Darcy and Deception

by Victoria Kincaid

  “He could compromise her—make her marry him. Or force himself upon her!” Unable to contain his energy, Darcy launched himself from the chair and resumed pacing.

  “She is with Colonel Forster and his wife,” Bingley pointed out for at least the third time. “They will protect her.”

  “Have you met the colonel’s wife?” Darcy asked. “She may be all of eighteen years, and a strong wind would carry her away. She could not be trusted to protect Elizabeth from a sparrow.”

  “Well, the colonel is a level-headed man,” Bingley said.

  “He has other duties; he cannot watch her all the time.” Darcy’s hands clenched into fists as if preparing to fight.

  Bingley shifted on the settee. “Have you considered your actions upon arriving in Brighton? You must have a plan. You did not part on the best of terms with Miss Elizabeth.”

  Darcy ran both hands through his hair. He had done nothing but think on that question in the past few hours but had discovered no satisfactory answer. “I will reason with her.”

  Bingley’s brow furrowed. “She may not be disposed to heed your reasoning. If she refused to read your letter, she may refuse to listen to your words.”

  Darcy ground his teeth. Naturally this had occurred to him. “I will make her listen!” He could hear the desperation in his own voice. “She will not be able to ignore me.”

  “An auspicious beginning to a courtship,” Bingley remarked dryly.

  “Knowing the truth about George Wickham is more important,” Darcy bit out. “More important than her feelings for me. Her safety is paramount.”

  “But surely you will agree it would be best if she were not further disaffected from you.”

  Darcy sighed. What a muddle! “Yes, of course.”

  “Have you considered that she might be in love with Wickham?” Bingley spoke slowly and carefully. “People in love can be blind.”

  Darcy had exerted tremendous effort to banish such thoughts. “She cannot be in love with Wickham!” he said savagely. Bingley said nothing, waiting for his friend to grow calmer. “But I can woo her away from Wickham.”

  Bingley raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever courted a woman before?”

  “Of course.”

  “Ladies have pursued you. It is not precisely the same,” his friend said with a grin.

  “It cannot be that difficult,” Darcy grumbled irritably.

  “It would not be difficult if you were not the last man on earth she would ever consider marrying.” Bingley shrugged.

  Of course, Bingley was right. Who was Darcy fooling? He and Elizabeth had parted on the least amicable terms imaginable, following the world’s most disastrous offer of marriage. Sinking back into his chair, Darcy closed his eyes and dropped his head. “I would welcome any advice you might have on the matter.” He had no pride remaining when it came to Elizabeth Bennet.

  After a moment Bingley shook his head. “I have none to offer, my friend. I have properly bungled my courtship with Jane.”

  “She appears to have forgiven you.”

  “Yes, as long as I make no more blunders.”

  Darcy would give anything to be in his friend’s place.

  “Are you certain you do not wish me to accompany you to Brighton?” Bingley asked.

  The offer was tempting, but Darcy shook his head. “You must remain here and woo your lady. I will either stand or fall on my own merits.” He fervently hoped she would listen to reason—that her future happiness did not rely on Darcy’s paltry courtship skills.

  “I have all the confidence in the world,” Bingley said with a hearty smile. “Just be yourself.”

  Darcy snorted. “That is what created this mess.”

  Chapter Three

  Three days was a long time to be constantly in Mr. Wickham’s presence. Elizabeth had gained his trust, and he willingly passed time in her company; however, she had gained no useful information about his associates or the possible location of a hideout. Colonel Forster had cautioned her that gathering intelligence could be a tedious process requiring patience, but Elizabeth had still hoped for a quick conclusion to the proceedings. The sooner she learned Mr. Wickham’s secrets, the sooner she could return home.

  Brighton itself was pleasant enough. Elizabeth adored the beach, which she had visited only a handful of times. The town of Brighton offered a wide variety of diversions; indeed, the men of the regiment enjoyed so many balls, dinners, and card parties that she wondered when they could spare time to train.

  However, other aspects of the visit were less pleasant. The discovery of Mr. Wickham’s treachery made her more eager than ever to quit his company—at the precise moment when she could not do so. Elizabeth also wanted to remove Lydia from the influence of Mr. Wickham in particular, and militia officers in general. Absent even her parents’ meager supervision, Lydia became even more flirtatious and outrageous. Elizabeth warned her youngest sister about the repercussions of unchecked behavior, but Lydia paid her scant attention, complaining that her older sister was “dull.”

  Today, as the men of the militia were to have rifle practice, Mrs. Forster had invited Elizabeth to accompany her and Lydia to the ladies’ beach. Having no more useful occupation, Elizabeth accepted, reflecting that at least her sister could cause limited embarrassment at a beach that admitted no men.

  Mrs. Forster was pretty, fashionable, and gracious in society, but she was…young. Elizabeth would guess her to be no older than eighteen, and she might very well be younger. For a married woman, her behavior was often just as silly as Lydia’s. Elizabeth could not imagine what had possessed the steady and sober colonel to marry such a young and flighty woman, but she knew nothing of their situation. Perhaps the marriage had been arranged by their families. Or perhaps Colonel Forster simply admired a pretty face.

  Although the colonel treated his wife affectionately, they spent little time in each other’s company. Mrs. Forster was usually accompanied by a coterie of female friends and a not insignificant number of male admirers—primarily soldiers—with whom she flirted extravagantly. Elizabeth had previously observed such behavior in young married women. Since they were now attached, they believed themselves safe to inflict their most flirtatious impulses upon every unsuspecting man in the vicinity.

  Elizabeth had been surprised at the invitation; she was hardly a favorite of Mrs. Forster’s, and there were many flighty officers’ wives in the town who could have accompanied the two women. However, as they walked down to the beach, she recalled that many of those women had expressed a great fear of the sea—particularly the prospect of being bitten by fish.

  As they neared the beach, it became clear that the invitation had been at Lydia’s instigation. She was excited to have a chance to try real sea bathing but also demonstrated substantial anxiety about the endeavor. Elizabeth had been to Ramsgate with her aunt and uncle Gardiner, so she was familiar with visits to the sea. But it was all new to Lydia, who slipped many glances at her older sister as if seeking reassurance. Elizabeth was secretly touched that her sister found her presence comforting.

  Elizabeth had been silent during the walk as Lydia and Mrs. Forster dominated the conversation. First, the colonel’s wife complained about the dreariness running a household on a militia salary—although she appeared to have a copious supply of jewels and gowns in the latest fashion. Then the conversation turned to who was in Brighton that week. Lydia was excited that the prince regent was in residence at the Marine Pavilion, but Mrs. Forster dashed the girl’s hopes for encountering royalty. “The prince rarely leaves the Pavilion when he visits the town,” she said with great authority. Lydia pouted, but Elizabeth thought it was just as well given what she knew of the prince.

  As they drew closer to the beach, Lydia grew more visibly anxious, twisting her hands in the hem of her skirt. Finally, a question burst from her: “What if the fish nibble on my toes?”

  Elizabeth laughed. “Ladies’ toes are not in any fish’s diet.”

  “But the
y might mistake my toes for a worm! Do fish have good eyesight?”

  “I have been sea bathing many times,” Mrs. Forster assured her. “And the fish have never paid me any heed.”

  Lydia considered this for a moment. “What about whales?”

  “Whales?” Elizabeth asked.

  “What if a whale swims up to the shore and swallows me whole? Like Jonah!”

  “Then we shall add a new book to the Bible called the Book of Lydia,” Elizabeth teased.

  Lydia rolled her eyes. “Lizzy, I am in earnest! I shan’t go in the water if there is any danger of whales.”

  Mrs. Forster gasped. “Oh dear, I never had the least thought about whales!”

  Elizabeth took a deep breath for patience. “Whales cannot swim so close to land.”

  “Are you certain?” Lydia’s fingers worried a bow on her dress.

  “Quite certain. Whales are like big ships that sail across the ocean. If they come too close to land they will run aground.”

  Mrs. Forster tossed her head. She was very aware of Elizabeth’s greater age and eagerly sought to assert her superiority as a married woman. “You must come sea bathing, Lydia! It is most healthful,” she said with an air of great knowledge. “In The Use of Seawater in the Diseases of the Glands, Dr. Russell recommends regular sea bathing to treat many conditions.”

  Elizabeth had heard of the book, which had helped to prompt the popularity of sea bathing in England, but she was dubious about many of its claims. “Do you have diseased glands?” she asked.

  Mrs. Forster raised her chin. “Regular sea bathing will keep them healthy.”

  “Quite a wise precaution,” Elizabeth agreed.

  Upon their arrival at the ladies’ beach, Elizabeth repaired to a small hut to exchange her dress for a bathing costume: a simple long cotton shift. It would not conceal anything once it was wet; the fabric would cling to her limbs and grow transparent. Thank goodness men were not allowed at this beach!

  Elizabeth emerged, enjoying the sensation of being unencumbered by skirts and petticoats but wishing she could swim unclothed as she did in the pond at Longbourn. Of course, the pond was very isolated, and she did not fear someone glimpsing her in her state of undress. The bathing costume was the best option for the beach, but Elizabeth still sighed regretfully at her long shift.

  Their mother had not approved of swimming, so the younger girls had never accompanied Elizabeth and Jane to the pond. Her mother’s disapproval had not deterred Elizabeth, and she had gone frequently enough to learn to swim.

  When Elizabeth emerged from the hut, Lydia and Mrs. Forster were waiting for her; neither had changed their clothes. “Are you not bathing after all?” she asked them.

  Mrs. Forster appeared confused. “Lydia and I will change in the bathing machine.”

  “Bathing machine?”

  The other woman gestured toward the crowded beach. Several carriage-like contraptions stood in the shallow water. The door to one opened and a fully dressed but damp woman emerged and descended a few steps to the beach. Other bathing machines had rolled into the deeper water; bathers emerged through a door at the far end before being submerged in the sea.

  “Oh!” Elizabeth had heard about bathing machines that allowed women to be “dipped” in the sea with the help of an attendant who ensured they did not drown. “I simply planned to swim.”

  Mrs. Forster gaped at her. “You know how to swim?” Elizabeth might as well have confessed to witchcraft.

  “Yes.”

  The woman eyed the placid waves suspiciously. “Risk it if you wish! But Lydia and I shall use the bathing machine. I have secured the services of Martha Gunn herself!” She paused as though Elizabeth should be impressed.

  “Very well,” Elizabeth replied, neither knowing nor caring who Martha Gunn was.

  “She is the most famous dipper in Brighton!” Lydia exclaimed, proud to know something her sister did not.

  “What an odd profession,” Elizabeth said to herself. But she mustered a smile for the other women. “How exciting! Please enjoy your sea bathing.”

  Elizabeth hurried toward the water while the other women approached one of the machines perched precariously on the beach. Mrs. Forster stopped to speak with great animation to a sturdy, florid-faced woman who stood beside the door. Mrs. Gunn presumably.

  Most of the women on the beach wore casual morning clothes and sat on blankets, chatting and laughing. Some held parasols to shield their complexions from the sun while others walked about the beach collecting shells. Numerous women with damp and disordered hair attested to the popularity of the bathing machines.

  Elizabeth made her way through the crowds to the edge of the water. The sand and smooth stones under her bare feet were warm, but not too hot. The cool water lapped around her feet as she waded deeper and deeper, up to her knees. Shielding her eyes from the bright sunlight, she gazed out to the horizon, enjoying the view of endless ocean.

  There were only a few women, perhaps a dozen in all, who dared to experience the sea without the assistance of a bathing machine—and five were merely wading. However, a few women swam in earnest, including two who appeared to be naked.

  Elizabeth waded deeper, gradually acclimating herself to the cooler temperature. It was most refreshing. When the water was deep enough, Elizabeth completely submerged herself, gasping slightly at the cold. The waves were mild; perfect conditions for swimming. Elizabeth swam back and forth, parallel to the shore, with strong, swift strokes. How refreshing! I have passed far too much of my time recently in drawing rooms. Already she was wondering when she would be able to return to the beach for a swim. How could such an outing be arranged?

  Ultimately her muscles tired of the unaccustomed exercise, and Elizabeth returned to the shallower water. She stood in water to her waist as she caught her breath.

  She had kept an eye on the bathing machine containing Lydia and Mrs. Forster. Now she noticed as it was pulled into deeper water by a weary horse.

  Once the machine’s back ramp was level with the water, one of the attendants freed the horse from its harness, walked it to the machine’s other end, and attached it there. Clever. Such a system allowed them to return to shore without needing to turn the vehicle in a circle.

  Mrs. Forster, dressed in her shift, emerged from the small door at the machine’s end and sat on the protruding ramp, dangling her feet in the water. Without ceremony, Mrs. Gunn reached over and plucked the woman from the ramp. Goodness, she was strong! The dipper waded a little distance into deeper water and then dunked Mrs. Forster—one, two, three times—all the way into the water, carefully ensuring that even the top of her head and her feet were thoroughly soaked.

  I suppose only a complete dunking will benefit the glands, Elizabeth thought.

  Mrs. Forster emerged spluttering after each dunking, appearing quite bedraggled and miserable by the time Mrs. Gunn set her back on the machine’s platform. I wonder how much the colonel’s wife paid for the privilege of being treated like a biscuit in a cup of tea? Elizabeth found herself hoping that dipping did indeed have medicinal properties because the activity itself appeared to provide no obvious pleasure.

  When it was Lydia’s turn, Elizabeth’s sister twitched and jerked. She searched the area as if seeking an escape, but there was nowhere to go. Noticing Lydia’s disposition, Mrs. Gunn enlisted the help of the other attendant so that they formed a kind of chair with their arms to carry Lydia. But the youngest Miss Bennet screeched as though they were about to feed her to a wild animal. Completely ignoring Lydia’s antics, the two women hastily dunked the squirming girl three times before depositing her again on the ramp.

  As the machine rolled back to the beach, both women retreated into the interior where they would change their clothes.

  After a few more minutes of swimming, Elizabeth emerged from the water. Lydia and Mrs. Forster had arrayed themselves on a blanket near the back of the beach—quite safe from hungry fish or whales. Although her hair was in disarra
y, Mrs. Forster was rosy-cheeked and animated. Perhaps her glands had improved.

  However, Lydia was pale and unusually still. Elizabeth seated herself beside her sister. “Are you quite all right?”

  Lydia made a disgusted face. “I swallowed some sea water. It tastes vile, but Mrs. Forster assures me it is quite healthful.”

  “Drinking sea water is healthful?” Elizabeth exclaimed. “I had not heard that. I do not like the taste either, and I give you permission not to consume it if you dislike it.” Lydia’s shoulders slumped in relief.

  Several minutes passed while the ladies lounged on the blanket, enjoying the sunshine while Lydia recovered from her “ordeal.” But soon Mrs. Forster jumped up to greet a passing friend. Quickly she was chatting with a constant stream of visitors—mostly wives of militia officers—who were walking along the beach or recuperating from their own sea bathing experiences. Lydia must have swallowed a great deal of sea water, for she made no effort to join the gossipers despite casting them some longing glances.

  Lydia grimaced when one woman spoke particularly loudly; Elizabeth frowned at her quizzically. “I don’t like that Mrs. Morton,” Lydia said in a low voice. “She is always flirting with Wicky.”

  “Wicky?” Elizabeth repeated blankly.

  Lydia rolled her eyes. “Wickham. She flirts shamelessly, but anyone can see he doesn’t care for her at all.”

  Elizabeth had been awaiting an opportunity to discuss Mr. Wickham with her sister. “Lydia, I do not believe Mr. Wickham is an entirely respectable companion for a girl of your age. You should exercise caution in his presence.”

  Lydia lifted her chin. “That would suit you, wouldn’t it? When you are trying to steal him away from me.”

  Elizabeth gaped. “Steal him away? He has never demonstrated any partiality for you.”

  Lydia made an undignified squawk. “He danced two dances with me at the last ball, and the other day he said my bonnet was quite becoming!”

  Good grief! Mr. Wickham would flirt with a dog—at least a female dog. “Mr. Denny danced two dances with you as well, and he was very complimentary about your gown.” Perhaps Elizabeth could direct Lydia’s attention in a safer direction; Wickham’s friend at least was not a traitor to the crown—as far as Elizabeth knew.