Ann Herendeen

by Pride / Prejudice (v5)

  Elizabeth’s own sufferings were deceptively mild on the surface, making complaint look like the whining of a spoiled child by comparison. They had begun when she missed Mr. Wickham at the ball at Netherfield, then was surprised into accepting a dance and less than sparkling conversation with Mr. Darcy instead. Next, to her everlasting shame, her entire family, even her dear papa, had seemed to conspire in exposing themselves as the most uncouth, vulgar, ill-mannered family in Hertfordshire—or perhaps in all of the civilized world—and the least desirable as connections for any gentleman contemplating matrimony.

  Finally, ensuring that this month would remain, whatever else a long life might bring, the lowest point of her entire existence, she had received the most humiliating proposal imaginable. Mr. Collins was ignorant, conceited, and affected—the sorriest excuse for a clergyman she had ever had the misfortune to meet. The fact that he was her cousin, and in line to inherit after her father’s death, changed the encounter from merely humorous to distressing. And just in the event that all this was not bad enough, now Charlotte had accepted this same man’s horrendous proposal. She had not wasted so much as half a day, it seemed, in turning away from one whom she had been calling her dearest friend for the better part of ten years, in favor of a pompous, self-satisfied, stupid man.

  Mr. Collins’s proposal would have been nauseating under any circumstances. But now, after Elizabeth’s newfound awareness of passion, it was so sickening she had almost vomited up her breakfast three days running since the ordeal of hearing it and refusing him and having to fight her mother on the subject. It was all too vividly clear what a woman would have to endure with him, what would have been the greatest pleasure with Mr. Wickham. His touch, there and everywhere. His body inside hers. Oh Lord, she was going to puke again. And to think of Charlotte agreeing to this. The idea was enough to make a fishmonger faint. Charlotte had to know the full truth of what she was entering into, yet she had apparently encouraged the offer.

  The worst was there was no one to talk to. It would be cruel to burden Jane with what would seem such trivial grievances when Jane’s unhappiness was so much greater. Jane had been on the verge of receiving a proposal from a pleasant young man of good character and great fortune. Elizabeth’s only noticeable loss was her friend Charlotte, and Jane would say, rightly, that it was more Elizabeth’s fault than anyone’s. As to those coarser feelings of bodily passions, Elizabeth could not speak of such things to someone as unworldly as Jane. Yet perhaps she was engaged in the same struggle. Perhaps Mr. Bingley, tame though he seemed to Elizabeth, had aroused the same desires in Jane.

  She tried only once before giving it up entirely. “Are you feeling very low?” she asked Jane one night.

  “No! Why should I be?”

  “No reason, dear. I only wanted to know if you were able to hear my tale of woe.”

  “Poor Lizzy. What have you suffered?”

  “Nothing so terrible. Only the loss of my closest friend.”

  “You mean Charlotte Lucas? You know my feelings on the subject.”

  “That it’s my own doing.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry, Lizzy, but how can you expect her to give up her one chance at a home and family—for what? Your friendship? You are the best sister in the world, and my own dearest friend, but I would not give that up for you either, if I had a chance of it.”

  “You would take Mr. Collins over me?” Elizabeth tried to use a droll tone, but her voice shook.

  “Ugh!” Jane made a wry face. “No, I mean if I had a chance at a respectable marriage.”

  “But that’s just what Charlotte did not have. Not a respectable marriage. Only Mr. Collins.”

  Jane looked grave again. “You may laugh, but at her age, with little portion and, forgive me, no great beauty, it is a respectable offer, and the best she could reasonably hope for. It is a pity but a fact of the world, that men often value youth and superficial appearance over character. You wouldn’t really expect her to remain unmarried, a burden to her brothers, for the rest of her life, solely to please you? That is not friendship.”

  “But Mr. Collins! I know you think I am animadverting solely on his pretentious manner and laughable self-importance, but the truth is he is not a good person. He is not morally sound, any more than he is witty or charming.”

  “Now there you have gone too far again,” Jane said. “He is a clergyman, and there is absolutely no reason to believe he does not follow the teachings of the church and of his faith.”

  “I don’t agree,” Elizabeth said, becoming serious. “I think it is not possible truly to be a good person if one lacks the minimum of understanding.”

  Jane shook her head. “That is wrong, Lizzy. Would you deny children and illiterate people the possibility of virtue?”

  “That’s not at all what I mean. Children and the illiterate are merely ignorant—untaught. They can learn. That is why we go to school or have lessons. And even a man who can’t read can possess natural aptitude. But think of animals. Look at how a cat toys with a crippled mouse and torments the poor creature for its own amusement instead of slaughtering it cleanly and quickly. Yet no person of sense calls the cat depraved or sinful. Why? Because it does not possess human understanding and does not have the capacity to know right and wrong.”

  Jane scowled, a rare occurrence. “What about me, Lizzy?” she asked quietly. “And Mr. Bingley? Are we capable of goodness? We are neither of us half as clever as you and Mr. Darcy. Or I daresay your Mr. Wickham.”

  Elizabeth took her sister’s hands. “Look at me, Jane,” she said, while her sister kept her head stubbornly turned away. “That is nonsense. You and Mr. Bingley are as far above Mr. Collins as—as—oh, I don’t know! All I mean is that there are some people who, whether born deficient or not developing the talents they have, are incapable of choosing the good over the bad. They simply follow the fashion or the outward forms of what to the world signify virtue. And Mr. Collins is a perfect example of that. Whereas Mr. Darcy is an example of the opposite—more than sufficient intellect, but making the choice to do wrong. And while I naturally prefer a good man to a wicked one, I confess to finding informed wickedness more palatable than empty, mechanical conformity, although I leave it to you to decide whether that reflects my own superior understanding or simply my desire to be original.”

  The two sisters sat in silence while Jane pondered. “You know, Lizzy, I don’t like to think you capable of so unchristian a feeling, but I have to say it seems to me you are simply envious.”

  “Of Charlotte’s situation? Never!”

  “No, of Mr. Collins, that he won the favors that you had wished to keep for yourself, even though, as a woman, you could not give her what most of us require—marriage, children, a home.”

  “I would hope not to be so selfish,” Elizabeth said. “No, I just think that Charlotte has thrown herself away on someone who doesn’t value her. Not as I do.”

  “Probably not,” Jane said. “But she hasn’t really thrown herself away. She would be doing that for you, Lizzy, if she chose to forgo her one offer for the sake of your friendship. However great a pleasure it gave you, if you truly love her you will not stand in the way of her happiness.”

  “Not of her happiness. But this!”

  “It is a form of happiness, a more lasting, substantial form than the passing pleasures of dalliance with a friend. If you are her friend, you will not add to her woes by condemning her decision, but support her in her brave choice. There are few of us fortunate enough to be loved by men who deserve our regard.”

  “You are referring to Mr. Wickham?” Elizabeth tried for a careless, laughing manner. “The prettiest, most inconstant man in the world.” She had to make a conscious effort every time his name came up not to betray the depth of her feelings.

  “Precisely,” Jane said. “That is another reason you must not repine. However graceful his manner, however agreeable his conversation, you see by his behavior now that he was not entirely honest with you, d
espite his superior understanding.”

  “After what Mr. Wickham told me of his ill-treatment by Mr. Darcy, I can’t blame him for staying away from the Netherfield ball,” Elizabeth replied. The suppressed fury rose so rapidly to the surface of what she had thought to be enforced calm, she was taken by surprise. “Indeed, your Mr. Bingley is no better. He has given up the idea of marriage to you, it seems, in favor of dalliance with his friend Mr. Darcy, while Mr. Wickham has merely forfeited the pleasures of one evening’s dancing.”

  “Oh, Lizzy,” Jane said. “To speak like that to me—or anyone—is not like you. I will attribute it to your great unhappiness, but I admit to being wounded.”

  It was as if, Elizabeth thought, the awakening of desire within her had wrought a change in her very nature. To say such things to her own sweet sister! Yet the words would come out; she had no will to keep them in. “All I know is, Mr. Wickham is not the only gentleman abused by Mr. Darcy, and now abusing others in his turn.” Why, Elizabeth wondered, should an even cruder statement make up for saying what was already unforgivable?

  “Elizabeth, I think you should not talk about things you don’t understand. If I was mistaken in Mr. Bingley’s regard, I am far better acquainted with the truth of Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley’s friendship than you are in any position to know. If you have any sisterly love for me, you will not put Mr. Wickham and Mr. Bingley in the same category.”

  Elizabeth caught herself before saying anything more. She could not afford to lose her one remaining friend.

  Seven

  CHARLES INSPECTED HIS face in the looking glass. Rather peaked, he thought. Maybe queasy was the right word, or pallid. He wondered why he was even considering attending this assembly. What could it matter? She would not be there. She was in Hertfordshire, where he ought to be. Why was he so tired all the time?

  “Need help with that cravat?” Fitz said. He sent Charles’s man out and took his place, standing behind Charles, pressing so close Charles could feel that ever-present bulge against his crack, through the layers of pantaloons and drawers of two clothed men. Fitz reached around to Charles’s neck, breathing on the side of his face, and picked up the ends of the wide piece of starched cloth. “Will you have a waterfall or an Oriental? Or perhaps the clock?”

  “I don’t care,” Charles said. “In fact, I don’t really feel like going.”

  “Think of all the pretty young ladies you can meet,” Fitz said. “And all with fortunes to match well with yours.” Better Charles should mix with girls of his own sphere in town, he told himself again, instead of falling preposterously “in love” with a penniless nobody from a family that would make Lady Hamilton’s seem almost respectable by comparison.

  “I thought you didn’t approve of being introduced at balls,” Charles said.

  “Wherever did you get such a misguided notion?” Fitz said. “Lady Finchley’s balls are known for having the pick of the ton. Now that her eldest son’s of age, she invites all the reputable families with marriageable daughters.” He laughed, pretending nonchalance. “In fact, she rather defeats her purpose. Every desperate bachelor flocks to her affairs, giving little Peter Finchley some stiff competition.”

  Charles stared sullenly and indirectly at Fitz, viewing their two reflected faces in the glass. “You go ahead, Fitz,” he said. “Maybe I’ll meet you there later.”

  “Nonsense,” Fitz said, in the false, jolly air that was becoming routine, like living with an invalid. “Come with me to the opera. There’s a very fine soprano I want to hear. We can stop by Lady Finchley’s afterward, enjoy a dance or two. How does that sound?”

  Charles shrugged and tried to free himself from the confining arms. “I don’t know, Fitz. I’d just as soon stay home.”

  “But you love the opera,” Fitz said. He crossed the ends of the neck cloth, then pulled Charles’s body sharply back against his own.

  “No, I don’t,” Charles said. “Just like seeing the dancing girls. But I don’t even care for that anymore. All I really want is Miss Bennet. I swear to you, if I were to see a whole line of them, kicking up their heels in their short skirts, all I’d think of is how she would look—not that she would ever do anything so indecent, of course.”

  “Oh, come along,” Fitz said. “Picture her in her petticoat, showing her legs. It will cheer you up.” He put a wheedle into his voice, as if proposing a treat to a small child. It felt like weeks since Charles had allowed him anything more than a quick pleasuring with his mouth, and then only in the paralysis of near sleep.

  “Honestly, Fitz,” Charles said. “I don’t feel up to much, the state I’m in.”

  “Is that a challenge?” Fitz said. “I imagine I can make something rise with but a little effort.” He kissed Charles’s cheek and then his mouth. He stripped the untied cravat from Charles’s neck in one strong tug and threw it on the chair, tonguing the V of the open shirt, sensing the faint pulse in the hollow under the Adam’s apple.

  Charles stood still and patient as Fitz fondled him, like a child being undressed by his nursemaid. He barely shifted his stance even as he allowed Fitz to remove his waistcoat and unbutton his breeches.

  “Damn it,” Fitz said, losing his tightly held composure as he brought forth Charles’s lifeless and unresponsive cock. “Don’t you feel anything?”

  “No, Fitz,” Charles said. “It’s what I keep telling you, but you don’t want to hear it.”

  Fitz massaged Charles’s cock in his fist, still to no effect. He pushed Charles in the direction of the bed, squeezing his balls, until his pert little arse met the edge of the mattress.

  “I suppose you want to take your pleasure now,” Charles said in a tired voice as Fitz continued to work over his inert member. “Go on. Maybe it will do us both good.” He fell backward onto the bed, as flabby and boneless as a jellyfish.

  Fitz eyed Charles where he lay, with his unbuttoned breeches and unlaced shirt the picture of the drunken rake. How misleading. And how unappetizing. “If you wished to disgust me, Charles, you’ve succeeded admirably.” He turned to the glass, straightening his cravat and smoothing his hair. “Don’t wait up for me,” he said over his shoulder on the way out. “I may be very late.”

  THE OPERA WAS insipid, the soprano not in good voice, and the audience full of claques and cardplayers but few actual music lovers. Fitz didn’t wait for the end but slipped out at the second interval and walked briskly to Lady Finchley’s. Lord, he needed the exercise! No hunting, no fowling, the only shooting at the indoor gallery at Manton’s. No angling in the filthy, stinking Thames. “Riding” on the tame path through Hyde Park, like being a figure in a tableau, with none of the excitement of the chase or the simple satisfactions of travel. A man could turn into a raving lunatic with no outlet for his energies.

  He was too early at the ball, from abandoning the opera. The guests were the most eager and desperate of the husband hunters as well as the predatory women who, like Fitz, were looking more for diversion than for a settled position. Caroline Finchley greeted him warmly and with unfeigned delight. “Mr. Darcy! What a surprise. I had not heard you had returned to town.” She was too courteous to comment on his glowing face or the slight tang of sweat he exuded, although she cocked a satirical eyebrow at the dirt on his Hessian boots. “Athletic as ever, I see. I hope I shall have the pleasure of at least one set with you, if only for old times’ sake.”

  “The pleasure will be mine,” Fitz replied automatically. Actually, it was a genuine joy to see Caro again. She looked, if anything, younger after more than a year of self-imposed exile from society. Her husband’s sudden death, collapsing over the hazard table during a high-stakes game at White’s, followed, some ten months later, by the birth of her eighth child, had been the gossip of all of London and beyond; nor had it helped matters that the baby had the dark, hirsute look of her last conquest, the youngest Carrington boy, Richard. But she appeared to have emerged unscathed. Even as Fitz bowed over her hand and awaited his turn at the dance, th
e room was filling up, visitors being announced with reassuring regularity. No one would seriously consider dropping the fashionable and highly connected Lady Finchley over anything less than witnessed and proven murder—and then only if the victim had been well liked.

  “Lord and Lady Swain, Mr. and Mrs. Swain, and Miss Swain,” the man at the door enunciated crisply, avoiding any susurrus.

  Imagine! Poor old Jimmy married at last. Fitz craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the unfortunate bride, but the three Swains by birth, tall, blond, and bulky, surrounded their catch like fish schooling around a tangle of worms.

  Fitz made sure to keep moving through the growing throng. London society was nothing like Meryton, thank goodness; ten thousand pounds a year was not quite so rare—although an income not squandered on gambling, horses, and women was perhaps exceptional—and the lack of a title put him at best in the second tier of desirability. But there was nothing to be gained by standing still and becoming a target.

  He saw another familiar form up ahead and took the great chance of approaching without being certain. That glossy black hair was the same, and the slender but curvaceous figure. The clothes were, if anything, even more expensive than those she had been able to afford while under Fitz’s protection. He admitted to himself that he felt slightly irked at the knowledge that she was prospering after their connection had come to its natural end. “Miss Waring?” he asked tentatively.

  The woman turned at Fitz’s voice. “Fitz!” she exclaimed, the public mask of her face collapsing and reforming for one unguarded moment into a wide, sincere smile. She as quickly resumed her cool poise, correcting her original familiarity into “Mr. Darcy,” and adding with something like exasperation, “But it’s Mrs. Swain now.”

  He couldn’t quite take it in. “Mrs. Swain? You mean—”

  “Yes, Mr. Darcy. Believe it or not, someone from a respectable, wealthy family did, in fact, offer to marry me.”