Beginning, Section II, Next Section
I would be lying, though, dear reader, if I said that Louisa had always been devoid of passion. Because before she met me, there was a beloved in her life, whom I shall tell you of at present. He was the renowned, illustrious, Colonel Wilhelm Foxtrot.
He was a German fellow from Bavaria, the land of Catholics and chocolate. A moony lad with a florid face and a grin that Little Red Riding Hood would never trust. He came from a long line of ruddy-faced, shifty-eyed noblemen, staked out on a castle by the Rhine, where mad relatives roam the halls wearing nothing but their stockings and a smile. Hoping to escape one such relation - an aunt who was fond of pinching his bottom and calling him Fifi, after her deceased lapdog - he arrived at England's shores with a large sum of money and dreams of having an army at his command.
Now, before I proceed with my narrative, I must inform you - in case you haven't already guessed - that Foxtrot is not his real last name. He was Wilhelm Von Glugerschplontz, but, because none of his English military compatriots could even begin to string that appalling surname together, they eventually came to call him Foxtrot, on account of his sly, narrow eyes and - as those who'd seen him without a shirt could attest to - the large tuft of red-orange hair on his back that swayed side-to-side like a fox's tail when he walked.
I won't venture to say if my present wife was one of those individuals fortunate (or unfortunate) enough to glimpse that titillating shock of body hair, but I shall insist, right here, that she was absolutely in love with the fellow. He appeared at a ball thrown by her father, the late Mr. Bingley, and the sight of his roguish eyes and proud German nose set her puckered little heart aflutter. Here was love and money united, a man who embodied wealth and charm (not to mention shrewdness, always high on Louisa's list) and he very much came to care for her in return. After the ball he began to write her love letters, half in German - which, as an accomplished lady, she claimed she could comprehend - and, when he was not embroiled in military duties, showed up regularly at the Bingley doorstep in London, holding flowers and flashing a toothsome grin.
Now, if she had married him, she would have been either Louisa Von Glugerschplontz or Louisa Foxtrot. And I am certain that's one of the reasons her father began to object to the man. Another was that he came from a Catholic background. Though the foxy Wilhelm thought little of pope and prayers and tended to avoid all churches in general, one could not deny that all his relatives - including the frisky old aunt - were devout Catholics.
But it turned out that the late Mr. Bingley did not have to step in and put an end to the romance (which was fortunate for him because, like his jolly son, he was never too keen on confrontations). Colonel Wilhelm Foxtrot received a commission to go to India for at least seven years. And so, compelled by duty, he shipped off to Calcutta one bleak autumn morning with only a single good friend in tow - the equally renowned Colonel Arthur Forster, a man whom Caroline once favored with a brief infatuation, before discovering that his parents were both tradesmen. I was not there when Louisa took leave of her dashing Wilhelm, but, from what she has told me, I can safely declare that there were many tears on both sides, in addition to promises that they would wait for each other.
She lived on his letters for months afterwards, drinking in the words like a tragic heroine, pressing the German script to her pert bosom and petitioning the air with vaporous sighs. Then, after two years, the letters stopped coming and one day her father, the late Mr. Bingley, informed her that Colonel Wilhelm Foxtrot had died in a minor skirmish just south of the Ganges. Which part of the Ganges, he wouldn't say, and, not even knowing what the Ganges is, Louisa never asked.
Now this is where I truly begin to feel for my wife, because she was absolutely broken-hearted when she heard the news. For months she refused to believe it, and would beg her father to see the letter of ill-tidings that he had received from Colonel Forster, who had also been present at the attack but had survived unscathed. Her father though, claimed that he had misplaced it as soon as he'd received it, in large part because the news had sent his mind into disorder. Now, if the late Mr. Bingley had resembled the present Mr. Bingley in any other way besides his dislike of confrontations, I would have credited the excuse, but you must know that he was an impeccable man - as neat and timely as his son is not - and would not have carelessly misplaced a missive of such import. But those are merely my own speculations. Louisa came to believe her father eventually and, vowing that she would never love another man but, realizing that it was not all that practical to go about fashionable society without a husband, she settled on the first gentleman she could find.
Moi.
Why? I had enough money, I was undemanding, I spoke little, and - back then, in any case - I had more hair.
So, as mismatched as a boot and a dressing shoe, we find ourselves in the eighth year of our predicament. And if you were to ask me right now if I ever at one point loved my wife, I'd look you straight in the eye and say, "Bugger off and mind your own business." But if you took me to a pub first and bought me a mug of ale and shared a bit of your own life story first, then I'd say, "I could have, if she had let me."
That, dear reader, is the most honest answer I can give. And, I can also say with an equal amount of truth, that she probably would have turned out to be somewhat different if she had married Wilhelm - at least then her love of money would have been tempered by personal love, as well.
But, for now, she remains spoiled and petulant. This fine Sunday morning she awakens with her usual list of complaints - too much sunlight in the room, puffy eyes, wild hair, stiff back - 'til I wish there were a hundred lusty Germans to stop her mouth with their own and give me some peace. For I am certain that she would not have minded in the least to raise a brood of Anglo-German mutts, trim figure or not-so-trim figure aside, so long as they all took after their father.
"Fine morning, is it not?" Rupert chirps as he helps me dress for church. "And we've got to make sure you look your best!"
"Why's that?" I inquire.
"Why's that? Why's that?" He gives me a light smack upside the head. "Who do you think will be there today, you daft ox?"
"I know that, Rupert, but what does it matter how I look to her? I'm not an eligible gentleman on the prowl for a wife."
"True, but you still want to have her wish that you were!"
"To what end?"
He shrugs. "Hadn't thought of that."
"Rupert," I sigh, "there's a far greater chance she'll be laying eyes on, say, Fitzwilliam Darcy."
"Oh, I don't know, Gil... some girls prefer donkeys to stallions."
"Well, this donkey," I say, jabbing a thumb at myself, "is saddled, muzzled, and hitched to a plow, so there's no point fussing over appearances."
"Oh, all right, all right..." he groans, but still has me try on three different shirts and five different pairs of breeches, stopping only when I threaten to make him my wife's personal footman.
Now on to church. I must confess to you that I'm not the most devout creature there ever was. Church for me is entertaining chiefly because I have the chance to observe people and catch them in all the surreptitious activities they engage in when they mistakenly think that no one is watching them.
Take Bingley, for instance. The moment he steps through the chapel doors, he begins committing a perpetual violation of the second commandment, feasting his eyes on the sole blonde head in the Bennet pew. Darcy, curiously enough, also stares quite often at that very same pew, but I can't be sure if his gaze is directed at Miss Jane or at the darker, curlier head of Miss Elizabeth.
Now Miss Elizabeth is an interesting study, mainly because she herself seems - from time to time - to glance about, a small, amused smile on her lips as she alights upon various foci of observation. Once her eyes meet mine, and she betrays not a small amount of surprise, making me wonder if I look any more intelligent when I'm drinking in the follies of my fellow man, rather than drinking in something else entirely...
A moment later her father's head pops up and turns in my direction, and I have only a moment to make note of him before I bury myself back in my hymnal. He's got a wry turn about his lips and a sharp twinkle to his eye... a man, I believe, that I would very much like to converse with over a carafe of brandy.
Darcy clears his throat quite pronouncedly then, and when I look over at the hymnal he's sharing with Bingley, I can see that neither of them has bothered to turn to the right page. And while such behavior would not surprise me if it originated only from Bingley, it is a wonder to me that the conscientious Darcy has not yet deigned to correct his wayward, love-smitten friend. Again, I sneak a glance at the dark lad and... he's all contracted brow and pinched lip, his severe gaze blistering the Bennet pew yet again. Indeed, if he stares at them any harder, they will surely erupt in flame.
In case you haven't noticed, I've neglected so far to comment on another individual present in this Sunday's congregation. I'm trying very hard not to. Very hard. And I won't. I won't tell you that her hair is done up quite elegantly, and that she's wearing a very sensible dark blue dress that accentuates the quiet aplomb of her posture. And I won't tell you that her voice is rather pleasant when she sings, and that the sight of her fills me with a contented sort of calm, the perfect peace of a good armchair, an absorbing book, and a roaring fire. And roaring fires are all I hear about in the sermon, which happens to be on adultery and the damning consequences thereof. The reverend is a decent old man, if not somewhat owlish and gaunt, but by the tenth time he utters the word 'coveted,' I'm just about ready to hurl him bodily through one of the large, stained glass windows (may he land safely in some bushes, amen).
When the service finally comes to a close and everyone spills outside, Bingley immediately attaches himself to the eldest Bennet girls, politely acknowledging Elizabeth while bestowing the brunt of his attention on Jane. Darcy stands off to the side, resembling very much the statue of some long-suffering martyr... rub his foot the wrong way and you just mind find yourself in the ninth circle of hell. Mr. Bennet, I notice, seems ready to try his luck - and wit - on the grim saint, but his wife chooses that moment to accost him and drag him over to... me of all people. Or, more accurately, my wife, who's standing next to my side looking determinedly bored.
When Mrs. Bennet begins to bear down on us, she seems, for once, to share my sentiments, for she expels an impatient, flustered sigh. Halfway to us, Mr. Bennet breaks free and immediately plunges into conversation with the reverend himself, who's going about making greetings and farewells. Undeterred, the good woman pushes on without her husband and greets me - or rather my wife - with an effusive:
"Mrs. Hurst! How good it is to see you!!" She briefly turns to me. "And you, too, Mr. Hurst."
"The honor is all mine, I'm sure," Louisa coos.
And just as I'm anticipating a sweetly poisoned exchange of false well-wishes and pretty laughter, Sir Lucas, of all men, joins our party and saves us... somewhat.
It's plain to me that he's not as bright as his eldest daughter. But his heart is in the right place, and he grows quite easy to converse with... all you have to do is mention St. James Court and he loses his power of speech.
"Mrs. Bennet, Mr. and Mrs. Hurst," says the man, his kindly nose inclined towards us all. Mrs. Bennet, who had just begun to hint to Louisa about how charming a picture Bingley made standing next to dear Jane, clenches shut her mouth and swallows hard, as if choking back a reproach.
"I would like to all invite you to a party tomorrow evening at Lucas Lodge," he continues. He turns to Louisa and I. "It is a modest abode, certainly not what you are used to, but I believe that in its simplicity there is an understated elegance that is quite appealing to gentlemen and ladies of a refined taste..."
Hmmm... and how much does your chimney-piece cost? I wonder.
"... you, Mr. Hurst, and you Mrs. Hurst, and of course Mr. Bingley, and Miss Bingley and Mr. Darcy, are all welcome. There shall be a light repast and much music and conversation and dancing. An activity to suit every person's inclinations. And we shall be favored with the presence of a group of officers wintering here at Meryton with their regiment."
Mrs. Bennet's eyebrows shoot up into her hair.
"They are all under the command of the respected Colonel Arthur Forster, who has of late returned from a post in India."
Suddenly Louisa is gripping my elbow. Very tightly. Glancing to the side, I see that she has gone quite pale, and so I bring an arm around her waist to bear her up. She relaxes into me, her head coming to rest on my shoulder and the feather on her hat coming to rest right under my nose.
Which, of course, produces a profound fit of sneezing on my part.
"Mr. Hurst, are you quite all right?" Lucas inquires, offering me his handkerchief as Mrs. Bennet looks on with detached sympathy.
"Yes," I splutter, as Louisa rearranges her bespattered headwear, "I'm quite all right. I raise an eyebrow at my wife, who responds to my tacit inquiry with a quick, excited nod, "And," I continue, returning the soiled handkerchief to its rightful owner, "we should like very much to attend your gathering."
"Capital! Capital!" the good knight cries and, favoring us with a clumsy, eager bow, dashes off to report the good news to his wife.
Soon afterwards, in the carriage, Louisa whispers a "thank you," in my ear.
"For what?" I reply.
"For masking my sudden onset of... weakness. That sneezing fit could not have been better-timed."
"Well, it was of your contrivance, however indirect."
"You're too kind!" she exclaims. "But really... I should dearly love to see that Arthur Forster. To think, he's here after all these years!"
I pat her hand. Moments like this, when I can find real feeling in the manner of her air, expressions, and tone of her voice, it's very hard not to think of her with sympathy and kindness.
"Do you think..." she muses, "he could tell me about what really happened that day? For surely one doesn't forget such a thing." And here her lower lip trembles.
I wish to reply in the affirmative, but Caroline chooses precisely that moment to ask us what we're whispering about and inform us that she thinks the party at Lucas Lodge will be quite tedious.
And, as we all know, dear reader (wink wink, nod nod, tap nose tap nose) Caroline is never wrong.
Thinking of Fitzwilliam Darcy later on that day, I am reminded of what the great philosopher Georgius Porgius once said:
"I'm not a philosopher, you twit, I'm a traveling magician!"
To which he added:
"Gents and dames, step right up! Now you see it, now you don't!"
And this, dear reader, is the best way (at present) to describe Fitzwilliam Darcy's newfound admiration for Elizabeth Bennet. Although the good philosopher-magician was referring to a diseased rabbit with a droopy left ear (on account of it being pulled out of the hat by that appendage all the time), I find the words to be just as applicable to the gent from Derbyshire.
How do I first notice it? Let me think on that a bit... carriage ride from church... uneventful noonday repast... an hour-long nap... oh, blast it, two hours... no (yawn) three... then tea-time, already, in the parlor... aha!! It's there, in the parlor, that I first see it!
We set our scene: The curtain rises and Caroline and Louisa are perched on the edge of the sofa, discussing the upcoming party at Lucas Lodge.
"I expect it will be a drab and dirty little mouse-hole!" Caroline declares, leering at Darcy over her teacup.
"To be sure," says Louisa, rather distractedly.
"And what a family! Especially that brick-headed Mr. Lucas."
"Sir Lucas, I believe it is."
"He'll probably blather on and on about how he once set foot in St. James Court."
To which my wife replies - rather weakly and without any of that spirited spite I've grown so accustomed to - "To be sure, he probably kept some sort of shop before his elevation to the knighthood."
Caroline titters, tossing her head back and favoring us with a ferret-like grin. Louisa forces herself to giggle a bit, too, but it's plain to me that she's out of sorts. And I'm the only one in the room who knows why.
"I'm sure it shall be a most delightful gathering!" Bingley interposes. Through my half-slitted eyes (I'm feigning sleepiness now, not inebriation), I can see a flush of red creeping up his boyish cheeks.
"You think everything is delightful," Darcy mutters, kicking at the ashes by the fireplace. He's always propping himself up near fireplaces - you ever notice that? - like a regular steel poker.
"Come now, I'm sure you shall find many fine people to converse with," Bingley insists.
"Who can he be talking of, Mr. Darcy?" cries Caroline.
Certainly not you, I think.
"Well," Bingley forges bravely on, "there are the Bennets, and-"
"Oh, of course, the Bennets!" Caroline drawls. "How could I've forgotten? Hertfordshire's local beauties! Though," she's quick to add, "Jane Bennet really is a dear, sweet girl."
"Indeed," Louisa chimes in.
"But her sisters..."
"Yes," Darcy says with a sudden vehemence, "her sisters are all impertinence and ill-breeding."
"In what way?" Bingley asks. "Granted the two younger ones are a bit... spirited... but the middle child, er, Mary, is quite sober and proper, and Miss Elizabeth is very amiable company."
"Do you not find her too outspoken? Too impudent?"
My eyes open just a bit further. Why the sudden zeal, Darcy?
Bingley looks just as confused as I feel. "Well... no. She is uncommonly witty, and-"
"She teased you today, right outside the church doors! Are you forgetting? She asked you questions about the service that you could not even begin to answer, and then put a clever little turn on each of your replies. For G-d's sake, man, you told her that the sermon was on seraphs, cherubs, and angels!"
And now we come to the amazing part of this whole charade of manners. Though Darcy is, by all appearances, quite put out by his good friend Bingley, I can see that - even as he's berating his friend for falling prey to some harmless teasing - the corners of his mouth are beginning to twitch into a slight smile.
"Her comments on your inattentiveness were nearly insolent," he proclaims, all the while stifling that stubborn little smile. "And she got away with all of it by giving you an impish little curtsey and a... an infuriating grin." A pause. A gasp for air. Some more facial struggles. "Such improper manners."
"But I was not offended at all, Darcy!" Bingley protests. "You can't fault her for having a good humor."
"Well, I can imagine if you had not been staring at her sister quite so much during church, you would have instead been able to tell her that the reverend had discussed youthful lust."
"Not really," I say, bringing down a surprised silence upon the room. "He spoke of adultery."
No one's quite sure how to reply to my rectifying remark. Darcy's smile disappears and his face assumes an expression of mortification and anger. Real anger, this time. Which makes me think of his countenance back in church... the pinched brow, the stiff lip, the unwavering gaze at the Bennet pew, leveled at one particular occupant of that pew, sitting beside her seraphic sister...
And it all comes together.
I break the silence with a roar of laughter. Of course, no one knows what I'm laughing about. Last they heard, I mentioned the word 'adultery.' Perhaps I'm finding that abominable sin amusing?
"Hurst...?" Bingley's tentative voice calms me. "Are you all right?"
"Quite all right!" I grin. "Adultery, indeed!" And, that said, I reassume my expression of semi-consciousness.
"Well..." Caroline is next to speak, and, unsure of how to pick up the thread of conversation again, settles on safe territory - agreeing with Darcy. "Miss Eliza certainly is an unfashionable girl! And her voice! Did you hear her sing? Entirely unrefined."
"I thought it was a very pleasant, sweet soprano," Bingley says. "What say you, Darcy? You're more the expert in music than I am."
For a moment, Darcy looks pained. "It... wasn't bad. But it certainly could bear some training." He sighs and stares into the ashes again.
Yes, Darcy, why speak of singing when we each have a personalized sermon to mull over? Mine on adultery (not that I'm entertaining notions of that nature), Bingley's on his new mystical understanding of the heavenly hierarchy, and yours on... youthful lust.
"So can you believe it, Rupert?" I ask my good valet that evening. "Did you ever think that Darcy was capable of desire?'
"Well... he is a man after all. It can't be helped, Gil."
"Yes, but to see him agitated by it so much... this should prove entertaining, don't you think?"
"Very!" Rupert smiles. "For all we know, he might even turn out like Bingley!"
The image of Darcy clasping his hands to his bosom and fluttering his eyelids is almost too much, and I double over with laughter. "Oh, but I shouldn't poke fun at the lad," I finally gasp, "he'll have enough struggles to come, I believe." I pause and sigh. "As will I, perhaps..."
"Ah, so good of you to remind me!" says Rupert. "I have a bit of information for you."
"Yes?"
"After church I happened to accost Lady Lucas's personal maid."
"So, what can you tell me about her?"
"Well, she's rather fat, and her gums are like cranberry sauce..."
"No, not the maid! Charlotte!"
"Oh, yes, of course!" Then, with a waggle of his brows... "Wasn't it Lottie just yesterday?"
"Oh, go on already!"
"Well, from what I got out of the maid - Susanna's her name, in case you're wondering, and she's a wonderfully kind old soul - Lady Lucas is an irritable, weak-minded tyrant. Complains of fainting spells and sore feet and headaches, and has servants running up and down the stairs night and day to bring her tea and powders... now, the elder Miss Lucas, on the other hand, is praised by the entire staff."
"Is she?" I ask, feeling my lips curl up into a smile.
"Indeed she is. They say she's moderate, kind and sensible - an ideal mistress. Gives praise where praise is due, and - when something is lacking - points it out firmly but gently. She is highly regarded by them all, and - truth be told - has, in essence, been running Lucas Lodge for nigh on seven years now."
I close my eyes and a domestic tableau unfolds before me. Charlotte Lucas, clad in a simple long-sleeved dress of sprigged muslin, her hair pinned under a neat white cap, stands serenely in the middle of a hallway. She holds her palms out - one bears a book, the other a sewing basket, both balanced like weights on a scale of justice. Servants bow to her, honor her, and she accepts their approbation with a gentle, dignified nod. Behind her a fire is crackling in a clean-swept hearth, and a rather plumpish figure is dozing in an armchair by it, his feet-
"Gil? Gil?" Rupert's chuckling intrudes upon my reverie. "You're beginning to look a bit like Bingley yourself!"
Oh, dear. This does not bode well for tomorrow evening's party.
The party is meant to be a simple affair, a friendly gathering of neighborhood folk and visiting officers. But both Louisa and I are terribly nervous about it. After half a sleepless night in which she turns and tosses, knocking my head about and planting her heel in my bottom, I take up a blanket and go out in search of another bedchamber. Only to run belly-first into Darcy out in the hallway.
"Hurst!" he cries, stumbling back. "What are you doing out here?"
"I can ask the same of you."
"Well..." he shifts around uncomfortably, scratching the back of his head. It's amazing how different he looks in bedtime attire -rumpled and tousled, all fluff and no starch. "I had a bit of trouble falling asleep. Thought I'd go to the library and read perhaps." He tightens his dressing-gown about him and looks around self-consciously.
"Mind if I join you?" I ask.
He manages to look neither pleased nor displeased and doesn't give me an answer.
"You don't have to reply," I continue. "I mean to join you whether you say yes or no. If you're already awake, it means that, by this time, you've probably roused some servant to stoke the fire in there."
He stiffens. "I beg to differ, Hurst. I did it myself."
"Ah, really?"
"Yes." A pause. "I was only on my way back to get the book that I'd left behind."
It's then that I notice the small, leather-bound volume he's clutching to his chest.
"What book is that?"
He begins to walk to the staircase. "Never mind," he mutters.
"Do you believe me to be an illiterate?"
"No."
"An imbecile?"
Pause. "No."
"Allergic to print, then?"
Longer pause. "No."
"You're an awful liar." By this time we're at the bottom of the stairs, and my hand flutters over to his tome. He swats it away.
"Come on, Darcy," I grumble and reach for it again. And again, he smacks my hand away, only harder.
A part of me wishes to keep provoking him so that maybe he'll do something ridiculously spontaneous, like grab me by the scruff of the neck and box my ears, or throttle me with the sash of his dressing-gown. But my mature, more dignified side prevails and, trying my best to look wounded, I stomp on ahead of him with a disdainful sniff (a tactic I learned from my dear wife).
"Oh, all right," he groans and hands it to me.
I trace my finger over the scrawling script on the cover. "Heloise and Abelard?"
"Yes," comes the gruff reply, as he rips the book back from me. "One of the greatest love stories ever told."
We're at the library by this time, and I can see him by the fire. Not that it helps me much, because his face remains unreadable.
"Perhaps..." I concede, "it's a good, fine, moving story, but..."
"But what?"
"I mean - at the end of it all - Abelard undergoes some... well, some fine surgery."
"And that is how it should be. That is what makes the story so great."
"You mean, you think he deserved to be-"
"What he did was highly improper! He fell in love with his pupil, and he himself was an ordained priest. Do you not find that highly shocking, the way he overstepped social boundaries in that fashion?"
I blink. "Darcy... big Abelard bade farewell to little Abelard."
"Oh, hang it, I know that." He tosses the book on a table and throws himself into a seat. "Of course he didn't deserve it."
"Good. I was worried there for a moment."
"But what he did was still highly improper. Society sets rules and expectations for a reason, you know. They're to check you against lust. Improper desire. And they do an admirable job reminding you that you should not cast away your principles for the sake of some... unusual attraction or passing fancy." He grimaces. "Especially when the object in question is so very flawed, and-"
"Darcy."
"Yes, Hurst, what?"
"I am not a priest, and this is not a confessional. And, as far as I know, you are not Catholic. So would you please be quiet? I'm trying to get some sleep."
He acquiesces with a grumble. The excited flush remains on his face, but he restrains himself to staring into the fire. The last thing I see that night, before I close my eyes, is the angry blue vein standing out on his left temple, pulsing and throbbing like an engorged worm.
It seems then, that three members of the Netherfield party find tomorrow evening rather daunting.
No, make that four. As we assemble in the front hall the following evening, awaiting the arrival of our carriages, Bingley begins to skip about like a nervous goat on a narrow precipice. It gets so bad that Darcy has to clamp a hand on his shoulder and root him to one place. Darcy himself looks tolerably well-composed, his features schooled to their usual severity. So unruffled is he that his eyes do not even roll about when Caroline attempts to entertain him with her version of wit. But Louisa - to my surprise - forsakes the company of her sister and latches herself onto my elbow.
"Tell me, Gilroy," she whispers, "does this smile make me look sympathetic?"
She bares her teeth like a perfect feline.
"Uh, well," I begin, attempting to criticize with delicacy. "That depends, I suppose, on the person you're trying to show the sympathy for."
"Oh, be truthful, you oaf," she snaps, "and don't mince words!"
"All right, no. You don't look sympathetic; you look like a wildcat. If Arthur Forster sees a smile like that, he'll whip out his pistol and slay you for your pelt."
She huffs. "Well, what can I do to improve it?"
I shrug. "Smiles are supposed to be spontaneous. You can't plan them. They just happen." I pause. "And I'm sure that what he tells you today will be sufficient to elicit genuine emotion from you."
As few other things can.
She nods slowly, pensively, and gives my arm a squeeze. It is then that the carriages appear at the door, and off we are whisked to Lucas Lodge, to one of the strangest nights I will ever know.
It begins normally enough. We arrive at the front hall of the home and begin to make our way down the receiving line. I won't bother to tell you that it's a rather pleasant, unremarkable abode - comfortable and ordinary - because, by the time I reach the end of the line and come face-to-face with Miss Lottie herself, it's hard for me to even process such trivial details.
Lottie (Charlotte, excuse me) curtsies to me and greets me with a pleasant, "Welcome Mr. Hurst," to which she immediately adds, "welcome Mrs. Hurst." And so I stumble farther along, and she recedes behind, and that is my sole interaction with her for the larger part of the evening. I have not failed to notice, though, that purple is a very flattering color on her, and the gold combs in her hair are absolutely regal. They make me think of an old Scottish poem, "The Ballad of Sir Patrick Spense," and how the ladies with the combs in their hair await the return of their lords from sea.
And they will always wait, I think, for their lords have drowned, victims to a storm. I look across the room, over the swelling tide of guests, and oh, how distant she appears, like those Scottish dames in their seaside castles, suffering with the quiet patience of queens. And you, Hurst, bloated like a bagpipe, bobbing on an ocean swell far from the blessed shore... when shall your mournful tune sound once again over the bonny green glens and rolling hills of the highlands?
All right. I'd better stop here before I make myself cry. Or laugh. Though it wouldn't be an exaggeration for me to say that I'm drowning. I find small, crowded rooms quite suffocating and, what with the influx of redcoats and the delighted squeals of less sensible girls, a slick coat of sweat forms on my skin. My throat grows dry, a clot of guests block all possible routes to the refreshment tables, and so I'm left, hoarse and hot, in the corner of the room. Not to mention that my back is quite Darcyish today (on account of my sleeping half the night on a chair).
It is then that I notice the set of double doors, inset with window glass, that lead to a small courtyard enclosed within the house. Though the evening's entertainment has not yet begun, the prospect of fresh air seems ever so attractive at this point, and so - knowing that there's hardly a chance that I'll be missed - I slip outside and pull my coat around me against the evening chill.
It's a lovely little nook, what I find. Two small birdbaths, a few winding paths, a small garden replete with late-blooming flowers. I'd like to think she planted them, but Rupert has not yet given me any information that indicates a love of gardening. At the far end of the courtyard, by another set of double doors that lead to some other chamber in the house, I find a long, wide bench overspread with a faded quilt. A perfect bed, I think, practically inviting me to pause for a rest. My aching back encourages me to lie down, too, and giving in to the temptation, I soon fall soundly into sleep.
Don't ask me about my dreams. In my dreams I'm a drowned lord, far beneath the sea. Then suddenly I can swim again, and propel myself to the surface, breaching the waves like a whale and paddling with all speed towards shore. I land at the foot of an enormous castle and, scrambling on all fours, burst through the main doors and gallop up the stairs. On the landing I find a crowd of ladies massed around a window - one of them, crowned and graceful in her purple gown, turns to me with tear-stained face. "Is your lord out at sea?" she inquires.
"My lord?" I muse. "What mean you by this?" But even as I speak I realize that my voice is quite high and, looking down, cannot fail to miss the tent-like dress that's garbing my body.
"Holy haggis!" I cry, tugging at the garment, but a sudden sharp smack to my rear stills my movements.
"Woman," an imperious voice intones and, even as I'm turning around, I'm thinking 'please don't let it be Darcy, please don't let it be Darcy,' but it's not, it's Louisa! And - ah! Ah! - she has a little moustache and a curly white wig, and a long rapier dangling from her belt. "Woman," she growls again, planting her boot on my bottom and pushing me down on my knees. "What were you doing out at sea? Next time, if you wish to bathe, kindly ask and I will have your maid sponge you off. Oh, serving wench!"
Here Caroline totters out, wet rag in hand, and says, "So, where do I start? The head or the toes?"
And this is when I wake up, gasping and soaked in perspiration, very much surprised that I haven't announced my nightmare to the entire world with a bone-chilling scream. Which is all well and good, for I hear two voices in the courtyard not a very far distance away, and, flipping over onto my arms and legs, I crawl behind a large urn and crane my neck around its girth.
Only to find myself gazing at Lady Lucas and her eldest daughter.
Lady Lucas looks irritated, unsettled. Her monstrous bosom rises and falls with each agitated breath, and she can barely bring herself to look at her daughter (a problem that I'm not experiencing at the moment). Charlotte, unprotected from the chill by any shawl or warm garment, stands hugging her arms to her waist, and within me is the near over-mastering urge to whip off my coat and offer it to her.
"I don't understand you," says the mother, shaking her head. "I purposefully invited those officers and the two bachelors from the Bingley party so that you would interact with them and catch their interest perhaps."
Charlotte does not reply.
"And yet," Lady Lucas continues, "I see that you are making no efforts to ingratiate yourself to any of them."
"I assure you, mother, I spoke to a great deal of people thus far tonight."
"Oh, and you were quite effectual, as well ... there's just a legion of them fighting for your hand."
A peculiar burning sensation starts in my stomach.
"I cannot force their inclinations," Charlotte replies, lowering her head.
Lady Lucas huffs. "Perhaps you're not trying hard enough! Look at Jane Bennet. She's latched herself onto Mr. Bingley the entire evening!"
"Jane is not forward, mother. She's far too modest to show her feelings." She pauses. "Which is a shame, because I believe she must secure Mr. Bingley's affections as soon as may be, and-"
"Oh, let Jane Bennet worry for herself. She has all the qualities that will set any gentleman's tongue a-wagging."
"Mother!"
"Don't 'mother' me, Charlotte. You're not pretty, you're not lively, you have none of those distinguishing accomplishments found in fashionable gentlewomen..."
The burning sensation travels up to my throat.
"...and you're nearly an old maid. Is that what you wish to be? An unmarried nobody?"
And if I belch fire, Lady Lucas, it shall roast only your own beastly self.
Charlotte keeps her head lowered, her arms still hugged tightly to her waist.
"It's difficult, I know," her mother continues, punctuating her professed sympathy with an annoyed sigh. "It's difficult when you lack beauty and charm. Not to mention a sizeable dowry. But don't let that discourage you. There might be a gentleman out there with a far less discriminating taste, who will one day see something in you."
Upon concluding her disdainful pronouncement, Lady Lucas stamps her feet briskly and marches off inside again. Charlotte remains where she is, her eyes still cast to the ground. A breeze ruffles her dress and she rubs her hands up and down her arms. At last - swiping her cheeks twice with her finger and gulping in one long, shaky breath - she follows her mother inside.
It's only then that I realize I'm shaking. It's only then that I discover true rage.
At the moment though, I don't exactly know how to define the clenching in my stomach and the tightness in my throat. What I do know is that I've stumbled to my feet and that I'm barging back through the double doors and into the gathering again.
I run into Sir Lucas, whose eyes widen at what he sees on my face. "Mr. Hurst," he begins tentatively, "are you quite all right? You look a bit... well, bullish, really."
How apt of you, I think. And this is when I act on a sudden impulse. "Sir," I say, sounding as authoritative and forbidding as possible, "would it be too much if I requested the use of your study for a short while. There's a letter of greatest import that I must write, and it has quite slipped my mind until now!"
He nods, dumbstruck, and asks me to follow him. Down a corridor we go and into a small study with few books and an inaccurate globe that has Africa pasted to the bottom of the world and Europe divided by a dragon-filled sea.
He points to this geographical disaster and says, smiling proudly, "I made that in a cartography class back when I was in school. Isn't it nice?"
"Uh, yes, quite..." I lie, as he procures a few papers for me.
"So, who's this letter to, if you don't mind my asking? You don't have to tell me if you don't wish to."
Again, I lie. "An official missive to His Royal Highness himself."
He drops the pages. "What? You know King George personally?"
Now I don't have to fib. "Yes, I do." Which is perfectly true, dear reader. Though the good monarch was not quite sober at the time (else he wouldn't have hired me out that one night to be his personal guard). But that story shall have to wait for a time in the narrative when I am less purposeful than now.
"Very well," Sir Lucas stutters, scooping up the pages and setting out his inkwell. "I assume it's highly important and... secretive, I suppose."
"Quite," I nearly bark, and the good man bows to me (quite low, I must say) and departs with all haste from the room.
Now comes the moment of hesitation. I am sitting on her father's chair, at her father's desk, in her father's study, using her father's badly chewed quill and second-rate, inferior ink and I'm about to write her a letter. I pause, thinking of the outrage of it all, the gross violation of a good man's blind trust. For a moment, I consider dropping my foolish impulse and slipping back into the fold.
What decides me though, is the image of the young lady in question bowed against the breeze, wiping those two tears from her face.
I ponder for a few moments. How would Bingley describe a woman he admires? Surely as a more angelic, more virginal version of Venus, a goddess who will enfold him gently in her white arms. And Darcy? Ever eager for a challenge, he'd wish for some flashing-eyed Minerva to spar with day and night.
Then, what of me?
Altering my usual handwriting beyond recognition (making it resemble a hybrid of Louisa's and my own), I pen the following note:
"Lottie,
Some men wish for a bewitching Venus or a bold Minerva; others for an elusive Diana or proud Juno. But you embody the most necessary and vital goddess of all - Vesta, keeper of hearth and home. With your practical wisdom and innate sensibility, gentle temper and understated flame of wit, you are the soul of all that is comfortable and cherished. Anyone who truly understands this cannot help but admire and respect those qualities that shall burn in you forever."
And so I conclude this brief missive and, for a moment, even consider signing it. But, upon thinking of the fit of shrieking that rash action would most inevitably produce, I resign myself to contriving a way for her to receive the note, without knowing its author.
Resuming from the previous chapter, I have in my hand an anonymous letter meant to console Miss Lucas (I bear her all formal respect) and inform her of her true, inner worth, at least as I see it. The only problem is that I can't think of a way to convey it to her. I can't very well walk up to her and press it into her palm. And I certainly can't trust anyone else to serve as a discreet middleman between the two of us. So there's only one other solution - to leave it in a place where she will surely find it.
And the only place I can think of, where no else but she will see it, is her bedchamber.
Let me say this now, as a disclaimer - I am not a cad. I am not a sly and slinking fox. I am not a lascivious toad, a fulsome, wagging-tongued womanizer. I am, quite simply... stupid.
The way I see it, Lucas Lodge is not very large and, at present, the upstairs floor should be vacant. All the Lucas family is in the first floor parlor, and the servants are either attending to them or enjoying the surplus food and wine in their below-ground quarters.
If I sneak upstairs, I shall be able to find her bedchamber easily, I believe. Aside from Charlotte and the horrendous Lady Lucas, who would no doubt reside in a larger suite of rooms, there is only one other female in the Lucas clan, and that is Mariah. And I imagine that I shall be able to distinguish Mariah's room from her sister's.
Somehow.
Contriving to get upstairs is very easy. All one has to do is feign a headache, and an attentive host will offer the use of a bedchamber for some brief, restorative repose. Letter carefully folded up and tucked beside my heart, I make my way into the parlor again.
No one from my party notices me. Bingley is immersed in conversation with Miss Jane and is hovering so near the good lady that he is in danger of tipping his drink into her decolletage. Darcy, leaning against the mantle again, will, at any moment I believe, vomit up his supper, and Caroline, eyeing him wistfully from the sofa, is the very picture of affected boredom. Off to the side stand Miss Elizabeth and Charlotte, both glancing quite often in the direction of Bingley and the elder Miss Bennet and no doubt painting my in-law with colorful commentary.
And Louisa, I see, is nowhere in sight.
"Mr. Hurst!" Mr. Lucas suddenly materializes at my side. "Have you wrapped up your pressing business?" He favors me with a conspiratorial wink.
"Why, yes, indeed..." I reply, struggling to look exhausted (which does not require much acting on my part). "Only," I continue, "I believe the sudden stress of remembering such important affairs has left me with quite a headache."
"Oh, dear!" muses he, looking positively affrighted. I suddenly feel guilty - disguise of any sort is usually an abhorrence to me, and it would not make the good man happy if he knew that I was making a few ethical exceptions on behalf of his daughter.
"Sir," he proclaims, taking me by the arm and leading me out of the room, "I shall personally escort you to a guestroom where you will be able to lie down for a short while. Thus you shall not leave Lucas Lodge without fully experiencing its amenities."
I love the man. Simply love him.
"Yes," he says, leading me up the stairwell to the second floor, "an elegant guestroom indeed, at the end of the hall by my daughter's room."
"Daughter..." I mumble.
"My eldest, Charlotte. You see, Miss Elizabeth Bennet is a frequent guest at this house, and there have been occasions when she had to stay overnight on account of unexpected foul weather, and so we usually install her in this very room, for it is by Charlotte's room, and the two are quite close."
I did mention that I love this man, right? Adore him.
"Yes, Miss Elizabeth praises this guestroom no end. I've asked her, several times, if she's liked it, if she thinks that it's the very epitome of refinement. And, with all sincerity, she's told me that - aside from the pea under the mattress - there's very little to complain of. Of course, I've had the servants look under the mattress to remove this offending vegetable, but they haven't been able to find it yet. Perhaps it's in the mattress itself, which I sincerely hope is not the case, for then there'd be no way of extracting it without turning everything inside out and-"
"A harmless pea," says I, stifling an upsurge of laughter, "won't bother a man of my stature. I will most certainly squish it."
"Sir," he squeezes my arm, "I am indebted to you."
He deposits me in the chamber, which is pleasant and airy, and, letter still enfolded near my breast, I lie down for a quarter of an hour, trying to calm my nerves. It is no small matter, stealing into a lady's chamber as I am planning to do... no small matter indeed. Though I am quite assured that no one shall come upon me, what with the bustle of the gathering, the thought alone, the implications of the deed, leave me quite breathless. I will inform you, from the start, that I am not a courageous man. I am frightened of bumblebees, of large dogs, of dead pigs with apples in their mouths (I have a vague premonition that I shall overeat one day and fall, face-first with food in my mouth, right onto my plate)... in short, I am not a daring gentleman.
Yet every time I close my eyes, I see the object of my admiration casting those two surreptitious tears from her face, and the thought fortifies me with resolve. And so I stumble to my feet and, tiptoeing out of the room (I tiptoe, rather than walk, because it accentuates the dramatic tension), slip into the chamber one door down from the guestroom, assuming that it will be Charlotte's room.
It's pitch dark, but for a single candle burning on a shelf on the far wall. I look about for a lady's bureau, a chest of drawers and a mirror, but I can make out none. Perhaps it's in an adjoining dressing room? I hardly know, being very unacquainted with a lady's personal matters (yes, I know that I'm a married man, so shut it and spare me your surprise). A few embers glow from a hearth and, after brief consideration, I think to deposit the letter on the mantle. But, after determining upon further thought that, with my good fortune, it would probably drift from its perch and rekindle the ashes, I decide to leave it on her pillow.
As my eyes grow accustomed to the dark, I dimly make out a bed, and, trembling all over, I waveringly weave my way towards it. My foot clunks against something hollow and wooden, and vaguely I perceive a children's toy - a tiny wooden horse - skidding into the foot-board with a thunk. So she likes horses, I smile, and promptly step on a shabby-looking wooden sword, which flips up into the air and clatters to my right.
You'd think that, by this point, I'd be processing the hints presented to me by my new, unfamiliar environment but, as they say ('they' being a very wise group of people who never err and always speak in aphorisms): nervousness begets idiocy.
And so I find myself at the bedside, and so I remove the intimate letter from my pocket, and so I set it upright against the bridge of a small child's nose. And so the small child - a young boy, from what I can ascertain in the shadows - stirs and swats the letter off his face. It lands somewhere in the dark.
"Good Lord," I breathe.
"Are you a bogey?" a shy, sleepy voice inquires from the pillow.
Shaking off the overpowering urge to remain frozen, I fall to my hands and knees and begin to search for my missive.
"You can tell me. I'll keep it a secret."
"Uh, well, no I'm not a bogey," I splutter, sending my hands under the bed.
"Well even if you are, I'm not afraid," mumbles the child.
Good, I think, he must be half-asleep yet.
He stirs in the bed. "My sister told me there are no such things as bogeys."
"She's absolutely right," I reply, silently cursing to myself.
"I don't know if she's right. She simply never had a bogey visit her. She's a girl and bogeys only visit boys."
"They sure do."
"So, does that mean you're a bogey?"
"No, no..."
"You smell like one."
I put my hands to my head.
"You smell like papa on a hot summer day. And you look pretty large to me."
Oh, great, he's more awake than I think.
"Do you eat little boys?" he asks, his voice suddenly small.
I sigh. "You're quite safe from me. My favorite food is duck."
"Do you rip their heads off with your teeth?"
"No, no... they're pretty dead and well-cooked by the time I ever see them."
A pause. Still no letter.
"What are you doing?" the child asks with a yawn.
"N-nothing..."
"Are you trying to sneak up on me?"
"If I am I'm not doing a good job of it."
He yawns again and tumbles over in bed. "If you do, I'll take my sword out and stab you through your heart."
My fingers clutch around the square, folded paper. Saved! I stumble to my feet and lurch around the bed again.
"You're leaving?" asks the boy.
"Why yes!" I exclaim. "I'm sure you'd wish to be rid of me at this hour."
"Not so hasty, bogey-man."
"What now?"
"No one leaves my room at night without telling me a story. Not papa, not Charlotte, and not my governess."
"Look, child, I haven't got time to weave you any stories."
"Oh, really?"
I can tell that he's struggling to sit up. I edge towards the door.
"Stop!" he barks in a shrill voice, and I cringe, nearly dropping the letter again.
"I don't know who you are, but if you don't tell me a story right now, I'll scream so loud the whole house will come down on you."
I gasp. "Are you serious?"
"Yes." He settles back down against his pillow. "So tell me a story. Else I won't be able to fall back asleep... and it's the least you can do, silly bogey-man, after waking me up the way you did."
I lean against the wall, brushing sweat from my brow.
"Very well, very well," I soothe, searching through my head for a quick, suitable tale. This is the first one that comes to mind:
"Not very long ago, in the city of London, there lived a very beautiful woman. Eyes the color of cocoa powder, lips the color of strawberries, hair the color of pecans, and a face like a fresh peach. Only thing was, she was missing a leg."
"A leg?" the child exclaims. "Why's that?"
"Because that's just the way she was born. And everyone lamented it. From her first day on earth they all said she would amount to nothing more than an unproductive invalid. But she proved them all wrong, family and friends alike. Supporting herself on a crutch, she enjoyed fine walks through the parks of London, played with her younger brothers and sisters, and didn't act for once as if she were any different from them."
"What was her name?"
"Mildred. It means 'gentle strength'" I pause. "In any case, this Mildred was an exceptional young lady. She was well-read, well-bred, could tinkle out any tune on the pianoforte, and could speak flawlessly in five languages (including Pig Latin, a private tongue she invented herself). Yet it seemed that, though she had proven everyone wrong in regards to her capabilities, her circle of acquaintances still looked at her as... as, well, freakish... and never for once thought that she'd be able to wed. Indeed, young men would come to her house, curious about this strong lady and her unusual physique, but most of them would not make further attempts to know her better. The few less shallow gentlemen who - entranced with her intelligence and accomplishments - did seem as if they would court her, never pressed their suit, and raised her hopes only to dash them.
"Mildred's mother, tired of seeing her daughter suffer silently with these heartaches, declared that if a gentleman even so much as wished to be friends with her daughter, he'd first have to prove his worth. And along came a gentleman of such merit - Sylvester was his name. He had whiskers as long as the wings of an albatross (though not as thick), and a stout, portly, peasantly physique. Seeing as he had only a moderate amount of wealth, not much property, and no striking figure, no one thought much of him, which was fine with him, for he thought little of them. Mildred, however, managed to capture his heart. Spotting her at an amateur music recital, where he had performed without error on the triangle and the hurdy-gurdy, he was struck with her quiet dignity and the way she was able to carry herself, crutch or no crutch, like the most graceful gentlewoman in fashionable society. He determined, right then, to pursue her.
"But, of course, there was Mildred's mother to get through. After sizing him up and concluding that he wasn't a rake, she assigned him a series of tasks to undertake before he could even venture to make his intentions known to young Mildred. The first involved appetite. Mildred's mother was quite convinced that any husband of her daughter's would have to be robust, and robustness she equated with appetite. Inviting Sylvester to dine with her alone one evening, she laid out before him a veritable banquet to see how much he could actually stuff into himself. And to think how amazed the woman was when she saw that he could eat, within a span of three hours, two turkeys, ten potatoes, three bowls of black pudding, five heads of cabbage, and a rack of lamb. He also seemed quite unaffected afterwards. She passed a hand before his eyes to ascertain if he had gone blind, but he could still see; and, upon sniffing the air to determine whether he had managed to conduct himself with proper etiquette throughout, found that there was nothing to take offense in."
"Wow, he really ate that much?"
"Yes, indeed," I affirm with no little pride, "he was quite the gastronomical Hercules."
"What next?"
"Another attribute the mother wished to encourage in her daughter's potential suitor was indifference towards the opinions of others. You see, other gentlemen, though enamored of her daughter's wit and character, had always pulled back for fear of the ridicule that would be heaped upon them by their friends. So Mildred's mama was absolutely determined to make sure that this Sylvester cared little for what others thought of him. His next task then, was to walk up and down her street twenty times wearing a nightgown and a lady's turban. And this he did, all while belting 'Scarborough Fair' at the top of his lungs.
"At this point, Mildred's mother was quite impressed. Yet, as a final issue, she had to ensure that the gentleman was also cultured enough to be the intellectual companion of her daughter. So she invited him in for tea one afternoon and subjected him to a ruthless examination involving history, music, art, and science. And, though Sylvester didn't know Vienna from Madrid, his answers were so inventive that he quite impressed her with his imagination. For instance, he claimed that Galileo discovered Arabia, Napoleon's wife was named Lulu, and Bach had a long lost son, Peter Daniel Quincy, who moved to the colonies, stuck a feather in his hat, and composed the legendary 1712 Overture (commemorating the successful harvest of his first tobacco crop).
"And so, Sylvester was finally permitted to acquaint himself with fair Mildred. Unbeknownst to him, and to her mother, she had been kept informed of his arduous trials the whole time, and quite taken with his determination, his sincerity, and his easy-going nature, accepted his marriage proposal and lived with him happily ever after."
I hear a yawn, and the child slumps further under the sheets and mutters, half-asleep again: "Of course they live happily ever after. It's made-up."
"No not really, child," I whisper, as I softly steal out of the room. "For that is the story of my parents, G-d bless their souls."
Finding myself in the hallway again, I am filled with new courage. If my father could go through that much for my mother, I could surely do the daring deed I am about to undertake next. Letter in hand, I creep to the door across the hall from the guestroom and open it a crack. Yes, this is what her father meant when he said her room was next to the guest chamber. I slip in and look about for a candle to light, little suspecting that I shall soon be entrenched in Miss Lucas's wardrobe for nearly an hour.
Posted On: Saturday, 23 November 2002, at 8:47 p.m.
I continue to stumble about in the dark, searching for a few candles to light. The fire has gone very low, and as I pass by it, I cast about for a poker to stoke it up again. Finding one at last, I poke and prod into the embers, until the blaze revives itself and I can see the room more clearly.
Everything is bathed in shadow and a mellow golden-orange light - a four-poster bed, a bureau with a mirror, a small bookstand topped by a vase of flowers, and a gigantic wardrobe, large as the bellows of an enormous stove. On a rocking chair by the fire I see some unfinished knitting and sewing; amongst the spools of thread, the yarn and needles, I find a handkerchief with the initials C.A.L. embroidered on them. Yes, this is the right room.
I wonder what the A stands for. Probably Anne. There's nary a woman in England who doesn't have 'Anne' in her name somewhere. But, maybe it's different; at least I'd like to think it is. Perhaps it's Amaryllis or Aglaia or Anastasia or Arachne... no wait, not Arachne. (Right, Hurst: the itsy-bitsy Lottie went up the waterspout...)
I try to shake off my nonsensical musings. Drop the letter somewhere, thinks I, and be gone from her room. But I find that I like being here. I don't rifle through her belongings or anything devious like that, but simply stand by the fireplace, looking about me, relishing the privacy and domesticity. So this is where she is most herself. This room, away from all polite society, alone with her thoughts. The idea is compelling. This is where she is when she does not have to bestow courteous smiles, and murmur pleasant 'indeeds,' and feign an interest in insipid conversation. I wonder what she's like when she's on her own. I glance over at the bed, but quickly nip that line of thought at its bud.
No, I won't even go near the bed. Stay pure in thought, Hurst, be a monk, I admonish myself, and ponder where else I could place the letter where a draft won't knock it away or a careless servant won't brush it into the fireplace.
Trapped in my indecision, I scarcely hear the footsteps and voices before they are almost upon me. I gasp, remembering that, beyond the guestroom, there's a service stairway that the servants use; from there comes the present swell of footfalls and hushed voices. For a moment I'm seized with a white terror, a panic that liquefies my insides and sends the few hairs that I have standing up on my scalp. I hear women, chatting noisily, drawing nearer, and, discerning that it's too late to slip out of the room unseen, I instead dive towards the wardrobe, rip open the doors, and plunge into a mass of dresses.
What a lovely scent, I manage to think, even as I'm tugging the doors closed behind me. I would pull them completely shut, but my size prevents me, and so they remain open a crack, where I can peer out into the room.
Two serving-girls enter. One has a crescent-shaped birthmark on her cheek - I shall call her Moony. The other, whose mouth hangs open, I shall call Trout.
"Do you think it's right to bring him up here?" Trout asks.
"We're not having a romp or anything," replies Moony, rolling her eyes. "I just want to get him way from Sarah. She's been hanging on him the whole evening."
"So we're just going to chat a bit, right?"
"Of course. Do you think we'll be fooling with the fellow in Miss Charlotte's room?"
"No, no indeed!" Trout protests, her mouth falling open even more. "I like Miss Charlotte too much... maybe we shouldn't even be here at all."
"Don't worry so much," Moony soothes. "I posted Cecilia at the top of the main stairs, so if Miss Charlotte or anyone else heads up that way she'll give us fair warning."
"You trust Cecilia?"
"She's as thick as a slab of butter, but she does have eyes, you know. A harmless girl, worships the ground I walk on."
"Yes, but-"
"Look, Miss Charlotte's is the best room in the house. The most comfortable, the most homey, and the closest to the back stairs, so we can make off quickly if we need to. And someone's already come in here and stoked up the fire." She spins around. "We're living like nobility now!"
"True... but I don't want to make a mess of anything."
"No, no... we'll settle on the rug by the fire. So come on, let's bring him up here already. He's waiting at the stairs."
Damn, I think, no time to slip out then. As they leave the room, I begin to wonder who this 'him' is. I don't like the thought of another male in her room. Very hypocritical of me, I know, seeing as I'm presently swamped in her dresses... and they're unimaginably soft and smell of cinnamon and lilacs.
A haze builds in my mind, dulling my more rational faculties, softening my sharper senses. I realize, though, that I won't have much time - or inclination - to indulge in the comfort, when I hear the deep, jovial voice coming from the hall.
"Well, ladies, it's so kind of you to escort me up here!"
And even as he walks through the door, Moony and Trout hanging off him like baboons on a banana tree, my mouth has fallen open - ingesting one of Charlotte's sleeves - as I think, "Good G-d, not my valet!"
But, yes, it's Rupert, very much the proud rooster among the rumpled hens. He leads them over to the hearth, which happens to be directly in my line of view, and I watch - with a mixture of annoyance and shock - as he settles down on the rug with them, their profiles to me, feet stretched parallel to the fire. I can see him tickle them under their chins and settle their heads upon his shoulders.
"So comfortable here," he sighs smoothly.
"And romantic, too," says Moony, with a suggestive waggle of her brows.
"Why, yes indeed, my fair Luna," he croons.
Luna. He's calling her Luna. It saddens me to think that I'm not much more creative (and poetic) than my valet.
"But," he continues, assuming an expression of dignity and restraint, "I plan to act very much the gentleman towards you both. You have nothing to fear from me."
They sigh at him, and I feel like gagging. Then I realize why - the sleeve's still in my mouth. I carefully let it fall out, reminding myself to wipe it dry the moment I'm more at liberty to move around. Only I'm not certain when that will be.
"You could have confused me for a gentleman," Trout puts in shyly.
"Well, I AM of noble stock," he says off-handedly, smiling as they both gasp.
"Truly?" they exclaim.
"Why yes... it's why my mother gave me the name of Rupert Edward Arthur Andrews III. I come from the esteemed Andrews family of northern England."
"What happened to them?" Moon gasps.
Rupert sighs dramatically. "Lord Andrews was a wastrel. Lived beyond his means. He had a weakness for exotic birds and snakes - boas and cackatoos and parakoots and dodos. Brought them in from India and the New World. He simply couldn't stop spending money on them."
"Your house must have been a barn!" Trout exclaims.
"An exotic barn, yes," he concurs. "With scarabs, as well, did I mention those?"
"Scarabs?"
"Yes, another kind of... snake. They're uh, they're about as long as chimneys and they've twice as many teeth as you have fingers and toes."
They shiver, and he draws them nearer. I'm beginning to feel quite sick again.
"What did your mother do about it all?" asks Moony.
"You mean, the Countess?"
"Countess?!"
"Yes, of course. An Italian noblewoman from Roma."
"Wow..." they exclaim.
"She..." he pauses for dramatic effect. "She was almost never at home. She threw herself into several torrid love affairs - with merchants, with local gentry... once, even with a chimney-sweep. That's how I probably came into the world."
"You're the son of a chimney-sweep and a countess?"
No, you moony, moon-faced, gawking girl! I want to scream. He's the son of my father's valet and my parents' housekeeper (may they both rest in peace).
"No one's quite sure. I may be Lord Andrews' legitimate son... or not. It little matters. The way he wasted his money, he was no wealthier than a chimney-sweep by the end of his days. I lived in his mansion, his opulent barn, for the first eleven years of my life. My mother ran away for good when I was eight, which made us a very lonely pair, Lord Andrews and I. He never quite trusted me; he was always looking to see if I resembled him in any way, if I was truly his son. So I tried to please him. I'd clean the animal cages for him, teach his pets tricks. I taught his parrot to converse in fluent French."
"You know French?"
"Wee-wee!" he cries, clapping his hands together. "You amour me, my belle soeur!"
Moony, little thinking that he's just referred to her as his beautiful sister, titters and plants a clumsy kiss on his cheek. Trout, feeling considerably put out at her friend's flirtatious action, directs the topic of conversation to more mournful matters.
"How did your father die?" she asks.
"One of the scarabs ate him," is Rupert's simple reply, which produces a fit of shrieking from the girls.
"Ladies, ladies," he soothes, stroking their hair. "It was a painless death, truly."
"So, how did you get to be a valet?" whispers Moony.
"Well, seeing as Lord Andrews died penniless, he could leave me no money in his will. And seeing that he never truly did believe I was his son, he left the ruined estate to a distant cousin of his, who promptly turned me out of doors when I was twelve. I made my way to London, as all vagrants eventually do, and, after working many odd jobs and acquiring numerous new skills, I was taken in to a gentleman's house and rose to the ranks of valet."
"Wow... you're fascinating," Moony breathes.
A snort nearly escapes my mouth, and it's only with a quiet cough that I suppress it. The girls don't hear me, but Rupert's head turns sharply in my direction. The scamp has a keen sense of hearing. After spending many an evening dodging shady creditors and fellow cock-fighting enthusiasts, he's honed his ears to attune to the slightest stir in the shadows, the faintest splash of a foot in a puddle.
He stares at the wardrobe for a few moments, probing out the crack between the two doors, where my belly presses protestingly against them.
A small, mischievous smile forms on his face.
"I'm quite pleased with the gentleman I work for now," he says, casting a sideways glance in my direction. I suck a sleeve back into my mouth to keep from openly blurting out my surprise.
"Is that... what's his name?" muses Trout. "Rhymes with burst."
"No, no, there isn't an 's' in his last name," argues Moony.
"There is so, isn't there?" Trout pouts, imploring Rupert with her dull, coppery eyes.
"I'd rather keep you guessing, sweet lady."
"Hmmm... I'm sure that it sounds like burst," she continues, her mouth gaping in contemplative dismay. "That's what Melanie said, and-"
"Melanie has no memory for names," Moony snorts. "I say it sounds a lot like 'birth' or 'girth' or-"
"Firth?"
"No, not that, either! Rupert, please, help us out!"
"Hurst," he whispers smoothly, and I shiver at the sound of my own name.
"I told you, I told you it sounded like-"
"Fine, fine," Moony grumbles. "So," she's quick to change the subject, "what's he like?"
"Oh, a decent enough fellow... not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but generally a good sort of soul. Has an astonishing sleep disorder, though. I've woken up mornings and found him curled up among the soot in the kitchen, or stretched out on the settee in the parlor... once, he was in his dressing-room with his head in the tub and his feet in the chamber-pot!"
They BURST into a fit of giggling.
"He is of the Bingley party, right?" Trout asks, when she's managed to gulp down the last of her laughter.
"Yes, indeed."
"Speaking of the Bingley party," Moony interjects, "I happened to see the most astonishing sight!" She clears her throat. "Well, I didn't see it, but Richard did when he was serving out more wine, and the way he describes things, it makes you feel like you're there."
"Well, get to it already!" Trout cries.
"Very well, very well! Turns out that the Mr. Darcy from Derbyshire - you know, the rich, gloomy one - was flat out refused by Miss Elizabeth when he asked her to dance with him! Just this evening, right in our parlor!"
"You're joking?" Rupert says, grinning.
"No, not at all! The way Richard tells it, she happened to walk by when he and Master Lucas were talking, and Master Lucas took her by the elbow and presented her to Mr. Darcy as a fine, pretty partner. Mr. Darcy then actually asked her to dance with him - Richard heard it himself, close to the three as he was - and she said that she wasn't inclined to dance!"
"How did Mr. Darcy take it?" asks Rupert.
"I'm not sure... Richard said he just stood there looking at her after she left."
"Tell me, does Miss Charlotte fancy Mr. Darcy?" is Rupert's next remark.
"If she does," puts in Trout, "we can't tell."
"Any suitors at her door?"
Moony sighs. "No, not really. Which is quite a shame, because Miss Charlotte is a very fine lady. Kind, gentle, wise and good."
Predictably enough, I begin to warm up to Moony at this point.
"What does she do with her time, then, if she doesn't entertain gentlemen callers?"
"Oh, many things!" Trout is eager to answer. "She fairly runs Lucas Lodge. And, when she's not busy with that, she sews, she reads, she gardens, she entertains friends... Miss Elizabeth Bennet being her closest companion. You can often see them sitting in our courtyard, out on the bench with the quilt, chatting and laughing."
The bench? That very bench I lay upon? I smile to think of it.
"Oh, yes, she's not an idle one," Moony adds. "All us servants think highly of her."
They pass many minutes more in such talk, in which I learn that Charlotte's favorite color is purple, that she loves to go outdoors right after it's been raining, that none of the servants have ever seen her cry or go into hysterical fits as some ladies are prone to. Slowly, surely, Rupert draws more information out, glancing often at the wardrobe and the crack between the doors, until I've almost forgiven him for his early comments about my supposedly unusual sleeping habits.
Then, fairly winking at me - how can he see me, I wonder? - he says, "Well, ladies, perhaps we've tarried here too long. I shouldn't wish to further invade the private space of such a fine gentlewoman as Miss Charlotte Lucas."
The two serving-girls comply, and the trio gathers itself up and departs from the room.
Waiting a few moments longer, to make sure none of them unexpectedly return, I wipe dry the miserable, drool-ridden sleeve of Charlotte's dress, extract myself from the wardrobe without much disorder, quickly drop the letter at the foot of her bed - multiplying in threes so as to banish unchaste thoughts from my mind - and slip out into the hallway. My heart hammers in my chest, and I've released enough sweat to float the Swiss navy. Wait, Switzerland doesn't have a navy. Um, the Spanish Armada then.
Collecting myself, I make my way down the grand stairwell, consciously maintaining an unfazed appearance, but, still not quite ready to face polite company, I weave through the parlor and go outdoors to the courtyard again. Only to hear Louisa's voice, from behind the enormous urn, exclaim:
"You mean, he's alive? Wilhelm's alive?!"