Ann Herendeen

by Pride / Prejudice (v5)

  “Two thousand,” George said, closing the distance between them.

  Fitz tried to back away, but George hooked his leg around Fitz’s calf, grabbing his arm and toppling them over onto the sofa. George poked around in the melee, found Fitz’s nuts, gave a good squeeze—and Fitz knew Wick was going to come out on top, as he always did.

  Fitz groaned at his growing excitement. The rivalry of the verbal contest and the wrestling—it was just like their old days in the barn at Pemberley. They’d have to resolve this sometime, and here was the opportunity. He worked the buttons on his flap, spat into his palm, and rubbed the spittle on his prick. “One thousand,” he said as he pushed into George, who had managed, fishlike as always, to twist around and wriggle free of his breeches, offering up his bum like a target. “And settling of your debts.”

  George gasped and made a strange noise as Fitz entered him. “Fifteen hundred,” he said.

  The man must be in real pain, Fitz thought. The knowledge only made him harder. This time the little sod would earn his pay. “One thousand,” he said, beginning to pump. “That’s as high as I’ll go. And the debts.” His thrusts deepened with every moan and sigh from George.

  George fought to retain his concentration, remembering his purpose, the reason for this great sacrifice, as he was pressed into the sofa’s seat, his cheek rubbing up and down on the stained fabric with the force of Fitz’s actions. “I’m sure Lydia—unh—will want to regale her sisters—unh—with every detail—unh—unh—of how this match was arranged. Unh. Lyd tells me she and—unh—unh—Elizabeth—Christ, Fitz! Take it easy!—are very close.”

  “And a commission in a good regiment of regulars,” Fitz said. He was pounding George so furiously and in such a rhythm that the sofa walked in a drunken, gimpy-legged shuffle across the bare, uneven floor. “That’s my best offer. Take the whore with it or without it.”

  George gave a strangled cry as he was roused to pleasure despite the pain. There was something feminine, passive about his situation. Pinned beneath Fitz’s muscular limbs and trunk, he could only resign himself to the inevitable. It was a rare and precious adventure, the ultimate gamble: starting a course of events then letting it run, beyond his power to stop or swerve. The ball knocked through the window, the fowling piece shot out of season, the woman taken because he was hard and she was willing. “Agreed,” he said, when he had discharged, and could talk again. “But a lieutenant’s commission, not just an ensign.”

  “Done,” Fitz said. “And I’ll have you the rest of the week. And Lydia will swear silence. To me.”

  “It’s a bargain,” George said, settling in to enjoy the rest of the ride. As Fitz slumped on top of him at the finish, George was flattened against the worn, hard upholstery. He struggled for air but his chest had no room to expand. Staring sideways across the room, he saw Lydia’s dark eyes aglow with lust, peeping through the open bedroom door. Her eyes shot bright fireworks, then became two black holes that grew and grew until they swallowed all the light. Elizabeth smiled at him, beckoning, naked to the waist and lifting her skirts…

  Fitz awoke from his swoon, pulled out of George, and sat up. “Congratulations,” he said, holding out his spit-sticky hand. “You’re engaged to be married.”

  George rose onto hands and knees, arching his back to suck in air. The strange vision receded, the black giving way to gray as the world resumed its customary light and colors. Eventually he was able to turn over and sit next to Fitz, taking the offered hand and clasping it in both of his with genuine goodwill. “Worth it,” George said. “By God, Fitz. You really do know how to fuck.”

  “OH, WICK,” LYDIA said, her eyes wide and her red lips gaping, when George staggered into the bedroom. “I knew you’d do right by me.”

  “What do you know about it?” George said, the weariness overtaking him like an attack of ague. He’d certainly earned the money this time. But what was a little work when he had a chance of gaining something from this appalling mess? If there was any justice in the world he should have been finished after getting himself into such a hopeless predicament. No, it was a very fair price, not to mention this unplanned but enjoyable bargaining…

  “That was a rare treat to watch,” Lydia said, “you and Mr. Darcy. Lord! What a big man! Still, as Mrs. Younge says, it’s what a man can do with it that matters, and I guess he’s had plenty of practice.” She had opened her gown, exposing her full breasts, and she shook them in George’s face. “Come on, Wick. If you’re going to strike sparks like that you have to lay on plenty of wood.” She leered and winked at him, like Mrs. Younge with a prospective customer.

  “For God’s sake, Lyd. Can’t you see I’m worn out?”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t think so, just lying there and taking it up the back alley. Besides, you’re strong, Wick. You’ve always been good for more than once a night.”

  He knew he’d have to satisfy her or he’d never have any peace. “At least help me get started, Lyd.”

  “All right,” she said, amenable now that things were moving in her direction. “Suppose if you can do that to get us our thousand pounds, I can give you a suck.” She went down on her knees, but the stupid bitch used her mouth for talking instead. “Did you mean that, Wick? About pretending I’m Lizzy?”

  “Don’t be daft. Just said it because I knew it would get a rise from him.”

  “Well, it did and all! But, Wick…you don’t really think I’m a barge? You want a real woman, like me, don’t you? Lizzy’s thin as a girl.”

  “Now, Lyd,” George said. “You know what I like. Didn’t you promise that if we married you’d give me what I want all the time?”

  “Yes, Wick,” Lydia said, happy again. She applied herself with admirable enthusiasm until, just as he had almost regained his full strength, she took her mouth off him to exclaim, “Lord! You think Mr. Darcy’s really going to marry Lizzy? You’ll have to be quick, then. ’Cause I won’t take second place to any of them, especially not Lizzy.”

  Somewhere George found a remaining reserve of energy. He hoisted her up and laid her on the bed, where her squeals of pleasure added to the din in his skull.

  FITZ RAN DOWN the stairs, buttoning as he went. He couldn’t spend another minute in that hole.

  An unsavory man, reeking of spirits even at this early hour, sidled up to Fitz as he emerged into the street. “A real goer, eh, mate?” he said. “Wot’s ’er price?”

  Fitz noticed some flecks of a disgusting substance on his pantaloons and scraped at them with a fingernail. “Two shillings,” he said. “I was—overgenerous.”

  “That’s the way with you nobs,” the man said, looking Fitz up and down in a disapproving way. “Pay too much for wot you could get for ’arf a pint and a promise. A fine gent like you. Even a young, juicy cunt ain’t worth two shillings.”

  “There’s two of them,” Fitz said. He gave up the scraping. The clothes would simply have to be burned.

  “Oh, aye?” the man said. “You don’t mean t’owd bitch, the bawd?”

  “Not at all,” Fitz said. “The other one’s only a year or two younger than me.”

  “Wot they do, then? Let you ’ave ’em both together?”

  “Something like that,” Fitz said.

  The man spat. “Wouldn’t mind that. But two shillings. That’s more’n I can raise.”

  Fitz found a half crown in his pocket. “There you go. A gift. Make sure you get your change.” The man was so effusive in his thanks Fitz thought he’d never get rid of him. “Tell them Fitz sent you. Got that? Fitz. Ask for Wick.”

  “’Oo’s that?”

  “The whoremonger,” Fitz said. “The juiciest cunt of all. Give him the half crown and you can have him any way you like.” He left the man staring wrathfully at his back as he walked off. Apart from the slight hollowness in his loins, Fitz felt wonderfully, gloriously vigorous, and alive—free, as if he’d spent the last five years laced into one of Monkton’s tight stomachers and only now could take a deep bre
ath and fill his lungs. He was a good thousand pounds poorer, with much business yet to do, but this time he had come out on top.

  George caught in his own schemes at last, about to be married, not to an heiress or even an eligible young lady, but to a poor ruined jade little better than a whore. Elizabeth no longer deceived. Fitz’s heart turned over when he remembered her tears and stifled sobs, the heroic way she had tried to contain her emotions. It had been the sweetest, most unexpected gift that she had felt able to confide in him. He supposed it was simply coincidence, his arriving at the Lambton inn immediately after she received her sister’s letter with the bad news, but it was lovely to think he would be the source of her eventual comfort, just as he had borne unwelcome witness to her distress. She would never know, must never know. Wasn’t there something in the Bible about that, that true charity was anonymous? The good man did his work in secret while the hypocrite boasted to all of his generosity.

  A plangent, tender tune ran in Fitz’s head, a light, pure soprano telling of boyish love, Voi, che sapete che cosa è amor, with its contrasts of joy and despair, Ch’ora è diletto, ch’ora è martir. As Fitz sang to himself, the perfect coupling of sense and music caused a shiver to run the entire length of his body, tingling the hairs on the back of his neck and working its way down to his toes, still somewhat numb from having left his boots on during the episode with George. How extraordinary, that so sordid an encounter should lead to his first knowledge of true love!

  Just to be sure, Fitz would buy George a commission in a regiment stationed as far away from London as possible. Even better, now the forces in the Peninsula were making real headway, regulars were likely to be sent overseas. Fitz recalled the promise he had extracted from George, to continue today’s shameful exercise for the next week. His whole being revolted at the prospect; he was cured of that sickness. But he supposed he’d have to keep the appointments, if only to ensure by his continued presence in those fetid rooms that George didn’t disappear. What man wouldn’t prefer to start fresh with nothing than be saddled with a harlot for a wife and the opportunity to die for his country?

  Fitz identified the song, Cherubino’s lovely aria from Mozart’s Le nozze di Figaro, that he had tarried in town to hear before removing to Pemberley for the summer. He pushed his hat to the back of his head like a Bond Street beau and strutted westward, chest out, hands in his pockets, whistling his song of hard-won happiness. No chance of running into any acquaintances here. Donne, vedete s’io l’ho nel cor. Not since his father died had he known this sense of a crushing weight lifting from his shoulders.

  Twenty-One

  FITZ AND CHARLES rode slowly home after the dinner at Longbourn. Each man, lost in his own recollections of the past couple of hours, was silent. Even ambling at the comfortable pace demanded by full stomachs and darkness, it was easier without shouted conversation. Charles was contemplating with satisfaction the way Miss Bennet, when the guests were arranging themselves around the table, had looked for him and smiled, as if expecting him to take his habitual place beside her, and without the slightest suggestion of reproach at his long absence and sudden return; and the way Fitz had nodded his permission. After a month of Fitz’s new, genial liberality, Charles still dared not take it for granted—not on so momentous an issue.

  Fitz’s thoughts, as usual, were more complicated. The marriage of Wickham and Lydia, it seemed, was only a stage on his long journey of transformation: a reverse metamorphosis, from the ephemeral beauty of a butterfly, flitting with gaudy wings, dead after a day of epicurean pleasure; or the pride of a peacock, strutting its heavy, shimmering tail, at the mercy of every stalking fox or wolf. That creature could never lower itself to become brother-in-law to Wickham or son-in-law to Mrs. Bennet, nor allow his dearest friend to sink to such a level. But in the weeks since, Fitz was reverting to a less showy, more functional form: the busy, chewing caterpillar, storing up the sustenance for its long winter in the cocoon; or the sober gray dove, emblem of peace and fidelity, that found its equally drab mate and nested in quiet domesticity. If Fitz had lost his chance with Elizabeth, that was no reason to keep Charles from happiness. As shooting season approached, he had suggested a return to Netherfield. They had called on the Bennets their first day back, and been invited to dinner three days later; and Fitz had used the visits to watch and judge…

  He had observed Miss Bennet’s guarded but, he was now convinced, genuine pleasure at Charles’s return, with his own circumspect approbation. He could not have wished for a greater appearance of propriety from his own sister, nor imagined a stronger display of affection on both sides without vulgarity. No, on that score, the mother was still up to her old standards. Fitz repeated to himself Mrs. Bennet’s worst transgressions, how she gushed over Charles while doing everything short of holding her nose and pulling her skirts aside in Fitz’s presence, making it clear to all that she, at least, still held a grudge over his past slights; and how she urged Charles to come to Longbourn and “kill their birds when he had killed all of his own.” Unlike last year, it had required little restraint on Fitz’s part not to return abuse, cleverly disguised, for offense; the woman would not recognize anything less than blatant insult, and it would cause more distress to the daughter than to the intended target. He had simply shrugged and turned the other cheek, as it were.

  Fitz was testing himself, he acknowledged, as much as Miss Bennet or Charles. Mrs. Bennet’s words and manners disgusted him, but had no other effect. The idea of allying himself with her, while as repulsive as it had ever been, now appeared to him merely a necessary and bearable ordeal, a trial he must undergo in order to win the prize—Elizabeth. For a reward like that, no sacrifice was too great. In truth, it was better there should be a high price, to counterbalance the pure, shining gold in the other pan of the scales. What did it matter, the existence of this stupid, ignorant woman, once he and Elizabeth were safely at Pemberley? She would be out of sight and out of mind, where she belonged. Like Wickham, away at Newcastle, perhaps overseas. An obstacle to the peacock, perhaps, but no threat to the dove.

  No, it was not the mother’s behavior that troubled him; it was the daughter’s. He had watched Elizabeth but spoken little, looking for a sign that his earlier lack of conduct had been forgiven. But it was impossible to know. She had been quieter than he had ever seen her, displaying none of her former sprightliness or wit, and less forthcoming than at Pemberley—almost as if she too were changing into dovelike modesty. She had allowed no opportunity for him to speak to her alone. They had sat far apart at dinner, and afterward, when the ladies poured coffee and tea, she had kept another girl beside her as a kind of protection, a barrier to his attempted approach. He had taken an unwanted second cup of coffee in the hopes that she might yield to his perseverance, but it had been a wasted effort.

  Well, Charles’s marriage would clearly proceed apace, and perhaps the enforced proximity, the two friends perpetually in company with the Bennet sisters, would bring about a thaw. Much as Fitz disliked tempting fate, he would go up to town soon and put his affairs in order, so that, in the event of a favorable outcome, he need not take time away from her later in dreary business…

  As they approached the wide paddock of Netherfield, the horses, eager to be home, broke into a trot. Fitz had only to touch his spurred heel to the side of his mount and the race was on, but he pulled up slightly at the end to let Charles win by a nose. They were laughing in their old friendly way as they led the sweaty animals into the stable and handed them over to the waiting grooms.

  “Happy, my dear?” Fitz said, once they were alone upstairs.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy in my entire life,” Charles said. “It was kind of you to allow me to return to Netherfield.”

  “Nonsense,” Fitz said, pleased to have his benevolence acknowledged. “You might as well enjoy your own house, even if it is only leased. And the shooting is as good here as anywhere, although you must be careful not to kill all your birds, at leas
t not in the first week of the season.”

  “Mrs. Bennet doesn’t mean any harm,” Charles said. “I’m only grateful she welcomed us so warmly after almost an entire year.” He was too engrossed in thoughts of the glorious future to quibble over fatuous remarks, or to notice any difference in warmth between his own reception and that of his friend. “And you truly don’t mind about Miss Bennet?”

  “Haven’t I said so?”

  “I just want to be sure. You were so definite before, on the opposing side.”

  “A man is entitled to change his opinion,” Fitz said. “It’s not the sole prerogative of the female sex. I observed Miss Bennet’s general manner and her comportment with you, tonight and on our previous visit, and I am favorably impressed with the steadiness and intensity of her regard.”

  “So you were testing us,” Charles said.

  “Nothing so officious,” Fitz said. “Any attachment, if a true one, should strengthen after a year’s absence, where a false one will wither. A separation between the parties is not at all a bad way to prove the substance of the connection.”

  They went to bed early after the long day, wandering in and out of their rooms as they undressed and making desultory conversation in the corridor. It was a bachelor household this season, just the two of them, only a small staff for the house, and without their valets, who had been given a holiday in town. There was no need for formal wear in the country, and a man ought to be able to shave himself for a month or two. Naturally Fitz kept his clothes and his possessions in one of the guestrooms, moving there before dawn so as to rumple the sheets and give the appearance of separate beds—but he was an early riser in any event, and an hour or two of solitude at the beginning of the day was more a boon than a burden.

  How comfortable to start out the night in the large bedchamber, no need for the subterfuge of waiting until everyone was in bed, listening for voices or footsteps in the corridor, before sneaking along to Charles’s room—or trusting that Charles’s courage and caution were sufficient to bring him safely to Fitz. That incident with the faulty lock last autumn had disconcerted them both and forced them to take more care with their arrangements, Fitz arguing for variety to throw off patient spies, Charles preferring a set routine. It was servants, after all, with their rigid notions of propriety and straitened means, who posed the greatest threat, not family and friends.