Pride / Prejudice

by Ann Herendeen

  “Don’t you?” Monkton said, scuttling around Fitz and blocking the door.

  Verney stood up from the card table and stood shoulder to shoulder with Monkton. Pierce shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and stood on Monkton’s other side. Even Witherspoon, looking both scared and eager, loosened his cravat and took Pierce’s arm, standing a little behind his lover but tucking in his chin and setting his usually bowed lips into the nearest thing to a fierce expression he could effect.

  “What’s all this?” Fitz asked. “Some sort of receiving line?”

  “Precisely,” Verney said.

  “It’s a little matter of the initiation,” Monkton said, hissing out the last word. “Or rather, un-initiation.”

  Fitz shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Now look here,” Pierce said. “You can’t pretend you weren’t told. I was one of the attendants, you may recall, at your initiation. Very moving ceremony. You swore never to betray a Brother and the oath was sealed by sacred acts of the body.”

  “Yes,” Fitz said. “That oath was binding. I am a man of honor and I keep my word. To suggest that I have any intention of forswearing myself, of betraying men with whom I’ve been in the most intimate alliance for the past five years and more—it’s enough to—”

  “Enough to what?” Monkton said, pushing forward until his nose was level with Fitz’s neck. “What is it enough to make you do, Darcy?”

  “Nothing,” Fitz said. “All I want is to take Charles and go back to Pemberley and try to reclaim some measure of honesty and civility.”

  “Very admirable,” Monkton said. “And just as soon as you’ve convinced us all of your good intentions you can be on your way.” Like the others, he had stripped off his upper garments and unbuttoned his flap, so that Fitz faced an obscene phalanx, bare-chested and with pump handles at the ready.

  “George,” Pierce said in an undertone, “you are not required to participate. No one will blame you.”

  “But I want to,” Witherspoon said. “I can’t bear the thought of Darcy leaving and never having had the pleasure—never knowing…I—I never even had a chance to paint his picture. But only if you’re sure you don’t mind.” He looked imploringly into Pierce’s disapproving face. “Please, Davey. You know I only care for you. It’s just that he’s so—so fine-looking. And so big.”

  It dawned on Fitz what the “un-initiation” ceremony was. And he did now vaguely remember hearing references when he joined the Brotherhood to an obscure “penalty” for resigning. He contemplated telling them all he had changed his mind and just slipping quietly away into limbo—or Pemberley. But they had closed in on him, drawing off his clothes, while the beautiful George Witherspoon, if not quite up to the standard of his namesake Wickham, nevertheless looking most graceful and appetizing, was doing some interesting things with his mouth. Good old Sylly, slippery and agile as always, had positioned himself in a most receptive attitude at Fitz’s feet, and even stalwart Verney and stern little Pierce were getting into the spirit of the occasion…

  Fitz gave up his protests and, allowing the others to drag him down on the thick carpet, swore some very active oaths to all of them, several times during the course of a long afternoon, that wherever he went after this, and for the rest of his life, he would always be, in his heart, a true Brother.

  Seventeen

  “GOD, DARCY, WE will miss you,” Monkton said, lifting his head with effort from somewhere in the middle of the entangled bodies. “Must you resign?”

  “Suppose it’s necessary,” Pierce said, sitting up shakily over to one side of the mélange. “Nasty rumors following you?”

  “Nasty people,” Fitz said. He moved his legs—or tried to—but found that some faces and a backside or two were weighing him down. “Did I ever tell you about George Wickham?”

  A collective groan rose from the assembled heap.

  “The well-hung steward’s son, companion of your youth?” Monkton said. “Whose compliance with your indorsings has turned to a preference for blackmail? I think we can all recite the particulars from memory. But that’s an advantage of this mausoleum—companionship and protection, especially from those sorts of people. Come on, Darcy. Have a drink and reconsider.”

  “I could use one,” Fitz said, grunting as he freed his limbs and felt the strained muscles. “But I won’t change my mind.” He looked around for his drawers and pantaloons.

  “You know, come to think of it, I have encountered that fellow more than once, lurking around here,” Verney said a few minutes later, sitting half dressed with the others, knocking back a restorative brandy or two. “Very beautiful. Face like an angel and a slim, perfectly proportioned body. And very active, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, we can imagine,” Monkton said. “But please don’t let me cut short your charming attempts at description.”

  “George Wickham?” Fitz said. “Here? He’s stationed in Hertfordshire, in the militia.”

  “Well, yes, he was wearing a red coat,” Verney said. “Until I got him out of it.” The others guffawed.

  “What was Wickham doing here?” Fitz said. “And how was he let in?”

  “But I thought—we’re allowed to bring in military officers as guests. Aren’t we?” Witherspoon asked in a worried tone.

  Pierce, his eyes narrowing, said, “Yes, George, that’s the one exception to the rule of closed membership. But I don’t see how it concerns you.”

  Fitz scowled. “Leave Witherspoon alone, Pierce, for God’s sake. You know damned well he’s as faithful to you as Patient Griselda—and as obedient. But you see how such laxity in the rules is an invitation to abuse. Just what were you doing with Wickham, Verney?”

  The others laughed even louder than before, adding whistles and some rather rude noises.

  “What do you think?” Verney said. “Dipping my wick, with Wick.”

  “I’m quite in earnest,” Fitz said. “The man is dangerous. He’s not the innocent he appears.”

  “Oh, he’s not innocent,” Verney said. “Very practiced indeed.”

  “At extortion,” Fitz said. “He’s had me by the short hairs for years.”

  “Ooooh,” Monkton said. “How exciting.”

  Fitz drained his glass and stood up. “On that note, fellows, I’ll say that, while it’s been an exciting five years, I’m off to the quiet life of Derbyshire without regret.” He found his shirt and his waistcoat, made a careless job of the cravat, and shook hands all around, allowing himself a tender kiss with Monkton. “Sylly, my dear, I hope someday you’ll know the same happiness I share with Charles. Until then, I wish you a less perilous road to pleasure.”

  “Thank you, Darcy,” Monkton said, “but I’d sooner follow Carrington’s example than bury myself alive in the country like you.”

  “As for the rest,” Fitz said, “I leave you with a warning. George Wickham is treacherous and he could ruin a lot of lives. Not just ours, but innocent people. Ladies.”

  It was only after he had gone that Verney remembered. “You know, that Wick fellow tried to run off with Darcy’s sister. Sounded sort of humorous the way he told it, but not really funny at all, when you think of it. She was only fifteen.”

  FITZ SENT HIS man out and lay back in the warm water. God, it felt good! Like a baptism, cleansing himself of his sins and starting fresh, pure. He ought to have bathed at the Brotherhood, but this afternoon’s ceremony had left him with such a desire to be out of there as quickly as possible that he had simply thrown his clothes on over all the dirt and dashed home. He opened his eyes at the knock at the door and motioned Charles in, taking his friend’s hand as he knelt beside the tub and kissing the palm.

  “What’s brought this on?” Charles asked, his heart fluttering at the wet, tickling sensation.

  “I know I’ve been an insupportable tyrant these past months,” Fitz said in an unusually low, soft voice. “Will you allow me to attempt to make
amends?”

  “You’ve been a very good friend to me,” Charles said. “I’m the one who should apologize for having been so depressed, but I promise you I’m more cheerful now.”

  “That is just like you,” Fitz said, “all Christian forgiveness. But I understand something of what you’ve been going through, and I’m appalled at how unfeeling I’ve been.”

  “You were only looking after me,” Charles said. “I oughtn’t to have been so cold.”

  “You were unhappy,” Fitz said. “It’s the hardest thing in the world, to open your heart to a lady and have all your most tender, passionate sentiments thrown back in your face.”

  “Fitz! Did something happen at Rosings? Never say Miss de Bourgh rejected you! I won’t believe it.”

  “Anne? What put that idea in your head?” Fitz flicked water at Charles, making him laugh and draw back. “No, it was very quiet at Rosings, little in the way of company, and I was left to my own devices. It gave me a lot of time to think—too much time—and I remembered a similar affair to yours. A clever, pretty young lady, who made me the target for her arrows of wit. I thought she was flirting but it turned out she simply didn’t care for me. I was too young, you see, to tell the difference and I poured out all my feelings of love. And she said I had not behaved in a gentlemanlike manner and—”

  “You? Not behave like a gentleman? I don’t believe it. She can’t have been a lady.”

  “It was a long time ago, Charles. My manners were too impetuous and youthful. But she was a lovely, genuine lady.” Fitz stood up, dripping water over the sheets on the floor and flipping more out of his hair, and grabbed Charles in a close embrace when he handed him the towel.

  “Dash it, Fitz!” Charles said, writhing in mock terror. “You’re all wet!”

  “So will you be,” Fitz said, “if you continue to struggle like that.” He bent Charles backward over the tub in a kiss but held him securely and let him up again, almost as dry as before.

  Charles looked down at his stained waistcoat and smiled. What a pleasure to have Fitz his old self again, laughing and playful, as he had not been since the visit to Rosings—to say truly, as he had not been since the sudden remove to town from Netherfield. A ruined waistcoat was a fair price to pay to have his friend back. “Fitz, why are you telling me this now? I’m sorry you had your heart broken in the past, but I never had the chance even to try with Miss Bennet.”

  “First, because remembering my torment has strengthened my belief that it was kinder to spare you from repeating my error; and second, to say that while I may not have appeared to sympathize with your sufferings, I do. In Sparta, if a boy failed at a test of military prowess, the older one, his lover, was punished for not teaching him better.”

  “How cruel! But why should you be punished before I’ve done anything?”

  “As the best method for ensuring that you will benefit from my experience. I was chastised severely for my lapse, and I can help you avoid the same mistake.”

  There was a noble purpose in all this, Fitz felt, that justified the subterfuge of putting his recent trial in a fictional, distant past. Every time he recalled Elizabeth’s accusations of interference between her sister and Charles, Fitz had a feeling of discomfort—almost, he thought sometimes, of guilt. But he had done what he believed to be right for Charles, even if the acts themselves bordered on deceit, and Elizabeth’s rejection proved the accuracy of his judgment after all. If he had believed his love returned, who had years of experience to call on, what misapprehension might poor Charles have been laboring under with the sister?

  Beyond that, it was instructive to have undergone the very ordeal he had spared Charles. Like an ascetic monk living in a strict order, Fitz had gained strength of character from the denial of the flesh. But Charles was not so robust. He would more likely starve to death from deprivation than derive moral improvement. Fitz could make a sermon out of his humiliation; but like a lesson from Scripture, it was most useful when the particular was enlarged into more general application as a parable.

  “I do appreciate all your concern for me, Fitz,” Charles said. “But now I’d as soon forget about it.”

  “Very wise. It’s like having a tooth drawn. The greatest pain is in the anticipation. Once the worst is over, you see it was no such agony as you built up beforehand in your mind.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Charles said. “It really was very painful. But I am recovered now. Truly.”

  Later that night, after a companionable if intimate dinner—no guests, and only Georgiana at home, Charles crept along the corridor and scratched at Fitz’s door. Instead of the usual dark and silent room, he was welcomed by a naked Fitz holding a candle, his muscular form casting distorted shadows against the walls. “It’s like The Mysteries of Udolpho,” Charles said. “Underground passageways, specters…”

  “Oh, not you too,” Fitz said with a groan. “I had hoped to be spared talk of ladies’ novels in my own home.”

  “Surely Georgiana has read it,” Charles said. “Caroline and Louisa exclaimed over it and talked about it so much I feel as if I read it myself. I should think just about every lady in England has read it.”

  “My sister has more sense than most ladies in England,” Fitz said. “But never mind. Come to bed and let’s forget about ladies and their foolishness for one night.” He led Charles to sit on the side of the bed, helped him off with his nightshirt and knelt between his naked legs. Perhaps because he was tired, sated with the afternoon’s excess, Fitz felt no urgency, savoring the view from below before pressing his face against Charles’s furry stomach and nuzzling the stiff cock that rose at his nearness, quivering and seeming to reach for his attention. It occurred to Fitz that while he had always enjoyed the sense of mastery attendant on the act, there was a simple satisfaction to be derived from putting the other’s pleasure ahead of one’s own. “You have been a very brave boy,” he said, “and I think you deserve your favorite treat.”

  “What became of the notion that I’m a man?” Charles said.

  “Even a man is entitled to compensation for a difficult task accomplished,” Fitz said. “In the military they award prize money for cities taken and ships captured.”

  “But I have given up something,” Charles said, “not taken anything.”

  “The hardest fight of all,” Fitz said. He put his lips over the head of Charles’s cock, felt the thrill as his beloved clenched the muscles of his thighs and buttocks and began to shake.

  “And the best sort of prize,” Charles said, his voice fading out as he was lost in the sensation.

  “Indeed,” Fitz murmured, taking his mouth away for one glorious prolonged moment of triumph, “a prize that can be shared, as was the battle.” He suffered a surge of fear, knowing he had betrayed himself.

  But Charles was too caught up in the agreeable sensations to notice. “Oh, Fitz.” He sighed with delight as his cock was engulfed. “Oh, Fitz, you are good to me.”

  After their first passion was spent, as the men lay in a loose embrace, Fitz asked, “How would you like to spend the summer with Georgiana and me at Pemberley—and your sisters, and Hurst of course.”

  “We’d be honored. Are you sure it won’t be any bother?”

  “I only wish it were,” Fitz said, “so that I could offer you something more substantial in the way of reparation.”

  “Honestly, Fitz, I can’t imagine why you’re so agitated. If you’re thinking of that silliness back during the winter, that night you came home from the ball, really, I’m the one who should apologize. Like a greensick girl with the vapors, you called it. I promise you that’s all over with.”

  “Charles, my dear, you don’t owe me your favors. I have been far too cavalier about your acquiescence, when I ought to have been grateful.”

  “You needn’t act like you’re courting me,” Charles said. “You’ve always said it’s easier between friends. Lord, I missed you those weeks you were away! It was very lonely at Hurst’s,
despite all their fashionable acquaintances, and Caroline was forever trying to inveigle your sister and me into some dreary party or other.” He let his hand wander innocently down Fitz’s side until his fingertips were just brushing his friend’s flaccid cock. “What’s the matter, Fitz? Don’t you want me anymore?”

  Fitz grabbed the wandering hand and held it away from their entwined bodies as he kissed Charles’s mouth. “It’s a good thing you don’t require courting, my dear, because it seems I lack the necessary address. I merely need a short rest before the next round. Had a rather strenuous day.”

  “Thought you said you were having a day of leisure.”

  “Things came up unexpectedly,” Fitz said. He raised one eyebrow. “Why don’t you give me a hand? Maybe something else will come up.”

  “Perhaps I could try being the man this time,” Charles said with a nervous laugh. “What do you say, Fitz?”

  “Charles,” Fitz said in his sternest voice. “That is a serious error and I cannot let it stand. You are not a surrogate for a woman. You are my friend because you are a man, and you are always a man to me. We share the purest form of love, one that can exist solely between men—disinterested love whose only object is its own fulfillment, that looks for no advantage of money or condition.”

  “I’m sorry, Fitz,” Charles said. “I know you’ve said this, or something similar, many times, but sometimes it just feels like sport. Fucking. It’s not some sacred ritual, and I don’t see why we can’t take turns.”

  “Dear Charles. The physical side of our love ought not to be dismissed or undervalued. It is how we, as mortal beings, with bodies as well as minds, demonstrate our love one to another. But we must never forget the underlying principle. I can only assume that your opinions have been warped by those of the uneducated and the unintelligent, who coarsen and pervert all the highest ideals they are incapable of comprehending.”

  “I did tell you it was dashed dull at Hurst’s,” Charles said. That provoked a smile, he was glad to see.