Pride / Prejudice

by Ann Herendeen

“Me?” Charles said. “What’s the matter with Fitz’s little wench? Our Charlie never cries like that.” He leaned over his son, who opened his eyes and let out a long statement of support for his cousin’s sentiments, in a similar register.

  “Oh!” Elizabeth covered her ears. “Was there ever a more grating sound! It drives all rational thoughts out of a person’s head.”

  The nursemaids rose from their chairs and rushed forward.

  Fitz raised a commanding hand. “Let me show you how it’s done.” He scooped up his swaddled offspring, held her close to his chest and, balancing on the balls of his feet, danced lightly across the room, swaying her in his arms like a hammock. “Did Charles frighten you? What a silly fellow he is, to be sure.” The howling subsided to a cry, then a mew. “Whatever shall we do with you?” Fitz continued his murmuring. “Shall we betroth you in your cradle to your uninspiring cousin here? Or would you prefer to choose for yourself?” Amazingly, the child, groggy from her exertions, drifted off to sleep.

  Little Charles, fussed over by nursemaid, mother, and father together, soon relapsed into his usual passive calm.

  “There, you see?” Fitz whispered to the room. “All it takes is consideration.”

  “You will spoil her, Fitz,” Elizabeth said. “Far worse than you ever were.”

  “Lizzy, my love,” Fitz said, “here is one subject on which it is fair to say we are equally knowledgeable, which is to say, equally ignorant, this being our first endeavor. And never have I heard it persuasively argued that loving one’s child spoils it.”

  “On the contrary,” Elizabeth said, “it is well known that picking up a crying baby only encourages its bad behavior.”

  “Oh, Lizzy,” Jane said, “you must be right, but I can’t find it in myself to be so heartless. And Mr. Darcy did look so very sweet rocking Anne like that. I can’t see how it could be wrong.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bingley,” Fitz said. “Charles, I felicitate you on your intelligent wife and harmonious family.”

  “Well, Fitz, I always knew that Jane would be the best wife a man could wish for.”

  “As you have reminded me many times over this past year,” Fitz said. He returned his daughter to her cradle and the care of her nursemaid, and leaned down to his wife. “If our daughter had not the look and wit of her mother, I could not care for her half so well as I do,” he said in a low voice.

  “And you will be wanting a son next,” Elizabeth said, shrugging her shoulders at her husband’s attempted caress and turning her face away. “It is enough to bend a woman’s thoughts to continence, as a parson’s most fiery sermons cannot accomplish.”

  Fitz’s face, frozen and aloof, showed the pain he could not speak. “You know I would never force my attentions on you. And until you are healed, I wouldn’t dream of—”

  Elizabeth blinked and laughed. She reached for Fitz’s hand, holding it to her lips, just touching his fingers with the tip of her tongue. “I intended no such cruel reproach. I meant only that a lesson or two in etymology might be most welcome. Perhaps the derivation of ‘tipping the velvet’ could be examined in depth.”

  If it were possible for an elegant, reserved man of thirty years to blush, then the room would have witnessed an astonishing event. As it was, Fitz coughed, covering his face with his hand. “Charles,” he said, “weren’t you saying something at breakfast about new coveys?”

  “Indeed,” Charles answered with enthusiasm. “One of your tenants—Stowe?—claimed to have seen a nesting pair up beyond the top of the park, and another somewhere on the far side of the stream.” The men sauntered out, arm in arm.

  “Fitz!” Elizabeth said. “You may wish to take a blanket today. The ground is quite wet after all the rain we’ve had.”

  “You see, Charles,” Fitz said, “that noisy charade of yours was unnecessary.” He raised his voice to call over his shoulder, “Thank you, my dear. Have you any advice on the best position we should take to secure the most game?”

  “None that I can share in company,” Elizabeth replied.

  “A blanket?” Jane asked. “Why would they take a blanket to go shooting?”

  “Shooting!” Elizabeth said. “If they bring home so much as one little woodcock I shall be very surprised.”

  Jane, after mulling over this answer, said, “Well, as long as they enjoy themselves.”

  “There’s little doubt of that,” Elizabeth said. “You see what married life is like these days.”

  “You know you’re happy,” Jane said. “You just like to tease poor Fitz. What was that about velvet?”

  “A most interesting fabric,” Elizabeth said, licking her lips, “and one Fitz is inordinately fond of. A pity we didn’t live a hundred years ago when it was the fashion for men.”

  UNLIKE THE PREVIOUS year, Fitz had been at home most of the season, and hosted several shooting parties. Well into her ninth month and despite, or perhaps because of her growing discomfort, Elizabeth had insisted on having company. Nobody thought anything amiss at a breeding wife in the country, she said, however shameful it appeared in town, and there would be plenty of time for solitude later. The quarry was nothing but rabbits, songbirds, hedgehogs, and once, annoyingly, a gray squirrel that scurried up the nearest tree and watched the frantic baying below, its teeth chattering and its tail quirking into a question mark. “Hurst brought the damned thing in a cage as a curiosity,” Fitz said. “Probably let it loose rather than go to the bother of taking it away with him.” He raised his gun. “Ought to shoot it, lest it breed. I’ve heard they drive out the native red ones.” He had the gun cocked and aimed, when the memory of Wickham and the fowling piece made him lower the barrel and ease the hammer down.

  “Fetching little beast,” Charles said.

  “Rat with a bushy tail,” Fitz said. “Won’t waste birdshot on vermin.”

  “Maybe we should try the other side of the park,” Charles said.

  “Hardly worth it,” Fitz said. “The last parties exhausted most of the coverts there. You know, that was an excellent suggestion, bringing some protection from the damp.” He unslung the bag from over his shoulder, shook out the heavy horse blanket, and spread it down.

  “WE SHOULD GO in soon.” Fitz reluctantly broke the drowsy silence of sated appetite.

  “It is rather cold,” Charles said. “But how will we explain about not getting any birds?”

  “Explain?” Fitz raised an eyebrow. “My dear, one does not explain one’s poor aim or the scarcity of coveys. One merely apologizes to the cook for failing to provide any game and offers to procure a substitute from the butcher. An offer that is always dismissed with contempt for that sorry individual’s wares.”

  Charles grinned in appreciation. “I suppose we daren’t actually share a bed indoors.”

  Fitz tightened his arm around his friend’s shoulders, pulling him closer to conserve heat. “It would be ill-advised,” he said. “There’s always the barn.”

  “Ugh.” Charles wrinkled his nose. “I can do without that mangy old cat watching us.”

  “Old Rowley?” Fitz said. “Poor old fellow. Elizabeth doesn’t like him either.”

  “A lady of sense, despite marrying you,” Charles said, taking the chance at a jibe he could not have imagined a year ago.

  “You are treading on dangerous ground, Charles,” Fitz said. “The truth is, I am so fortunate in my marriage, and so undeserving, it almost makes one question the wisdom of Providence, or divine justice.”

  “That’s absurd,” Charles said. “There’s never been such a perfectly suited couple, except for Jane and me, of course. I shouldn’t have assumed you lie to Elizabeth.”

  Fitz stood up suddenly, pulling the blanket with him, causing Charles to yelp and roll over in the grass, much like the dogs he had also displaced. “No, Charles, you shouldn’t.”

  Charles lay sprawled, smiling into Fitz’s eyes that were laughing back at him, not hurt or angry as he had feared. In fact, Charles couldn’t remember seeing a
softer expression on his friend’s face, that had so frequently looked cross, scornful, or downright murderous. He rose and buttoned his breeches, then brushed the leaves out of his hair. “I suppose our wives are grateful to have us out of the house so they can enjoy a good long gossip about us.”

  Fitz gathered Charles into an awkward one-armed embrace around the blanket, the fowling pieces, and the dogs. “You flatter yourself,” he said, leaning in to plant a kiss on Charles’s upturned face.

  “In that case,” Charles said when he had caught his breath, “perhaps we can stay out a little longer.”

  “No,” Fitz said, “we’d best get home while it’s still daylight, or our wives will have nothing left to say tomorrow. But it’s a pity your visits have to end so soon.”

  “Well, Fitz, on that subject I have some news you may find interesting. I was planning to announce it at dinner, but I’ll say now that Jane and I may be able to visit far more frequently.”

  GEORGIANA DARCY PLAYED the pianoforte after dinner while the others talked. She had been diligent about her morning’s practice; now she needed to think. If she played interesting, difficult pieces, the sort that challenged her ability and improved her technique, she would have to devote all her attention to the fingering; if she tried popular airs, Fitz would demand that Elizabeth have her turn to play and sing; and if she chose dance tunes, the couples would form and she would be chained to the instrument all evening. So she allowed herself the treat of something easy, the well-known Beethoven sonata that she could play from memory. There were so many things in life that didn’t make sense unless one reflected on them for days, weeks or even months, sometimes. And there was no better means of contemplation than moving one’s fingers over the keyboard, playing by rote and freeing the mind.

  “YOU’LL NEVER GUESS who bought the Gowertons’ place,” Charles said.

  “I don’t even know what the ‘Gowertons’ place’ refers to,” Fitz said, “much less who bought it, or why I should care.”

  “That’s easily answered,” Charles said. “Bentwood Grange, in Hertfordshire, not far from Netherfield. Matthew Thornby. And you should care because he claims to know you.”

  “Never heard of him,” Fitz said.

  “Well, he doesn’t exactly know you. He knows of you.”

  “Lizzy, my dear,” Fitz said, “ask Reynolds if she has any of that physic she gives the maids for greensickness. I’m afraid Charles is suffering from the vapors.”

  “Mr. Thornby is good friends with a Mr. and Mrs. Carrington,” Jane interjected, “and Mr. Carrington claims to know you, Fitz.”

  That beautiful young man, Georgiana thought, letting the music shut out the talk. He kept intruding on her thoughts at all sorts of inconvenient times. Gervaise Alexander Warburton. Alex, he had everybody call him, although he was a marquess, heir to the Duke of Coverdale, and had about ten given names and several titles. She had been so nervous last year when she had received the invitation to his coming of age party. But everything had been pleasant—well, almost everything. There were about eight couples, young men and women of Alex’s circle. Georgiana’s partner was Peter Finchley, and she knew right away she didn’t like him.

  There was nothing really wrong, nothing she could put her finger on. He wasn’t rude or coarse, but he had an insinuating way about him, making much of how friendly Fitz had been with his mother. His mother! Lady Finchley was old—at least forty—and she had a dubious reputation. Even a sheltered girl like Georgie had heard things. Still, the rumors hadn’t stopped Lady Finchley from becoming practically engaged to Alex’s father. Now that at least made some sense. Coverdale and Lady Finchley were close in age, and both widowed.

  Georgiana had just stared unblinking at Mr. Finchley, not answering his remarks, until he stammered and almost blushed. For the first time in her life she was made aware of how men might suffer from their lack of beauty, as well as women. It must be difficult for a man to be short and slight, reedy, some might call it, with dull, sandy hair, when in the same room with someone like Alex, over six feet tall with auburn hair and a face like a statue of Apollo…

  “HOW DO YOU know Mr. and Mrs. Carrington?” Elizabeth had just asked Charles.

  After a long pause, Fitz said, “No, Charles. You landed yourself in this mess, and you must extricate yourself.”

  “I imagine they are acquaintances from when you were in town,” Elizabeth said.

  “It’s a club they were all members of,” Jane said. “It sounded very agreeable. The Brotherhood of Philander.”

  Fitz coughed rather loudly.

  “Fitz, my love,” Elizabeth said. “Are you all right? Perhaps you need some of Reynolds’s physic?”

  MR. FINCHLEY WAS like Wickham in some ways. Georgiana had learned her lesson and she could never have feelings for a man like that again. Men of that sort were obvious—she could see it easily now, when a year ago it had been frightening and mysterious. They chased every young lady with a fortune and pretended to be in love with anyone who was even passably handsome. It was just a game to them, and most young ladies understood that. It was why one waited until eighteen to come out in society, to be old enough to know.

  But Alex. His manners were as perfect as his appearance. He had been to university, like Fitz, except it was Oxford, not Cambridge, and unlike most of the gentlemen scholars, he appeared to have actually studied. How had it happened? He’d been laughing about something, all the responsibility he had as the elder son, the heir. But never vain or boasting. Something about school. That was it. He hadn’t been to school, not been allowed. He’d had tutors instead. “You can never fudge a lesson or hope not to be called on when it’s just one pupil alone with a master,” he’d said, a rueful smile on his face. “I don’t know how many times I had it beaten into me. Arma virumque cano…”

  Georgiana couldn’t help herself. “Troiae qui primus ab oris Italiam fato profugus Laviniaque venit litora,” she’d completed the first line of the Aeneid. She didn’t mean to show off. The words just slipped out, and she fought the urge to clap both hands over her mouth like a child who had shouted a filthy word, and run from the room.

  Alex looked around, smiling in that slightly conspiratorial way that people do when they are the only ones in the group who know your secret. “A scholar,” he said.

  “Never saw such a pretty one,” Mr. Finchley said. “Tell me, do you know Catullus and Ovid as well as Virgil?” Typical of Mr. Finchley, to mention the most notorious names, the reason ladies weren’t supposed to study Latin in the first place.

  “THERE’S NOTHING SO terrible about the Brotherhood,” Charles said. “It’s just that Thornby and the Carringtons have parties, and they invite everybody from town. A very fast set. Most of them are all right, but I always find Sylvester Monkton a little sly for my taste. Hearn’s younger son,” he explained for Elizabeth’s benefit. “The old earl was a loose fish, and his sons do their best to emulate him.”

  “Sylly’s not a bad sort,” Fitz said. “He has at least the virtue of honesty—and that requires courage.”

  “I liked Lady David Pierce,” Jane ventured to add. “I was frightened of her at first, because she’s a bit rough, almost mannish in demeanor, but underneath she’s really very sweet. When she learned that Charles was a close friend of Fitz’s, she treated me with almost motherly affection.”

  “Pierce married?” Fitz repeated in a faint voice. “To whom?”

  “Witherspoon’s sister, Agatha Gatling,” Charles said.

  GEORGIE PLAYED A wrong note, took her hands off the keys, and sat with her fists clenched in her lap. But that was worse, because then the others would know she was listening. She flexed her fingers several times and started the piece from the beginning.

  “MISS GATLING?” FITZ said. He indulged in a spate of loud, unpleasant laughter. “That’s wonderful. Truly wonderful. I almost wish I were back in town, to twit him for it.”

  “Odd, isn’t it?” Charles said. “Bet she has five years on
him, and a face like a pug dog.”

  “Charles, dear,” Jane said. “Lady David can’t help her appearance.”

  “No,” Fitz said, as if Jane had reproached him. “It’s not that. There was nobody fiercer against the—how did Pierce phrase it?—the incestuous nature of marrying the sister of one’s friend, and now he’s committed the exact same folly.”

  “Suppose he found it more convenient,” Charles said, “always over at her house to visit George.”

  “I think it’s a love match,” Jane said. “They have a son, a few months old, and Lord David seems to dote on the child.”

  “Well, all I can say is, thank goodness it’s a boy,” Charles said, unrepentant, “because I got a look at it one time and it takes after its mother. If it had been a girl they’d be better off exposing it the way they did in ancient times.”

  GEORGIANA HADN’T MEANT to lie to Fitz. It was just that, living alone in London, only Mrs. Annesley for companionship, and after the humiliation of Wickham, and with two whole years to wait until her coming out, she needed something besides needlework and the books in the circulating library to occupy her mind. She could not work on improving her drawing and painting—she had reached the limits of her slight talents there—and her knowledge of modern languages was at the stage where it was conversation she needed, not more written exercises. And somehow she’d got the idea of studying Latin.

  Everything had been easy at first. She’d bought a beginner’s grammar and worked at that, making sure always to have a fashionable novel at hand, for the benefit of Mrs. Annesley and unexpected visitors. The novels were a pleasure, anyway, when her mind was tired. Latin turned out to be much like mathematics, and enjoyable as that was, you had to stop sometimes and allow yourself a respite, use the brain in a different way.

  Georgiana had been so excited when she reached the stage of being ready to read texts. She had considered carefully where to start, poetry or prose, and had chosen the Aeneid. Everyone learned that, and an expansive, straightforward narrative might be easier than the compact, convoluted forms of poetry. And it was respectable, with none of the unsavory associations of some of the poets and their verses. Her disappointment when she found how almost impossible it was to go from vocabulary lists, verb conjugations, and noun declensions to translating whole sentences and paragraphs still stuck in her throat. She knew she must have a Latin master if she was going to make any progress, and she would need Fitz’s permission to put an advertisement in the newspaper to hire one.