by Nia Farrell
I can only hope and pray it is the latter. Georgiana has suffered enough. She deserves every happiness. And if Hugh is the man for the job…well, then, I am compelled to champion their cause. I have no choice when my sister’s happiness and well-being depend upon it.
Three days later, Hugh and I are at Rosings. The two Fitzwilliams, as we have been since our youths, our visits arranged to coincide so that we could entertain each other more and bother Aunt Catherine less. She is in a mood today. Her daughter Anne, our cousin, is unwell, but then she seems perpetually (or habitually) so. Part of it is genuine. One has only to look at her to see that she does not exude good health. She is not a dancer like Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She is more fragile. Less social. Anne de Burgh is the kind of young woman who forever sits to one side, content to listen to music and watch as life passes her by.
My aunt would have us marry, but I do not see it. Have never seen it. Anne may be submissive in nature, but she craves a woman’s touch. A mother’s touch. If ever someone were meant for age play with a female dominant, it is our cousin Anne. All the signs are there, yet Aunt Catherine refuses to recognize them.
We do not speak of the purpose of our visit until after supper. Once Anne has been sent to bed, more wine is opened, glasses poured, and a reckoning eventually demanded. Aunt Catherine is displeased. Greatly displeased. But she has a soft spot for young girls in need of guidance (having one of her own), and she knows that Hugh has the nature and strength of character that someone like Georgiana requires. However, our aunt has no intention of giving him permission to court my sister; she intends to make him work for it. Thus I am ordered to return to London, alone.
Georgiana frets to think of Hugh at Rosings, at the mercy of our aunt who will likely show little. I wouldn’t put it past her to order Hugh to be figged as punishment for putting his cock where it should not have gone.
Mrs. Annesley returned before we left. I am glad, since she is familiar to Georgiana as well as responsible, and we did not have to search for a temporary companion who will understand my sister’s needs, her occasional dark ennui and her night terrors among them. I am doubly glad when a missive comes from Netherfield, begging my swift return. Caroline has run out of excuses for writing Miss Jane Bennet to arrange her next visit and wants me there to keep Charles’s puppy nature tightly leashed.
I intend to do just that.
Pledging to write often, I bid my sister adieu and return to Hertfordshire. Charles is absent when I arrive at Netherfield Hall. He went to Longbourn, thence to church with the Bennet family, and has yet to return. When the hours pass and he still does not come, evidently making a day of it, I devise a plan and set it in motion. Tomorrow morning, after Patrice leaves to retrieve a friend who wishes to experience the wonders of Hertfordshire, Caroline will write and invite Miss Bennet to a visit for a day’s tête-à-tête. By the time she arrives, every man jack here will be headed to Meryton to dine with the officers in town.
Sorry as it is, it is the best that I can think of on such short notice, when I am so preoccupied, struggling with thoughts of Hugh and Georgiana as a couple and what it means to her future and mine.
No more threesomes. That, I can guarantee. I shall have to find another play partner, should I wish to engage in my favoured form of ménage à trois, two men with a woman shared between us. It is either that, or find two women who will happily share me.
Hmm.
Some men might fantasize about having two women in bed. Having experienced it, I freely admit that I find sharing a woman, having her submit to two men, to be more appealing to my dominant nature. There is something about the sight of our cocks owning every orifice and, on rare occasions, sharing one jointly. Not many women, even those of vast experience, are willing to try that particular trick, but those who agree to it usually have an orgasm the heights of which they may never before have reached.
Come Monday morning, Charles is crushed to learn that we cannot spend the day with Miss Bennet. Indeed, we are gone when she arrives, on horseback, soaked to the skin and chilled to the bone, according to Victoria, whose bedroom is next to the one where Miss Bennet has been installed, for however long she feels poorly.
Well, piss. If Charles had been allowed to fetch her, we would not be in this predicament. Now we are stuck with Miss Bennet for God knows how long. Pray that she has as sturdy a constitution as her next younger sister seems to have and that she recovers swiftly.
Miss Jane manages to write a note that is dispatched to Longbourn, advising them of her situation and assuring them that she is receiving the best of care. Charles will have none of it but to summon the apothecary to attend her, in hopes that he has some compound that will alleviate her symptoms.
At first, Miss Bennet appears to have a simple cold. Come morning, she is running a fever that keeps her abed. The rest of us are gathered in the breakfast-parlour when her sister’s arrival is announced. That Miss Elizabeth should have walked three miles so early in the day, in such inclement weather, unaccompanied, is unfathomable to Louisa and Caroline, who must be coaxed to walk when the ground is firm and dry. Yet here is the second Miss Bennet, hems muddied and cheeks flushed with exertion, her midnight eyes full of concern for her ailing sister.
“How is she?” she asks, still palming her dress in the same nervous gesture as when introductions were made. Perhaps she can feel how badly I wished to throw up her skirts and spank her bare bottom for pulling such a stunt. The town is full of soldiers with too much time on their hands. If she believes that their presence in Meryton makes her safer, she had best think again.
“Feverish,” says Louisa. “She slept ill and has been awake most of the night. I checked, but she was not well enough to come down. Caroline and I have ordered an invalid’s breakfast sent up to her.”
“May I see her? Please?” that honeyed voice of hers begs. I shake myself, thinking furiously. I need to separate Charles from Miss Jane and myself from Miss Elizabeth. It is too soon to dine with the officers again, but Captain Carter is leaving today. It is only proper that we show support for our military and go to see the captain off. When in doubt, play the patriotism card. It trumps everything, short of death.
Miss Elizabeth dips a curtsy and rushes from the room, hastening to her sister’s side. The three men—Charles, George, and myself—ride to town, on the pretense of wishing Captain Carter a bon voyage. We return in the late afternoon to learn that Miss Jane’s condition has worsened. Her congestion has moved lower in her chest. Her breath wheezes on each exhalation. The youngest three girls adore her and are worried sick. They went upstairs to visit and stayed, obliging Louisa and Caroline to attend Miss Jane as well. Miss Elizabeth has not left her sister’s side since her arrival.
Informed that we are returned, Louisa reports the latest news, that Miss Jane now has an acute headache. Louisa made the younger girls leave, to make things quieter for Bingley’s guests. It seems that we have two. When Miss Elizabeth tried to leave at three pm, her sister panicked a little and pleaded with her to stay. Caroline’s offer of a chaise was converted to an invitation to remain here for the present. A servant has been sent to inform the Bennet family of their daughters’ situations and to bring back a supply of clothes for the two of them.
God have mercy. Tonight, when I cannot sleep for want of her, there will be only a door to divide us.
Fuck.
Louisa and Caroline quit the room at five o’clock in order to dress for dinner. When it is served ninety minutes later, Miss Elizabeth is summoned to join us.
She has changed from her muddied dress and ruined stockings to something simple and clean, of dated fashion but sewn to fit her form, hugging her delicate bosom, with the hint of cleavage hidden behind a tuck of lace.
“How is she?” Charles asks, his voice rendered high by concern.
“Worse,” she says simply, her throat as tight as her shoulders appear, gripped with anxiety, held rigid by fear.
“How grieved we are,” Louisa sighs.
“Strange, for her to have caught such a bad cold so quickly. I wonder if it had not started before she came. I hate being ill myself. Thankfully, I am, for the most part, a picture of health.”
“As am I,” Caroline chimes in. “And I, too, am grieved by your sister’s illness. Dear Jane. Such a sweet heart. The roast is exceptionally seasoned, don’t you think?”
The eldest Miss Bennet is quickly forgotten in the ensuing discussion of international cuisine and regional dishes. Miss Elizabeth is seated nearest to Charles, and the two of them engage in quiet conversation, no doubt concerning her sister. Poor George is far from a conversationalist, living to eat, drink, dress up, and play at cards. When he learns that Miss Elizabeth prefers plain fare to ragout, he has nothing more to say to her.
I watch her eat, curious as to her habits. Is she magnanimous, taking a small bite from each of the parse servings, or is she focused, devoting her full attention to each offering, eating one dish at a time? Is she traditional, keeping them sacrosanct, or is she adventurous, mixing them up a bit? Is she self-disciplined enough to quit when she is full? Would she finish it for me, if I asked? If I told her to clean her plate, would she take offense, hasten to obey, or grudgingly submit? There is a stubbornness to the set of her chin that makes me think the last.
Miss Elizabeth is magnanimous, adventurous, and self-disciplined. I cock a brow at her plate and remark on the shame of waste, when elsewhere in the world, others are starving.
She looks at her nearly-clean plate and ruefully shakes her head. “Mr. Darcy, with all due respect to the hardships of those less fortunate, I cannot eat another bite,” she says. “As nervous as my stomach is, I wonder that I managed this much. Pray, excuse me, everyone. I must go to Jane.”
With that, I know that she can be trusted to use a prearranged signal or word, to stop before things go too far.
I would love nothing more at the moment than to test her limits. Instead, I watch her walk away, admiring the soft sway of her arse. The three young Bingley sisters beg to follow and are excused from the table.
Caroline notices that I am still smiling and begins a litany of Miss Elizabeth’s deficiencies. Poor manners. Prideful impertinence. No conversation, no style, no beauty.
“Sad but true,” Louisa concurs. “Except for being an excellent walker, she has nothing to recommend her. Why, I shall never forget her appearance this morning. Really, she looked almost wild.”
“Indeed, she did,” Caroline hastens to agree. “Why, I could hardly keep my countenance, it was such nonsense to come! Her sister has a cold, and she uses that as an excuse to scamper about the country without a care for her looks, so untidy, such windblown hair!”
“Yes, and her petticoat. I hope you saw her petticoat. Did you see it?” This, directed at her husband George, who is himself a peacock when it comes to fashion and who is just as snobbish as his wife. “Six inches deep in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been let down to hide it was not doing its office.”
Charles leaps to Miss Elizabeth’s defence, to Louisa’s shock and Caroline’s dismay. “Your picture may be very exact, Louisa, but it was all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably well when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice.”
“Surely you observed it, Mr. Darcy.” Caroline seeks to enlist me to their cause, but I am joined with her only in regards to separating Miss Jane from Charles. “I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see your sister make such an exhibition.”
“Certainly not.”
“To walk three or four or more miles, whatever it is, through mud above her ankles and alone? What could she mean by it? It seems to show an abominable sort of conceited independence, a rustic indifference to decorum.”
“It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,” Charles insists.
“I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,” Caroline half-whispers, “that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes.”
“Not at all,” I say smoothly. “They were brightened by the exercise.”
Louisa gives me a curious look, before turning her attention back to Charles. “I have an excessive regard for Miss Jane Bennet,” she assures him. “She is really a very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart that she were well settled.”
Didn’t we all? Just not with Charles.
“But with such a father and mother,” Louisa continues, “and such low connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it.”
Caroline slides her gaze to me, a decidedly pointed look, prying. “I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney in Meryton.”
“Yes,” I say, “and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.”
“That is capital.” Louisa’s quip sends both women into gales of laughter.
Charles is appalled at their snobbery, when the Bingley fortune comes from trade. “If Cheapside was populated with their uncles, that would not make them one jot less agreeable!”
I seize the opportunity to point out the obvious. “But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any consideration in the world.”
“Yes, indeed!” Caroline chimes, amidst peals of mirth.
“Quite so,” said Louisa. Certain that they have sufficiently diminished the Bingley sisters in our eyes, enough to neutralize the threat of Miss Jane, they are prepared to show Christian charity to someone less fortunate than themselves and abandon us for her, heading up to Miss Bennet’s sickroom.
Chapter Eight
Dismissed by his sisters, Charles’s sole care and keeping fall to me. Hurst is no help. Whilst George takes an after-dinner nap, I drag Charles into the library, where I listen to his moans and staunch wounds from the lashes inflicted by his sisters’ sharp tongues. I do not, however, do anything to repair the damage they have wrought.
The Bennets are not of his class and are most certainly far below mine. Miss Jane is affable to everyone. I ask him, point blank, what she has done to make him believe that she holds him in special regard, let alone has singled him out as an object of affection?
There is nothing. Nothing beyond his own wishful thinking. I adjure him to pay more attention to details. If he believes that Miss Jane is developing a tendresse towards him, he must immediately tell me—and must convince me—what words or deeds make him believe that it is so.
We join George in the drawing room and play three-handed cards until coffee is brought in. Charles sends word to his sisters; only the eldest two come down. They report that Miss Jane is still very poorly, and none of the other sisters (hers or theirs) will leave her.
Eventually Miss Jane falls asleep. The youngest three Bingleys seek their beds and Miss Elizabeth drifts downstairs, where the adults are playing Loo. I have seen how she eats; now I wish to see how she plays cards.
Sadly, she declines Charles’s invitation to join us.
“I am sorry,” she says, her honeyed voice a tone lower from the stress of the day and the fatigue that she must be feeling, although she appears more worried than tired. “Her rest is fitful. I do not want to be in the middle of a hand, should she need me. Thank you, but no. It would be best to amuse myself with a book. I would prefer it, anyway.”
George’s eyes pop. “Would you really rather read? How singular.”
Pompous arse. His sister-in-law is no better. I swear, Caroline is a caricature of an elitist, veritably looking down her nose at our unwanted guest. “Miss Eliza Bennet despises cards,” she proclaims. “She is a great reader and finds no pleasure in anything else.”
Miss Elizabeth bristles at the barb. “I am deserving of neither praise nor censure. I am not a great reader, and I take pleasure in many things.”
What? I wonder. What things does she like? What truly brings her joy?
“In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,” Charles remarks. “I hope it will be soon increased by seeing her quite well.”
“Thank
you for that,” she says. “My heart’s only desire is to see her recovered.”
Miss Elizabeth’s gaze is pulled to a table where several stacks of books lie—those that I helped him select to favourably impress her sister, with some additions. Drawn to them like a moth to flame, she runs her hands over the gilt-stamped leather bindings, as if she can read the titles with her fingertips.
“I have more,” Charles blurts, eager puppy that he is. “I can fetch them. Anything in the library is yours to borrow as you like, as long as we are here. I wish my personal collection were larger, for your benefit and my own credit, but I fear that I am an idle fellow. Our father left but a small library, and of those, I have only looked at a handful.”
“Please, do not bother yourself on my account. There are more than enough here to occupy me.”
“Frankly, I am astonished that our father left so small a collection,” Caroline remarks. “What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!”
It is another pointed jab, aimed at reminding Miss Elizabeth that she is an outsider, and inferior. She is not one of our intimates. She has never seen Pemberley and will likely never see it, or its likes, in her lifetime.
As for the library, I cannot take full credit for it. “It ought to be good. It has been the work of many generations.”
Caroline fans herself, warming to the conversation. “You have added to it greatly. You are always buying books.”
Miss Elizabeth’s fingers still for a moment.
I pretend not to notice. “I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these.”
Caroline snaps her fan closed and points it in the general direction of Derbyshire. “Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing when it comes to your beautiful estate. Brother, when you build your house, I wish it may be half the size of Pemberley and just as delightful.”
“I wish,” he says wistfully.
“If you do not build, then you should purchase in that neighborhood and use Pemberley for a model. There is no finer county in England than Derbyshire.”
