Ann Herendeen

by Pride / Prejudice (v5)

  “Mr. Bingley told me. He said I deserved honesty. It was a measure of his esteem for me, so I thought.”

  “I don’t believe it. How can a man confess such an intimate thing to a young lady he has known only a few weeks?”

  “Are you forgetting that Wickham confessed a most intimate thing to you?” Jane said. “A false thing, I might add—after knowing you only a few days.”

  Elizabeth felt her cheeks warming with shame. “I admit, Wickham has been exposed as a deceitful, even immoral man,” she said, her voice cracking in the lowest of whispers. “But Mr. Bingley, however impulsively he has behaved, has never been the sort of man to discuss anything improper with a lady.”

  Jane gasped and sat up again. “Lizzy, honestly, you can be as crude and ignorant as Lydia sometimes. What is improper about love? Mr. Bingley told me that he loves Mr. Darcy and that Mr. Darcy loves him. He made me swear not to tell a soul, not even you, and I never dreamed of breaking my word, but you have driven me to it. Mr. Bingley told me because, he said, if I knew the truth, I would understand that whatever Mr. Darcy said or did that might seem questionable or harsh was from the purest of motives—love. And you have been sneering and making insinuations for months, and now you see that Mr. Darcy has been vindicated.”

  “Did not that confession of Mr. Bingley’s, that he was in love with someone else, make you wonder at his courting you?”

  Jane sighed. “He did not say he was ‘in love.’ He said that he and Mr. Darcy loved each other—that it’s the highest form of love men can know—but that it’s not the same as a man being in love with a woman.”

  “I suppose Mr. Darcy taught him that interesting distinction,” Elizabeth said. “No doubt he learned of it in his studies at Cambridge.”

  “Yes, I think so,” Jane said. “It was something in Plato, I think. Or was it Plutarch? Mr. Bingley greatly respected Mr. Darcy’s scholarship and his reading. And you needn’t smirk.”

  “How do you know I’m smirking?”

  “I can always tell,” Jane said.

  Elizabeth waited a good five minutes, until Jane was almost asleep. “I saw them,” she said.

  Jane rolled on her back and groaned. “Saw who?”

  “I saw Mr. Darcy kiss Mr. Bingley.”

  “Lizzy!” Jane wailed. “Why are you doing this? Why shouldn’t they kiss? They love each other.”

  “They were naked,” Elizabeth said.

  “I don’t believe it for one minute.”

  “It’s true,” Elizabeth said. “Mr. Darcy put his arms around Mr. Bingley from behind, like this”—Elizabeth embraced Jane—“and licked his neck, like a mother cat with a naughty kitten.” She demonstrated, with tongue.

  Jane giggled and pushed her sister away. “No, Lizzy,” she said. “You’re making it up.”

  “I don’t think I could make up such an astonishing thing. And why would I?”

  “To make me laugh. Which you have succeeded at, admirably. But I don’t accept the premise of your story, because how should you see them naked? It’s impossible.”

  “When you had the cold and we stayed at Netherfield, do you remember the night I went to fetch you barley water from the kitchen? Well, their bedroom door was open, just a crack and—”

  “It’s like something in an indecent novel,” Jane said. “I’m surprised they carry books like that in the Meryton library, and even more disappointed at you reading them. Anyway, I know you’re making it up because if you had seen something so interesting, back in the autumn, you could never have kept it to yourself all this time.”

  “Yes, I think I’ve been most heroic,” Elizabeth said. “I wanted to tell you but I thought it would distress you.”

  “Then why distress me now?”

  “Because of Mr. Darcy’s proposal, of course. When I saw them, I thought it meant they were not interested in women. In marriage. But if Mr. Darcy lowered himself to propose to me, perhaps I misjudged the matter. Maybe he’ll consider allowing Mr. Bingley to come back to Longbourn and propose to you.”

  “I’m perfectly sure you misjudged the matter,” Jane said with the asperity she would only evince in fatigue. “But now you’re telling me fairy tales.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “One should always be optimistic and cheerful,” Jane said, “but it’s equally unhealthy to yearn for the impractical or unlikely.”

  “And now you sound like Mary.”

  “A sentiment is not necessarily false just because our middle sister expresses it.”

  “Maybe not, but it certainly falls under the heading of unlikely, if not impractical,” Elizabeth said.

  “I should think, if you turned Mr. Darcy down, if anything it would make Mr. Bingley less likely to return here,” Jane said.

  “That is assuming Mr. Darcy will tell Mr. Bingley about it.”

  “Mr. Darcy will want comfort from his friend in his disappointment, just as you would want it from me—or Charlotte.”

  “You allow nothing for men’s vanity,” Elizabeth said.

  “If they truly love each other,” Jane said with another sigh, “they will have no secrets from each other. Love takes precedence over vanity and pride.”

  “If it really is love and not just another form of delusion—and lust.”

  “Mr. Bingley is not deluded,” Jane said. “Nor, I should imagine, is Mr. Darcy. And I don’t think you should pronounce on a subject you can know nothing about.”

  “Lust?” Elizabeth said. “Why may I not be proficient in the subject? Since becoming acquainted with Wickham I consider myself very well-informed.”

  “That is a dangerous boast,” Jane said. “Someone who doesn’t know you might believe it.”

  “You’re right,” Elizabeth said in a voice of contrition. “Even Charlotte thought so. Really, I learned nothing of lust from Wickham that I had not already been introduced to by Mr. Darcy.”

  “Didn’t Mr. Darcy’s proposal change your feelings for him at all? You mock him still, as you did after he chose not to dance with you at an assembly, before he had even met you. It’s time and more to forget such a trivial slight. Since he asked you to marry him, he has clearly changed his opinion of you.”

  “I am not mocking him,” Elizabeth said. “I only meant that seeing him as I did, ex tempore, so to speak, I was most forcefully reminded of the truth of Mr. Bingley’s remark, that he’s such a great tall fellow, one is inclined to defer to his wishes for no better reason than that.”

  “Never say you would accept a man merely because of his size.”

  Elizabeth paused before whispering in a dramatic voice, “Mr. Darcy is very big.” She took her sister’s hands and held them an improbable length apart.

  “Oh, Lizzy!” Jane shrieked, snatching her hands away. “I won’t say you are as bad as Lydia; you are worse.” When no response was forthcoming, she was forced to ask, “What about Mr. Bingley?”

  “No, I think I’ve said enough for one night.”

  “Lizzy, you will tell me if I have to badger you all night.”

  “Aren’t you the least bit shocked that their pure love encompasses the physical? Surely the whole idea is tarnished for you now.”

  “See how you betray yourself!” Jane said. “I don’t think you turned down Mr. Darcy for the manner of his proposal or for anything to do with Wickham, but only because you are prejudiced against him for loving Mr. Bingley.”

  “No, truly that’s not the reason. In fact, it’s one thing in Mr. Darcy’s favor. It is a kind of love, even if he does treat Mr. Bingley too much like a master with a naughty pupil, and I’m relieved to know he is capable of such an emotion. When I first saw them, I admit I was quite shocked, but after a little while, once I had time to go over it in my mind, it came to seem a very pretty picture. It’s only that I thought it would bother you.”

  “Mr. Bingley never said their love wasn’t physical. After all, husband and wife share corporeal love in marriage.”

  “But that’s a man an
d a woman.”

  “That was the crux of the argument, as I understood it,” Jane said, speaking more slowly than usual as she tried to recall Mr. Bingley’s words, “that between a man and a woman, all love has an element of the carnal, and that it can only be purified by holy matrimony. Between men, love can be pure without marriage.”

  “Such philosophy! And such nonsense.”

  “It made sense when Mr. Bingley explained it. Really, I didn’t pay that much attention. I just took it to mean that men are different from us, which any woman knows by the age of twelve. The most important thing Mr. Bingley said was that it wasn’t an impediment to marriage, the way a man’s having a mistress would be.”

  “Lord! Those were interesting discussions you two had! And here I thought it was all poetry and flowers.”

  “Mr. Bingley is not such an inconsequential man as you assume. Just because Mr. Darcy is so clever does not mean everyone else is a fool.”

  “I never said—”

  “Lizzy,” Jane said, “I’m glad you’re not tired because I want to hear the entire account now, and with nothing left out.”

  “NEVER FALL IN love with a woman,” Fitz declared, falling onto a sofa at the Brotherhood of Philander. “Never.” It was more than he could bear, a month after returning to town, the combined assault of Charles’s nervous, uncomprehending smiles at Fitz’s displays of temper and Miss Bingley’s conspicuous relief that no betrothal to Miss de Bourgh had been announced. Ordinary society had become insupportable; the flirtations and intrigues that had been merely annoyances before Fitz’s disastrous infatuation and rejected proposal now affected him like torture. Determined though he was to avoid any stain on his reputation, it was only among this equally vulnerable company that he could unburden his heart, confident that nothing of his misadventures in Kent would leak out into town gossip.

  “It’s safe to assume you’re preaching to the converted here, Darcy,” Monkton said. “Besides, Carrington has already treated us to a most interesting course of instruction in that very subject. If you deigned to visit occasionally, you might have spared yourself having to recapitulate the lessons.”

  “How comforting to find oneself among sympathetic friends,” Fitz said. “I was visiting my aunt in Kent. Always go at Easter.” He sat up. “What’s this about Carrington? Other than you, Monkton, there’s no one here less likely to succumb to feminine charms.”

  “I thank you for the compliment,” Monkton said.

  “We none of us credited it at first,” Pierce said. “But he needs an heir, you know. In line to inherit the earldom when his uncle Newburn dies.”

  “I saw the rather uninformative notice of the marriage in the papers,” Fitz said. “But I supposed he made the standard arrangement. You talked as if he were in love.”

  “He is,” Witherspoon said. “At least, I believe he is.”

  “So do I,” Verney said, “which is particularly gratifying as I am the one who introduced them.”

  “Anyone can see it,” Pierce said. “Despite the, ah, missteps attendant on any such hasty bargain, it looks as if they are on their way to reaching an understanding that would be the envy of most love matches.”

  “Yes,” Monkton said, “even I am forced to admit that Carrington seems to have achieved the impossible—convinced a beautiful, intelligent lady to ignore all the promptings of her better judgment and accept his somewhat tarnished hand—and heart—in matrimony.”

  That’s about right, Fitz thought in disgust. Carrington was, in many ways, the most dissolute of all of them, even Monkton, and the least likely to comply with society’s dictates. No one on first acquaintance suspected unnatural or irregular desires in so strikingly virile a figure; there was little incentive for him to curtail his worst excesses. Yet he had succeeded in an endeavor he could not have desired for its own sake, where Fitz, on his first foray into passionate and genuine love, anticipating the certain victory due to his character and position, had suffered ignominious defeat. “Then he’s accomplished more than I have,” Fitz said. “Who is the girl’s family?”

  “Oh, nobody you’d know,” Verney said. “Mother was my father’s mistress after Mama died. But her father was a gentleman. Jack Lewis, second son of the Sussex Lewises. Officer in a respectable infantry regiment. Died in India a while back.”

  “And you twitted me about marrying sisters to friends,” Fitz said.

  “Phyllida is not my sister,” Verney said, looking pained. “Everyone thinks it, but she’s the image of Captain Lewis.”

  “Still, not exactly a connection to boast of,” Fitz said.

  “Best Carrington could get, though, given his rather stringent terms,” Pierce said. “Really, did very well for himself. Whatever the failings of her relations, Mrs. Carrington is a true lady, in every sense of the word.”

  “I take it you have been contemplating matrimony, Darcy,” Monkton said. “Wait, let me guess.” He paused for several long drawn-out seconds, then snapped his fingers. “I have it! The witty, pretty, ethereal Miss Bent, younger sister of the one from whom you rescued your dear Charles over the winter.”

  “Do stop calling her that,” Fitz said. “Besides, she was most unbending at our last encounter.”

  “Wouldn’t have you?” Pierce said. “Not surprised. Ladies these days are too sharp by half. Know all the disreputable secrets of every man in society. It’s our own fault, really. We think we’re so vigilant and discreet, hiding in our exclusive madge club here, when the fact is the Brotherhood of Philander has been a byword over half a century for every form of unspeakable vice—”

  “Oh, give it a rest,” Verney said.

  “Yes, really,” Monkton said. “If you’ve discovered a religious vocation, by all means divest yourself of your worldly possessions and ask your brother the duke for a living, but spare us the sermons, here of all places. I admit, Darcy, I’m intrigued as to what led a penniless provincial to turn down a man of your not inconsiderable fortune, not to mention impressive figure. Not to mention Pemberley. Good God! The woman must be mad! Have to say, Darcy, you’re well out of it. The only thing worse than being married to a woman is being married to a madwoman.”

  “I’ll have you know,” Fitz said, “that Miss Bennet is a model of good sense and propriety. Her reasons for turning me down, even if mistaken, were based on the noblest of motives and all to her credit. Damn it to hell—I’ve behaved like a fool and an ass and a pompous, overbearing boor.”

  “Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Monkton murmured.

  “Don’t push it, Monkton,” Fitz said. “I’ll make you eat your words yet.”

  “Wouldn’t mind eating something of yours, Darcy,” Monkton said, moving to stand in front of Fitz, his hips at eye level, rocking back and forth ever so slightly. “Something meatier than words. In fact, I rather think we’re overdue for a rematch, wouldn’t you say? It might be a more even contest this time, what with Carrington occupied elsewhere.”

  Fitz almost blushed. It had taken him all this time to remember, and only Monkton’s lewd performance had put him in mind of it. He held out his hand. “I’m sorry, Sylly. My conduct during my last visit was unpardonable. It’s kind of you to overlook it.”

  “Hardly. Just want to get my own back.”

  “Well, that’s all over with,” Fitz said. “From now on I’m giving that up.”

  “What do you mean? Are you resigning your membership?”

  The words came to Fitz like a blinding, Road-to-Damascus revelation. “Yes. That’s the answer.” He stood up and moved toward the door. “Thank you for helping me see my way clearly.”

  “Wait a minute,” Monkton said. “It’s not that easy. You still owe me satisfaction.”

  “Oh, you had satisfaction,” Fitz said in his purring voice. “Several times, as I recall.”

  “Don’t mean to intrude,” Pierce said, sounding even more officious than usual, “but quitting the Brotherhood is not a simple transaction.”

  “I�
��ve paid my dues for the full year,” Fitz said. “I won’t be requesting any remittance of the unused portion, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “It’s not the money,” Verney said. “It’s, well, you see, we rarely have announced resignations.”

  “What about Carrington?” Fitz asked. “Now that he’s married he must have quit.”

  “Au contraire,” Monkton said. “That was one of his stipulations—not to change his way of life.”

  “That’s absurd,” Fitz said. “He can’t expect to have it both ways.”

  “That’s exactly what he expects,” Pierce said. “Pity you missed all the past month’s excitement—although it’s not too late to get in on the wager.”

  “You a member of White’s?” Verney asked, ignoring Fitz’s scowl of disapproval. “They’re laying ten to one odds against Carrington’s getting his wife with child by summer. Maybe twenty to one. A sure thing, and there’s still time to place a bet.”

  “Against Carrington?” Fitz was diverted despite his distaste. “Surely the odds are in his favor, especially if it’s a love match.”

  Monkton sniggered. “Oh, the world is so ignorant of these things, they confuse buggery with incapability and a sodomite with a hermaphrodite.”

  “If I were not already determined to resign, that atrocious equation has convinced me,” Fitz said. “But surely Carrington isn’t the first Philanderer to marry.”

  “Of course not,” Verney said. “Lord Isham, our illustrious founder, is married, as Carrington reminded us. And there must have been dozens since.”

  “I can’t think of anyone,” Witherspoon said.

  “Oh, there’ve been any number over the years,” Monkton said. “They don’t usually burst in here and make a big to-do, that’s all. Just slip quietly into limbo and no one ever hears from ’em again. Sad, really.”

  “What about that fellow Tilney,” Pierce said. “Henry Tilney, younger son of the late general. That was one. Before your time, Darcy, almost ten years ago now. He married some country girl, from Wiltshire, I think, much the way you’ve been going on about. Took up a family living, had a litter of children. Doesn’t come up to town much these days, but seems quite happy, for some unfathomable reason.”