in Hertfordshire—such as fat, stupid clergymen and their condescending patronesses.”

  “If you continue in this sad estrangement with Charlotte,” Jane said, “you are putting yourself on the same level as Mr. Wickham, dropping a friendship when you have nothing more to gain from it. Don’t behave like that with your friend, but patch things up and wish her well.”

  “It’s too late for that,” Elizabeth said. “There is no well to wish her, only continued patience in the face of the insufferable, with some added fortitude and selective blindness.” Was it her imagination, or did Jane flinch at her careless words? “Don’t worry, I promise not to be cold with Charlotte. Whatever is in my power to do, I will. You know I’ll try my best to make her laugh, at least.”