“Do not be too hard on yourself, sir,” said Elizabeth, who was thinking to herself that it was not fair at all that Jane should be so pretty and so very, very good, because it meant that all the men in the entire world seemed to fall in love with her. Why must Jane have both Bingley and Wickham? Might not she leave some men for the rest of them?
But when she entered Jane’s room and saw how ill she was, she repented immediately of the thought, because her sister was suffering.
Elizabeth went to her immediately, throwing herself down on the side of Jane’s bed and seizing both of her sister’s hands. “Oh, my dear sister, if only our mother could have spared the carriage for you. I am so terribly sorry.”
“Lizzy!” Jane was smiling. “I am glad you’re here.” She gave Elizabeth’s hands a faint squeeze.
“Is there anything you need, Miss Bennet?” said Bingley. “Anything at all?”
“You are far too kind, Mr. Bingley,” said Jane. “But I do wish everyone would not make a fuss over me.”
Elizabeth felt chagrined. Poor, poor Jane. And to think, Jane was naturally good. It never even occurred to her to be jealous or petty.
Why was it so hard for Elizabeth? Why was she such a wretch?
* * *
“Miss Bingley, compared to you, the autumn sky is but a pale bit of nothing,” said Wickham across the dinner table. “You are too lovely for this world.”
Miss Bingley tittered. “Oh, Mr. Wickham, I will not hear more of your ridiculous prattle.”
“I cannot help but say what I see,” said Wickham to Bingley. “Your sister is magnificent.”
Bingley chuckled. “Ah, yes, Wickham. I have heard it all before.”
“We have all heard it before,” said Miss Bingley. She turned to Elizabeth. “Why, I imagine he has said something similar to Miss Eliza, has he not? Did he compare you to the sun? Or perhaps to the sparrows?”
“Or,” spoke up Mrs. Hurst, “perhaps to the stars in the night sky?”
“I can’t help it,” said Wickham, cutting the meat on his plate. “I am constantly surrounded by beautiful women. What am I to say except to praise their beauty?”
“He is wretched,” said Miss Bingley to Elizabeth, shaking her head.
Elizabeth looked down at her plate, and she felt cold all over.
She was an idiot.
She found she could not look at Mr. Wickham. The pain of it all was too great and too humiliating. The way she had behaved with him! He had fed her his prattling praise, and she had feasted upon it, assuming he was genuine.
“Oh, come now, Miss Bennet,” said Miss Bingley. “You can’t tell me that you’ve taken anything Mr. Wickham said seriously, have you?”
“Of course not,” said Elizabeth, squaring her shoulders. She still could not look at him. She was humiliated beyond all belief. She wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole.
“Very good,” said Miss Bingley. “You see, Mr. Wickham, I keep telling you that if you say these things, you will give women ideas.”
“What sort of ideas?” said Mr. Wickham, laughing.
“You know very well the ideas,” said Mrs. Hurst. “It’s one thing for you to speak so to an old married woman like myself, but when you turn the heads of unmarried ladies, it’s another thing entirely.”
Wickham was still laughing. “I have told you all, I do not lie. When I see a beautiful woman, I am compelled by a higher calling to honesty to tell her so. I can do little else. It is out of my hands.”
“Well, anyway,” said Miss Bingley, whose eyes had some kind of hard triumph in them, as if she could see Elizabeth’s discomfort and was enjoying it, “now you know never to pay any mind to anything Mr. Wickham says.”
“Now, that is hardly fair,” said Wickham. “Bingley, old chap, please make your sister apologize.”
“Are you wounded?” said Bingley, sounding amused.
“Desperately,” said Mr. Wickham. “I am quite beside myself. I shan’t even be able to finish my dinner.” He popped a forkful of potatoes into his mouth.
“Yes, well, I can see how you’ve lost your appetite,” said Bingley.
“Mmm,” agreed Wickham, whose mouth was still full.
“I say, did you hear about Mr. Fortescue?” said Mr. Hurst.
“Mr. Fortescue? Do we know a Mr. Fortescue?” said his wife.
“We met his wife,” said Miss Bingley. “You remember. Wickham surely remembers.”
Wickham raised his eyebrows. “What? Who?”
“You were quite especially attentive to her,” said Miss Bingley.
“I thought we had just established that I was never especially attentive to anyone,” said Wickham. “That I was overly effusive to all pretty women that crossed my path. This is what you keep accusing me of, is it not?”
“Oh, fine,” said Miss Bingley. “But I was not the only one whose tongue was wagging about the two of you. After all, she was practically a widow even then. Mr. Fortescue has been languishing on his deathbed for over a year now, has he not?”
“Oh, I do remember!” said Mrs. Hurst. “She was ever so much younger than him and had set about traveling all over, on her own, doing strange charity work such as teaching men of the militia how to better dance.”
“Yes, that is her,” said Miss Bingley.
“I don’t remember her at all,” said Wickham, shrugging. “But I’m sorry for her husband. Sad that he’s passed on.”
“Oh, I doubt she’s sorry,” said Mrs. Hurst. “Now, she’s a widow. She’s free to do as she pleases.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Mr. Bingley. “She was his second wife. He has grown children. I don’t imagine she’ll be getting a vast sum of money. I rather imagine she’ll be taken a bit down in the world.”
“She won’t inherit?” said Wickham.
“Not much, I don’t think,” said Mr. Bingley. “There are stipulations that the lot of old Fortescue’s estate goes directly to his son from his first marriage. Young Fortescue could take care of his stepmother, but I’m told he and his sisters have never liked her. She is younger than they are, after all.”
“Yes, they all thought she trapped their doddering father into marrying her,” said Miss Bingley. “But I thought she had somehow convinced him to leave her quite a sum of money.”
“I think the son interfered,” said Bingley. “He wasn’t about to let that happen.”
“Well, whatever the case, it’s terrible that anyone dies at all,” said Miss Bingley. She turned to Elizabeth. “I’m so sorry. We must be boring you to tears, talking about people you don’t know.” But she didn’t sound the least bit sorry. In fact, Elizabeth was beginning to think that Miss Bingley’s seeming politeness was only a mask. She seemed to rather enjoy causing Elizabeth discomfort.
What could that be about?
* * *
But the reasoning behind Miss Bingley’s dislike became rather clear when Elizabeth watched her later, as they all sat together in the drawing room.
“I must see to Miss Bennet,” said Mr. Bingley. “She has been left alone for hours now.”
“Yes, of course,” said Elizabeth, getting to her feet. She had meant to go and see Jane after dinner, but all the revelations about Wickham not meaning what he said had rather crushed her spirit. She knew that she shouldn’t be so badly hurt by it all. It was nothing. Wickham had made her no promises. It was her idiocy that had created any intimacy between them at all.
But she had believed things. Ridiculous, romantic things. Fanciful things. She had thought herself an intelligent woman, but she had not been able to see that Wickham was not genuine, and it was a blow.
She had been in the process of falling in love with Wickham. Dear Lord, she had thought herself destined to marry him. Whatever had possessed her to have such a thought? She couldn’t abide her own stupidity.
She had always thought of herself as shrewd, but she was not.
Maybe it was true, what people said to her sometimes, that she r
ead too many novels. She had frivolous, romantic ideas about men and women, but they weren’t borne out of experience. No, in fact, most men she met in life she found wanting in some way. They were not like men in books at all. Mr. Wickham, he had stirred things within her, and she was never going to be the same.
“We shall go together to see Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth,” said Mr. Bingley. “Come. Let us see how she is doing.”
“Charles, heavens,” said Miss Bingley. “You were only recently in to bother Miss Bennet. Surely, you’re tiring her.”
“Do you think so?” Mr. Bingley looked genuinely worried about this possibility.
“Yes,” insisted Miss Bingley. “Louisa, do you not think he should leave Miss Bennet in peace?”
“Most decidedly,” said Mrs. Hurst.
And so, Elizabeth understood. Mr. Bingley’s sisters did not wish Mr. Bingley to fall for Jane. Elizabeth was not certain what that meant exactly. She pondered the thought of Jane and Mr. Bingley together, and she felt none of the jealousy or awful feelings she had about Jane’s and Mr. Wickham’s possible union.
She felt, instead, the sort of feelings she ought to feel for her dear sister, a sincere happiness for her good fortune.
But that was to be expected, Elizabeth supposed. She had no desire for Mr. Bingley.
Why had she fallen so hard for Mr. Wickham? Simply because he had flattered her? Elizabeth didn’t like to think of herself as the sort of girl whose head was turned by pretty speeches. But she supposed it was not simply that, after all. She had found speaking with Wickham somewhat invigorating. His language was sparkling and quick, and he kept her on her toes.
She had thought they were perhaps a match because of that, because they were good conversationalists. She had supposed this was why Wickham had signaled her out.
But it was no use thinking of Wickham anymore. She must put him from her mind entirely. He had no particular interest in her.
What was more, that most likely meant he had no particular interest in Jane either.
Which meant that she must save Jane from thinking that Wickham cared for her, and what better way to cushion the blow than by presenting Mr. Bingley as a viable alternative.
“I do not think my sister would be bothered in the least by your presence, Mr. Bingley,” she said.
“No?” Bingley brightened.
“Not at all,” said Elizabeth. “Accompany me, by all means.”
Together, they went to see Jane.
When Bingley offered to read to her sister, Elizabeth encouraged him to do so. She stayed in the room, sitting next to her sister, listening to Bingley read from Wordsworth for nearly an hour.
But Jane eventually nodded off and was asleep, so both Bingley and Elizabeth left the room.
Elizabeth begged off going back to the drawing room, because she did not think she could bear to be in Mr. Wickham’s presence.
But on her way back to her room, which was on an opposite wing to Jane, since the ladies of Netherfield were quite concerned about catching Jane’s sickness and had placed her on the opposite side of the house, Elizabeth heard Mr. Wickham’s voice.
Drat.
What was he doing out here instead of back with the others? She did not wish to confront him, so she ducked inside the first door she came to. It was cowardly, she knew, but she hadn’t the energy for him at the moment.
Mr. Wickham swept down the hall, a lady trailing behind him.
“Truly, Mrs. Fortescue, you should not have come,” said Mr. Wickham.
Mrs. Fortescue? The newly-made widow they had discussed at dinner! Elizabeth watched through a crack between the door and the door frame.
Mrs. Fortescue seized his sleeve, stopping him. “I must speak with you.”
Wickham tugged his arm away from her. “I don’t even understand how you knew where I was.”
“Everyone knows you are a guest at Netherfield,” said Mrs. Fortescue. “I had it from Colonel Forster.”
“Yes, because you are well known for spending far too much time with the officers,” said Wickham. “And now you bring your reputation into this house. It won’t sit well with Miss Bingley, let me tell you.”
“My reputation? You can’t be serious.”
He raised his eyebrows at her. “You should have heard the things they were saying about you at dinner.”
“They were speaking of me? Then I suppose you already know that my husband is dead.”
“Yes, so I heard.”
“Well, then there is no longer any impediment between us, sir.”
“What are you speaking of?” he said.
“You know full well what I am speaking of,” said Mrs. Fortescue. “It is what you lamented that we could not do over and over. I can still hear you. ‘Oh, if I could but marry you, I would do it in a heartbeat.’”
“I never said that.”
“You did!”
“You were a married woman. Why would I say something so horridly scandalous?”
“To get what you wanted out of me, obviously.” She folded her arms over her chest, and when she did, her dress pulled in such a way that Elizabeth could see how round Mrs. Fortescue’s belly was.
Elizabeth took a step back, hand to her mouth to muffle the gasp that was ripping free there. This was villainy writ large. Had Mr. Wickham gotten Mrs. Fortescue with child?
Why, then, now that she was a widow, he must marry her at once. There was no time to lose. Mrs. Fortescue could perhaps hide her condition with her manner of dress for now, but she would not be able to do so forever. And if her husband had truly been bedridden and doddering as everyone had said, no one would believe the child was his.
Of course, it simply wasn’t done for widows to marry hurriedly, but it was certainly better for her to marry than not, given the circumstances.
“What I wanted?” said Wickham, shaking his head. “You seduced me. You, woman of the world, eager to cuckold your aging husband, half desperate with your feminine needs.”
Mrs. Fortescue gaped at him. “Why are you being thus? You must marry me. I was terrified of what would happen, but he is dead now, and all can be saved.”
“Saved? I hardly think so. I understand you will have next to nothing from your late husband. What do you expect us to live on?”
She sputtered. “You are always on about your estate, and your—”
“Yes, well, the thing about winning things in card games is that is also just as easy to lose them, you see? No, what I need to be truly secure is to marry a very rich woman. And you, my darling, are not rich.”
“But…” She put her hand to her stomach. “Surely, even if you do not care about me, you care about your own child.”
“Are you with child then?” He looked scornfully at her belly. “I don’t see what business that is of mine. That child could belong to any man. I have only your word—and you a worldly, worldly woman—that I am responsible. No, I don’t think I’ll be suckered into raising some other man’s by-blow. Now, Mrs. Fortescue, I think you need to leave. And I’ll thank you not to speak to me again.”
“Please,” said Mrs. Fortescue. “Why are you being this way? I have never seen you this way before.” Her voice wavered.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t cry,” muttered Wickham. “There’s nothing I can bear less than blubbering women. If you’re not going to leave, then I shall take my leave of you. Show yourself out, then.” He turned on his heel and stalked down the hall.
Mrs. Fortescue reached after him, but only half-heartedly.
He rounded the corner.
Mrs. Fortescue began to sob in earnest.
CHAPTER THREE
Mrs. Fortescue did not leave. Instead, she leaned against the wall and sobbed as if her heart had been shattered, and she didn’t seem likely to leave any time soon.
What shall I do? thought Elizabeth. Shall I simply be trapped here until she decides to go? Should I speak to her?
She was rather enraptured by the scandalous nature of what sh
e had just witnessed, though she was horrified. Naturally, horrified. Of course, she must be horrified at such a thing.
But it was like something from a novel or a play. It was deliciously—
No, horrible. Quite horrible.
And Mrs. Fortescue was a woman of loose morals who was reaping the wages of her own sin.
However, Elizabeth felt rather sorry for her. She had often contemplated how dreadful it would be to be forced into a marriage with a very old man. Why, the thought of kissing wrinkled lips filled Elizabeth with a revulsion she could not sequester. Surely, there was nothing wrong with old men in general, but being married to one was a different thing entirely.
Mrs. Fortescue was not much older than Elizabeth herself. She would have still longed for romance, and Mr. Wickham…
Well, Elizabeth rather thought she could understand how a girl might be taken in my Mr. Wickham’s silver tongue.
And just like that, she was angry. She clenched her hands into fists and pushed aside the door and strode into the hallway and declared, “He is the very devil himself!”
Mrs. Fortescue choked. She looked up at Elizabeth with wide eyes.
“Oh, my apologies,” said Elizabeth, cringing. “You see, I didn’t mean to overhear. I was on my way back to my room, and I wanted to avoid Mr. Wickham, so I—”
“Who are you?” said Mrs. Fortescue. “What did you hear?”
“Don’t worry, I won’t say anything,” said Elizabeth, who hadn’t known that she was going to keep Mrs. Fortescue’s secret until the words came out of her mouth. “To anyone at all. I swear. Not even my sister Jane, and I tell her everything.” She inclined her head. “Oh, dear, this is all dreadfully irregular. I don’t suppose there’s anyone who can introduce us.” She let out a helpless laugh. “I suppose if we do meet in society, we shall steadfastly ignore each other until we are properly introduced and pretend this never happened. My name is Elizabeth Bennet. I live at Longbourn.”
“Oh, yes. I’ve heard of the Bennet sisters,” said Mrs. Fortescue. “The men in the regiment are always talking about someone named Miss Lydia.”
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