Beginning, Previous Section, Section III, Next Section
Posted On: Monday, 2 December 2002, at 6:14 p.m.
My eyes have widened considerably, and my nostrils have flared out to twice their breadth - that's what I'd be telling you if I were able to see my face.
I am shocked. So... Wilhelm Von Glugerschplontz (a.k.a. Wilhelm Foxtrot) is alive! I draw nearer, for Louisa's voice has plummeted to a whisper.
"I don't believe it, I don't believe it, I don't believe it," she repeats again and again.
"Mrs. Hurst, would you like to sit?" the solicitous Colonel Arthur Forster inquires. I can see the silver gray streak of his hair just over the rim of the urn.
"No, nonsense!" Louisa snaps, panting hard. "Oh, good Lord... how long has he been in England?"
"Well, I returned last year, but he made a stop in Germany first to visit his relatives, and has arrived only four months ago."
"You mean... he didn't seek me out?"
I wince at the heartbreak in her voice.
Forster coughs. "Mrs. Hurst-"
"Call me Louisa, please! The last thing I need to be reminded of now is my marital status!"
Well, lah dee dah, Miss Louisa.
"Calm yourself," Forster admonishes. "And it's because of your marital status that he did not yet pay you a visit."
"How did he find out?"
"When I arrived in London I learned of it and sent him a letter. He had hoped that you would wait for him, but..."
"Oh, no... oh, dear G-d... how was I to know? My father told me that he'd died!" A sniffle. "He told me that you sent him a letter saying that... that Wilhelm was k-killed in a battle!"
"I sent no such thing!"
A heavy silence.
"He lied to me, then," Louisa finally whispers. "My own father lied to me, and... and now my happiness is irrevocably destroyed. Oh, Arthur... this is worse than news of his death. Knowing that he's in England now, that he's-"
"In Meryton."
"WHAT?!"
"Mrs. Hur - Mrs. Louisa I beg of you to keep your voice down."
"He's... here?"
"As part of my company, yes. As a fellow colonel."
"You know, Arthur, you could have mentioned that at the beginning! It's not exactly an irrelevant tidbit of information!"
"Sorry."
"Oh, oh... oh, oh... I have to see him!" Then, immediately, "No, he must hate me, he must despise me!"
"He doesn't. He's simply... crushed."
"Poor Wilhelm. If only he knew." Pause. "You must tell him."
"Tell him what?"
"You must tell him that I married not because I grew impatient, but because I was... I was lied to! You must tell him that."
"Very well, but..."
"And once you do, call on me and tell me his reaction, how he takes the news... and if it's favorable, I want you to arrange a meeting between us."
"But Louisa, you're a married lady and you can't be-"
"You dunderhead!" she barks. "I'm not referring to a tryst, a rendez-vous, a romp! I am merely suggesting an afternoon tea in town, with servants in the room, and all manner of eyes upon us. Do you understand?"
"Yes, yes..."
"DO YOU?!"
"Yes." A gasp of air. "Good Lord, woman, he always did say your temper excited him."
A sweet sigh from Louisa. "Did he talk of me often?"
"All the time. In the deepest heart of the jungle, he'd look about at the muck, the mud, the mosquitoes... and think only of you."
"Wilhelm! My dearest Wilhelm... oh, but tell me, was he ever injured?"
"Yes, a few times, but nothing serious."
"What was the worst?" she breathes.
"I'm not sure this story is fit for a well-bred lady."
"Try me."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Arthur... we are not in the parlor now. I said, try me."
He sighs. I see his fingers rake back through his hair. "Very well. It was early one morning, when we were still out in the wilderness. Amenities are quite poor when you're in the jungle. For instance, it's not like you can bathe in private."
"Oh... well of course," Louisa concurs with some sultry warmth in her voice.
"So, early one morning, Wilhelm went to a local spring to wash himself. He assumed that he would be alone, and there would be no one to disturb him. He was always a fastidious man, you know, bathing more than the rest of us, especially because he wanted to keep his... hair, but, I mean not the hair on his head, but-"
"The hair on his back, Arthur?"
He gasps. "How do you know about that?"
"His shirt was untucked once, and he wasn't wearing an evening coat. Or waistcoat, for that matter... no, don't look at me like that; I merely watched him fencing, that's all. I could see the outline of it against the linen, and" her voice turning mischievous, "some of the hair creeping over the waist of his trousers."
Colonel Forster seems to sway a little. I hope Louisa catches him if he falls.
"Well," utters he, after a stunned pause, "perhaps my story WILL be polite enough for you."
"Indeed. Now do go on."
"In any case, he always wished to keep that - tuft of hair - at its glossiest. So he'd wash very often, whenever he could. And early one morning, he went down there, um, prepared himself for bathing..."
"Stripped, you mean," Louisa breathes.
He gruffly clears his throat. "I suppose, but, instead of immediately entering the water, he chose to stand on the bank a little. He said he did it to relish the jungle heat against his skin -"
I can imagine - well, I really DON'T want to imagine - what Louisa's dreams will be like tonight.
"- and to simply... commune with nature, I believe that's how he put it. Army life is always so frenetic, and that morning he had a little more time than usual, as we were not planning to move until noon."
"Mmmm... so what happened?"
"Someone else came down to bathe that morning, as well, a new member of our company who was as yet unfamiliar with Wilhelm's, uh... orange shock. When he came upon the spring, the colonel was crouching by the waters, testing them with his fingers, so that only his backside was in view to the approaching man. And, upon seeing that enormous tuft of hair - which Wilhelm couldn't keep neatly trimmed, razors being a luxury in the wild - he confused him for a... a beast of some sort."
"What kind of beast?" Louisa inquires suspiciously.
"Mrs. Hurst..."
"It's Louisa, darling - we're old friends after all."
"Louisa..."
"A tiger, maybe?" she suggests with an impertinent giggle.
"No, not really... you see, this soldier had previously spent some time in the Dutch East Indies, and in that place there are, well..."
"Well what?"
"He confused Wilhelm for an orangutan! There, are you satisfied, madam?"
"An orangutan? What's that?"
"An enormous, pot-bellied, orange-haired ape!"
Louisa gasps. "How dare he! Wilhelm looks nothing like the sort!"
"I know, but, as I said, Colonel Foxtrot's backside was to the-"
"Oh, yes, I nearly forgot... his backside, yes, mmmm..."
"Ehem, quite. In any case, this soldier, who had been attacked by a... a heated female orangutan back in the Dutch East Indies... assumed that all such apes were dangerous, and so he picked up a rock..."
"Oh, no!"
"... and hurled it at Wilhelm."
"Dear G-d! What happened?"
"The back hair absorbed some of the impact, but otherwise the blow left him with quite a nasty bruise."
"Oh, was that mongrel punished? Flogged?"
"Wilhelm would not allow it. Understanding the mistake, he instead made the contrite soldier his personal attendant for the remaining four years of the campaign, an errand-boy if you will. He was so grateful to Wilhelm that, whenever we were out in the wild, he even forfeited his own razors to keep the colonel's backside a little neater and more... human-like."
Louisa sighs. "Oh, he's always been too good. Tell me more, please, I'd love to hear about his adventures!"
"Perhaps he shall tell you himself. I think he'll very much want to see you. Now, I think we have been missing too long. Come, here's a kerchief, compose yourself, and let us join the others."
I take this as my cue to exit, making my way back into the parlor before I am discovered by Louisa and her co-conspirator.
The dancing is still underway when I enter, and Miss Jane and Bingley have joined in - the former graceful, the latter a bit over-eager. He's russet as an apple, his eyes beaming sheer joy and optimism to such an extent that it would surely stagger me if I were not already staggered by the news I'd just heard outside. I look about for Lottie, and find her in conversation with a thick-lipped officer whose Adam's apple would rival a musket-ball for size. On pretense of getting a drink - what else? - I slip closer.
"This is the finest gathering I've ever been to," says the officer.
"I'm glad you are enjoying it."
"How could I not? For never was there such... agreeableness, all in one room." He eyes her intently.
Satisfaction swells within me when her lips purse in distaste. "Indeed, sir, it is a fine company we have here tonight."
"The size of the room is very... sizeable. And the number of couples dancing are... one, two, three... no wait, those are children, they shouldn't count as a couple... let me start over - one, two, three... oh, look, Mr. Bingley and Miss Bennet just stepped out, so I can't count them as the fourth, can I?"
"No, indeed," Lottie sighs, forcing a smile and lifting a brow.
"But those two I can... so that would make five? Yes, five couples dancing!"
"I believe you must be right."
"Quite the right number of couples to be dancing in a room of this size."
"Any more and the floor would surely cave in," she remarks.
"Would it really? What a pity... but, look, the children are taking a rest now, too, so perhaps it would be all right for us to join in. That is, if you'd be willing."
Her eyes widen. She looks around her quickly; I suppose she's searching for Miss Elizabeth, who is, at the moment, speaking to another officer at the opposite end of the room. Her eyes even alight on me once, and I can see the mute imploration in them. Anything, she needs anything and/or anyone to get her out of this predicament.
"Miss Lucas," I suddenly venture.
"Yes, Mr. Hurst," she replies with a mixture of hope and hesitation.
"Miss Lucas," I repeat, at a loss for what to say. It's not as if I have a plan, dear reader. Take pity on me!
She raises her eyebrows, and I wish to sink into the floor; she must think me as addle-brained as her present companion. To make matters worst, when I look at her I am reminded of the inside of her wardrobe, the inside of her room, the fire by the hearth...
"Mr. Hurst, are you all right?" she inquires.
My mouth pops open - trout, trout, trout - and I nod mutely. Then quickly shake my head.
"Come, there's a sitting room nearby where you can rest. Let me show you to it." After a quick 'excuse me' to the officer, who huffs and promptly turns his attention to an unoccupied Kitty Bennet, she beckons me to follow her out of the room.
Once we are in the corridor - her cinnamon-lilac scent clinging to me until, like Odessyus in the land of the Lotus-eaters, I wish for nothing more than to roll about on the floor and be drugged for the rest of my days - she turns to me and whispers, "Are you truly unwell?"
Still unable to speak, I shake my head. Then quickly nod.
A puzzled frown creases her sensible features and, a few steps later, we find ourselves in the sitting room, chilly with disuse.
"Here, I shall stoke up the fire," she offers.
At this point, I find my tongue. "No, no... let me do it."
"Truly, sir, that's not necessary..."
"Truly, madam, it is." And with an eager step I walk over to the hearth and begin to stir up the flames.
When I turn back to face her, she's wearing an amused smile. "Your step is a bit quick for one who's not well."
"Uh..." I drop the poker with all the clumsiness at my disposal and scratch at the back of my head.
"It's all right," she continues, "I understand. A gathering such as this can try one's patience."
"Indeed," I declare, "I much more greatly prefer to be here with you."
Oh, good Lord no! Did I just say that out loud? Heat rushes to my face at the implication of my words. "I meant, I prefer to be alone... but, that is, if you wish to stay, too, it would be fine, I suppose... it's your home, after all... I can't tell you where to go..."
Shoot me. Draw your pistols, blindfold me, march me to a wall, and be rid of me. Now.
Her smile widens, as she pinches back an eruption of laughter. "Staying here would surely mean neglecting my duties as a hostess. There are other guests present tonight as well, sir."
"Why, yes of course, and far be it from me to stand in your way!" I cry. Then, sighing and slumping my shoulders, I add, "And you must think that, given the impression I've made thus far, I am one of the more idiotic ones that your father happened to invite."
Her face expresses surprise.
"What is it?" I mumble.
"Oh, well..." now it's her turn to be flustered. "I've rarely heard anyone speak so... candidly. It's refreshing, in a way." Then, clearing her throat, "Well, the parlor beckons, Mr. Hurst." With a slight bow, she turns to the door and stops only when she's at the threshold. "And don't be too critical of yourself. I'm not particularly natural at social graces either." She smiles. "Candor for candor, sir," is her parting remark, and she leaves me to myself in the sitting room.
I plop, heavily, upon the armchair by the blaze. Let me see - though she did not protest my self-described stupidity, she did say that I'm refreshing. Which is a good start.
A good start. Bah! A good start to what end? I put my face in my hands. You're so smooth, Hurst, through and through... smooth as castor oil and just as appealing!
I hear footsteps in the corridor and, hoping that it's her again - I so desperately wish to redeem myself through further conversation - I instead find Darcy filling up the doorway.
"Hurst!" utters he, looking me up and down. "What are you doing here?"
"Contemplating my own idiocy," I blurt out.
His face takes on a wry turn as he steps in. "Do you mind if I join you?" he asks. "I could assist you with your analysis."
"Very funny," I mutter, as he draws up a seat beside me. Then, recalling what I'd heard up in Lottie's room, I say, "Are you here for the same reason?"
A frown suddenly clouds his brow, and I know I've hit the mark. He clears his throat, "I am not a man without fault, Hurst, but idiocy is certainly not one of my weaknesses."
"True," I muse, "but you can't tell me that you've never acted on a misguided impulse before."
"Rarely," he counters with a dry - and somewhat alarmed - sniff.
"I imagine it would be related to the fairer sex."
His eyes widen, and he fixes his gaze upon me. "What do you mean?"
"Simply that most reasonable men, such as yourself, err when it comes to ladies."
He shifts about uncomfortably. "I am here, Hurst," he asserts, "because I cannot support sustained exposure to such tedious company as can be found in Lucas Lodge tonight."
"Tedious? Hardly. There are many amusements you can indulge in. Food, drink, conversation, dancing..."
"Dancing! As if that uncivilized stomping they're engaged in could be considered dancing."
"It's charming!" I declare. "Especially when you have a lively partner."
He abruptly gets to his feet and leans into the mantelpiece. "Lively partners," he murmurs, "are difficult to come by."
"That's true," I concur. "You need one who is spirited without being wild, witty without being over-talkative, handsome but not too concerned if a lock of hair flies out of place when the pace speeds up."
"Precisely," he breathes. Then, folding himself into the chair again and acquiring a moody aspect, he asks me, "So, why are you here?"
"You can answer that yourself."
He frowns. "Are you playing at riddles with me?"
"Come, Darcy," I sigh, "we're here because both of us are of an unsocial, taciturn disposition."
As if to buttress my observation, he replies with an incoherent, deep-throated grumble.
For a while we sit side by side in silence, gazing into the hearth. My sole conversation with Lottie repeats again and again in my mind, until I am quite flushed with mortification. Looking over at me, Darcy frowns and asks me if I'm well.
"Quite all right," I reply, surprised at his solicitude. "Do you think otherwise?"
"I did." He sighs and rubs his temples with his fingertips. "Do you know, Hurst, that you're one of the very few people who regularly disagrees with me?"
Surprised, I grin. "Does it charm you that I do?"
"No," he mutters, "because you're not a lady."
"Hmph. So you'd wish your wife to be a bickering hen? I don't highly recommend it."
His frown relaxes into a small smile. "No, not a bickering hen, Hurst... but..." he pauses. "Matters of the heart must play out as a conquest of sorts."
He looks deadly serious.
"A conquest," I echo.
"Indeed."
"Hmmm... so where would you plant the flag? Between the lady's eyes or on her bosom?"
I can't begin to describe the shade of scarlet that infuses his face. "I beg your pardon?" he splutters, as I shake with chuckles.
"You're vulgar, Hurst!" he cries.
"Oh, Darcy," I sigh, wiping a tear from my eye, "you're like a timepiece. So tightly wound."
He huffs and rises to his feet. "If you insist on insulting me further I shall depart from your presence immediately."
"Don't, don't," I implore, patting his seat cushion. "It's either me or the tedious company in the parlor."
"I believe that I shall opt for the parlor now," he seethes and begins to remove himself from the room.
"Darcy!" I call out after him, and he stops at the threshold.
"What, Hurst?" he strains.
"Conquest involves an assault on many fronts. If an offer to dance did not succeed, perhaps you should initiate some conversation."
He blushes even more furiously than before. "Does everyone here know of my humiliation?"
"Pretty much," I tease as, with a growl, he stalks off into the corridor again.
I am not long in following him. I hear the opening chords of a song and, ever appreciative of music - and curious as to who could be singing - I make my way back to the parlor again, to find Miss Elizabeth Bennet at the pianoforte, with Miss Lottie turning pages.
A wistful mood steals upon me. The song, whose beginning I now recognize, was one of my mother's favorites. And when Miss Elizabeth opens her mouth to invoke the melody, I know that her gentle, natural voice will do it justice -
"Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridall of the earth and skie:
The dew shall weep thy fall tonight;
For thou must die.
"Sweet rose, whose hue angrie and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye:
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And though must die..."
I tremble a little, overcome with memories of my mother humming this self-same music in the weeks after my father's funeral.
"Sweet spring, full of sweet dayes and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie;
My musick shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.
Only a sweet and vertuous soul,
Like season'd timber, never gives;
But though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives." *
My father was the one who originally taught my mother this song. He said the last stanza called her to mind, for she was a lady of substance, possessing those virtues that are both so rare and so profound.
That, and her leg was made of the finest season'd timber in England.
A tear escapes my eye, and I'm hardly cognizant of the applause that follows the performance. I hear only Miss Elizabeth's voice when she says, "Thank you, but though I performed it, it was Charlotte who selected the piece."
I look up in surprise - and no small amount of sudden delight - and find Lottie gazing directly at me, a question in her eyes. I realize then, with no little embarrassment, that there must be more than one tear streaming down my face, so I hastily turn around and mop my cheeks with my handkerchief.
A woman's hand folds around my arm.
"Gilroy," Louisa hisses, "why are you making a spectacle of yourself?"
"I beg your pardon, madam?" I choke.
"What are the meaning of these tears?" she inquires, drawing me to the side.
"You wouldn't begin to comprehend."
She sighs. "I was looking for you before. I have... much news to acquaint you with."
"I heard already."
"What?" She pales.
"Louisa, darling, I couldn't care less if you go out for tea with the orangutan."
Her eyes widen, and it's hard to tell whether she's relieved or disgruntled at my words. Probably both.
"Is that why... you're in tears?" she asks, biting her lip.
I chuckle. "Not at all, madam, not at all. I assure you."
This time her relief is palpable. "Well..." she says, when she notices Caroline bearing down upon us. "I still believe we have more to discuss later."
"I'm sure."
She goes off to intercept her sister as I erase the lingering remnants of grief and confusion from my face. When I look up, I notice that Darcy himself seems to be in the throes of some personal struggle - so tightly are his fingers clamped to the mantelpiece, I believe that, any moment now, he'll break off a chunk to carry back to Netherfield as a souvenir. I follow his gaze and find that it leads to none other than Miss Elizabeth Bennet, though I'm not sure where the lad wishes to plant his flag, seeing that his eyes keep flickering from her face to her -
"Mr. Hurst!" Caroline cries. "It's time to depart."
* "Vertue" - poem by George Herbert; music by Henry Purcell
Posted On: Saturday, 7 December 2002, at 6:35 p.m.
"So, Gil," Rupert asks as he eases the boots off my feet later on that night, "what does the world look like from within a woman's wardrobe?"
"Oh, it seems like such a magical place," I mutter. "Servants are the sons of noblemen, scarab beetles are bigger than elephants, and idiocy increases exponentially with each passing moment of time!"
He chuckles. "Oh, my dear Gilroy, how do you manage to mire yourself in these predicaments?"
I sigh. "I hope, at least, that she'll find the letter and read it."
"How will you ever know?"
"Maybe I won't." I sigh. "I can't bear narrow-minded mothers who teach their daughters to simper and think of nothing else but beauty. How do you think Louisa turned out the way she did?"
He pats me gingerly on the shoulder. "At least, after all your troubles, you know a little more about Miss Lucas." He pauses. "Did you speak to her at all this evening?"
"Don't remind me."
"Very well. I suppose I'm rubbing salt into a raw wound."
"A self-inflicted wound, I might add."
He sighs and shakes his head. "Anyway... what was it you wanted to tell me about Mrs. Hurst?"
"You mean, the woman who wishes she were Mrs. Foxtrot?"
Rupert's jaw drops. "The German's alive?"
"Oh, yes," and I relate to him all that I'd heard in the courtyard.
"Well, Gilroy," my good valet says at the conclusion of my tale, "will you allow her to make a cuckold of you?"
"Not without my consent she won't," I reply, and he bursts into laughter, slapping me on the back.
"It's just tea, Rupert," I say, "and the meeting time hasn't been fixed yet. Maybe he won't even want to see her."
"But any way you look at it, it's going to be an interesting turn of events!"
"Indeed it will."
There's a knock at my door. An expressionless mask descends upon Rupert's face, and he positions himself behind me, assuming an air of servile professionalism.
"Come in," I command, and Bingley floats into the room.
"Hurst," he says, "I forgot to mention this earlier, but Colonel Forster invited you, Darcy, and I to dine with all the officers tomorrow afternoon."
My mouth opens and then snaps shut. Rupert barely stifles a snicker.
"Is something the matter?" Bingley inquires with a concerned frown.
"No, not at all," I splutter, as hairy Bavarians dance about inside my head. "I will be delighted to attend. But, tell me, were the ladies not invited?"
"No, not this time. Forster said he wants to make this a cigar-and-billiards sort of affair."
"Ah."
And here his eyes gleam. "Caroline is, however, planning to invite Miss Jane Bennet to sup with her and Louisa."
"I'm sure they shall get along handsomely," I lie, forcing a smile.
"Yes, I'm sure Miss Jane shall," he whispers and, bidding me good night, leaves the room.
"He's fallen hard," Rupert says.
"Yes he has. And I only hope that it's requited." I slowly rise, anticipating some rather consequential pillow-talk with my wife. "Well, have yourself a good night."
"You too, Gil."
"Oh, and Rupert," I add, "I must warn you that my sleeping disorder has gotten much worse of late. I wake up in the strangest positions, the strangest places."
"Is that so?" he asks, looking a little shame-faced.
"Indeed. Tomorrow I might arise and find myself on your bed, my fingers wrapped securely around your neck."
"I shall be careful then," he whispers, offering me a conciliatory smile.
"It won't be all that bad," I soothe. "You'll just have another amusing story to share with your love-doves back at Lucas Lodge. Provided you live, that is."
He sweeps me a low bow, and I stride out of the room, a self-satisfied smirk smugging up my face (tell me, is smugging even a word?)
Not that it matters - the feeling doesn't last long.
When I enter my chamber, Louisa is pacing about by the window, absent-mindedly toying with the baubles around her throat. She looks up at my approach and the first thing she tells me is -
"You know, Gilroy, when you began going bald, I'd always hoped your hair would migrate to your back, but... alas, it was not to be." Then silence again as she resumes her post at the pane.
How does one reply to such a statement? Forgive me for disappointing you, madam? The hair must go where the hair must go? Should I've collected it and woven a follicular waistcoat? (Conservation is of the essence.)
Her pacing grows more agitated. "I hear you are to see him tomorrow."
"Indeed."
"Promise me, Gilroy, that you won't... do anything rash."
I'm entirely confused now and communicate the state of my disordered mind via an elegant "Snuh?"
"Don't threaten him, don't call him out..."
"Call him out? Why madam, do you think I value my life so little?"
She smiles. "Yes, he would kill you, wouldn't he..."
Her words make me freeze. "What are you suggesting?"
A little 'oh!' escapes from her. "I'm merely commenting on the fact that his prowess with firearms surpasses yours."
"Hmph. So I'll be safe if I sleep beside you tonight?"
She stamps her foot. "Gilroy Hurst! Are you implying that I'm a murderer?"
"No, no, my dear..." I placate, "only one in the making."
Her jaw drops. Before I can speak further, she marches up to me and attempts to deal my face a resounding slap. But, too quick for her, I catch her hand, hold it firmly within my own, and begin to tickle the inside of her palm with my thumb. Her other hand whips towards my second cheek, but I grab it too and subject it to similar treatment. Then before I know it, she bursts out laughing, a laughter that's half-mirth and half highstrung irritation. At last - incapacitated by a jolliness of my own - I let go and duck back a few feet, wary lest she be plotting a retaliation of a more painful kind.
She isn't. Her hands fold across her stomach, and she breathes deeply to quell her chuckles. "How dare you insinuate such things! And how dare you make me laugh in such an undignified manner!"
I respond with an insolent shrug and a few defiant chortles.
She quiets, and we gaze at each other for a few moments. A strange, unexpected, and unsettling sensation begins to creep over my stomach. My heart pounds a little faster, and I can feel beads of perspiration pop out at my temples. Louisa seems to be experiencing similar confusion. Her eyes widen and express a sentiment akin to alarm or shock. Suddenly fanning herself with her hand, she turns away from me and wanders over to the window again.
The two of us remain alone in the dark for several minutes longer, listening to our quick, stifled breaths and the faint wind outside.
At last, she tosses me a forced, careless laugh, so jarring in contrast to the gleeful snickers of seconds past. "Do not think for once that I'm planning to do away with you - by stabbing you in your sleep, for instance, or poisoning your tea."
Good, back to safe territory again. "Quite right, madam. I'm certain those thoughts never once crossed your mind."
She smiles. "Exactly. So promise me you won't insult the good fellow tomorrow."
"Why would I?"
"I don't know... jealousy?"
"Well, I WAS planning to tickle him to death, but-"
She bursts into laughter again, genuine laughter unmarked even by irritation this time, and I get so caught up in the sound, the wondrous spirit in it, that I almost forget to breathe.
"Oh, Gilroy," she muses, "I sometimes forget how funny you can actually be."
I swallow hard and suddenly grow very serious. "You must promise me something," I say, folding my arms across my chest in an attempt to look manly and assertive.
Apparently, my attempt is not entirely unsuccessful. "What?" she whispers, giving me all her attention.
"That I shall know of your whereabouts at all times when you go to meet him."
"If I go to meet him... if he wants to see me, that is."
"Promise me. Do not go sneaking about behind my back."
"All right."
"Are we agreed then?"
"Did I not just tell you that we are?"
"Say it again."
"Yes, Master Hurst," she sneers, dropping me a pretty curtsey.
I roll my eyes. "You should be thanking me. Most husbands would be cleaning their pistols at this point."
"Yes, but I'm not used to you acting in such a strict manner."
"Oh, forbidding you to commit adultery constitutes strictness on my part. Why not kill me, really? Go through the commandments, one by one, and -"
"Good night, Gilroy," she mutters and crawls into bed.
That night, I dream of Charlotte Lucas. You'd probably find my fancy very tame, for all I do in the dream is sit beside her on the bench, in the courtyard, and converse. And what is our conversation about? Line by line we exchange the verses of George Herbert's "Vertue." Every time she whispers "and thou must die" or "for thou must die" another couple of wrinkles - nay, furrows more like it - form on my face, and I slump over further, weighted with age.
She, however, remains young as ever. Rising to her feet at the end of the song, she bows politely to me and says, "I am Vesta, but I keep another's hearth. Why can you not tend your own?" And off she goes, wrapping a shawl about her shoulders, trailing dead lilacs in her wake.
The dream puts me in a solemn mood the next morning, so much so that Rupert respects my somber mien with a silence of his own. I spend the hours after breakfast in the library, poring over Milton and Donne, and by the time the carriage whisks Bingley, Darcy, and I off to Meryton, I'm in dire need of some laughter.
Colonel Forster greets us at the door, and eyes me with such a degree of nervousness that it quirks up the corners of my mouth. Here's the humor I've been craving all day! This army-man, this jungle-wading, soldier-training, medal-wearing military-man, is looking at ME with wariness. I shake his hand amiably, give him a little wink - much to his alarm - and follow Bingley and Darcy inside.
We're in a long, hazy room, clouded with smoke and devoid of all daylight. Darcy begins to cough and Bingley's eyes water; faces muffled in handkerchiefs, they don't see where I stroll off through the gloom. Weaving around a long table, which would have truly been more resplendent in brighter light, I pass by all manner of officers - short, tall, plump, thin, whiskered, bald, merry and grim. I even spot the gawking goon who had displayed a brief infatuation towards Charlotte the evening past. He acknowledges me with a nod and a gulp that sends his Adam's Apple bobbing up and down the length of his throat.
My ears I train for the sound of the slightest German accent. Darcy-style, I position myself by the hearth at the center of the room, and look about me with narrowed, honing eyes.
AH HAH! No wait... it's only Colonel Forster again.
He approaches me and clears his throat. "I'm assuming Loui- er, Mrs. Hurst informed you already."
"Indeed she did," I reply, trying to appear inscrutable.
He sighs. "You do know that he's due to arrive at any moment."
"Oh, is that so?"
"Yes, it is. And I'm planning to seat you next to him."
"Oh."
"Indeed."
"Mmm-hmmm..."
He nods. I nod back at him. He nods again, and again I reply in kind. Then the main door flies open, and I hear a few scattered cheers.
"The Jungle Fox has arrived!" one man cries, and a clot forms near the entryway.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," a pleasant, sedate voice - part British clip, part German grunt - replies. "Let us eat, please."
The crowd parts and... Egads man! The most ridiculous creature I've ever seen emerges from its midst. A thick, fiery handlebar moustache flows from his upper lip all the way down to his waist. His eyes are hidden under two enormous orange caterpillars - er, eyebrows - and his hair is yanked back into two thick, whipcord braids, falling along his arms Viking-style.
Wow, if this is his face and head, I don't even want to imagine what his back must look like.
The officers all seat themselves - Bingley and Darcy placed at opposite ends of the table - and Colonel Forster gingerly leads me over to the vacant seat beside Wilhelm Foxtrot. The Bavarian rises when I approach and, glancing from me to Forster, assumes a quiet, guarded air.
In nearly indifferent tones, Forster states, "This is Mr. Gilroy Hurst. Mr. Hurst, this is Colonel Wilhelm Foxtrot." And then he leaves us to fend for ourselves.
Foxtrot and I remain standing a few moments longer, merely looking at one another, before I finally tear my eyes away from the orange profusion and delicately gesture to his seat. He nods and we both lower ourselves onto our chairs, peering at each other out of the corners of our eyes.
"Well," he begins, tracing the rim of his plate with one callused finger, "at last I've met the happiest man in the world."
I can be awfully dense at times. "Who would that be?" is my reply.
His caterpillars shoot up. "You, of course!"
"And... why is that?"
He blinks. "I would be if I were in your position."
Suddenly, Louisa's unrestrained laughter rings within my mind. "Well, Colonel Foxtrot, happiness can be fleeting."
His left caterpillar wiggles, and he nods knowingly. "I imagined that you would not be able to appreciate her."
"Lord knows I've tried," I mutter.
"She does not love you then?" he asks, peering intently at me.
"No, she doesn't," I say, and then add, "but she's still my wife after all."
He nods slowly, his face unreadable. "Do you love her?" he asks.
"Oh, bugger off!"
"I beg your pardon?"
I nearly clap a hand over my mouth. "Er, what I meant to say was, invite me to a pub first, buy me a mug of ale, and then I'll tell you."
He looks dumbfounded for a moment. Then an uncertain smile makes its appearance under his moustache/scarf/reins. "Is that a joke of some sort?"
"No, no joke," I mumble, waving off his query with a sigh. "Colonel Foxtrot, she thinks I'm the biggest oaf on the Lord's green Earth. And goes out of her way to treat me as one every day of our lives together."
Deep in contemplation, he twirls his moustache about his hands and wrists. In an attempt to distract myself from new disturbing reflections about Louisa, I begin to conjure up various scenarios whereby he binds the ends of it to his braids, and his eyebrows condense into pupae and spout orange moths.
"Mr. Hurst? Mr. Hurst?"
I give my head a brisk shake. "Yes, what?"
"I was merely inquiring if I could... see her."
I only now notice the bowl of soup that's been placed before me. "Excuse me," I tell him, "let me first attend to more pressing matters." And, with perfect nonchalance, I begin to drink it, spoon by spoon. When I'm done, I pat at my mouth and turn to him with a sweet smile. "Yes, you may."
He relaxes. "Truly, you do not mind?"
"No, not at all. Unless," I add, "you're planning to do something dishonorable."
"Mr. Hurst," he asserts, "I am a man of integrity." And here his eyes shift once to the left and once to the right, completely undermining his noble words. I can just barely see them moving, right under the caterpillar legs.
"I am not to be trifled with," I warn, narrowing my own eyes.
His mouth slowly parts. "I do not intend to trifle with you, good sir. You set the terms of what goes on between us, and I shall abide by them."
I realize, at that exact moment, why his eyes shifted when he spoke. It was a gesture that betokened discomfort, surely, but not the edginess of a man about to be caught in a lie. Rather, it was an attempt to mask his sorrow. He doesn't know it, but I can see the single, small tear trailing alongside his nose and disappearing into that atrocity of a moustache.
I reach out and clap his shoulder. "I'm sure it shall be a most moving reunion."
His moustache twitches with the faintest glimmer of a smile, a pale mimicry of his former trademark toothsome grin. "I shall treat her - and you - with great respect, Mr. Hurst."
"If you speak the truth, then you're a man among men." I raise my wineglass to him. "Foxtrot... bravo!"
Again, he smiles wanly and swirls his spoon around his soup bowl. "I hope she still thinks kindly of me," he says.
Kindly? Just kindly? Not passionately? "I'm sure she does. She was delighted to know that you're here."
"Truly? That's good."
He's quiet again. Not the liveliest fellow, I think. Certainly not the rakish charmer who tore about London years ago, setting hearts aflutter.
Quite involuntarily, my eyes follow the flow of his moustache again, and it's only then that I notice the flab of his belly lapping at the table's edge.
"Back on an English diet, I see," is my remark, as I pat my own largish abdomen.
He shrugs. "I'm retiring from the army, so it matters little," he replies.
"You are?"
"Oh, yes. I never want to be sent overseas again. I don't know if I ever want to leave England again."
I think of Louisa's fond wish of taking a European tour one day. "So..." I venture, "what do you plan to do?"
"I have enough money to do whatever I'd like. But I don't wish to be ostentatious. I would settle for a nice, small estate in the countryside, with a chicken coop and a cowshed."
I have to hold back laughter at the thought of Louisa leading a rural life, tossing seeds from the folds of her apron to a swarm of waddling hens. "No going to London, then?"
"Oh, no," he mutters. "London is no better than Sodom or Gomorrah."
I blink. "Isn't that a bit extreme?"
"No, not at all. Not if you actually read the Bible and begin to understand the true nature of sin." He smiles. "There was a missionary who escorted our company throughout the entire campaign. Nights in the jungle, when sleep evaded me, I would read from his copy of the Holy Book." He grasps my hand in his own and squeezes it hard. "I came to discover so much about myself. And he told me, before we parted" - here he laughs - "that I grew even more devout than he!"
Oh, dear. This was something the good Colonel Forster neglected to mention to my wife yesterday night.
I extract my hand from his. "That's... surprising..." I mumble. "Perhaps you should pursue a religious vocation."
"Perhaps. Maybe I shall live in a Vicarage."
I scan his comment for drollness, but can detect none.
He takes a polite sip of his soup. "Mmph..." he lowers his spoon. "A bit too spicy for my taste. In India, everything is laden with spices. It's altogether too decadent."
I stare into my empty soup bowl and nod in agreement. Desperate for some livelier conversation, I inquire as to the origins of his nickname, "Jungle Fox."
"Hmph," he grunts, sitting back and folding his arms over a most accommodating frontal cushion. "I staged a very successful ambush towards the end of our campaign and nearly killed ten small villager children in the process. Hence the glory and approbation I daily receive."
I gulp. "None of them were seriously hurt, I hope."
"No, no... but I still have nightmares."
Thankfully, the mutton is served at this point. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot him mumbling a blessing before carefully cutting up the slab of meat. When the dish is sliced to his satisfaction, he proceeds to attack it piece by piece, anxious, it seems, lest the bits of mutton sprout legs and scurry away from the plate. Once a soldier, always a soldier, I think, as he mops up the last flecks of sauce with a bread-crust, much like a commander carting off wounded enemy troops from the battlefield and into captivity. Plate clean, he leans back, gives his gut an abrupt blow with an orange fist, and belches twice.
Foxtrot, one. Mutton chop, zero.
Louisa Hurst, negative seven hundred.
At the conclusion of the main portion, Colonel Forster announces that port, brandy, sherry, whiskey, rum, red wine, white wine, and local Hertfordshire ale will be served in the adjacent room. Upon hearing the words 'Hertfordshire ale' my eyes fly to Bingley, who's grinning and slowly licking his lips. I search about for Darcy and find that he, too, is leveling his younger friend with an intensely alarmed look. As all the officers begin to rise and amble off into the other room - or walk-in liquor cabinet, rather - I wave Bingley over. He hesitates before smiling ruefully and obeying my unspoken behest.
"Bingley, remember who this is?" I ask, jabbing a thumb at Foxtrot, who seems unperturbed by my informal mannerisms.
Bingley's smile widens but he says nothing. I can tell he has no clue.
"Colonel Wilhelm Von Glugerschplontz!"
His smile widens some more, but the words are still not forthcoming. I remember then that he must have yet been in school when Foxtrot made his rounds about London.
"An old friend of Louisa's," I add, and instantly Bingley is all warmth and friendliness, and, to my relief, quite distracted from the prospect of ale.
I walk a little distance away and am promptly joined by Darcy.
"Who's Eric the Red?" he inquires, nodding towards Foxtrot.
As the colonel stands there amiably chatting, I am able to look past the hair and get a better sense of his physique - broad-chested, wide-shouldered, long-armed, and pot-bellied.
"Louisa's pet orangu - uh, old flame," I mumble.
His lips twitch.
"Yes, I know, her taste in gentlemen is uniformly poor. Just say it, Darcy."
He looks me up and down. "You could never pass for a Viking, Hurst."
"Really? But I was planning to make off with the silverware and set the tablecloth on fire."
He stifles laughter by clearing his throat emphatically. "You need not trouble yourself. I'm sure someone here left a lit cigar lying around."
I chuckle and glance over at Bingley and Foxtrot again. My mirth is then tempered with worry. What in bloody Hades will I tell my wife when we get back to Netherfield?
"Hurst!" Bingley cries from across the table. "The good colonel" - this with a slap to Foxtrot's back - "is coming over for tea in two days."
Yes, Louisa will most definitely require forewarning.
Posted On: Thursday, 12 December 2002, at 1:58 p.m.
It's chilly and bleak outdoors when Darcy, Bingley, and I take the carriage back to Netherfield. The sight of the horses, bowed against the slanting rain, reminds me of my burdensome duty upon arrival. I shall have to strike a delicate balance between tact and bluntness in addressing the matter of Wilhelm's transformation, thus enabling Louisa to anticipate what awaits her two days hence without the need of smelling salts and cold compresses during the intervening hours.
Shaking off these worrisome thoughts, I turn my attention back to the conversation in the carriage.
"Do you think she might still be there?" Bingley is saying. "Perhaps the rain might keep her at Netherfield yet."
"Nonsense, Bingley," replies his friend. "What's a little rain when you have a carriage?"
"True, true... but getting to the carriage requires a few moments out of doors, and I couldn't bear the thought of her having to endure such dismal weather even for the span of a second!"
"She shan't dissolve, Bingley. And I believe it would do you good to keep quiet now and have your questions answered when we arrive."
The moment we set foot in Netherfield's front hall, Bingley's disappointment is palpable when only Louisa and Caroline emerge to greet us. "She's left, then?" he sighs.
Caroline purses her lips. "Well, no, not really..."
"What? What do you mean?" His mouth blooms into a hopeful smile.
"She arrived on horseback today-"
"In this weather?" Darcy cuts in, frowning.
"Why, yes, Mr. Darcy, I was just as surprised as you! What young lady would undertake a horse ride of three miles when it's raining outside? Those country girls, I declare, they-"
"Caroline!" Bingley cries. "Where is she?"
"In one of the guest rooms, suffering from a cold. Dr. Leach is with her."
I can't begin to describe the assortment of expressions that flit across Bingley's face - worry, joy, wonderment, concern, confusion, determination, excitement, and near ecstasy. All he manages to get out is, "She's really here? Under this roof?"
"No, she's laid up in the stable with her horse," Darcy mutters.
Fortunately, my brother-in-law does not hear this sardonic aside. "We must have everything done for her! She shall not be made to endure the slightest draft! The fire in her room must be constantly stoked! She shall repose on at least eight pillows and be warmed by at least three quilts! I want hot soup and tea to be sent to her every half an hour! Do you hear? Caroline, attend to these matters immediately!"
When Bingley forgets to use the word 'please,' you know he means business. Face flushed, eyes wide and bright, he presents a figure not to be trifled with. As Caroline goes off to fulfill his requests, Dr. Leach descends the stairs.
"Well, what news, doctor?" Bingley inquires, clasping the physician's hands.
"I have left a maid with instructions on how to attend her. She has a most violent cold and a sore throat. It would be best for her to remain where she is at present."
"But of course! She shall remain here as long as possible... er, 'til she is fully recovered, that is." He pauses. "Tell me, is she suffering much?"
"No illness is ever pleasant, Mr. Bingley."
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "If I could but be ill, and not she," he sighs, closing his eyes.
That would be an interesting scenario, would it not? Bingley going on horseback to visit Longbourne, catching cold in the rain, having to be laid up in a guest room for the night. I'm certain Mrs. Bennet herself would serve as his legwarmer.
I turn away to hide my smirk, and come face to face with Louisa who, as it turns out, has been gazing at me expectantly the entire time.
"So, husband, how did the engagement with the officers go?"
Tact and bluntness. Bluntness and tact. "Um... it was rather informative."
She frowns. "Informative?"
"Yes... quite."
"In what sense?" she queries, taking hold of my arm and steering me from the hall towards the drawing room.
Oh, no. The minute we're alone her questions shall grow less veiled and far more pointed.
"It's not every day that one meets such, er, interesting individuals."
"Interesting, really?" she replies. We're nearly at the drawing room door now.
"Hmmm, yes... oh - would you look at that? - I forgot to hand my gloves and hat to the servant!" I break free of her grip and begin to stride away.
Her hand clamps onto my shoulder. "Not so fast... Gilroy," the deadly whisper swirls in my ear. I shiver. "Let me be the dutiful wife and take your hat and gloves for you." She peels each glove off slowly, her nails raking the insides of my wrists. I gulp as the hat comes off next, leaving me devoid of any skin-saving excuses.
"Oh, these are quite soaked," she observes, drawing me by the arm again. "I shall hold them up over the fire in the drawing room, how about that?"
G-d help me. It's all over.
The moment the door closes behind us, she whirls around and pushes me onto the sofa. "Tell me everything," she commands.
I point to the gloves and the hat. "Aren't you going to warm those by the fire first?"
Her eyes narrow. "If you continue to evade my questions, Gilroy Hurst, you shall find YOURSELF headfirst in the hearth!"
I sigh and put my face in my hands.
"Oh, Lord," she whispers. "You insulted him, didn't you? You were rude to him and now... now he doesn't want to see me! Is that it?"
"No, no... he's coming here for tea in two days."
Her mouth drops. "You're not jesting, are you?"
"Oh, no, not at all. Bingley invited him."
"G-d bless my brother!" she exclaims. She takes a seat next to me and turns my face towards her. "Now... describe him to me. Is he much changed?"
I swallow hard.
"Gilroy...?"
"When you were a little girl," I blurt, "you liked doing your hair up in braids, am I right?"
"Yes..." she replies, frowning. "But what has that got to do with Wilhelm?"
"He's... he's quite fond of braids, as well."
She giggles. "Very funny, Gilroy, but really, describe him to me."
"He could have braided his moustache, too, come to think of it."
Her smile disappears. "Oh, so he has a moustache now?"
Does he ever! "Like a river of lava, yes."
She raises an eyebrow, and immediately the caterpillars come to mind. I cough on suppressed laughter.
"Well, and is that all?" she presses. "Does he still have his - forgive me for being so forward - his stunning physique?"
It's gotten warmer in the room, hasn't it? The heat creeps up my face. "Sure, why not," I bluster. "Though, admittedly, he's... he's a bit softer than when you saw him last."
Louisa looks disappointed. "I assumed that a soldier's life would keep him trim."
"Perhaps, but he's not planning to remain a soldier for long."
She puts a hand to her chest. "Why ever not?"
"Because... he..."
"Because he what?"
Run, Hurst, run.
"Gilroy, you're trying my patience!"
"Well, excuse me, madam, but I'm merely thinking of how to phrase my reply with all the delicacy and feeling you deserve."
She blinks. "I care not for delicacy and feeling. I want to hear answers!"
"Yes, but think of it from my perspective! He who relates the bad news gets smacked upside the head. Always!"
"Bad news?" she croaks.
"Yes. So before I go on, remember this... I, Gilroy Hurst, was not responsible for any changes in Wilhelm Foxtrot's demeanor, character, and/or aspirations. Is that clear?"
"Very well. Now don't mince words."
"All right, I won't." I take a deep breath. "He's a pot-bellied, Bible-reading, chicken-loving, London-hating hulk, a Viking in appearance, a vicar in manners, and no livelier than a pan of dishwater! There, are you satisfied?"
I expect her to gape in shock, or break down in tears, or go into a swoon. Instead, she takes a moment to observe my countenance, searching it out for any signs of humorous falsehood. Upon finding only cringing anticipation, she calmly folds her hands on her lap and, with the most dignity I've ever seen her express, calmly utters, "I see."
"I'm sorry," I mumble.
"He's truly like that?" she murmurs quietly, more to herself than to me. "I'm so surprised. Chicken-loving? London-hating?"
"He wishes to purchase a quiet estate in the countryside and raise chickens, yes. And he basically thinks London should be devoured in a rain of fire... at least, he felt that it bears comparison to Sodom and Gomorrah."
"Ah."
"And about his softer figure-"
"Please don't say any more," she whispers, holding up her hand. It trembles, wavering in the firelight.
I catch it up and tuck it within my own.
She gives me a wan smile. "Gilroy, please escort me to our chamber. I think I'd like to lie down a little before supper."
"Certainly," I acquiesce, helping her to her feet. "But tell me, are you feeling unwell?"
She shakes her head. "No... just tired. And foolish. And a little sad, too."
I know not what to say, so instead give her hand a gentle squeeze. Once we're in our chamber, she turns to me and makes a request.
"When he visits for tea on Thursday, will you sit with us?"
"Certainly, if you'd like." I pause. "I merely assumed that you would wish for some time to chat with him alone."
"No, no... I'd like you to be there, too. Though you've prepared me for the worst today, actually seeing him might produce another wave of... shock."
"If you feel that that might be the case, I shall gladly render my support, madam."
Again, she smiles at me, and, with a deep bow, I leave her to her rest.
Once in the hallway, I espy Rupert creeping out of Caroline's dressing room with his hair in disorder and his pants not quite properly aligned. I hear my sister-in-law's maid titter a 'farewell' before softly shutting the door. My eyes roll, and I heave a huge sigh.
He spots me and reddens. "Sir," he says, bowing low, "are you in need of my services at the moment?"
I raise an eyebrow, appraising his disheveled state. "What kinds of services, Andrews?"
He bites his lip and doesn't reply.
"Come, assist me in my preparations for supper."
He tags behind me to my own dressing chamber and opens his mouth to offer the usual excuses and apologies.
"Spare me," I cut him off, and he thankfully desists from petitioning me for forgiveness.
"Do I have news for you, Gil!" he declares, removing my coat and hanging it up. "I was strolling through Meryton today, looking for a pair of stockings for you to replace the ones that Caroline's cat clawed, and happened to see the funniest-looking creature in the world."
"Let me guess. Did he have orange hair?"
He frowns. "Yes."
"Huge eyebrows?"
"Oh, Lord, yes! Couldn't miss those!"
"A moustache about as long as the Nile?"
"Even longer! Why, do you know him?"
"I present to you Colonel Wilhelm Foxtrot."
The silence that follows my pronouncement is much shorter in duration than the subsequent fit of laughter. He crumples over the back of my chair, tears squirting from his eyes, snorts and guffaws impeding his every breath.
"Oh, that's rich!" he cries, falling onto his bottom and holding his sides.
"Compose yourself, man," I admonish, cracking a small grin.
He eventually brings his laughter under control. "You're so serious today, Gil. But I have some information that might cheer you up," he remarks, winking at me.
"And what might that be?"
"Can you not guess? It has something to do with Lottie Lucas."
I'm surprised to find that I'm not all entirely that curious. "It's Miss Lucas," I correct him.
His eyes widen. "Very well, then. Miss Lucas. It turns out that one of her favorite authors is Henry Fielding."
I smile, thinking that he happens to be one of the favorite authors of my closest friend, as well. "How do you know this?" I ask.
"I happened to follow her into Meryton's bookshop this morning, before the skies cracked open."
"What were you doing in a bookshop?"
"Memorizing love poetry. That Andrew Marvell... you don't know how many times he's helped me win my place in a girl's affection."
"You're a scoundrel," I laugh, shaking my head.
He grins and waggles his brows at me. "So...?" he begins.
"So, what?"
"Are you in love with her yet?"
I frown. "In love with whom?"
He looks taken aback. "Miss Lucas! Who else?"
I sigh and give it a moment's consideration. "No, Rupert, I'm not." I pause. "Granted, I admire the lady very much and greatly respect her fine qualities, but no, I'm not in love with her. Perhaps I had a very brief infatuation, but... it's not very practical, and I can't think of it developing into anything deeper than warm esteem and platonic regard."
He puts his hands on his hips. "Then why am I keeping an eye out for her, then?"
"You don't have to anymore, if you don't wish to."
"And what about the letter you deposited on her bed?"
"I told you why I wrote that, Rupert. I could not bear it if, pressured by her mother, she agreed to marry any awful urchin or toad who came her way. It wouldn't do to waste such rare virtue on an unworthy husband. I was merely hoping to fortify her lest her mother encourage such an unhappy alliance."
"That's rather honorable, Gil," Rupert murmurs, appraising me. "You're not such a bad fellow, you know?"
I feel myself blushing. "Come now. I spent an hour in the girl's wardrobe. I don't exactly consider myself a paragon of propriety."
"Hang propriety!" he shouts, a fitting declaration considering the current state of his garb. Then, with an impish smile, he inquires, "But, can you honestly say that you've never dreamt of her?"
"No, I can't."
"Aha!" he cries. "I knew it!"
"Indeed, I dreamt that I was slowly withering in front of her, and that she dropped dead, rotting flowers at my feet."
His smile vanishes. "Oh, I see."
"Exactly."
"Gil, your love life's quite depressing, you know that?"
"Thank you, yes."
He pats me on the shoulder. "Not everyone can be as lucky as me."
"You never fail to console me, Rupert."
Turning away from him with barely concealed exasperation, I notice a letter perched precariously on the rim of my washbowl. "What's this?" I inquire, picking it up.
"Oh, almost forgot! From the esteemed Henry Fitzwilliam, elder son of the Earl of Matlock."
I tear it open with a smile. Henry is - aside from Rupert - my closest friend. A bachelor of thirty-eight, well-learned, unassuming, unpretentious and unfazed by any lunacy or stupidity the world happens to lay at his door, he is the consummate companion and the finest gentleman I know.
I met him three years ago through Darcy, his cousin, and we immediately took to each other like sloths on a rubber tree. Since then, we have whiled away many evenings debating politics, dissecting books, and nodding by the fire, our chins compressed to our chests, my snores resonating in perfect harmony with his (at least, that's how it sounds to Bingley). He's also shared a few fearsome adventures with me, which I shall relate to you in due course. Now, though, I would like to read the letter and see what he writes:
My Dear Gilroy Hurst,I can imagine your surprise - and boundless delight, I'm sure - at receiving this missive of mine. We both know that my habits of correspondence are uneven at best, but - be that as it may - I was struck today with the sudden whim of penning you a letter.
You see, there's not much else to do at Rosings Park. My aunt has locked up the library, claiming that I must rest my eyes from reading so much, lest I be in need of spectacles. She believes that with spectacles, I would come to resemble a law clerk rather than the illustrious son of an earl, making her quite ashamed to be seen with me. I suspect my father has of late been airing his concerns to her as well, for she brings all of our conversations around to matrimony and how as the inheritor of one of England's noblest lines, I should be breeding rather than burrowing my nose in books.
Did you know, Gilroy, that before Darcy came of age, the old cudgel wished for me to marry my cousin, Anne? She claimed that she and my mother had come to an arrangement of sorts, that when Anne was born, my mother supposedly leaned over the bassinet and exclaimed prophetically, "She shall be my elder son's wife!" (Cue lightning and thunder.) Never mind that I was twenty-one years old at the time. And that, when questioned about the veracity of my aunt's account, my mother laughed for close to a quarter of an hour, upsetting tea all over her lap. Needless to say, I was passed over and Cousin Darcy became Catherine's next fixation.
I wonder why she skipped over my younger brother, though. Perhaps because he won't inherit any land from my father (though I did promise him the stable and the old outhouse when Matlock is mine.) He's a good lad, my brother; you'll see when you meet him one of these days. He's been given a year of leave from his military duties, and is bound to rear his head in one of your habitual haunts eventually. Or more likely, one of Darcy's habitual haunts, for the two of them are thick as thieves.
Speaking of thieves, I attempted to pick the lock on the library door yesterday night. It was a desperate measure, undertaken when I discovered that none of my aunt's servants can be bribed. I don't wish to know how she inspires such loyalty (I imagine she has a rack in her cellar), but needless to say, I wanted my books and was quite determined to get at them. I had managed to pilfer one of her hairpins when we took a turn about the garden earlier (my height and her practically free-standing coiffure served me well), but when I inserted it into the door it bent in two. I tell you, everything here bows to the decree of Lady Catherine De Bourgh.
Cousin Anne hardly speaks a word to me these days, aside from asking me to shut the window whenever a draft creeps in. Not that she's unfriendly; she's simply sickly. I wish there were something I could do for her constitution, because I believe she's a good sort of girl and certainly deserves more variety in her life. After an evening of monologues by my aunt - upon which the lady retires for the night earlier than the two of us - it's pleasant to share a room with a young woman who doesn't feel the need to babble. If you ever spot a good breeding mate for me, make certain that she's not like any of those musical chatterboxes my father repeatedly throws in my path. I daresay, if you ever find me a wife, Gilroy Hurst, the old Earl shall reward you very handsomely. He'll write you into his will somewhere - I guarantee it - perhaps bequeathing you the kitchen pantry or the vegetable garden; you did spend an inordinate amount of time in both those places when you last visited Matlock.
Ah, my aunt is calling now. She promises to alleviate my literary pangs and discuss books with me herself. But it's difficult to do so, when she insists that Tom Jones is a brand of grain alcohol and Spenser is a fashionable jacket worn by young ladies. Paying my respects at Rosings, Gilroy, I am reduced from a man of thirty-eight to a child of eight. The indignity would bother some, but, as you know, I am rich, equable, even-tempered, and ever your friend -
Henry Fitzwilliam
P.S. My regards to Louisa, Darcy and the rest of your party. If you wish to write me back, mail your letter to my house in London, not to Rosings. My aunt has the most unfortunate habit of reading other people's correspondence.