by Jessie Lewis
“Mrs. Pence?”
“Aye. Can I help you?”
“Is Miss Greening at home?”
“Who might be asking?”
“Mrs. Bingley.”
There came two gasps—one from Mrs. Pence and the other from beyond the door.
“I am afraid she is—”
“Oh, let her in, Sally,” the person inside said. “I can see Mrs. Fordwich salivating at her curtains across the way.”
Jane was promptly ushered into a small, ill-lit room, and the door was closed behind her. The gloom inside was slow to lift its veil but eventually revealed a woman heavy with child, who looked far less like her sister than she recalled. Her chin was too pointy, her nose too large, and her eyes, unlike Elizabeth’s, had nothing extraordinary in them. The sight affected her nonetheless, though not with jealousy as she had expected, only with crushing remorse for never having seen her sister similarly in bloom.
“You can’t stop me from goin’!” Amelia declared, all defiance.
“Going? Nay, you misunderstand the purpose of my visit.”
“Do I? Why else would you ’ave come?”
“I am come to see that you are being properly provided for.”
This was the culmination of a week’s heart-breaking reflection. Her days of railing against the injustices of the world were done. The candid censure of her nearest and dearest had shown her that. It shamed her, but she had come to comprehend that her transgressions, though of a different nature, were every bit as egregious as Bingley’s. She was resolved to put matters right. It was her dearest hope that, if she could prove she had accepted and forgiven his mistakes, he might be persuaded she was still, at heart, the woman Caroline claimed he once loved.
“Why?” Amelia demanded suspiciously.
“Because my husband took advantage of you, and neither you nor your child deserves to suffer for that.”
Of all the responses she had anticipated, contempt had not been one.
“You really are a gem, ain’t you?” Amelia scoffed. “I s’pose you would think that, sittin’ up in your big ’ouse with your pretty jewels and expensive gowns, waitin’ for life to be ’anded to you on a platter. Well, the rest of us live in the real world, Mrs. Bingley. Life don’t just fall in the laps o’ girls like me. Those of us as live ’and to mouth needs take every chance we’s given. And in case your mother never learnt you in these things, men such as your ’usband are goldmines o’ chance.”
Mortifying though this speech was, Jane did not miss the significance of the revelation. “He did not seduce you then?”
“I don’t know ’bout that. ’Tis devilish tricky to end up like this ’less the man’s inclined to tumble.” She placed a hand upon her swollen stomach. “You could just as easy take the blame, mind, if you’d rather the fault not lie with ’im. It was you what left ’im wanting.”
“Me?”
“No advantage to actin’ surprised. ’Twas me you sent to give ’im the note you wrote excusing yourself from your duty. Truly, what was you thinkin’, expectin’ ’im to go without on ’is wedding day? There are other things you can do, y’ know.”
Jane closed her eyes. Her wedding day!
“Deprive a man of what ’e wants,” Amelia continued, “and you can bet your last penny ’e’ll look for it elsewhere.”
And she had deprived him of what he wanted that day, had she not? Elizabeth! What a different light this shed on the regret expressed in his answering note!
“I s’pose you think you got your revenge when you ’ad me dismissed? But see who’s laughin’ now!”
“I do not take your meaning.”
“Seems you’ve been deprivin’ ’im too long. ‘Your ’usband’s decided ’e prefers me, after all, an’ ’e’s taking me to live with ’im in Nova Scotia. An’ there’s nothin’ you can do about it.”
Her instinct was to disbelieve it, yet she could not account for Amelia knowing of those plans she had only recently discovered herself, and her hands began to shake. “No, you are lying. It cannot be true.”
“No? Look at this if you don’t believe me.”
Jane accepted the letter Amelia withdrew from the top of her corset and read it twice from beginning to end, making certain she had not missed nor misunderstood any part of it.
“So you see, Mrs. Bingley,” Amelia said, snatching it back and secreting it once more next to her bosom, “I’ve no need of your pity. I’m being very well provided for, thank you.”
Jane refused to cry. Instead, she turned and left before her heart broke to pieces all over the parlour floor of her husband’s lover.
Netherfield, Hertfordshire
March 10
To Lady Ashby,
Pray forgive my impertinence in writing. I know in your last letter you said you no longer had the time to correspond, but I beg you would indulge me this once, for I have nobody else to whom I might turn.
I have discovered B means to leave the country and take the woman you know as ‘A’ with him. I have seen his letter to her with my own eyes. He wrote that if she agreed, it would be in his power to restore her reputation and raise her condition in life, that they could invent a story to explain her situation that nobody would question and that he dearly hoped she would agree to go with him to Nova Scotia, where the child might be raised without prejudice. I would not have believed it, but I recognised his hand, and E has written separately to warn me of his plans to leave.
I know not what to do! Quite apart from the ruination of my reputation should he leave, I do not wish him to go! Though my head rages against it, my heart will not have any other way than that I love him still! I long for another chance to convince him that my affections are genuine.
He is at Pemberley, or at least his letter to A was sent from there, but I know not for how long he will remain there. According to that letter, he sets sail later this month. I beg you would advise me as to how I ought to proceed, for the prospect of losing him forever is too painful to comprehend. Pray, what ought I to do?
Yours sincerely,
J
***
Friday, 12 March 1813: Hertfordshire
It was a bright, crisp morning, not quite spring but not winter, either—just cold enough that their conversation billowed white on the air between them.
“Oh, Mary,” Jane said. “Can you forgive me for treating Lizzy so ill?”
The kindly Mrs. Annesley had once counselled Mary that not everybody took solace in moralizing at moments of high emotion, thus she refrained from voicing her thoughts on the evils of jealousy and resentment and instead did what she thought Elizabeth would have done. She hooked her arm around Jane’s and gave her a smile of the warmest sisterly consolation. “Yes, and so will she when you explain it as you have done to me.”
“Would that were so, but I have been so awful, I do not see how she ever could.”
“Then you are underestimating her still. She will be as sorry as I am that you have been this ill-used.” Jane winced, and Mary pressed gently for her to explain why.
“I do not want you to hate Charles,” she whispered. “I may be the biggest fool there ever was, but I believe what he said to me before he went away—that he has tried to love me. And I wish to believe—I do believe—he is only going because I have made him feel there is nothing for him here.”
“If that is your wish, then as long as you love him, I shall love him also.”
“Thank you,” she replied, yet in the next moment, let out a soft but unmistakable sob. “It will not make any difference who loves him if he is not here!”
Mary had no comfort to offer that was not pure conjecture. “What did Lady Ashby say?” she enquired instead.
“That she would write to Lizzy and ask her to prevent Bingley from leaving.”
“Well, that is something, is it not?”
Jane shook her head morosely. “I do not wish him to stay because Lizzy asked it of him. I wish him to stay because I did.”
“Well then,” Mary said, giving her arm a little squeeze. “You had better ask it of him.”
***
“You ain’t serious?”
“I was instructed to arrange transportation,” Peabody said flatly, being careful to reveal no hint of amusement as Amelia flapped about protesting her outrage. “In the absence of further details, I took the liberty of procuring the most expedient means.”
“But I can’t travel on the mail coach in my condition! I ain’t baggage!”
He raised an eyebrow. “That is moot.”
“Why can’t I travel in one of Mr. Bingley’s carriages?”
He did then allow himself a small chuckle. That a catchpenny housemaid should think getting poisoned by the master of the house entitled her to ride in his carriage was absurd. “Neither was available,” he said. “He has one with him, and the other, by this time tomorrow, will be transporting the mistress to Pemberley.”
Amelia whirled to face him. “Why’s she goin’ there?”
“Oddly enough, she did not see fit to confide the particulars.”
“Don’t play the fool, Mr. Peabody; it don’t suit you. I swear, if she’s goin’ there to try an’ stop me—”
“Then she will be disappointed. Mr. Bingley already awaits you in Liverpool.”
“Oh, well and good, then.” Frowning, she added, “You didn’t tell ’er ’e weren’t there, did you?”
“She expressed a purpose of travelling to Pemberley. I am not in the habit of second guessing my employer’s wishes.”
“Careful, Mr. Peabody,” she said, eyeing him slyly. “You’re in danger of makin’ me think you care for me, after all.”
“Heaven forefend, Miss Greening. I do, however, care for my position, and the master was most particular that nothing should prevent you from boarding that boat.”
This ought to have been ample warning, yet she still seemed surprised when he took her by the elbow and directed her firmly towards the coach, propelled her up the steps, and shut the door after her. “Do have a pleasant trip, madam.”
***
Sunday, 14 March 1813: Lancashire
Darkness descended over the city in the hours Bingley sat waiting. His view of the street was gradually usurped by the candle-lit reflection of the inn’s parlour. What had been an empty room when he came down from his rented rooms above stairs was now teeming with the worldly mix of people common only to port towns.
The door opened, and his stomach dropped when a man and a woman walked in, but he was not Banbury, and she was not Amelia. He slumped back into his seat, wondering what the deuce was taking them so long.
Someone put a tankard of ale down in front of him. “On the house, sir. You look as though you need it.”
He looked up into the now-familiar countenance of the innkeeper whose establishment had been his home since he left Pemberley and whose ale had nursed him through some excessively painful meditations over those ten days. “Much obliged,” he said, raising the drink in salute.
For a good many of those days, self-pity had consumed him, his heart heavy with the knowledge that Elizabeth did not love him. It had taken him longer than it ought to fathom why that hurt less than he thought it should. It was because he had never once considered whether or not she might.
He was sure he could not be wrong about Darcy. The Titan’s cold, unabashed disdain towards his wife could not be otherwise explained or excused, but if Elizabeth did not object, who was he to assume she might love him any better? Having accused Darcy of undervaluing her, he was ashamed to acknowledge that he was equally guilty of wilfully misunderstanding Elizabeth’s feelings.
Yet, if he had misunderstood Elizabeth’s, he had completely disregarded Jane’s. Quite when it had happened he knew not, but he seemed to have detached himself completely from her as though she were someone else’s wife and her happiness were not his to ensure, her pain were not his to soothe, and her heart were not his to protect.
Lord knew how prodigiously he had attempted to lay the blame at her door. It had not been his fault, after all, that she had condemned them both to such a miserable union, but reason simply would not allow it. Over and again, she had insisted it had not been her design to entrap him, only to convince him of her feelings. And wherefore had it been necessary for her to do that? Because consciously or otherwise he had transferred his attentions to Elizabeth.
Not content with abandoning her the first time, he had come back, raised her hopes a second time, and then flagrantly mooned after her sister in full view of all her neighbours. She would have been exposed to their utter derision had he succeeded in winning Elizabeth’s hand. And yet, it appeared that was not why she acted as she had. If Elizabeth was to be believed, it was not the world’s disdain Jane feared but his. She had wanted nothing more than for him to love her. Instead, he had married her without the proper affection and, within hours, violated his wedding vows.
All endeavours to convince himself that his fleeting infidelity was of no significance to anyone were come to naught. He could no longer hide from the egregiousness of his transgression. Amelia had come to his study, fluttering Elizabeth’s eyelashes at him and all but begging to compensate for Jane’s indisposition. In succumbing, he had condemned himself to a union of dissatisfaction and misery.
His shame could only have been greater if Jane were to actually discover his indiscretion. This woman—who, when he first met her, had been the epitome of gentle goodness—had lived for a year suspecting she was neither loved nor respected by her husband. She had become an embittered shadow of her former self, and it was all his doing. She and Elizabeth had become estranged by jealousy and mistrust, and it was all his doing. Elizabeth despised him, and it was all his doing.
Now Darcy was going to kill him, and if he did not, Caroline would. There was no denying he would be safer in Nova Scotia. He lifted his tankard to sup his ale, and when he put it back down again, Banbury was there, wittering something about the mail coach being delayed.
“Mr. Bingley, if you ain’t goin’ to stand for me, you’ll ’ave to pardon my sittin’ down,” a woman behind Banbury said. She sidled awkwardly onto the opposite bench, untied her bonnet and slung it on the table.
“Lord, I beg your pardon. I did not recognise you!” Bingley exclaimed, and truly, he had not, for Amelia was not carrying off her increase nearly as well as Elizabeth.
A hot meal and cup of mead seemed to assuage her affront. Once she was suitably revived and Banbury dismissed, their more serious business could no longer be delayed.
“I am pleased you have accepted my offer,” he began. “It is a vast undertaking, but I believe it will be for the best.”
“It were a fine offer, sir.”
Bingley removed from his pocket the papers he had had drawn up and spread them on the table. “Your ticket is paid for, and I have hired you a companion and a man to chaperone you on the voyage. My cousin will meet you there. You are to give him this letter. It asks him to arrange your money and see to your housing. He will also—”
“I don’t understand. Ain’t you comin’ with me?”
He looked up. Amelia had gone very red. “Well, er…no. You must see that would be impossible.”
“I don’t see nothin’ o’ the sort. You said you wanted me to start a new life with you in Nova Scotia!”
“I am afraid you are mistaken, madam.”
“I ain’t mistaken! Mrs. Pence read it for me, and she said that’s what you wrote! Look here!” She scrabbled in her reticule and withdrew his letter, which she unfolded onto the table and jabbed repeatedly with her finger.
Bingley duly read what he had writt
en, and indeed it said, “I have booked passage for later this month and dearly hope you will agree to go with me to Nova Scotia, board the boat, and allow me to provide you a new life.”
“Oh. Right. Ah, well this is dashed awkward. Forgive me, Miss Greening. That was meant to say Liverpool.”
“But it says Nova Scotia!”
“Yes, I can see that. What can I say? I write in the most careless way imaginable. I am awfully sorry.” She looked awfully angry. “But consider all I am offering you—the promise of a better life, an income, a home of your own, schooling for your child. And your reputation! Here, you will never be more than a fallen housemaid. There, you could begin again and be a respectable woman with whatever history you choose.”
She stared at him sullenly. “You’re quite one for forsakin’ people, ain’t you?”
He chafed at that. “With all due respect, madam, you cannot claim any peculiar attachment to me. We are hardly good friends.”
Without dropping his gaze, she parted her travelling cloak, revealing far more clearly her distended stomach, over which she rubbed a hand. “I weren’t talkin’ about me.”
He looked back at her, wondering what more she wanted from him. “Have I not said I shall fully support the child?”
Her mouth set in a hard line, and she wrapped her cloak back around herself, crossing her arms over the join. When she had remained silent for above two minutes, he enquired whether she would still agree to go, not quite managing to keep the impatience from his voice.
“Will you still pay me?” she shot back.
“Of course. All the arrangements still stand, only I shall not be part of them.”
She turned aside and shrugged, which with her arms crossed over her stomach as they were, made her shoulders almost touch her ears. “S’pose so.”
