Beginning, Previous Section, Section IV, Next Section
Posted On: Wednesday, 18 December 2002, at 12:16 a.m.
Henry's letter puts me in high spirits for supper, but I find no companion for my good cheer. Bingley keeps the conversation centered on Jane Bennet's condition, and Caroline - unable to change the topic - regales us with tales of her own past misfortunes, excluding the time she tripped over Bingley's dog and landed face-first in the pianoforte, imprinting her aquiline profile on the strings. Darcy glowers at his plate and periodically glances at his watch, while Louisa... Louisa looks like she needs a hot bath and a bottle of brandy.
Such is the party at Netherfield, and I am happy to make my escape to the library after the meal has concluded. There I find, of all people, Bingley, flipping through a few books and tossing them back onto the shelves with a disconsolate sigh.
"Hurst," he begins, "I can't find a single good book on remedies and treatments."
"Remedies and treatments?"
"Yes, yes... for Miss Jane. All I have here is a text on medieval medicine, and it diagnoses her with an excess of black bile, but I can't imagine such a fair young lady suffering from that sort of problem. Black bile boiling under that pale, flawless skin... unthinkable!"
I walk over to him and lay my hands on his shoulders. "Bingley, get some rest."
He complies with a sheepish grin and reluctantly trudges from the room. Outside it has started raining again, and I plop down on the window seat, listening to the peck of the droplets against the glass. A depressing inertia comes over me - I can't think of moving anywhere, going anywhere. As the wind moans and the rain pelts without, any good feelings I have dissolve and leave a void in their wake. I shall rise tomorrow and what then? What shall I do? Dine, shoot quail, dine once more, flip through a book, and then off to bed. Scandalously tedious, is it not?
One may think that the humorous are always jolly, the plump are always content with their food and their bed. But by G-d, I am no simpleton, no lout or oaf. I wish for something more than this routine, more than the mere observation of human folly (as gratifying as that may be). It is hard to discover what I want, though. When you reach my age you become so settled in your ways, so...
"Well isn't this the very picture of a sad clown!"
Louisa has stolen into the library. She speaks with a weary sort of sarcasm that succeeds in eliciting a small smile from me. With a flounce of skirts she sits opposite me and stares about the room.
"I've never been in here before," she says.
"I've never seen you read anything before," is my reply.
"Oh, what are books anyway?" she huffs. "Words, words, words..."
I grin. "Netherfield's a prison, is it not?"
She gapes at me. "I was dwelling on the very same thought, Gilroy."
"Good, then the three of us are of the same mind."
"Three of us?"
"Why yes - you, me, and Shakespeare."
She raises her eyebrows. "I didn't know that Netherfield was so famous as to be worthy of Shakespeare's notice!"
"No, no... he was speaking of Denmark. Rather, Hamlet was."
"Oh, Hamlet, right... I saw that in the theater once."
"What did you think of it?"
"It was... interesting."
"What did you really think of it?"
"Awful. What an atrocious ending, too. It's as if he ran out of ideas, you know, and then just-"
"-decided to kill everybody to get them out of the way," I conclude, smiling. "Yes, I concur."
"Well that's a start," she sighs. "Something we agree upon."
"Indeed. But never share this opinion with Darcy."
"Why not?"
"He loves Hamlet to madness. I once had an argument with him about the fifth act, and he got so angry he wound up breaking the mantel-clock."
She gasps. "You mean, he threw it at you?"
"No, no... he thrust his elbow onto the mantel to rest it there and wound up knocking the clock into the fire. Didn't even look at it twice, either."
She giggles. "I'm sure he could afford many a timepiece to replace it."
"Aye. If he'd had another one at his disposal, I'm sure he would have taken it and hurled it at me. I was laughing so hard. Kept asking him what time it was, and if he would have a look in the chimney to tell me."
Louisa covers her mouth with her hand and clears her throat. "Well, I'm not surprised he thinks so little of you."
"Oh, indeed, neither am I. He believes I'm too coarse and crude to be a gentleman."
"Not very coarse and crude," she muses.
Just then Caroline disrupts our agreeable interlude and demands her sister's assistance in the parlor. "I don't know, Louisa," she cries, "if Darcy will remain there much longer if I alone am in the room."
Louisa complies and leaves with a - regretful? - glance in my direction. The moment she's out of the room, I can hear her pleasant, natural-sounding giggle transform into a cruel little cackle.
Damn that Caroline Bingley.
It is a pernicious influence she has over her older sister. I see it again the next morning during breakfast when, of all people, Miss Elizabeth Bennet shows up at our door - cheeks glowing, hair bouncing, dress billowing - the very picture of blooming good health. When she goes off to attend to her sister (after mildly informing us that yes, indeed, she walked three miles to get here), Caroline commences to tear apart every little flaw she can find in the young lady.
"I could hardly keep my countenance. Why must she be scampering about the country, because her sister has a cold? Her hair, Louisa!" she exclaims, producing exaggerated motions with her broom-handle arms.
I turn to my wife who, on cue, makes her rejoinder. "Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep in mud, I'm absolutely certain!" She fails to notice the glare I'm directing at her.
Bingley then proceeds to make me proud by replying in unruffled tones, "It quite escaped my notice. I thought she looked remarkably well."
Oh, smooth, my dear brother-in-law. Must have been all that sleep you got last night. Aren't you glad you listened to me?
"You observed it, Mr. Darcy, I'm sure," drawls Caroline, "and I'm inclined to think that you would not wish to see your sister make such an exhibition."
The gentleman addressed is thusly interrupted from his sudden interest in the shrubbery outside the window. "Certainly not," he mumbles.
"It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independence," Caroline continues, looking to Louisa for support. To my dismay, my wife nods obligingly.
Why is it suddenly bothering me so much now, this ill effect my sister-in-law has upon my wife? Why has it never agitated me to this extent before? I heap two more slices of cake onto my plate and promptly shovel them into my mouth.
"It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing," Bingley says.
Darcy seems about ready to nod in agreement at his friend's words, but Caroline stops him cold with her next comment:
"I am afraid, Mr. Darcy, that this escapade has affected your admiration for her... fine eyes."
I nearly gag on cake and quickly rivet my own not so fine peepers at the taciturn gentleman. Though his face is as stern as ever, there is a hint of alarm betrayed in the way he suddenly turns to the floor. I'm sure if his teacup were not in his hand, his pinky ring would be twirling away.
Fortunately, he collects his wits and proceeds to utter the most favorable comment I've heard from him yet these past few days. "Not at all - they were brightened by the exercise."
That effectively silences Caroline, but before I can further contemplate his professed approval of the windows to Miss Bennet's soul, my wife dashes my humor to pieces by cooing, "Jane Bennet really is a very sweet girl. It's unfortunate she should have such a family."
"Such low connections," Caroline hisses. "She has an uncle in trade, who lives in Cheapside!"
"Perhaps we should call, when next we are in town," Louisa sneers, and proceeds to burst into a fit of high-pitched staccato cackles.
She catches my eye then, and the smile slowly fades from her lips. I can imagine what she must see on my face - not anger, no, I'm beyond that - instead, a depth of disappointment. Grief, almost. I can feel it, as I swallow down another lump of cake. She turns away, pats her mouth with a napkin, and peruses the patterns on the tablecloth.
Bingley lays his fork down and clears his throat. "If they had uncles enough to fill all Cheapside, it would not make them one jot less agreeable!"
"But with such low connections they cannot hope to marry well," Darcy suddenly intervenes, the force of his words bearing him across the room. "That is the material point."
And at this point the doors fly open, and Miss Elizabeth herself steps into the room. The suddenness with which Bingley leaps from his chair startles her, as he inquires, "How is your sister, Miss Bennet?"
"I'm afraid that she is quite unwell, Mr. Bingley," the young lady replies. Hands clasped behind her back, cheeks pink, she looks a little flustered. I really can't imagine why, what with Caroline glowering at her and Darcy searing her flesh with his eyes. She does not turn her gaze to either of them but fixes it on what must be the friendliest face in the room - Mr. Bingley.
"Then you must stay here at Netherfield," my good brother-in-law implores.
"Oh, I would not wish to inconvenience you," she says, appearing to be even more agitated.
"I insist. I shall send a servant to Longbourne directly to fetch some clothes for you."
The relief on Miss Elizabeth's face is palpable. I can imagine that her sister is not faring too well.
"You're very kind, sir," she sighs, bestowing upon him a genuine smile.
My gaze flickers to Darcy. There is an expression of near agony on his countenance - sweet agony. Yes, my good lad, thinks I, she'll be under the same roof as you. Better get accustomed to that fact before you blurt out any more foolish comments about her low connections.
The moment is tense. Darcy, by the way he's gripping the back of the chair, seems to be restraining himself from leaping over the table and clasping what would be an astonished and mortified Miss Bennet in his arms. I do what I can to break the crackling stillness.
"Are we going to have any sport today or not?" I ask, using the drowsiest, most Hurstian voice in my repertoire.
It works. Darcy rips his gaze from Miss Elizabeth and instead glares at me. Bingley goes off to call the servant. And I finish the last of the cake, rewarding myself for my quick thinking and a job well done.
Our shooting party is a curious one later on that day. For the first time ever, I manage to kill just as many quails as Bingley and Darcy, meaning that I don't shoot any. The servants grow quite bewildered when the hounds return empty-jawed and the sacks remain weightless. Bingley does manage to hit a tree, assisting autumn with its work by ruffling a few late-clinging leaves. And when he's not discharging shots at the clouds, Darcy keeps staring back at the mansion. I believe he thinks that, if a young lady is independent and sturdy enough to walk alone for three miles through muddy fields, she must also have a penchant for other masculine activities and might at any moment join us.
Me, I was never good with firearms, and it's not just because of the nervousness I feel around the dogs we employ for the sport. My adventure with Henry Fitzwilliam last year at St. James' Palace confirmed that I have no natural proficiency with guns.
The Prince Regent, George, threw an elaborate ball then to celebrate his appointment as regent - and, for all intents and purposes, king - of England, after his father, the revered George III, went permanently mad and could no longer pretend to have any understanding of state affairs. The Earl of Matlock was invited to attend but, too tired to leave his estate, he instead sent his son, the good Viscount Henry, as the family representative. Henry procured spots for myself and Louisa, and off we were whisked to what was sure to be a smashing affair.
Smashing indeed. I blundered into the party with a wary frame of mind, aware as always of my unrefined social mannerisms and my tendency to mix up names and titles with astonishing ease. Whenever I move about in the highest circles of society, I am always bound to offend somebody, much to Louisa's fury and Henry's understated amusement.
It was not long before I came face to face with some duke from the wild north, and addressed his wife as lady so-and-so and not duchess so-and-so. It's amazing how a stiff old woman can grow even stiffer, almost in perfect imitation of rigor mortis, and how the thin, piercing breath she exhales upon you smells like the inside of my boots after I've been tramping about all day.
Next was my introduction to the wife of a Marquess, and her youngest son, whose name was Richard. When Louisa approached us after breaking from me to make amends with the wounded duchess, I introduced young Richard as an earl. To which his mother, Lady Annabelle of ---shire (is that how it goes?), pressed a palm to her bosom and shook her head vehemently. "Oh, so he's also a Marquess, madam?" I inquired.
"No, sir, he is Lord Richard of ---shire!" she declared.
Oh, bother. Not that it mattered anyway. The young lord was dripping from the nose and didn't look dignified at all.
And don't get me started on Lady Sylvia, daughter of the Earl of Glenthorn, some craggy castle up in Ireland. After she politely admired my cravat and batted her fan at my face, I was forced to introduce her to my good friend Henry, and did so by announcing that she was "The Honorable Sylvia O'Donnell, daughter of the Earl of Glenthorn."
A deeper shade of red I never saw. "It's lady," she hissed.
I blinked. "So you're not honorable?"
"Not at all," she retorted and stomped away.
Henry - Viscount Henry - patted my shoulder and sighed in sympathy.
"Are you honorable, Henry?" I inquired after some time.
"Yes, but I'd never admit it here."
So the evening went on, and Louisa remained at my side with more and more infrequency, choosing to ingratiate herself with more dishonorable ladies and duchesses and lords and earls. The new regent had not shown up yet, and both Henry and I were beginning to think this gala was entirely tedious, when a guard approached the two of us and asked us to follow him.
I knew that something wasn't boding well, when we were led from the main hall and through a series of narrow passages. I turned to Henry, but he was perfectly calm, as usual. It's not as if he's courageous, no... to have courage requires an acknowledgement of the fears that you are suppressing. But Henry, he never has any fears to begin with! He just drolly plods through life with a nonchalance that never fails to astound me.
We ended our rambling sojourn outside a door flanked by two more guards, who exchanged glances at our approach. I crept closer to Henry, who glanced at his watch and inquired of our guide as to why we were being led to this forsaken part of the palace.
The guard looked uncomfortable when he replied, "You see, the exalted Regent spotted the two of you earlier this evening and wished to... to ask a favor from you."
My jaw fell open, and I could scarce formulate a thought. Henry, on the other hand, merely frowned and asked, "Where did his excellency spot us? We have not yet seen him grace the hall with his presence."
"From a window, sir," the guard replied. "Now do prepare yourself to enter into his presence."
I tugged at my cravat, yanked at my coat, sucked in my belly. Whereas Henry's only preparation was to lean over and whisper, "Remember your titles, Hurst. He's the Prince Regent and not the king."
And with that, we were shown into the room.
Posted On: Monday, 23 December 2002, at 3:38 p.m.
Odd, but the first object that caught my eye once my friend and I were shown into the chamber was not the Prince Regent himself, but the portrait behind him. It depicted the late Queen Anne, last monarch of the Stewart line, predecessor of the Hanoverian George I (or as my grandfather liked to call him, the 'half-brained Teuton').
It was a monstrous figure she cut - dull-eyed, hay-haired, bleak and surly. I expected her to charge out of the frame at any moment and trample me with wide, flat feet. Funny, I would have continued staring at her had Henry not nudged me in the ribs to remind me that there was living royalty I should be bowing to.
And so I found myself kneeling before the Prince Regent, whose first words - somewhat slurred - were: "I see in you gentlemen a reflection of myself - jolly good lads with my spirit for life!"
This, though from the lips of a prince, was not a compliment. The Prince Regent George was (and still is) a debauched, debt-ridden, gambling, alcoholic adulterer. To be compared to him was the height of humiliation. I simmered with indignation, I boiled with anger, I roiled with rage... and if I weren't such a damn coward I would have vented some of my spleen, as well.
My dear friend Henry merely chuckled. "You do us honor, your Excellency," he intoned, rising from his subservient position and fixing his clear eyes on the Prince.
I, too, rose and glowered at this spouter of insults. Yellow-skinned and soft-stomached, he gazed at us through glazed eyes. An empty decanter sat on a tray within reach of his limp grasp.
There was a period of silence. The guard behind us uttered a discreet cough, and the monarch-to-be roused himself to address us once more. "Someone's planning to murder me tonight," he declared, and punctuated his revelation with a drunken giggle.
The guard cleared his throat. I'm sure, that if I'd turned around, I would have seen him a trifle pink with embarrassment. As it was, I was too much immobilized by fear to move.
The Prince Regent continued. "You two are going to guard me 'til midnight, all right? There are traitors behind tapestries and mongrels at the windows. They can come in at any time. You... you will be given guns to shoot them."
Yes, my blood was running cold at this point. I felt a pistol being eased into my hand and looked up numbly at the guard's face. "They're not loaded," he whispered. "Bear this with humor." And then he departed, leaving us in the room with only the Prince and his imaginary foes.
The Regent was still watching us, but uttered nothing more. I turned to Henry, who was looking down at his own weapon with an inscrutable expression.
"Henry, we have to get out of here," I whispered.
"Not a chance of that happening, friend," he replied.
"And why's that?"
"The guards won't let us leave until our appointed time. I imagine they're still outside the door."
Anger mingled with my fear. "So we are to be royalty's entertainment for the evening?"
"So it seems."
"Playing at games for a prince's amusement?"
"I suppose so."
His calmness nearly drove me mad. "Don't you feel like a courtly fool? A jester, Henry?"
He shrugged. "I'm trying very hard not to."
I nearly threw up my hands in exasperation, but caught myself when I realized I was still holding the pistol. "Tell me, who do you think these 'assassins' are?"
"More fools and court jesters."
For the first time since I stepped into the room, I cracked a smile. "Do you imagine they could be some of the other genteel folk we met this evening?"
He smiled back. "Perhaps."
I imagined the old duchess swinging through a window with a sword between her teeth. The thought, which started out as humorous, soon fizzled.
"Henry, this isn't right," I murmured. "Isn't this... aren't we, as Englishmen, entitled to certain civil liberties? And aren't those civil liberties being trespassed, trampled, even now as we speak?"
Henry raised his eyebrows. "My good Hurst," he began with that infuriating, good-natured calmness, "though your revolutionary proclamations quite inspire me, I must say that it is generally not a good idea to debate natural rights with a man who is drunk, bored, and more powerful than the two of us combined." He paused. "Though we could attempt to escape from here and claim our rights as Englishmen, one rash action of an angry Regent - while capable of being redressed later - could bring about a few immediate consequences that might very well deprive us of life and limb."
"What the bloody hell does that mean?"
"Given the gun-shaped bulge under his waistcoat, I'd say that he too has a pistol on his person. And I can't promise you, my dear fellow, that it isn't loaded and that, if it is loaded, he won't scruple, in his drunken state, to hazard a few shots at us if we spoil his evening fun."
I must have been white with fear at the conclusion of his explanation, because he gave my arm a comforting pat and soothed, "Don't worry, friend. All we have to do is pretend at idiocy for the next couple of hours. That shouldn't be too difficult for either of us, eh?"
The first half-hour passed uneventfully. With all alertness, Henry and I patrolled the room, peering behind wall-hangings and under carpets in an attempt to take our duty seriously. The Regent rolled his eyes after us, a satisfied grin on his face.
"You will take a bullet for me," he said after some time, laying a trembling hand over his heart. "You will fall upon me if the situation calls for it, will you not?"
"Yes, your Excellency," was Henry's cheerful reply, which I echoed with somewhat less warmth.
The prince suddenly gasped and pointed a finger at the door. "There's one of them!" he cried, cowering behind a throw pillow.
The door cracked open and the king's chief bodyguard entered, making a gun out of his index finger and thumb. His expression was one of humiliated resignation. I couldn't imagine how many times he'd been forced to make such a mockery of himself.
Henry leveled the pistol at the man and pulled on the trigger. Being unloaded, the gun did not fire, and - a few moments too late - I supplied a pathetic 'bang' as the sound effect. The guard made as if to fall on the floor, and then crawled out of the room.
It was, without a doubt, the lamest entertainment I'd ever witnessed.
"Well done!" the prince proclaimed, clapping his hands. "Come, I shall pour you a drink for saving my life!"
Out came a decanter of sherry. When Henry offered to pour it, the prince refused and did the task himself, dyeing his pants and shirtfront in the process. Goblets filled at last, he did not offer to share any. He toasted his health, drank all three down, and told us that we were both good sports. "The best bodyguards a man of my importance could ask for, am I right? Now, how about some cards before the next murderer appears!"
"This is the figurehead of England," I whispered to my friend. "This is England's honor. Or dishonor, rather."
I spoke too loudly. The prince spluttered and turned a pinkish-yellowish eye on me.
"What did you say?" he whispered.
I took a step back. "N-nothing... your Excellency," was my reply, even as I calculated how long it would take me to sprint to the door.
He swayed to his feet and pressed a fat finger to my chest. "I heard you," he muttered, a savage odor wafting from his mouth. "You think me... unhonorable?"
"Dishonorable," Henry corrected, in the most polite of tones.
"Bah!" the Regent spat, flinging a string of drool at my face in the process. "I'll show you what honor I have. We shall duel!" He turned to Henry. "You, my good man, shall be the arbiter."
He yanked his pistol out from under his shirt and took mine from my hand, laying them both down on a table beside Henry. "Read us the terms," he ordered my friend.
"Terms..." Henry murmured. "Well, ten paces... your Excellency, you shall march in that direction - " pointing to where the portrait of Anne hung on the wall - "and you, Gilroy, walk in that direction." This, with a wave of his hand towards the door.
"And don't forget!" cried the prince. "One bullet in each gun."
I swallowed hard as the Regent George, with shaking fingers, removed one bullet from his pistol and secured it into my own. We each took up our weapons and turned our backs to one another.
"It'll take him some time to count to ten," Henry whispered in my ear. "Make a run for the door."
I nodded and began to march. The prince was on 'three' when I broke into my dash.
"Not so fast, coward!" I heard the cry behind me.
By compulsion, by the loyalty to royalty engrained in me as a patriotic Englishman, I whirled around. And just in time to see the Regent level his gun at me and pull the trigger.
The sound was enormous. Deafening. Earth-shattering. Caught up in the auditory explosion, the shriek of shredding wood and split porcelain and priceless tapestries undone, I let out a yelp and emptied my own weapon.
Lord knows, dear reader, I could have shot England's regent, England's heir to the throne that day. But I, Gilroy Hurst, was given the blessing-in-disguise of poor aim and an inclination to go knock-kneed whenever danger spiraled out of control.
My potent missile whizzed over the Regent's head and struck the late Queen Anne right between the eyes.
The guards tore into the room right after that and froze to a halt behind me. I was barely aware of it all. My heart thumped about somewhere in my throat, and, glistening with sweat, my feeble hand dropped the spent weapon on the floor.
Thoughts of the Tower, of a good, sound beheading, raced through my mind. But the Prince Regent held up his hand, staying the guards, and - instead of condemning me as a traitor - turned around to survey the damage I'd wrought upon the visage of the Stewart line's last hope.
A painful silence ensued, and then... then he erupted into laughter. He collapsed to the floor in giggles, jabbing his finger at the bovine countenance and spewing his mirth at her. I nearly collapsed to the floor in a faint. I felt cushions press into my bottom, and tasted liquor on my lips. I heard the guard's voice beating against my ear, telling me never to speak of this strange turn of events to anyone.
Oops... I just did. Promise me you'll keep my secret.
Later, as Henry led me back to the assemblage, I asked him what he had done when the Prince Regent had discharged his weapon.
Without missing a beat he replied, "Gawked like a goose and whispered 'bang' under my breath."
And truly, I could not have pictured him doing anything else.
So that, my kind reader, should give you a taste of my prowess with firearms and why I am never capable of besting Bingley and Darcy at shooting fowl. This time as we stroll back to Netherfield, the servants still astonished at our unprecedented failure, neither of them bother to jest about my inferior skills.
Their minds, after all, are far too preoccupied.
The moment we step through the door, Darcy pauses and inclines his ear to the drawing room. Failing to pick up the pleasant lilt of a certain young lady's voice, he takes a few stiff steps in the direction of the parlor and pauses again, like a bloodhound seeking out a scent.
"Darcy," I whisper, drawing up behind him. "She did come here to nurse her sister, not waste her time lying in wait for you."
He grows very still and, ignoring my words, heads for the second floor, where I imagine he will be slowing down outside of each door, holding his breath in anticipation of laughter and melodious tones.
But it is only later, in the drawing room, that the real drama begins to unfold.
I am playing at cards with Louisa, Bingley, and Caroline, and enjoying every moment of it, for through game I receive ample opportunity to openly trounce my sister-in-law left and right. Last I saw, Darcy disappeared into the billiard room after an insufferable supper in which Caroline had very nearly served him her simpering head on a platter.
Miss Elizabeth enters the room and - after responding to a profusion of greetings and inquiries, some more sincere than others - she perches herself upon a sofa and takes up a book, her face lighting up in recognition at the golden scrawl of the title. Failing to make out the word on the cover, I turn my attention back to the game, happy once again to upset Caroline's pathetic maneuverings.
They make quite a team, she and her brother. Though she is full of slyness and guile, she lacks any form of admirable intelligence. And while Bingley is by no means stupid, he's too kind-hearted to employ any sort of cunning in the game.
Caught up in these reflections, I barely notice when Darcy enters, though I'm soon alerted to the fact by the way Caroline cries out to his very being, imploring him to help her against me and my formidable skills. After tossing her a look of pure contempt and condescension, he takes a few paces towards Miss Elizabeth, and addresses her in tones that one would hear in a speech uttered by a king to a farm girl:
"May I inquire after your sister, Miss Bennet."
Thus prodded from her book, the young lady quirks her brow and stares up at him with a mix of surprise and irritation.
"I thank you. I believe she is a little better," is her reply. Her eyes momentarily drop back to the book and then seek his face out again, puzzling over him anew.
That's when my respect for Miss Bennet begins to grow even more. Here he is, this lordly plank of wood, barking out his well-wishes in the hollowest, most lifeless of tones, and her only reaction is a bewildered annoyance. No awe, no anxiety at being thus addressed. I think of how, after the incident with the Prince Regent, I permanently lost my sense of wonderment at royalty, and, without her seeing it, send a small smile in Miss Elizabeth's direction.
Darcy is obviously at a loss for what to say. After a momentary pause, he mutters, "I am glad to hear it," and abruptly heads for the writing table, where he seats himself with a dignified upsurge of coattails.
My attention returns to the game, and I realize that it's my turn and that I've been distracted for far too long. Noticing that I need more time, Louisa, my partner, decides to stall for me.
"Would you care to join us, Miss Bennet?" she asks, flashing Miss Elizabeth a sickeningly sweet smile.
"I thank you, no," she replies, and turns back to her book again.
I still haven't thought of what to do, which card to toss from my hand. "Prefer reading to cards, do you?" I say, prolonging my turn as much as possible. "That's rather singular." With that, I find the card I wish to be rid of and dispose of it.
I do not intend though, for Caroline to use my expression of pleasant surprise as an opening for one of her insults.
"Miss Bennet despises cards!" cries she. "She is a great reader and takes no pleasure in anything else!"
Lord, do I want to strangle that woman.
"I deserve neither such praise nor such censure," Miss Elizabeth protests, somewhat wearily. "I am not a great reader and take pleasure in many things."
"You certainly take great pleasure in nursing your sister," Bingley gallantly remarks.
He is favored by another genuine smile, open and sincere. I glance over at Darcy and notice that he is somewhat more hunched over the table.
Grabbing the proverbial ostrich by the throat and ripping its head out of the sand, Caroline pries the dark lad out of his self-imposed solitude with her next comment: "And what is it that you do so secretly, sir?" she inquires.
"It is no secret," he replies. "I am writing to my sister."
Oh, Darcy, why did you have to say that? Predictably enough, Caroline nearly throws down her hand and exclaims, "Oh, dear Georgiana! How I long to see her! Is she much grown since the summer? Is she as tall as me?"
If she is, I hope the resemblance ends there!
"No, she is about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or a little taller."
It takes all my efforts not to grin. I turn my head to the young lady, who has raised her head from her book and raised an eyebrow at Darcy's backside. I imagine I hear the sound of teeth grinding, and find Caroline searching for an adequate response to such an unfavorable observation.
"And so accomplished..." my sister-in-law intones. "Her performance at the pianoforte is exquisite."
"All ladies are accomplished these days," Bingley cheerfully interposes, throwing down a card he probably should have kept. "They play, they dance, they draw and sing, speak French and German, cover screens, and I know not what."
"I cannot think of half a dozen who would satisfy my notion of an accomplished woman," Darcy argues, never bothering to lift his eyes from his letter.
Who would the half-dozen be? His sister, most likely. His late mother, assuming that he refers not only to the living. Well, that broadens the range, then. Queen Elizabeth I... he would find her accomplished I believe. Oh, and my mother, too. Darcy met my mother once and, surprised, asked me if the incomparable woman had not found me on a doorstep somewhere.
"... in her manner of walking, in her tone and expression," Caroline expounds.
Ah, Caroline's litany of what makes an accomplished woman. I'm rather relieved I wasn't paying attention to it.
"But to all this she must add something more substantial - the improvement of her mind through extensive reading," Darcy concludes, his own tone of voice clamping an end to the matter.
Again, I glance at Miss Elizabeth, to whom this last comment is very obviously addressed. She wears a droll expression and, rather than submitting to Darcy's off-handed compliment, nearly rolls her eyes and replies, "I'm surprised, Mr. Darcy, at you knowing six such women. I rather wonder at you knowing any."
Oh, this is good. I feel like a Roman with front seats at the Coliseum. Or, using a Rupertian analogy, a gambler in the innermost circle of a cockfight.
Darcy drops his pen and turns to face his opponent. His expression is nearly unreadable, but I, who have known him for quite a while, can detect the astonishment simmering in his eyes. Yes, you young scamp, she contradicted you. Openly. With hardly a second thought.
Caroline must perceive some of the gent's discomfort, for she is quick to say, "You are severe upon your sex, Miss Bennet."
"I speak as I find," the young lady remarks, calm and assured as an Oriental deity.
"Well, perhaps you have not had the advantage of moving in the higher circles of society," my sister-in-law drawls. "There are a very many accomplished women in my acquaintanceship."
Miss Elizabeth bites her lower lip in amusement, gives Caroline an impertinent shrug, and returns to her volume. The others at the table turn to Darcy, to see if he will have the last word in the matter, but he is still struck speechless, though I daresay if he were wearing a gauntlet, he would have cast it to the floor by now.
I call my companions' attention back to the card game, and we hastily conclude, with Louisa and I besting our opponents by a solid lead. Afterwards, as we disperse throughout the room, Caroline leads Louisa over to a sofa by Miss Elizabeth and begins to tell her of a Miss Snitsnub from Grace Hall in London who was married off in a hideous confection of lace and beads.
"What is your opinion about such poor fashion?" she inquires of Miss Elizabeth. "Do you think my friend should have opted for a French design with swan feathers and pearls?"
Without looking up, the young lady replies, "O! my dear countrywomen, let us never stoop to admire and imitate these second-hand airs and graces, follies and vices. Let us dare to be ourselves!"*
The room falls silent. "What?" Caroline gapes.
She looks up from her book. "Oh, pardon me, I was merely reading aloud." She glances at the mantel-clock. "I believe I shall retire for the evening and join my sister," she says, closing up her volume, which - from her previous statement - I have come to recognize.
After receiving another profusion of well-wishes, and an earnest bow from Bingley, she passes by me on her way out of the room.
"I hope your sister comes to feel better," I whisper.
She stops, blinks once at me, and smiles uncertainly. "Thank you, Mr. Hurst."
I smile back. "And I hope, you too have a good night, Lady Geraldine."
This time her mouth unhinges.
"It's a good novel, is it not?" I ask, giving her a wink.
She nods mutely, lips curling up in amusement and surprise.
"Though I'll venture to say that you're not as proud or insensible of giving offense as that lady is, there are other qualities which you do share in common with her."
Her reply is a blush, a brief grin, and a light-stepped disappearance from the room.
I look up and find Darcy glaring at me with suspicion and - are my eyes failing me? - envy.
"It's a good book, Darcy," I say, studying my untidy nails. "Perhaps you should improve your mind by reading it."
* quoting Lady Geraldine from the novel Ennui by Maria Edgeworth
Later on, as we lie in bed, Louisa reminds me of what awaits the two of us on the morrow. Gone is her veneer of self-sufficient snobbery. Each word she produces ends on the faintest warble, and her sentences are separated by sighs.
"He's coming to tea, he's actually coming to tea," she murmurs at one point. "I've never been so nervous about anyone coming to tea."
"Don't be nervous," I assure her. "Just be yourself."
She snorts. "Of course I'll be myself. I don't know how to be anything else." A sigh. "You think he's... he'll still like me?"
"In what way?" I whisper, disturbed by the sudden clench in my chest.
"I'm not even sure I know," she wonders, pulling the coverlet even higher over herself.
"Louisa?"
"Yes?"
"You're confusing me."
"I can imagine."
"Please," I insist. "Try to get some sleep. If not for your sake, or my sake, then at least for Foxtrot's sake."
"How will my getting any sleep help him?"
"Well, I don't think his - uniqueness - will be sufficiently appreciated by a sleepy audience. Give him that much credit."
"Very well." She pauses. "Gilroy?"
Suddenly her voice is very shy. I hold my breath, not knowing what to expect.
"Remember once, when I drank too much Turkish coffee and couldn't fall asleep straightaway, you told me this tremendously dull story that made me doze in a matter of moments?"
I think hard. "It wasn't a story," I say, hitting upon her reference at last. "It was just my valet's rendition of a typical day in my life."
"It doesn't matter!" she commands. "Recite it again!"
I sigh and obey her. "Woke up, fell out of bed, dragged a comb across my head..." I pause, frowning. "Notice, he says head and not hair. That's a clever way of reminding me that I'm nearly bald."
"Oh, don't stop," she yawns.
"Maybe he's just trying to make a rhyme, you know? You can't rhyme hair with bed. Hmmm... perhaps... I don't look very good in the morning, do I?"
"Like a monster," my wife mutters, eyelids fluttering.
"Right, right... like a monster. Then maybe I should say, 'Woke up, looked like a troll, went downstairs and ate a roll.' How about that?"
No response. She's fast asleep. Don't think me sentimental, but looking at her now when she's all tuckered out, and bundled up, and - most importantly - silent, I can't help but think of how adorable she could potentially be. These are the thoughts I entertain when I too doze off, dreaming of sweet wives and warm rolls (lathered with butter and jam, of course).
Next morning, Rupert drags a comb across my comb-over and tells me that he's absolutely determined to make me look striking today.
"Oh, dear, why?" I mutter.
"Listen, the competition's coming over today. Don't you want to look like the superior man?"
"Do you think that should be so hard? For G-d's sake, you saw Foxtrot!"
"True, but you can't take any chances. You need female appreciation from somewhere. And now that you're not going cow-eyed over Lottie anymore, you want to have your wife draping herself across your feet as if you were Adonis himself."
"Adonis? Good Lord, lay off the love poetry, Rupert."
He ignores me and instead curses at the comb. "This thing is worthless! Can't keep all those curls on the back of your head in place." He casts it away, spits on his palm, and runs it flat against my scalp. "There, that should hold."
"Great, now my head will smell like your breath - tobacco and cinnamon."
He shaves me clean, splashes scented water on my neck and under my arms, and slips a rose from the hothouse into my buttonhole.
"There, you look at least... half a year younger."
"I thank you. If you've accomplished that much, it means you're still of use to me."
Just then, a knock comes at my door. Rupert falls silent and begins to apply a towel to my face.
"Come in," I bid.
Darcy strides into the dressing room, casts an eye about at the general disorder, and gets straight to the point.
"Hurst," he says. "I requested to have breakfast served to me in my own chamber today and the tray was brought up according to my wishes. Its contents included two cinnamon buns." He clears his throat. "Note my use of the past tense."
"I know nothing of any cinnamon buns, Darcy," I reply, even as Rupert's spice-laden breath batters my nose.
His eyes narrow slightly.
"Have you asked Bingley?" I suggest.
"Why would I? He does not care for them."
"Well... I hope they turn up somewhere then." It's hard for me to fight down a smile. Darcy's fond of cinnamon buns... I find that so humanizing, so heart-melting. "If they don't, I am certain Bingley's cook shall make you another few."
His expression softens a little. "I did not mean to sound petulant, Hurst."
"Not at all."
"It's merely that... eating them recalls chilly winter days from childhood, where the only warmth was from a hearth and a mother's arms."
I blink, astonished. Did I just hear what I think I heard?
He too, looks amazed. Immediately he pulls the mask down over his face and fastens the riding crop in place. "Well, have a good morning then," he practically mutters, bearing himself out of the room.
"He's real soft inside," Rupert whispers.
"Indeed," I mouth, smiling. "It's why I can never bring myself to feel any ill-will towards him. Sometimes, I imagine he falls asleep with his thumb in his mouth."
"Don't you think that's a bit far-fetched?"
"Probably," I reply. "But what's perfectly true is the fact that you pilfered those baked goods from him." I turn around. "How on earth did you manage that?"
"You told me a few days past to try and make friends with his valet, Haverford. So early this morning, I went to the gentleman's dressing room. And what do I see?"
"Darcy's buns?"
"No, not yet. What I see is his valet, holding up a nightshirt and trembling head to foot."
"Why? Was the shirt smelly?"
"Smelly?"
"You know, from night sweats?"
"No, no... well, first I ask him. I say, 'Haverford, you look like you've seen a ghost. Why's that?' And all he does at first is stare at me, completely white."
"Rupert, don't keep me long in suspense."
"All right. Eventually, he manages to whisper to me that he found the shirt lying on the floor. Now, I'm thinking, how prudish can this man be that he's quaking from a shirt on the floor? But then he goes on to tell me - the shock must have ripped away some of his usual reserve - that his master never leaves shirts on the floor. Never. Always hangs them on a chair, but never just tosses them on the floor. Amazing, isn't it? You leave your clothing all over the place!"
I nod thoughtfully. Darcy's carelessness seems to speak of a distraction of mind, a nearly imperceptible slip of control. "That still doesn't explain how you got your hands on the man's buns."
"Oh, right, well... at that moment, the handle on the door leading into the bedchamber began to turn, and I knew that Darcy was just about ready to step in. And the last thing I needed was to see Darcy without a shirt. So I went back out into the hallway. Then it struck me... if he's in his dressing room, I could slip into the bedchamber and see if there's more clothes lying around; you did tell me to keep my eye out for anything unusual, didn't you?"
"True, true..."
"So I went into his bedchamber. And Lord, Gil! One of his cravats was on the floor, too, I'm guessing from the evening before... unless he wears one when he sleeps."
"No, not even Darcy would do something like that."
"I figure. In any case, while looking about a little more, I discovered the breakfast tray and on it, the buns. Oh, you should have seen them! Round and warm and perfectly formed! I couldn't resist, Gil, I just couldn't."
"Hmmm... so you found his buns tasty."
"Scrumptious."
"Well, restrain yourself next time, I beg of you. Let the man have his childhood transports. They do an admirable job of softening him up."
With a nod of repentant acquiescence, Rupert sends me on my way, reminding me once again that I look the part of a smooth and suave young wooer. Indeed, his little tweaks and touches are not in vain. He was right when he said Louisa would notice them.
"Gilroy! Why do you have a flower growing out of you?" my wife inquires at breakfast as she butters her bread with trembling fingers.
We're alone in the room. Bingley must have arisen earlier than all of us to dine (he should be hanging around outside of the elder Miss Bennet's door about now, petitioning the maid with health-related questions). The younger Miss Bennet must be sitting up with her sister. Darcy, as we know, is eating breakfast in his chamber and Caroline, ever fond of imitating the dark lad, must probably (and thankfully) be dining in her own room as well.
I glance down at the rose in my buttonhole. "It's charming, is it not?"
Louisa shrugs, the most casual gesture I've seen from her yet. "I suppose. But what's the occasion?"
"Nothing... the fancy simply struck me."
"Strange, I never thought of you as a rose sort of person." She pauses, appraising me. "I'd say turnip, yes... or anything else that's bulbous."
"I couldn't very well have a turnip hanging from my chest." I sigh. "And my advice would be, if you don't want to draw attention to yourself..."
"Yes?"
"Try to remain calm. You're like a lamb at the slaughter block."
She casts her napkin onto the table and nods. "Very well. I am stronger than this; you are perfectly correct."
"I know I am."
"Humble yourself, Gilroy," she warns, though a smile twitches at the corners of her mouth.
"Why do I need to, when you do the job so admirably for me?"
And with that, I clasp her hand, bring it to my lips, and then depart from the table, not even bothering to glance back at what must be the unrestrained astonishment on her face.
Shortly after breakfast hour, Mrs. Bennet and her two youngest daughters call on us. I shan't bother you with details; they are a waste of time and space. In general, everyone was behaving in character. Though Louisa's spirits were not as composed as usual, she still managed to titter at a few of her sister's ill-begotten comments. Bingley was trying his best to be accommodative of everyone's temperament. Mrs. Bennet was abominably obvious and rude, and made a few unforgivable comments about the admirable Miss Lucas; her two youngest, I'm sorry to say, haven't got a brain between them. Miss Elizabeth's expressions ranged from impertinent wryness to open mortification. And Darcy was in fine form, glaring out of windows the whole time, except for when he betrayed a small, curious smile in response to one of Miss Bennet's jokes on love poetry.
Now the Bennet hen has waddled away with her two squeaking chits, er, chicks, and I am in dire need of some fresh air, perhaps a stroll around the garden.
Half an hour of wandering around in a world ablaze with autumn makes me realize how truly and unforgivably unfit I am. Every ten minutes I find myself in need of a bench. It's astonishing to me! Am I that susceptible to fatigue? Am I that vulnerable to aching ankles? Good Lord! It's as if I'm nine months pregnant! But whereas women with child have an excuse for struggling to exert themselves physically, I have none... short of eating too much, avoiding all sports from my schooldays on, and possessing an innate tendency towards the burly peasant physique.
Peasants, though, also have muscle. And you, Hurst? I feel my arms and paunch as if for the first time... you have slightly frozen butter. Cream, crusted-over.
Before my depressing reflections can take me any further - to the next logical set of conclusions, perhaps - I see the very picture of fitness zip past me on sturdy legs, her arms pumping gracefully, yet vigorously, as she sprints. I stumble to my feet (from a bench, where else?) and crane my neck around a tree to see what Miss Elizabeth Bennet has seen fit to chase.
Ah, it is Bingley's monstrous dog. Though my brother-in-law has named him Drake (after the intrepid explorer-pirate of the same name), I have seen fit to call him a number of other things, none of them acceptable in polite company. Perhaps I'm slightly prejudiced by my fear of large dogs, but in all honesty, the mongrel is an enormous nuisance (I think that tripping Caroline into the pianoforte was the most productive thing he ever did).
I grow concerned for Miss Elizabeth. Though sturdy, she's still a young lady, brought up genteelly, and perhaps the brute won't think twice about leaping on her and pinning her to the ground. Overcoming my own anxiety, I follow the path she zipped down and find myself on a broad, open patch of grass facing Netherfield's eastern wall. The young woman in question seems not at all troubled with the canine's size. Bright-eyed and grinning, she's spurring the dog on, waving a stick in front of its dumb face.
"Miss Bennet," I say, bowing politely and keeping my distance.
With a word and a gentle pat, she stills the beast - much to my wonderment - and drops a quick curtsey. "Good day, Mr. Hurst."
"Yes, thank you, good day." The dog turns around and peers at me and suddenly I feel very chilly. "You don't think, Miss Bennet, that this... this creature's a bit too monstrous to handle?"
She laughs and shakes her head. "He looks rather forbidding, but is quite playful at heart." As if to reinforce her words, the mutt makes a gentle leap at the stick in her hand, and an invigorating tug-of-war begins.
I withdraw slightly and, seeing that the brute isn't baring his teeth at the young lady or gnawing her fingers off, I let my eyes wander away from the pair and up over the façade of windows before me.
What I see almost chokes me.
In a second floor window, directly above the playful scene, I spot a tall, dark-haired figure holding a towel to his face and wearing nothing but a loose-fitting robe. Though I can't make out his exact expression from this distance, I can guess that it's one of intense concentration by the way his head never seems to move. I glance quickly at Miss Bennet, turning the dog around in circles now, and wonder what she'd do if she knew that she was putting on a show for a most absorbed audience.
I saunter away a few meters, lift a pebble from the ground and - when Miss Bennet's attention is fully diverted - hurl the small stone with all my might at the correct window. By luck (perhaps fortune is taking a humorous turn) the missile strikes the pane.
The figure starts and turns in my direction. I wave, and he abruptly disappears.
"Who are you waving to?" Miss Elizabeth asks rather distractedly, giggling at the dog's clumsy antics.
"Oh... merely my valet," I reply, and, with a farewell nod, make my way back into the house, wondering what Darcy would do if he ever finds out that I referred to him as a servant.
It is some hours before the arrival of tea time, yet I know Louisa is already in her dressing room, preparing for the event. I want to go up and say something to her, anything that might fortify her spirits, but everything I know about her once-stunning colonel is far too depressing, and I can't think of any other encouragement to lend. All I can do, I muse, is be present at the meeting and be ready to ring for smelling salts and cold cloths should the man's pious Vikingness prove too overwhelming.
In the meanwhile, I retreat to the only room that ever gives me comfort - the library. But if I hope for solitude, the hope is in vain, because Darcy steps in a few minutes later, his hair still damp.
He freezes when he sees me, and I can't stop the wry smile from crawling up my face. He clears his throat, mutters a greeting, and displays a sudden fascination with the shelf right next to him. I don't have the heart to inform him that that's where Caroline is temporarily storing a few of her fashion plates and imported German romance novels (from what Louisa's told me, the male protagonist is always a lusty farm-hand named Schmidt). Soon enough, his absorption unsurprisingly changes to revulsion, and - still without looking me directly in the eye - he seats himself in the nearest armchair and spreads open a book I just notice he was carrying all along.
Ennui. By Maria Edgeworth.
I refrain from commenting on his choice of reading material, but I do sit opposite him and stare at his intently perusing countenance from over the leaves of my own text. After some time, he sighs and looks up.
"I am very well aware that you're watching me, Hurst," he says with all the dignity - and that's a lot of dignity - at his disposal.
"It's always useful to be observant, wouldn't you agree?" I reply.
The faintest crimson rushes to his cheeks. "At times, though," he counters, his voice controlled, "spectators can prove to be quite bothersome."
"Aye... if one is an observer, it is best to keep a certain distance from one's object of interest."
He expels a deep, pent-up breath. "Normally, such a strategy is successful. At other times though, there may be unforeseen - and rather unwelcome - impediments to an observer's remote enjoyment."
"Indeed, there may be."
"So," he continues, "let us put the matter to rest, for it is so very frustrating to dwell upon it at any length."
He lowers his eyes to his reading again, but I cannot allow him to have the last word.
"Incidentally," I say, scratching my nose innocently, "next time you take up your post by a large window, I'd recommend tightening your robe about you just a tad more. It was an odd salute you gave me, Darcy, in response to my own friendly wave."
Though his face assumes an expression both murderous and aghast, I don't take the trouble of studying it for too long, opting instead to bury my nose in my book and hide what must be a very impish grin.
Throughout the rest of our time together in the library, Darcy and I manage not to exchange another word, much to my relief. Soon, the time for tea draws nigh, and, walking out to the main entryway, I find Bingley descending the stair with a worried look.
"Is it the elder Miss Bennet?" I immediately inquire.
He shakes his head. "No. There's no news from that quarter yet."
"Then why do you appear so disturbed?"
"It's Louisa," he says. "I told her that the colonel shall shortly arrive, and... and she doesn't seem to want to leave her dressing room."
My mouth opens and then slowly closes. "That's not encouraging."
"No, not at all!" Bingley exclaims. "What shall the poor man think? I should not wish him to be offended... he seemed like such an amiable, colorful fellow when I met him."
Only a man of Bingley's disposition would substitute colorful for downright eccentric.
"Indeed, indeed," I mumble. "Perhaps I should see what the matter is."
Halfway up the stairs, I hear the front door swing open and a servant announce the arrival of Colonel Wilhelm Foxtrot. Bingley is already there to greet him, but I cannot help turning around to have a look at him, too.
Not a trim, not a shave, not a single pluck since I saw him last. For a moment he looms at the threshold, blocking out all sunlight behind him, and then he's within doors, receiving Bingley's welcome with all the liveliness of a gollum. However, I do notice a parcel in his hand, a package prettily wrapped and adorned with numerous frills. Quite involuntarily, I begin to seethe with suspicion. What gift is he bearing to my wife? I assume the package is intended for a female recipient; no man would give another man something that's so dolled up in feminine finery. Oh, Lord, I think... what if he actually did the wrapping himself? I can just picture him sitting in his chamber, carefully snipping at lace and ribbons, sipping daintily from a delicate cup of mint tea and twirling his moustache in mute contemplation of womanly aesthetics.
I smirk, and Foxtrot chooses that moment to turn his head in my direction.
"Ah, Mr. Hurst," he says, bowing. I bow back, not descending one step.
"Are you well? Is everything well?" he inquires.
"Oh, yes, quite," I lie, wondering what Louisa could possibly be doing at this moment.
He looks up at me expectantly.
"Um," I begin, massaging the banister with my fingertips. "Mrs. Hurst shall be down shortly, I believe."
An enigmatic smile parts his moustache. "It shall be pleasant to see her after so many years."
Darcy chooses this moment to step into the entryway. After two paces, his eyes widen, and he stiffens to a surprised halt. Before either the colonel or Bingley can see him, though, he muffles his mouth with a fist and turns abruptly on his heel. It's the quickest retreat I've ever seen.
Damn. I would have so loved to drag him through an introduction. And I would have loved even more to hear him laugh out loud.
"Hurst?"
I turn to Bingley with a blank look.
"I merely said that I am now going to show the colonel into the parlor. That's where you and Louisa will be able to find us."
"Splendid," I proclaim, and plod off to my wife's dressing room.
Upon arrival, I press an ear to the door but can hear no sound from within. I knock softly. Still no stirrings. I try the handle, but the door is locked.
"Louisa," I whisper loudly, and knock again.
The lock clicks and the door opens a crack. "Good Lord, he's already here, isn't he?"
"Yes," I say in a rueful voice.
She sighs. "Give me a few more minutes to compose myself, all right?"
"Very well. I shall be waiting for you on the landing."
She nods and then, casting her eyes over my attire, suddenly frowns. "Where's your rose?" she asks.
I look down. "Oh, that... I must have lost it somewhere in the garden." I shrug. "I don't think it had such a grand effect anyway."
"But it was quite a nice change," she says. I notice then that she hasn't bothered to pull the door open wider.
"Truly? I believe you said that it did not suit me."
"Perhaps... but by the end of breakfast I had quite decided upon liking it. You need a delicate touch to..."
"To balance out the coarseness, yes, I know."
She smiles in agreement and retreats into the room. I wonder if it would be offensive of me to push her door open. This is, after all, her private domain. I school myself to patience.
She returns but, rather than stepping out of her seclusion, she hands me a white rose, which I immediately fasten to my buttonhole. "Now, shall we be going?" I ask.
"Soon, soon," she protests and shuts the door in my face.
I sigh and wander off to the landing. I'm glad I have the banister to support me then, because when Louisa does step out of her dressing chamber at last, I can hardly contain my shock.
She wears a billowing, bead-bedecked, feather-blown, lace-laden, silk-swathed ball gown. On her fingers is every imaginable ring - wedding band obscured amongst them - and her neck struggles with the weight of a ponderous jewel-encrusted necklace inherited from her late mother. Her hair, twisted and curled and piled high on her head, is crowned by an enormous white hat.
"Lovely," I squeak, as she takes her place by my side.
"Let us give the colonel a taste of grandeur," she declares.
Her eyes are a little too bright. Her voice is a tad too strident. I sincerely wonder if she's gone just a bit off her rocker.
"And... and I've got my white rose," I say, sounding like a complete dunce.
"Indeed you have," she proclaims, her distracted tone indicating that she heard not a word of what I said.
Halfway down the staircase, I pluck up some courage. "But tell me, Louisa, do you not think you're looking a bit too... fancy for tea?"
She lifts up her chin, though I spot her lower lip quiver. "You can never be too fancy. I, Hurst, am a prize, and all the world shall know it."
"Indeed, indeed," I'm quick to add, giving her arm an assuaging pat.
We pause outside the parlor door. "Let me take a peek first," Louisa says.
I agree, and move to stand right behind her, lest she faint.
She doesn't. She lets out a gasp of surprise, puts a gloved hand to her mouth, and utters a tiny whimper. My heart almost breaks to hear it.
"I can't go in there," she whispers, turning around and running smack into my stomach.
I look around and thankfully see no servants in the corridor. Turning back to Louisa, I take her by the arms and hold her still.
"They're expecting us," I whisper back. "It's just one afternoon tea. You never have to invite him again."
"I can't even recognize his face!" she hisses, trying to break free of my grip.
"Please, Louisa, try to bear this with good humor." I speak to her as one would to a fretful child. Or, as a bodyguard would address a gentleman who is chosen to be the Prince Regent's evening entertainment.
"Remember," I add. "You must allow him to see how... fashionable you are."
She nods, slowly. "Do you think he can see, from under those eyebrows?"
"Oh, yes, certainly. Perhaps you should drop a spoon in front of his nose to make sure but..."
She smiles weakly. Then more strongly. "I shall drive him mad with my splendor," she insists.
Taking a deep breath (and taking me by the elbow, too) she marches into the parlor.
Bingley almost drops his teacup. I watch him fumble with it and simultaneously plaster an obliging - and somewhat frightened - grin on his face. Foxtrot frowns, rises uncertainly, and gives my wife a slow bow.
Louisa curtsies back, splaying out her gown with her fingers. A feather drifts to the floor and I quickly hide it under my foot. We take a seat, side by side, and my upper arm hurts from where her fingers have found their unyielding hold.
The afternoon from Hades has begun.
Foxtrot can't take his eyes off Louisa. The problem is, his expression is one of barely suppressed distaste. Bingley takes to nervously stirring his tea and peering wide-eyed at Louisa over the rim of his cup. My wife meanwhile pats and tugs at the frills on her costume and refrains from saying a word. It's up to me, then, to start a conversation.
"In the Far East, Colonel Foxtrot," I say, "did you ever happen to see the process whereby caterpillars make silk?"
Masterful, Hurst. Draw upon your wife's gown, and the colonel's eyebrows, as inspiration.
"No, I'm afraid to say I haven't," he replies.
Well, that quite closes the matter. I look from the colonel to my wife, my wife to the colonel, and it seems that each is trying to outdo the other in ridiculousness.
The colonel's teacup clatters unsteadily on the table. "Mrs. Hurst," he says, "it is good to see you after all these years."
My wife forces a smile, looks as if she'll burst into tears, and then replies, "And it is quite surprising to see you as well, Colonel. And pleasing, of course."
Bingley tosses in a well-meaning little chuckle. "What a happy reunion this is!" he exclaims, and then crams a teacake into his mouth.
"How have you been?" my wife inquires.
"Quite well. And you?"
She titters and runs her hands over the folds of her gown. "As you can see, I'm doing marvelously."
The colonel nods once, slowly, uncomprehendingly. "I am glad to hear it."
Silence, once more. I can hear the clock on the mantel tick. Again, I make a stab at chitchat.
"You must have some fascinating stories to tell us of your exploits along the Ganges."
"Excitement is relative," he replies, beginning to stroke his moustache. "And all of the deeds I performed that are worthy of being called feats, well, I do not think them appropriate for a lady's ears."
Lord, can't he oblige me just once by taking up a thread of conversation?
Bingley comes to my assistance. "That's a lovely parcel you have," he remarks, nodding towards the elaborate package.
"Ah, well, it was not my idea to dress it up so much. The housekeeper of my lodgings, Mrs. Worthingham, took it upon herself to do the wrapping for me. I personally find the presentation far too ostentatious."
I grimace, hardly daring to glance at Louisa. I don't have to. The tightening of her grip says it all.
The colonel goes on. "But the gift itself is a treasure. If I presented it to you in the dingiest burlap sack, none of its worth would diminish." The caterpillars undulate. "True value is always found within."
"Yes," Louisa says, plucking a fan out of her own elaborate wrappings and batting it at her face. "It is true that one's appearance should be modest and understated. One should not, for instance, grow a garden on one's head."
I nearly splutter. Good show, old girl, I wish to say.
Foxtrot's countenance looks rather downcast, even morose, but, dredging up a weary smile - nay, grimace - he bows his head respectfully and hands her the gift.
"From one old friend to another," he says, and I feel Louisa tremble next to me at the implication of his words. Old friend? Only an old friend? He had once practically declared himself to be her fiancé! And if he does not wish to bring up that important fact in such a formal setting, it would be best not to say anything at all, rather than act like an unfeeling ape and refer to their former relationship as a mere tie between friends.
She accepts his offering and sets about unwrapping it, proceeding as slowly as possible so as to kill time. Louisa can be very clever when she wants to.
And she can also have a difficult time hiding her shock.
The present is a book on the correct comportment of Christian ladies. The illustration on the cover depicts a rather severe old hag - more mummy than mama - holding two young girls by their ears. I needn't bother telling you that the children don't look very comfortable.
"Modesty, temperance, and charity are the only ideals that a lady must aspire to," Foxtrot says, resting his hands on his belly. "After reading this book, I came to know what I wish for in a wife. Perhaps, by reading it yourself, you will also develop a greater understanding of what being a wife entails." He pauses. "Not that I doubt your worth in that respect, Mrs. Hurst. All I am suggesting is that no individual is exempt from improvement."
I will be the first to admit that I am not always treated kindly by my wife. I have suffered many a headache from her complaints and many a heartache from her selfishness. But the creature sitting beside me now is absolutely miserable, and no one - and I mean no one - aggrieves or patronizes a Hurst and gets away with it.
"Tell me," I intervene, extracting the volume from Louisa's hands and laying it out on my lap. "How would you improve yourself, Colonel?"
Bingley glances at me with a quick shake of the head.
Foxtrot does not seem up to the challenge. "That is a personal matter, Mr. Hurst. You can hardly expect me to discuss my spiritual struggles over tea."
"Oh, please don't be so formal," I say. "You yourself broached the topic of personal improvement. You handed this book to my wife before us all and openly encouraged her to examine her failings."
"I don't believe I ever used the word failings."
"In essence, you did. So now I ask you about yourself. As the bearer of such an exquisite gift, you must think yourself on some sort of moral high ground, do you not?"
"Mr. Hurst, I-"
"And because you occupy this exalted position, Colonel," I continue, ignoring the plea in Bingley's eyes, "I think it would be appropriate for you to give us an example of Christian introspection and self-reformation. Please, oblige us."
He grows still. "Very well," he complies at last. "I shall give you an example."
"Proceed, by all means."
He clears his throat. "I believe that, at times, I submit too easily to the temptation of food."
"Truly?" I say, fighting to remain serious. "I would never have guessed. And how do you combat such temptation?"
"I think of a disgusting thing when I'm in the presence of certain treats."
"And what would that thing be?"
"Mr. Hurst..." he grumbles, his face flushed.
"My dear Colonel," I persist, "your wisdom would especially help me. It is no secret that I'm a glutton. I want to know what works for you."
"I cannot say it!"
I almost relent but, upon glancing to the side to see why Louisa has grown so unaccountably silent, I find her staring at the book on my lap and struggling very hard to suppress tears.
"Let us play at questions, then," I continue, my resolve strengthened.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I'll ask you ten questions and then venture a guess."
Foxtrot turns to Bingley for support, but my brother-in-law is working on another teacake and can't talk.
"Question one: Is the thing alive? Remember, you can only respond with an aye or a nay."
"I..." he begins. "It's hard to respond with either to that question."
What, does he think of zombies? Neither dead nor alive. Vampires, maybe?
Before my confusion spirals even more, he aids me by amending his previous statement. "It is part of a living thing."
"Ah. Is it a limb?"
"Nay."
"Is it a head?" I say, peering intently at his florid growth.
"Nay."
Bingley, finding it useless to stop my little game, decides to assume the role of adjudicator. "That's three questions, Hurst."
"A face?"
"Nay."
"Four," Bingley chimes in.
"Is it...?" I allow myself to indulge in a decidedly wicked grin. "A backside?"
Foxtrot clamps his hands onto his braids and pulls his head forward in a dismal nod.
"Is the backside shaven?"
"Nay."
That's surprising! One would assume that, given the current shaggy state of his torso, he would find a shaven back rather appalling.
"I will hazard a guess," I say at last. "When Colonel Foxtrot wishes to disgust himself and drive away his roaring appetite, he thinks of a hairy backside."
The Colonel nods, not meeting my eyes.
"Then perhaps," I continue, "we should all think of the same thing when we are similarly tempted at the table."
"You know," he counters, suddenly rising to his feet. "There are other revolting ideas in this world that one can contemplate."
I, too, hoist myself up. "And what would those be?"
"Ostentation, empty-mindedness, vain ambition, blatant shallowness..."
As he recites this litany, he looks at Louisa, who can barely meet his gaze. I cut him off. "You know, I didn't touch a single teacake this past half-hour. Perhaps I was dwelling on the image of you without a shirt."
He sidesteps the table and comes to stand right in front of me. I compare the difference in our heights and involuntarily gulp.
"I have no more hair on my back," he hisses.
That's the clincher for Louisa. The tears flow freely now. As Bingley takes a seat beside her and offers her his handkerchief, I follow the urgings of my curiosity and ask him why.
By this point, he's too angry to be polite or courteously reserved. "I came to realize that it's not natural. I am a man, a Christian man, and not some savage or... or..."
"Orangutan," I supply, much to his shock. "Though you can still keep Foxtrot as your surname, seeing as other orange things sway from your body when you walk."
I realize then that all the facial hair might have been grown in compensation for the dearly departed body fur. And, upon giving his midsection another glance, I come to understand that - in his heart of hearts - the thought of such fur is still far from repulsive to the man, as he's not been winning his war on gluttony at all.
"I shall keep the name of Foxtrot!" he barks. "And I shall also refrain from challenging you to a duel to defend myself from the slights you have heaped upon me today. You deserve to remain alive and be this lady's husband. You deserve every moment of it," he concludes in a whisper, as if he were sentencing me to an eternity in Hell.
He is not quiet enough. Louisa overhears him, and the silent tears become a tad more noisy.
"Did you not call me, Colonel, the happiest man in the world when last we dined?"
"Aye, but I came to realize how much I've changed since I first declared my affections for your present wife, and the thought occurred to me that she might not have changed at all."
"Ah, so you took it upon yourself to give her a book on self-improvement."
"Yes, and if I were her, I would put it to good use."
"The presumption you have!" I cry. "As if I want my wife to be the ghastly old prune I see right here on the cover!"
The door to the parlor opens, and Miss Elizabeth steps in. Her reaction to the curious scene before her mirrors Darcy's earlier response in the front hall, although she does not take the final step of turning on her heel and escaping. I daresay it's a very curious tableau that greets her - something from a madhouse.
She sweeps her eyes over all of us and swallows hard. "You asked me earlier, Mr. Bingley, to inform you of my sister's progress. She has just awoken, and it seems as though her fever has abated."
Did it just get sunnier in the room or is Bingley grinning? He says, rather unnecessarily, "I am so very glad to hear it."
"In fact," Miss Elizabeth continues, "she may even be able to join us for midday meal tomorrow, if the fever does not return."
"Then I pray that it shan't!"
Miss Elizabeth smiles, bows her head to us, and seems just about ready to leave, when Bingley declares that he must introduce her to our guest.
"Miss Bennet," he says, "this is Colonel Wilhelm Von Glugerschplontz."
I can see her silently mouthing the name to herself. "Pleased to meet you, Colonel."
He mumbles a greeting in return, still ruffled from his confrontation with me. I move over to take a seat near Louisa, who has swallowed down her sobs but remains in a dejected state. Though I attempt to hide the book I'm carrying in my hand, Miss Elizabeth still spots it.
"I know of that book!" she exclaims.
"Have you read it?" the Colonel inquires, eyeing her intently.
She bites her lower lip and clears her throat. "No, Colonel, it does not exactly suit my tastes. However, my younger sister, Mary, keeps this volume at her bedside."
It's as if all the previous ill humor never existed. He takes a step towards Miss Elizabeth (who takes a corresponding step back), and asks her, "How old is your sister?"
Lord, does this Viking move fast.
"She has just turned nineteen, Colonel," Miss Elizabeth replies, a smile quirking her lips.
"And where do you live, Miss Bennet?"
"Longbourn."
He nods slowly. "It has been my intention to visit several of the families in this area. I should like to make the acquaintance of your father, one of these days."
Miss Elizabeth raises a hand to her mouth, and again I think of the front hall, and Darcy clapping a fist to his lips. She stifles the imminent laughter, looks the Colonel straight in the eye, and replies, "Oh, I'm certain my father shall very much enjoy meeting you, Colonel Von..."
"I go by Colonel Foxtrot, here." His lugubrious voice has turned gallant and almost suave.
It is not long before he declares his intention to depart, and asks Miss Elizabeth to do him the honor of escorting him to the front door. Bingley remains behind a moment longer to offer his services to his sister, but I insist that he accompany his guest to his carriage.
When we are alone, Louisa blinks and looks down at herself as if for the first time, as if the entire afternoon she has not been cognizant of the ill-fashioned, unsuitable garb on her body, that ostentatious collage of mismatched ornaments.
"Please escort me to our chamber, Gilroy," she whispers.
I help her to her feet, but hesitate at the parlor door.
"I do not care if the servants see me," she trills. "It is no secret anymore that I'm a fool."
I earnestly wish to contradict her, but the words fall flat on my lips. I do as she bids, and slowly we make our way to the front hall and the staircase. As if my wife has not suffered enough misfortune today, Caroline returns at that moment from a tea engagement with Mrs. Forster.
She grinds to a halt at the sight of Louisa and, tittering, cries, "Why my dear sister! You're looking absolutely atrocious. I was not aware that there was a masquerade this afternoon. Though," she adds, "my dear brother and Miss Eliza are outside bidding farewell to a man in Nordic costume!"
Insufferable witch! Before she can go on, I interrupt her. "Caroline, Mr. Darcy was looking for you earlier. He said he has an important message to relate to you."
She gasps, her eyes glinting. "Where is he now?"
"At the stables," I lie, and off she goes outdoors, on what will be a very fruitless quest.
Her cutting remark has already done its work, though, and once more Louisa is sobbing. I sit with her in a very undignified pose on the lowest step, wondering how on earth I'll manage to get her to our chamber before this entire debacle is known across Meryton.
Our savior appears in a most unexpected form. Out of the shadows, it seems, Darcy materializes before us. Reaching down, he bears Louisa up on one side, while I support her from the other. Together, we assist her to her chamber, where she collapses on a chair and waves us both off her with her hand, insisting that she wishes to be alone for a while. Reluctantly, I take leave of her, and close the door behind me.
Darcy waits out in the hall, looking a bit uncomfortable.
"I shall not pry into the cause of your wife's distress, Hurst," he says. "Nor shall I speak of it to anyone else."
"You have my gratitude, sir." I sigh and try not to look sheepish. "I suppose I should apologize for teasing you in such a... vulgar manner earlier in the library today."
His face assumes a haughty, forbidding mien. "Do not repeat that comment," he commands, "ever again."
I nod, biting my lower lip to quench the impending grin, the humor of remembrance.
He continues, "Though I will admit that my knowledge of Miss Bingley's current whereabouts very much soothes any sting I might have suffered from your crude joke."
Is it me, or is there a hint of laughter in his eyes? His expression is otherwise inscrutable. With a slight bow, he makes his way to his chamber, and I am left alone in the hall with my own reflections on how often this man manages to surprise me and - with a glance at my own chamber door - how tactful I'll have to be when my wife allows me into her presence at last.