Mistaken

by Jessie Lewis

  Take the third for a wife to atone for your sins,

  She’ll preach you to death but yield not her quim.

  He had lapsed into a drunken stupor. It was the only explanation.

  Marry the first and be every man’s envy,

  ’Til ennui strikes and witless rends ye.

  Every man in the tavern seemed to join the refrain as the volume swelled loud.

  But hail the man who weds the second,

  For she is the jewel, alluring and fecund,

  She’ll fill your days with laughter and wit,

  And by night, beguile ye with that arse and those tits!

  Someone raised his tankard in a toast, and the final note promptly dissolved into a roar of hearty laughter that filled the parlour.

  Bingley was speechless. He ought to call every one of them out! He ought to rid Lucas of his smirk. At the very least, he ought to denounce the bloody song. Yet, he did so like it when others made decisions for him, and so in the end, all he did was sit still and allow a stupid grin to spread across his face.

  ***

  Saturday, 6 June 1812: Hertfordshire

  Peabody showed Mrs. Bennet and her eldest daughter into the saloon, informed them they would be attended directly, and went to fetch the master.

  He knew precisely where he would find him. Some hours earlier, as dawn broke across the sky, Mr. Bingley had staggered through Netherfield’s front doors and fallen into his study. Peabody had followed to ensure his well-being, only to have a piece of paper shoved under his nose. Pointing at it, Mr. Bingley had exclaimed, “Is not she the most beautiful creature you ever beheld? Is not she an angel?” After a moment’s consideration, Peabody had agreed that the crayon scribble of a purple and orange potato was indeed remarkable. Seemingly satisfied, the master had announced his intention to marry the gaudy vegetable. Peabody had left him settling down to write to his friend with the joyous news.

  When Mrs. Hurst had enquired at breakfast as to her brother’s whereabouts, Peabody had led her to the study where, as per his expectations, they found Mr. Bingley sprawled insensible across his desk, his slumped form not adequately arranged to conceal the letter beneath him from his sister’s view. The Bennet ladies’ call had curtailed Peabody’s enjoyment of the supervening cataclysm, thus it was with no little relish that he now tripped back to the study to announce their arrival.

  “I will not allow you to do this! You will ruin us all!” Mrs. Hurst screeched as he sidled into the room.

  Mr. Bingley winced and rubbed his eyes. “Do not be absurd. I will ruin nothing.”

  “I have not endured the indignity of being married to a bloated dandy for these past two years, only to have you announce that you will marry where you will! Do my sacrifices mean so little to you? You selfish, selfish man!”

  “What is wrong with Hurst? I like him!”

  “Must you be so tiresome, Charles? This is not about my husband. I rather think that situation is beyond salvation.” She looked pointedly at her rounded belly. “But I will not see it all made meaningless because you are in a rage to secure your own fancy!”

  Mr. Bingley backed away from her, tripped on an undetectable hazard of the variety to which only drunk people are susceptible, and fell against his desk, where he then remained, leant at a precarious angle. “I have heard it all before, Louisa, but you shall not dissuade me again. I shall marry Miss Elizabeth, you will be her sister, and that is all there is to it.”

  In Peabody’s humble opinion, Miss Elizabeth Bennet was considerably prettier than the garish tuber he had been shown a few hours earlier, but Mrs. Hurst seemed less convinced of her merits.

  “Why her? She is the most impertinent, undignified, unfashionable woman I have ever met! At least her sister is beautiful! If you must marry one of them, marry her. Her looks might halfway excuse your absurd choice to the rest of the world.”

  “I cannot marry Miss Bennet.”

  “You certainly cannot marry her sister. I would sooner you marry her mother!”

  Peabody cleared his throat. “Miss Bennet and her mother wait upon you in the saloon.”

  Both siblings started. Mr. Bingley looked terrified, his sister, furious.

  “Go to her, then!” Mrs. Hurst fumed. “Choose the sister least likely to disgrace us with her savage country manners!”

  “I shall not! Attend them yourself. I am for bed.” Shakily but determinedly, Mr. Bingley snatched the letter from his desk, folded it roughly and shoved it at Peabody’s chest with the instruction to see that it was posted. Then he stormed unsteadily from the room.

  “If you do not choose Miss Bennet, mark my words, you shall have neither of them!” Mrs. Hurst called after him, growling in exasperation when he did not answer. “Inform my guests I shall join them presently,” she ordered; then she too swept from the room.

  Left alone, Peabody took a moment to peek at the contents of the letter, smirked a little, then refolded and sealed it. He exited the room in time to see Mrs. Bennet scurrying away down the corridor like a startled vole along a riverbank. Diverted further still, he pocketed Mr. Bingley’s letter to add to the others set aside for posting, sure Mr. Darcy would find it fascinating reading.

  ***

  Sunday, 7 June 1812: Hertfordshire

  “Slow your pace, Jane. I would speak with you.”

  Jane turned, surprised to see her mother hurrying to catch up with her, for she had left her still speaking to Mrs. Philips at the church. She duly fell into step alongside her, observing that her lips were pressed tightly together in a telltale sign of vexation. “Have I displeased you, Mama?”

  “Yes!” Mrs. Bennet replied in an angry whisper. “You and all your sisters! I know not what any of you is about. Colonel Forster’s regiment are removing to Brighton on Monday, and not one of them has shown an interest in marrying any of you. Lizzy has allowed Mr. Greyson to go off on business without making her an offer. And you!” She threw Jane an angry look and shook her head. “If you do not secure Mr. Bingley soon, he will have none of us, and we shall all be ruined!”

  Tears sprang to Jane’s eyes. “Mama, I should like nothing more than for Mr. Bingley to offer for me, but I cannot make him love me.”

  “Of course you can! That is what I wished to speak to you about.” She looked over her shoulder and all about before continuing. “Men are essentially very easy to work on once you know how. They can be persuaded to almost anything by—that is, all it takes is—well, the heart of the matter is, the prospect of becoming intimately acquainted ought to induce Mr. Bingley to hasten proceedings. And you and he are so close to an engagement, I cannot see that it would do any harm at all to give him a little encouragement of that sort.”

  “I have tried conversing with him more, and I thought he seemed pleased by it.”

  Her mother gave her a strange look. “You must know I was not referring to small talk.”

  Jane shook her head.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, child, do you not read novels? And you, the eldest of all my girls! I am speaking of the intimacies between a husband and wife.”

  Jane’s eyes widened. Heat suffused her cheeks. “Why?”

  “Have you not listened to a word I have said? It is simple enough. Men find great pleasure in it, and the promise of it ought to encourage Mr. Bingley to cease dallying. Lower your lace, tighten your stays, and show him what he may look forward to!”

  Jane stared at her, aghast.

  “Do not look at me that way, Miss Jane. You would not be the first girl ever to use her womanly assets to convince a man he loved her. Only consider how low Miss Bingley’s necklines were cut—a good three inches lower than her married sister’s—though I must say it did her no favours. You have a good deal more of which to boast in that area if only you would make the most of it.”

  “I have
no wish to draw Mr. Bingley in with arts and allurements.”

  “Indeed, you would not be drawing him in, for he is already in love with you! If he were a stranger, I should never suggest it, but you are already so close to being married, I am convinced it will do no harm.”

  “But I am not! What would he think of me?”

  “Precisely what you require him to think! Really, Jane, if you will not be helped, do not run to me when it all comes to nothing.”

  “Forgive me, ma’am, I know you mean well, but this is hardly helpful! I have neither the confidence nor the inclination to behave in such a manner. You will not convince me that this is the only way to let Mr. Bingley know his addresses would be welcomed.”

  “No, indeed! I suppose if all else fails, a well-aimed swoon ought to do it.”

  “Mother!”

  “Oh, proceed as you will, child—only make certain you do so with haste before it is too late and you end up an old maid!” That comment saw them to the front door, and her mother disappeared inside, leaving Jane alone but for a miserable sense of urgency.

  6

  Mixed Blessings

  Monday, 8 June 1812: Hertfordshire

  The sight of his wife eavesdropping at the door to the little parlour presented a temptation too great to overlook. Rather than lead the recently arrived Sir William into the library, Mr. Bennet directed him thither.

  Upon noticing his approach, Mrs. Bennet began frantically flapping her hands at him and alternately shaking her head and twitching it towards the parlour door. Fortunately, after many years of marriage, Mr. Bennet had become accustomed to his wife’s delicate subtlety: she did not wish him to go into the parlour. Thus assured of sport of some variety, he was less inclined than ever to leave. “Shall we take our coffee with a view of the pond for a change?” he proposed to his guest.

  “Why not!” Sir William replied amiably, following him along the passageway and bidding Mrs. Bennet good morning.

  She graced him with a perfunctory curtsy. “What do you mean by bringing poor Sir William to this cold, unpleasant little room, Mr. Bennet? He would be much more comfortable in the front parlour.”

  “Nonsense, my dear, this is the best room in the house,” he replied, reaching for the handle.

  “No!” she hissed, thrusting herself across the door. “Mr. Bingley is within! He requested a private audience with our daughter!”

  Mr. Bennet leant back on his heels and smiled. “Indeed? And pray, which one have you sent him?” His curiosity was partially satisfied by the appearance of one of the five contenders through the front door. “Not Lizzy, then.”

  “What is not me, Papa?” Elizabeth enquired, removing her bonnet and coming down the hall to join them.

  “Shall we see?” He gestured to his wife to step aside. “Apparently, Lizzy, Mr. Bingley has made one of your sisters an offer your mother cannot refuse!”

  ***

  It occurred to Bingley too late that he had not specified to Mrs. Bennet which of her daughters he wished to see—and it was not this one. Miss Jane Bennet entered the room in high colour, unable to meet his eye. They exchanged an awkward greeting and spoke briefly of the weather but then lapsed into silence as she no doubt awaited his addresses, and he tried in vain to think of a polite way not to make them.

  “Please do be seated,” she said at length.

  He declined, not wishing to give the impression of wanting to be there.

  “Should you like some refreshments?”

  He repeated his refusal but then felt compelled by her disappointed expression to say something more obliging. “This is a delightful room. I do not believe I have seen it before.”

  “Thank you. My mother likes to keep it for special occasions.” She stopped, looking as embarrassed as he felt by the allusion to everyone’s expectations.

  Her blush, he could not help but notice, spread down her neck and beyond, drawing his attention with it. He was quite sure he had never seen her wear that gown before, and it looked remarkably well on her. “I see,” he said distractedly. “I wonder that she was good enough to let us use it then.”

  She let out a little gasp. Bingley made a silent imprecation. He had not meant to so bluntly announce what his intentions were not. He had not the time to apologise, for in the next moment, Miss Bennet unexpectedly swooned towards him. He threw his arms out to catch her but was unbalanced and fell heavily on the nearest sofa with her somehow sprawled, supine, across his lap.

  He was instantly returned to a fortnight earlier when it had been Elizabeth he held lifeless in his arms. There his mind lingered, for with her head reclined thus, both of Miss Bennet’s eyebrows were arched, her cheekbones were accentuated and her lips slightly parted—and she looked more like her sister than ever.

  Had she not looked so much the picture of the woman he wished he were embracing, he would likely never have remained bent over her as long as he did. Then, she would never have observed him looking at her in such a manner when her eyes fluttered open, might never have mistaken his ardour as meant for her, and might never have been emboldened to lift her head and kiss him. Had he not been consumed with unfulfilled yearning for Elizabeth, he might have pulled away sooner.

  He registered the click and creak of the door too late and was still engaged thusly when Mrs. Bennet’s shriek fractured the quiet of the room, followed immediately by Mr. Bennet’s voice.

  “And there my money was on Mary.”

  Bingley almost tipped Miss Bennet to the floor in his haste to detach himself.

  “Young love, eh?”

  His stomach sank, for he knew that voice. Sir William, of all people, had observed his transgression!

  “I always knew how it would be!” Mrs. Bennet all but sang.

  Bingley turned to face his audience and froze—Elizabeth! Her expression was one of pure surprise, sending remorse knifing through his gut. His mind turned over, searching desperately for a way to explain, to apologise, to salvage what had meant to be their union.

  “Capital! Capital!” Sir William went on. “What congratulations will now flow in!”

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Bennet coldly. “I may be forced to overlook the prematurity of your celebrations, Mr. Bingley, once those of my neighbours begin.” He glanced meaningfully at Sir William.

  Bingley broke into a sweat. Mr. Bennet was correct. Between Sir William and Mrs. Bennet, news of his amorous clinch and presumed betrothal would be all over Meryton before supper. How could the alliance possibly be avoided? He looked at Elizabeth in desperation.

  “I am very happy for you both,” said she.

  Bingley almost whimpered. She was utterly lost to him. He briefly considered running from the house and not coming back, but the notion only made his despair greater, for he could not countenance the prospect of never seeing her again. Then she smiled, and the matter was settled. He could not leave her, but if he stayed, he must marry her sister.

  He turned to Miss Bennet. She returned his look with a tentative smile, seeming better pleased with the turn of events than he, which was rather too little relief too late, for he had come to doubt whether she welcomed his attentions at all. Louisa was correct, however. She was decorous and sweet and uncommonly pretty. A union with her could hardly be considered a punishment.

  He looked back at Mr. Bennet. “My apologies, sir. I meant to come to you directly of course.”

  Mr. Bennet grunted. “I shall await you in my library, then. Jane, I shall speak to you afterwards,” he said as he quitted the room.

  Miss Bennet rose hastily from the sofa and came to stand before Bingley. “I beg you, take no offense,” she whispered. “I am sure he will be happy for us once the surprise passes.”

  “He has every right to be angry. It was ill done.”

  “I daresay there are worse ways of declarin
g oneself,” she whispered shyly.

  Bingley refrained from actually kicking himself. Surely to God, there was no worse way to declare oneself than to do it to the wrong woman! “You are quite sure this is what you wish?” he enquired as quietly as humanly possible. Her expression of heartfelt delight as she nodded her acceptance rendered her even more handsome than usual, vaguely disposing him to be more hopeful. “And are you well? You swooned very suddenly. Ought we not to call for the apothecary?”

  “Oh, no! Pray do not! I should be mortified. I was only a little too warm.”

  “As you wish. I—I ought to go to your father now.”

  She smiled and stepped away from him, and she was immediately engulfed in her mother and Sir William’s rapturous celebrations. Elizabeth came to Bingley, shaking his hands with cordiality he did not deserve. He opened his mouth to beg her forgiveness, but she spoke first.

  “You have been very good to me these past few weeks. I could not have wished for a better brother or a better husband for Jane.”

  God in heaven, how was he ever to be brother to her? He gripped her warm hands tighter still to prevent himself dipping his head to kiss her, but she was gone to her sister before he could do more than thank her. Thus, with very startling rapidity, the affair that had given him so much suspense and vexation was finally settled, and in the most perverse manner possible. With one last rueful glance, he left the room and Elizabeth behind.

  ***

  Wednesday, 10 June 1812: Hertfordshire

  Elizabeth crouched to lay her flowers on the grave as she did on this day every year. Mrs. Lincoln had been the wife of one of Longbourn’s tenants, and she was survived by her husband and two children. Four years after her passing, Elizabeth still vividly recalled teaching her little boy to read, his grief as he struggled to follow her instructions weighing particularly heavy on her this year, for what right had she, compared to such loss, to mourn that which she had willingly thrown away?