“But what is the great significance of this exchange?” Jane asked. “I don’t see it.”
“I haven’t related the whole yet,” Elizabeth said. “I thought your Mr. Bingley deserved some support. He can’t stand up to Mr. Darcy’s badinage.”
“I’m sure he can do very well without your help,” Jane said with uncharacteristic sharpness.
“Well, no, I don’t think he can,” Elizabeth said, not at all displeased at her sister’s defense of her suitor. “But in this instance I’m afraid I did more harm than good. ‘All you have done is prove Mr. Bingley’s amiability,’ I said, ‘far better than his own modesty will allow. That he would readily change his plans because his friend asked him to, and require no other explanation, is but testimony of affection.’ You see, they weren’t really arguing over whether Mr. Bingley would leave Hertfordshire or stay at Netherfield, but over something much more momentous.”
“What do you mean?”
“Marriage. Mr. Bingley’s to you, to be precise.”
“Oh, that’s absurd. Besides, I would never want my happiness to come at the expense of someone else’s,” Jane said with a sigh.
“That’s nonsense! You can’t mean it!”
“Think, Lizzy. What chance of contentment could we have in our marriage if by choosing me Mr. Bingley lost the friendship of Mr. Darcy?”
“What kind of friend is Mr. Darcy if he ends a friendship because his friend marries?” Elizabeth asked. “Besides, I don’t think it’s you he objects to so much as the idea of his friend’s marrying at all. What could he possibly find objectionable in you?”
“What else did he say, exactly?”
“It wasn’t what he said but the expression on his face,” Elizabeth said, pausing to recall. “After I spoke my little piece, Mr. Bingley declared that if Mr. Darcy ‘were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with myself, I should not pay him half so much deference.’ Mr. Darcy looked angry enough to spit.”
“Oh! That’s dreadful!”
“Not as bad as all that,” Elizabeth said. “Whatever else one may say against him, Mr. Darcy’s manners are too elegant to allow him to spit in the presence of ladies.”
“I wish you would be serious,” Jane remonstrated, as so often.
“I am perfectly serious. But I haven’t finished the account. If that were all, no harm done. If Mr. Darcy is angry with me, I don’t care that for it.” Elizabeth snapped her fingers. “But I did care that, by attempting to help Mr. Bingley, I caused a quarrel between him and his redoubtable friend.”
“Whatever have you done now?”
“Only encouraged Mr. Bingley to stand up for himself, which Mr. Darcy took as insolence. Mr. Bingley was emboldened to speak freely, much in the manner of a schoolboy taunting his tutor in front of company, saying that nothing was so frightening as Mr. Darcy on a Sunday afternoon when he had nothing to do. Then I felt sorry, and wished I had not spoken, for Mr. Darcy turned a rather unhealthy shade of white and glowered at his friend until I was convinced that poor Mr. Bingley will pay for it later.”
“They will make it up,” Jane said. “You mustn’t tease yourself over a silly remark. But it is a lesson, all the same. You do have a tendency to say whatever pops into your head.”
“Unfair! After I study so hard to find a bon mot, something clever and original, and to make it seem as if I had just thought of it that instant. You of all people should know I resemble our sister Mary in that regard, not Kitty or Lydia, who truly utter whatever words happen to be on their tongue at the moment of opening their mouth.”
Jane laughed. “Now you are expecting me to cry foul and to tell you how far superior in wit you are to all our sisters. But I will simply let it stand, Lizzy.”
“You have found me out at last,” Elizabeth said. “The truth is, I was carried away by the pleasures of a real contest. I’ve never encountered such an opponent as this Mr. Darcy. Every other man just crumbles at the first show of spirit, as if with all his education and knowledge of the world he can’t put two sensible words together when addressing one paltry female.”
“Not so paltry. But be careful, Lizzy. You will go too far.”
“It’s true. Mr. Darcy brings out the worst in me. I want to burst his bubble of pride, put a crack in that solid wall of his contempt, just as badly as Miss Bingley, although for different motives.” She couldn’t help laughing, even now, at the memory. It had been startling, frightening, but somehow exhilarating, every time she had guessed correctly and provoked a reaction in that tall, fair iceberg.
“All I ask,” Jane said, “is that you not come between Mr. Darcy and his friend.”
“That I can safely promise,” Elizabeth said with a smile. “It’s you who is doing that.”
“But I don’t wish to.”
“You will have to make up your mind to it,” Elizabeth said, “unless you want to lose your chance at a happy marriage. I know you don’t like to put yourself forward, but if ever you were to fight, now is the time. Mr. Darcy loves Mr. Bingley as possessively as any man with a pretty, wayward young wife, and is outraged at his friend’s least show of independence. This love for you is probably the first time Mr. Bingley has ever stood up for himself over a woman—or at least a young lady worthy of matrimony.”
“Even if I were willing to fight, as you call it,” Jane said, “I don’t see what more I can do and remain within the bounds of propriety.”
“Dearest Jane,” Elizabeth said. “All you need do is support Mr. Bingley. Nothing improper. He has undertaken all the combat so far. He has made a declaration, as bold as a rebellious colony’s defiance of its imperial government, and as likely to result in the usual consequences—military occupation and greater restrictions on trade.”
“From a trial to a siege and now a revolution,” Jane said.
“That’s exactly what it is,” Elizabeth said. “Mr. Bingley has proclaimed his autonomy and announced his desire to separate from the former monarch of his affections. Now Mr. Darcy is sending out the recruiting officers and the press gangs, readying for a prolonged and bitter war and quashing of an insurrection. But remember which side prevailed in the last such contest.”
“If you are speaking of the French Revolution,” Jane said, “I refuse to be responsible for loosing the Terror and the guillotine upon Netherfield.”
“I can think of some heads that ought to roll,” Elizabeth said. “But I was referring to the Americans.”
“WERE THOSE YOUR true sentiments?” Fitz asked Charles that night. “Is that the only reason you allow me my pleasures—that I am a great tall fellow who bullies you into surrender?”
“Of course not,” Charles said. “But you must admit that you sometimes talk as if you don’t like me very much. And you certainly don’t respect me. I feel less like your friend than your whore: pretty and accommodating enough for use in private, but not fit to be seen in polite society.”
“Good God!” Fitz said. “All this from a bit of drawing-room nonsense. I meant only that you are not some wild Lochinvar or roaring boy out of Walter Scott or Wordsworth, but a rational, unpretentious young Englishman, a respectable gentleman of property and fortune, if anything too prone to follow the counsel of others.”
“And I was merely trying to introduce some sense into that ridiculous discussion, bring it down to earth instead of that up-in-the-air, philosophical tone of all your conversation,” Charles said. After a strained pause he added, “You know, Fitz, I’ve often wished I were more the heroic ideal. You’d have to woo me then, instead of…” His mouth closed in a sad little smile.
“So you do feel coerced.” Fitz lay down on the bed and stared at the underside of the canopy. “What do you want—a declaration of love? Last night, as I recall, you practically begged me to help you with your trouble. In fact, your entire mood was extremely abject.”
“Oh, now you’re baiting me,” Charles said. “I’m sorry, Fitz. At the moment, all I can think about is Miss Bennet. I told you before
, I think of her when you—when we—”
“Thank you,” Fitz said, “for reminding me.”
“You said you think of Elizabeth. I wasn’t sure I believed you at first, but after these past couple of days I’m convinced. You goad her with your superior manner and exalted language.”
“And look how she stands up to me,” Fitz said. “I’ve never met a woman—or a man, come to think of it—who could hold her own in debate with me.”
“It’s not my idea of lovers’ talk,” Charles said.
“And your Miss Bennet is not my idea of an interesting woman.”
“How fortunate, then,” Charles replied, “that you are not courting her.”
“Courting,” Fitz repeated with what was becoming a habitual sneer whenever he spoke of the woman. “You will have to stop, you know, before she begins to believe you have serious intentions.”
“I do,” Charles said. “After this ball I promised to hold, I’m going to ask her to marry me.”
Fitz’s heart leapt in his breast and his breathing became labored. He could feel the color rise into his face, the whoosh of blood in the veins of his neck like a whisper of warning. Apoplexy, they called it. “Don’t be silly, Charles,” Fitz said when he could speak.
“Silly?” Charles shouted. “I am not silly. You are jealous and cruel and spiteful.”
“On the contrary, I am attempting to look at the situation from a perspective of reason and detachment. You’re in no condition to ask any woman to marry you—you lack the experience to tell when a lady returns your regard and when she is merely dazzled by your fortune and youthful vigor.”
“Yet you’re willing to let Georgiana marry me in this deplorable condition,” Charles said.
Fitz gave a snort of dry laughter. “Don’t bank on it, Charles. My consent to an understanding between the two of you would depend entirely on your assurance that all attentions to other women were at an end.”
Charles at least had the decency to look abashed. “I’m sorry, Fitz. But honestly, that’s only this idea that you and my sisters cooked up between you. I’ve been happy to go along with it when I was unattached, but where love is concerned I must choose for myself.”
“Yet surely I can advise, in this most important decision of a man’s life.”
“I’ve heard your advice, Fitz. And browbeat me as you will, subdue me with your superior strength, this time I will make up my own mind and please myself.” Charles’s tone and manner were all calm resolution, no longer the protesting, eager boy.
As he readied himself for sleep, Fitz reminded himself yet again that he must tread very carefully. From inconvenience to mortal danger was but a distance of a few missteps.
Four
NOW THAT SHE was awake, Jane asked Elizabeth, with great apologies and hesitation, if she would mind very much going to the kitchen to look after some barley water the cook had made and had forgotten to send up. Elizabeth would have to brave the corridors and the stairs in her nightdress, or put her clothes on all over again. Recalling her earlier ruminations, she saw no reason to worry, and slinging her dressing gown over her shoulders, opened the door to the bedchamber and glided noiselessly along in her slippers.
Passing another bedchamber, the door of which had swung free from the jamb a few inches, Elizabeth could not help overhearing. “I am grateful, my dear, that you changed your mind, at least for tonight.” There was no mistaking the voice of Mr. Darcy. “It’s fortunate we retired early. We can still enjoy a good long revel.”
“I never like to make you unhappy, Fitz,” Mr. Bingley said. “If only I could just look in on Miss Bennet first. I think coming downstairs was fatiguing for her.”
“That’s an excellent plan,” Mr. Darcy said, “if your aim is to compromise her and be forced into marriage—entering a young lady’s bedchamber late at night, completely unclothed. Or were you intending to put your shirt on first? I wonder Caroline doesn’t try that with me. Thank goodness I always remember to lock my door.”
“I wish you wouldn’t mock my sister so,” Mr. Bingley said.
“She positively invites it,” Mr. Darcy said. “You know she does. Just as you invite all the tender attentions I pay to you.”
“It’s not the same.”
“No, of course not. I care for you. And when, in addition to your amiable character, I am reminded of all your considerable corporeal charms, that lovely thick rod and those firm round mounds behind, I can do nothing but show my admiration in the clearest way I know how.”
The men, both naked, moved slowly into Elizabeth’s line of vision. Mr. Darcy was every bit as imposing unadorned as he was in full regalia of coat and pantaloons and cravat. His skin was white and smooth, with muscles well defined by the shadows from the flickering light. He had very little hair, or perhaps, as he was fair, it did not show. Mr. Bingley was slender and dark, sinewy and lithe, with a downy coat of hair on his chest and shaggy legs like a hound’s. His appearance was more virile than Elizabeth had expected from his gentle, unassuming nature.
Elizabeth wanted to run away but was paralyzed with something that was not exactly fear. Her thighs felt sticky, as if viscous liquid was leaking out of her, although it was not that time of the month. Her heartbeat thudded so loud she was certain the men would hear it, and her breath became shallow and rapid.
Mr. Darcy embraced his friend from behind, pulling him close with hands wrapped across his chest. He licked Mr. Bingley’s neck like a cat, then nipped with his teeth. Mr. Bingley yelped and laughed, turning in the embrace, affording Elizabeth a generous and unconcealed view of both men. That part of Mr. Darcy that Elizabeth had never seen on any man, that young wives made jokes about while shooing the unmarried girls from the room, lived up and more to the descriptions that Elizabeth had been certain were but exaggerations designed to frighten maidens into chastity. So thick, and that color! Although perhaps it was a trick of the firelight…
It had all happened in a second or two. She gasped, and the men startled at the faint sound. She had the advantage of the dark, where the men were exposed by the lighted room. Ducking her head and clutching her dressing gown tightly around her hunched shoulders, Elizabeth darted down the corridor and turned the corner into safety. By the time Mr. Darcy had moved to the door, there was nothing to be seen.
Elizabeth stood just beyond the corner. Surely he wouldn’t come after her. And safer not to make any more noise by running now.
“Damn it!” Mr. Darcy’s well-bred voice resounded in the silent passageway. “I told you to see about getting this door fixed. It doesn’t close properly.”
“Fitz!” Mr. Bingley whispered. “Was somebody there? We’d better not—” The rest was lost in low murmurs behind the thick wood of the door.
Elizabeth headed back toward her sister’s bedchamber, too nervous to complete the long journey to the kitchen. “I’m sorry,” she told Jane. “I couldn’t find it.”
“Never mind,” Jane said. “I’ll do very well with this cold tea and warm water. Perhaps I’ll be well enough to go down to breakfast tomorrow.”
ELIZABETH SLEPT LITTLE that night, less even than her sister. She had heard of “men who did not like women.” But the implications behind the phrase could never have been made so clear to her as in tonight’s impromptu tableau. A man who did not like women was also a man who did like men—in a way he should not. Why the one should follow from the other Elizabeth had not understood until now, despite all her humorous words on the subject.
There was one incident she had not related to Jane, one piece of evidence she had left out, because it did not help her cause but rather contradicted her argument. It had happened after dinner while Jane and Mr. Bingley sat a little apart from the others, engrossed in their own low-voiced talk. Miss Bingley had invited Elizabeth to join her in walking around the parlor, an obvious ploy to give the gentlemen—or one in particular—a full view of their forms that sitting at a table could not provide.
Ordinarily, Elizabeth would
never take part in such a vulgar scheme. But there was no one to be modest before. Mr. Hurst was a nonentity—a fribble, a man of fashion whose concerns encompassed nothing beyond food and cards. Mr. Bingley cared for no one but Jane. Elizabeth felt certain she could disrobe in front of him and fall backward onto a sofa with her legs in the air, and he would merely inquire whether her sister was feeling better. No, it was only this woman-hating Mr. Darcy they would be attempting to beguile, as Miss Bingley well knew.
Elizabeth stood up, suddenly all too conscious of the man’s eyes on her, and resolving to be brave, linked arms with Miss Bingley and paraded up and down the room.
Mr. Darcy, lest she should miss any of the connotations of her action, remarked that he knew full well why the ladies walked—a comment totally unnecessary unless to inform Elizabeth that she was the object of his interest.
Miss Bingley, unsurprisingly, blundered happily into the snare, querying Mr. Darcy as to his mysterious meaning, destroying any gains from Elizabeth’s deliberate silence. Elizabeth could not recall the rest of the conversation; her head swam with the consciousness of his eyes on her until she felt like a veiled odalisque displayed before a fastidious Oriental sultan searching out replacements for his depleted seraglio.
It was such an effort to regain her composure that she had an overwhelming desire to pierce and draw blood in recompense. Bad enough to refer obliquely in the ensuing discussion to the vices of pride and vanity, but she had not stopped there. When he denied the latter and made a virtue out of the former, “Mr. Darcy has no defect,” she said, sinking to the level of insolence. “He owns it himself without disguise.” She sensed his recoil and was abashed, but could not take the words back, nor would she if given the chance.
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