Pride / Prejudice

by Ann Herendeen

  “Absolutely. He’s a member of that same club I was telling you about. Golden hair like waves, springing from a high, noble brow, like a hero in a poem by Walter Scott; blue eyes like summer sky, and he’s an artist…” Charlotte kept the words flowing, embellishing Lady David’s prosaic language to create a more enticing picture.

  Lord, it was good to hold a woman in her arms again. There was no passion here, no enjoyment of that sort. Anne, for all her tricks and deceptions, was truly unwell. Whenever she walked too far or stayed up too late, her heart would beat so fast she grew faint; sometimes there was a blue tinge around her mouth and her fingernails. The doctor always clicked his tongue when he saw that; Charlotte hadn’t even had to prompt him to say that marriage was out of the question.

  No, it was like a holiday merely to spend a chaste night with a slender, nicely formed girl, instead of a large, heavy man who never smelled quite clean. She felt a pang for little Willie, left with that slattern of a nursemaid. Well, a night or two once in a while shouldn’t hurt. Charlotte wouldn’t be allowed to shirk her wifely duties longer than that, even had it been possible for Anne to arrange it.

  “And he’s in love with his brother-in-law,” Charlotte concluded her enumeration of Witherspoon’s admirable qualities as prospective husband. “I’m sure he’s never kissed a woman in his life, apart from his sister, and he won’t start now.”

  “Oh, Charlotte. You are clever.”

  Charlotte gave Anne the real medicine, stroking her fine hair until her breathing leveled off and she fell into the deep, laudanum-induced sleep. Her head nestled, surprisingly weighty, on Charlotte’s shoulder, cutting off the circulation in her arm. Charlotte didn’t move an inch.

  “BUT I DON’T wish to be married,” George Witherspoon said. Another debate on the merits of matrimony was under way, this one in the richly furnished town house in Berkeley Square belonging to Witherspoon’s half sister.

  “Nonsense,” Lady David Pierce, the former Agatha Gatling said. “Look how happy David and I are.”

  “But that’s because you love each other,” Witherspoon said. “Besides, I’m already married to Davey.”

  “Now George,” Lady David said. “We’ve gone all over that. That marriage is private. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, you’re free to take a wife.”

  “But I don’t even like women. I’m sorry, Aggie. Of course I like you. You know what I mean!”

  “Perfectly, my dear,” Lady David said. “Which is why this marriage is just the thing for you. She doesn’t like men, you don’t like women, she’s an invalid and she’s wealthy. A large fortune and a very pretty piece of property in Kent with extensive grounds and a park.”

  “How do you know she doesn’t like men?” Witherspoon asked.

  “Dear Charlotte—Mrs. Collins—has written me all about it,” Lady David said. “Ever since she married that appalling vicar of hers, she’s made it her business to help poor Anne out of her difficult situation. The girl ain’t up to much—something wrong with her heart—but that’s why you and she should suit, George. Charlotte has become very friendly with Miss de Bourgh, and she assures me that Anne’s ideal husband is a kind, gentle soul, preferably an artist or a poet, someone who won’t touch her, even on the wedding night, and will live apart from her, in town. It’s you to the life, George.”

  “I don’t know,” Witherspoon said, on the point of wavering. “What do you think, Davey?” He turned to his friend, who had remained admirably quiet all this time.

  “I admit,” Lord David Pierce said, “I was skeptical at first. If it wasn’t our dear Agatha proposing it I wouldn’t have considered it. But everything I’ve heard about this Miss de Bourgh merely confirms Agatha’s portrait. And it never hurts to own property or add to one’s wealth, no matter how comfortably off one is to begin with.”

  “Very true, David,” Lady David said with a fond, approving nod in her husband’s direction. “You always understand the practical aspects.”

  “Flatterer.” Pierce laughed and kissed his wife’s rosy cheek. “You only say that because I’m taking your side in this discussion.” Pierce frowned, and drew himself up to his full height, barely an inch or two taller than his wife, and several inches shorter than his statuesque friend. “You know, George, my love, Agatha has always managed your affairs so that you don’t have to worry your head over all that accounting gibberish, but the fact is you are the master of a considerable fortune and a very eligible parti in the marriage market. If word ever got out just how well-off you are, you’d have unmarried females throwing themselves at your feet every time you stepped out of doors.”

  Witherspoon’s fair countenance paled even further and he stared in alarm from his sister to his lover and back again. “Really, Davey? Are you sure? Because I try to go out every day, to see the light and the colors, you know, and if I couldn’t—if—that is, if young ladies were to accost me all the time, I’d have to give it up, and then how would I paint?”

  “David.” Lady David spoke sternly to her husband. “There’s no need to frighten George to death.” She turned to her brother, speaking in the gentle tone used with a child convinced there’s a headless ghost hiding under the bed. “George, what David is trying to say is that marriage is so important to most ladies that they always discover who the wealthy, unmarried men are sooner or later. But with an invalid wife safely tucked away in Kent, and the marriage made public, you’d be protected from any trouble of that sort.”

  “I see.” Witherspoon looked thoughtful, a sight rarely seen. “But what happens when she dies?”

  “Oh!” A simultaneous groan arose from Lord and Lady David.

  “There, Agatha,” Pierce said. “You always underestimate George’s powers of deduction. He’s as quick as you or I, really. He just comes at things from a different direction.”

  “Yes, the one we’re least expecting,” Lady David muttered. “Don’t worry about that now, George. She’s still a young woman, and if she stays at home and doesn’t overexert herself, there’s no reason she can’t live a good many years.”

  “But how can you be sure?” Witherspoon asked.

  “We can’t,” Pierce said. “All these things are ultimately a gamble.”

  “Well, I hate gambling,” Witherspoon said. “It’s just odds and percentages, but people never pay attention to that. They always bet on the queen of diamonds or think nine is their lucky number or something, and then they’re disappointed. And they lose a great deal of money and shoot each other and—”

  “My goodness,” Lady David said. “All this time I thought—”

  “You thought I had no sense,” Witherspoon said. “But I do have some. I just can’t afford to waste it on numbers and reading and writing and cards and dice and horses and all that stuff that men usually waste it on. All I want to do is paint. And if I have as much money as you say, then I think I ought to be able to spend it the way I please and live as I choose, so long as I’m not hurting anybody.”

  “But this is a way to help someone,” Pierce said. “Poor Miss de Bourgh isn’t well, and she’s an heiress, which means she’ll have to marry someone so as to keep the property in the family. Do you know her mother wanted her to marry Darcy? Think of what a misery that would have been. On both sides.”

  “Fitzwilliam Darcy?” Witherspoon said. “Who used to be in the Brotherhood and married that witty Miss Bennet you were all teasing him about? Oh, that would be too bad.” He looked earnestly at his sister. “He’s very big and strong, you know, Aggie. It’s the kind of thing you can’t imagine without seeing it for yourself. I saw him—I mean, we all saw him when he left the Brotherhood because we had to have his un-initiation ceremony and Davey said it was all right for me to participate and I’m awfully glad I did, because Darcy was most remarkably vigorous and I had a—”

  “George,” Pierce said. “That’s hardly the way to talk in the presence of a lady.”

  “Oh, Aggie doesn’t mind. Aggie knows me. And
anyway, Miss de Bourgh is safe now that Darcy has married someone else.”

  “Don’t you see?” Lady David said. “There will be others. And none of them, I dare to wager—if you don’t disapprove, George—will be as perfect a match for her as you are. Ten to one she’ll be forced to marry a brute who’ll insist on ‘perpetuating his line’ or some such nonsense, and she’ll die giving birth to a misshapen brat—”

  Witherspoon’s eyes widened and he cringed, turning for comfort to Pierce, who enfolded him in his arms.

  “Honestly, Agatha,” Pierce said. “And you scolded me for scaring him.” He stroked Witherspoon’s hair and kissed his cheek. “All we’re trying to say, George, is that both you and Miss de Bourgh have an incentive to marry. You don’t have to commit yourself right away. In fact you’d be foolish to appear too eager. But with Mrs. Collins’s help, an introduction can be made. We can travel down to Kent, perhaps Lady Catherine will invite us to stay and you can see how things stand.”

  “What if I don’t like her? I won’t be forced into marriage.”

  “Nobody will force you into anything. You have my promise on that,” Pierce said. He tightened his arms around Witherspoon and kissed him again, first on the forehead, then the mouth, until Lady David blushed and smiled and looked away. “When we married, I promised to love you and cherish you, and that is what I intend to do. If you decide this marriage won’t suit, you have only to say so and that will be the end of it. Isn’t that right, Agatha?”

  “Absolutely,” Lady David said.

  “Well, then,” Witherspoon said. “When you put it like that, Davey, it all seems very reasonable. Now, can we please go to bed? Or is it Aggie’s turn tonight?”

  Pierce cocked an eyebrow at his wife. “What do you say, my dear? Will you yield to your brother after he’s agreed to such a sacrifice?”

  “Hmph!” Lady David said. “But you’ll owe me double next time.”

  “Owe you?” Pierce said in a soft voice. “I’ll insist on it.”

  Summer

  The four friends strolled in the park at Pemberley. Birdsong, perfumed flowers, bright colors, and mild temperature—everything delighted the senses. But more than any tangible pleasure, how blissful it was to be alone! Elizabeth savored the freedom. Practically her entire acquaintance had descended on Pemberley over the course of the winter: her parents; the Gardiners; Mr. and Mrs. Hurst, bringing the inevitable Caroline Bingley; even Lydia Wickham, tormenting Fitz with indelicate references to the former friendship between the two men.

  Elizabeth had anticipated that being Mrs. Darcy would resemble running a fashionable hotel; what she had not foreseen was that her responsibilities might at times be more accurately compared to those of an opera impresario. Caroline, whose attachment to Fitz showed no signs of abating, even with the evidence of little Anne in the nursery, could be managed like a self-important actress, with crude flattery of her stylish gowns and her stock of town gossip. For Charles’s sake, Elizabeth denied her instincts and employed considerable tact; but diplomacy didn’t work with Lydia. Elizabeth had found her youngest sister alone one morning after breakfast and, taking an educated guess, asked if she recalled the relative position of their two husbands, the last time they were together. That had shut her mouth. Protection of Fitz outweighed any minor burden of guilt at digging up the buried past; Elizabeth could still smile at the rare memory of Lydia made red-faced and discomfited by someone else’s words.

  Only the start of the London season had emptied the house. The Hursts and Caroline had decamped after Easter, followed shortly by the Gardiners, whose business profited from the increase in trade. The reluctant Mrs. Bennet, who must chaperone her younger daughters, had gone the next week. Mr. Bennet, blandly ignoring all hints, had lingered yet another week in triumphant “second bachelorhood,” as he called it. Finally, Lydia recalled, belatedly and with ill-concealed alarm, that were her “dear Wick” to be left to enjoy the season on his own, even in as remote and dreary a place as Newcastle, the fact that he was married and the father of a infant daughter might occasionally slip his mind.

  After a session of mixed couples, Elizabeth with Charles and Jane with Fitz, they changed partners for ease of pace and conversation, the two sisters hanging back and allowing their husbands to walk ahead. Jane, her second child beginning to show, would soon wish to return indoors, but Elizabeth had something important to discuss first. “I was wondering,” she began, “if you had given any thought to what we talked of earlier.” She inclined her head in the direction of the slight bulge at Jane’s waist.

  “Nursing this one myself?” Jane blushed, as any mention of the body’s functions seemed to produce in her, but considered her sister’s question seriously. “I am divided in my mind, Lizzy,” she said. “I admit, the temptation is great, to mother my child in all ways. But I dislike the idea of keeping Charles away.” The last words produced the fiery red flush that attended all acknowledgment, even now, of her passionate feelings for her husband.

  Elizabeth forbore to laugh this time. “But Charles would never neglect you merely because you used your body for its intended purpose.”

  Jane shook her head and kept her eyes fastened resolutely on the path. “Whether he would or no, it is not right, surely, for a man to be with his wife while she is…?” She left the sentence unfinished in ladylike ambiguity.

  “Oh, nonsense!” Elizabeth answered. “I doubt very much that our nursemaids—or any others, for that matter, who earn their living through their milk—spend their entire lives estranged from their husbands. And have you considered the reason I proposed this?” She stared earnestly into her sister’s face.

  “Do you mean, because it—?” Even speaking in a whisper, Jane could not express so dangerous a thought.

  “Lengthens the interval between conceptions,” Elizabeth said. “Yes. Look at us and all our family. Mama, our aunt Gardiner, you, me. If we go on as we are, we shall be little more than broodmares. But take our Bridget, now. Her husband is quite a stout fellow, and very fond of his wife. Yet she has but two children from ten years of marriage. You see?”

  “Oh, Lizzy!” Jane wailed. “That is wicked!”

  “How so?” Elizabeth was, if anything, equally shocked at her sister’s distress. “It is nature’s way. It was Bridget who explained it to me, when I asked how she had managed. In fact, she was quite amazed that Mama had not told us herself, as it seems to be common knowledge among countrywomen. But there it is—our mother had not the sense even of an ignorant Irish peasant.”

  “Not so ignorant, apparently,” Jane said. “And that is hardly the way to talk about a devoted family servant who has been like a mother to your child.”

  Elizabeth let out a long sigh. “You know I meant nothing by it. I have the greatest respect for Bridget’s wisdom, as I thought I had made clear. And she has been a far better mother to Anne than I could ever be.”

  Jane laid a contrite hand on her sister’s arm. “Don’t say that, Lizzy. I’m sure you love her very much. I ought not to reproach you for your manner of speaking. I am familiar enough with it after all these years.”

  “Indeed,” Elizabeth said, accepting the implied apology. But she could not resist further teasing. “And yes, I do love Bridget very much. She is a good, kind woman, although her brogue is so impenetrable at times, I worry that when Anne begins to talk she will be mistaken for a tinker’s brat and banished to the kitchen.”

  “Oh!” Jane rolled her eyes, opened her mouth several times, thought better of each retort, and remained silent. The two sisters walked without speaking until the party had reached the edge of the park.

  “I always enjoy conversing with Charles,” Elizabeth at last embarked on a safer topic, “especially on questions of estate management. He has far more presence when he is with but one companion than in a group.”

  “And I am learning not to be afraid of Mr. Darcy,” Jane said, responding gratefully to the gesture of peacemaking. “And before you correct me again, I
will say that he and I have agreed to go back to calling each other Mr. Darcy and Mrs. Bingley because we are more comfortable that way. It is my choice as well as his.”

  “Just so long as you are not angry with him,” Elizabeth said, “you may call him whatever you like.”

  “Angry? Lizzy, you must not imagine I would hold on to such a sinful emotion all this time. No, Mr. Darcy and I get along very well. He is so well-read and so clever, yet he treats me with the greatest courtesy and respect, and asks my opinions, as if they matter.”

  “I am glad,” Elizabeth said, “because they do matter, very much. In fact, I was thinking that it’s time we allowed our poor husbands into the house.”

  “What foolishness is this?” Jane said. “It is Mr. Darcy’s house.”

  “No,” Elizabeth said. “I meant a room set aside, just for him and Charles. Lord knows we have plenty to spare.”

  Jane smiled and lowered her eyes. She would have to accept the fact, she told herself, as so many times in the past, that life with her sister would always entail indelicate, unsettling, and contentious conversations. But Elizabeth loved her, almost as much as Charles did—and she returned the love in equal amount—and so she must accustom herself by degrees, separating the completely unspeakable, like nursing and its effect on conception, from the merely embarrassing, like this. “I am afraid I understand your meaning, Lizzy,” she said. “But I do not consider it a fit topic for discussion.”

  Elizabeth slowed the pace further, until the men were well out of earshot. “But I do not understand yours, Jane. After what you have just said, surely you do not dislike the friendship between our husbands? Or do you simply not like to talk about it? Because I had quite made up my mind to this proposal, but didn’t want to carry it out without asking you first. Which means you will have to discuss it just a little.”

  “No,” Jane said, “I mean it is for them to decide, not for us. They are the men, and it is Mr. Darcy’s house to use as he wishes.”