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Chapter Eleven, Part 1

I grow worried when my wife does not descend for the evening meal. I ask a servant to bring her some food to our chamber, but refrain from seeing her just yet. Not that I don't think of what might be on her mind. In the drawing room before supper, I find myself concocting imaginary conversations with Louisa in which I implausibly say all the right things at all the right times, thus managing to exorcise the braided barbarian from her brain. So absorbed am I that for once, I hardly notice the antics all around me. I register Darcy springing upon Miss Elizabeth and requesting her hand for an impromptu reel. She refuses him with some highly elaborate comment that I can hardly follow in my distracted state. Though Darcy seems not at all disconcerted, Caroline watches the exchange with all the malice and severity of a carrion crow, and attacks the pianoforte - and our collective sense of hearing - with a shrill Italian love song. I suppose I should take a little pity on her, what with the pointless trudge she made to the stables earlier, but I can't say I regret the trick I played on her. She has, in consequence, not spoken to me since, and that is hardly something to be lamented.

But the time for retiring to bed arrives soon enough, and with it the confrontation that must inevitably occur.

When I open my bedchamber door, what immediately strikes me is that my wife is perfectly still. She is perched on a chair by the fire, and her face is a pale and expressionless mask. Though she's thankfully wearing a nightgown and robe - rather than that ridiculous ball gown - she presents a picture that is blank, white, and thoroughly unhappy.

Her dinner tray sits untouched on a table next to her. I immediately walk over to it and begin to exclaim about how delicious the food was this past evening.

"The chicken!" I cry, smacking my lips. "Superb, Louisa, absolutely superb. And the spinach. A finer, greener spinach I've never before seen. Oh, and what's this? Cake with cold cream! Mmmm..."

Caught up in my transports, I take a bite of her dessert. Then another. Then another. Reining in my appetite a tad too late, I hold out the half-eaten slice, which she refuses to accept.

"Why don't you simply eat everything that's on the plate, Gilroy," she says in a quiet, humorless voice.

"If you're not going to, then I will. You can't let food of this caliber go to waste."

"Then by all means, take it. I couldn't care less."

"But you haven't had anything to eat since the morning!"

"So?"

Her replies are drained of all bitterness. The empty, hollow quality of her voice disturbs me.

"What nonsense you speak!" I declare, and proceed to cut up her chicken for her. "Here, have a bite."

With that, I angle a fork at her face, and proceed to imprint the poultry into her left cheek. She calmly pushes the utensil away, turns her face to the side, and folds her arms against her chest again.

Well, no sense in wasting a fine piece of chicken. I pop it into my mouth and, between noisy bites, begin to praise its tastiness once more.

"You know," she says at last, "I don't mind if you stay in the room. But if you really insist on yammering so much, you'd better leave. I'm in no mood to put up with it."

Excellent! I've roused her from lethargy to annoyance.

"Funny you should say such a thing," I continue, encouraged by my progress. "Normally I'm the more taciturn one, whereas you are fond of chatter."

"Chatter?" she whispers, suddenly sounding so sad. "Chatter, is it? Of course. I am not the sort of person who would discuss, debate, or banter. I would... I just chatter emptily, don't I. Chatter is empty talk, and that's all I've ever been doing - talking emptily."

I wince at my poor choice of words. "That's not what I meant at all," I say. "Chatter pertains to... to volume, not content." I offer her a weak grin. "Wise people, I suppose, can chatter too."

"Gilroy, you know that I appreciate frankness from you."

"An admirable quality, Louisa."

"And I suppose," she goes on, ignoring me, "that you prefer frankness from me. So I shall cut straight to the heart of the matter." She takes a deep breath, and I hardly realize that I'm holding my own. "I don't like myself," she states, weary and resigned.

"Why ever not?" I ask.

"A great deal of what he said was-"

"Oh, don't pay attention to Foxtrot!" I interrupt. "He's a preachy, resentful baboon."

"But there was merit in several of his comments." She looks down. "I am vain and empty and ostentatious. I can't remember the last time I ever did something good. I can't remember the last time I was ever truly sincere. And I've... I've never had someone point those faults out so brutally as he did today."

"It was brutal of him," I say. "And allow me to add, Mrs. Hurst, that there's more good in you than you think."

"But can you deny any of the failings I've just listed?"

She searches my face with her eyes. I cannot say a word in reply.

"Exactly," she whispers. "My life is a shell, Gilroy. I suppose I've known it all along, but it was so easy to pretend otherwise. To float from day to day like an empty-headed doll and imagine myself to be a woman of great worth and consequence. Worth and consequence. I know nothing but gossip and flattery. I'm absorbed in everything that's petty and low. I... I despise myself!"

I splutter something ineffectual about the negative effects of being hypercritical, but she waves me off.

"It is my nature. I can't remember having acted in any other way. I suppose I was born to be selfish, proud, and insincere." She sighs heavily, like a martyr bearing a cross.

I see then what I must do. Sitting beside her and patting her hand would not be the appropriate course of action. She does not need to be coddled - she needs to be prodded, pinched, and poked into action.

Oh, this will be tiresome task. I finish the rest of her cake in order to boost my energy.

"You're right," I say, beginning to pace in front of her. "Absolutely right. You are vain and proud and poorly informed. You play the insincere games of high society with relish and skill. You force your smiles, fake your laughter, and consistently say what you hardly mean."

Tears well in her eyes. She makes as if to turn away but I lean over her, placing my hands on the armrests of her chair and forcing her to look me in the eye.

"Indeed, there is only one thing that you can do about it," I continue, keeping my voice steady and emotionless. "You can pity yourself. Whine and moan and groan about how your nature's set in stone. Because it is. You're stuck the way you are, Louisa Hurst. So I suggest you continue hiding out in your room and wailing to the moon, refusing food, refusing company, stewing in your own misery. That is your fate - your pathetic, unenvied, and abominable fate!"

The slap, when it comes, is so forceful that I nearly fall over sideways. I stumble back a few steps, trip over a footstool, and land smack on my bottom, feet in the air.

Under normal circumstances, Louisa would be laughing her own bottom off, and I would be seething with indignation and humiliation. Now, though, she's on her feet, eyes ablaze with fury, and I'm exultant at how quickly I was able to goad her from passivity to sheer, overwhelming aggressiveness.

Not that I don't rub my cheek and feel the stinging smart of her blow. I massage the poor flesh rapidly, hoping that a handprint won't appear.

"How dare you!" Louisa cries, coming to stand over me. "How dare you treat me this way!"

For a swift, excruciating moment I anticipate an anger-driven kick to one of my more unguarded places, so I scramble to my feet before calmly replying, "That's the way you wish to be treated, is it not?"

"What gave you that idea, you buffoon? Do you think I want to hear those horrid things repeated to me over and over again?"

"Why not? You've repeated them to yourself ever since tea this afternoon."

She falls silent and turns towards the hearth, bringing her hands around her waist as if, at any moment, she will retch.

"Look at you," I say, drawing nearer. "Look at what passion and force you're capable of."

She looks up at me and there's something so broken in her eyes that I nearly tear up myself.

"Adding more faults to the list?" she whispers.

"No, not at all. I'm merely naming the attributes that might save you."

Her expression changes to one of confusion. "Whatever are you talking of, Gilroy?"

"Look... you've never had a problem ordering others around, myself included. When you've wanted something, you were almost always able to coerce your way into getting it somehow. All you had to do was believe that it was within your power, and - voila! - you had it." I pause, letting my words sink in. "Can you not treat yourself the same way? Minutes ago you complained about character flaws that you wish you did not have. But rather than convincing yourself that you could change, you declared yourself too weak and too ineffectual to bring about any transformation. Well, you're wrong. You hear me? Absolutely wrong. All you have to do, Louisa Hurst, is order yourself around. Mold yourself into the image that you want; force yourself into the course of action you feel is best."

She remains silent for a very long time, though at several points it seems as if she has a biting reproof or sullen contradiction on the tip of her tongue. Bored with waiting for her response, I dispatch the rest of her dinner, and it's only my half-suppressed belch that finally elicits a reply from her.

"It still won't be easy, you know," she says uncertainly.

"I never said it would be," I reply, secretly exulting at her reaction.

"And there is the possibility of failure. I don't always get what I want."

"As with anything else. But I honestly don't believe that this task exceeds your capabilities."

"You truly mean it?"

"I really do, Louisa."

Then, quite unexpectedly, she steps forward, throws her arms about my neck, and leans her head against my shoulder. Almost immediately, my thoughts stray down a few less-than-saintly paths, but I do realize that this would not be a very fitting time to initiate anything of the sort, lest I want to be fixed in my wife's mind as a manipulative cad. Certain then that all impulses are in check, I lightly bring my arms about her and ever so platonically stroke her back.

"You will help me, right?" she murmurs.

"Most certainly."

She sighs. "You know, Gilroy, I never thought that I would say such a thing but... but you're the only soul in the world that I trust now."

I know, with certainty, that I'll choke up with emotion if I make a direct reply to her assertion, so instead I say, "That was sincere, was it not?"

She pulls back. "Of course!" she exclaims, putting her hands on her hips.

I raise my hands, palms out, in a gesture of acquiescence. "I know that. I was merely attempting to point out that indeed you are capable of sincerity. You just gave yourself proof of it."

She nods, assuaged. "But I can hardly speak to acquaintances in such a way."

"You don't have to," I say. "A change in manners does not mean revealing your thoughts to the world. It requires a transformation in attitude, in how you approach others... in what you value, as well."

"Values," she muses, as if she's never heard of the word. "Perhaps... can you think of someone who might be a model for me?"

I nod. "One person who stands out in mind is Miss Charlotte Lucas."

Louisa's jaw drops in shock. "Miss Charlotte Lucas?!" she cries. "Why... that low-born spawn of a country squire!"

"Knight," I mutter. "He's a knight, not a squire."

"Whatever! You expect me to learn from her?"

"Why not?" I say, frowning. "Look at what you're objecting to! Her wealth and her position in society. Those, madam, are what the vain and proud confuse with character."

She blinks, as if my idea is the most revolutionary in the world.

"Do you not agree with me?" I continue. "Do you not concede that someone who is not so very high-born can still serve as an example to others? I am not asking you to emulate a scullery maid, Louisa, or - Heaven forefend - the wife of a merchant. Miss Charlotte is a member of the gentry. And I believe that she conducts herself very admirably."

"Give me an example of this admirable conduct," Louisa mumbles, gritting her teeth.

"Well, let's say she meets someone that she doesn't quite like. I believe that you, Louisa, would fake an inordinate amount of geniality but, once the person is out of earshot, you would immediately go about tearing apart his or her character. In front of an audience, as well. Would you not?"

She doesn't reply. Her foot is tapping against the ground.

"Miss Lucas, on the other hand, would treat a person she does not like with all the courtesy that's required, though she would never pretend to friendship. Then, she would keep her feelings to herself, perhaps only sharing them with a close friend. You see the difference?"

Still sullen, Louisa merely rolls her eyes.

"Furthermore, there is a difference in what you would dislike and what Miss Lucas would dislike. Your estimation of someone would fall if that person were not rich or a member of the ton. Miss Lucas is much more inclined to form her opinion based on actual character."

Her eyes widen, and she raises an eyebrow. "Are you in love with her, Gilroy?"

I blink and then laugh in surprise. "No, I can truly say that I'm not," I reply. "Though I do respect her a great deal."

Louisa's only response is a pert little "hmph." After a few minutes in which she looks at everything in the room but me, she says, rather briskly, "Well... how do I start?"

"Start?" I ask blankly.

"Yes, yes! My transformation!"

"Hmmm... well... perhaps, as part of changing your attitude, your-"

"My values, yes..."

"Quite. Perhaps you can name some of the people you know and think of a few good things to say about each of them."

Her shoulders sag. "Why do I have the feeling that this will be very difficult."

"We'll start with someone easy," I say, leading her over to her chair. I pull up another beside her. "Your brother."

"He's... sweet, I suppose. Smiles far too much. Is swayed far too easily."

"Good things, Louisa."

"Fine, fine. He loves life. Simple pleasures, the way a boy does. He wouldn't hurt anyone intentionally. He lacks the capacity to deceive, which makes him honorable... though quite vulnerable to merchants, thieves, card players-"

"Louisa."

"All right! He treats me very kindly. He cares about me. He's loyal as a dog to those he loves, and even to strangers he's always smiling and laughing and being so warm and polite. He's an excellent brother." She smiles, nodding.

"You see? Not too hard. Now, how about... Darcy."

"He's a fine physical specimen, I must say. A better-built man I've never-"

"We're speaking of more intangible qualities, my dear," I sigh.

"Oh, right. Well, he is smart. He reads an awful lot, which I suppose is a good thing to do if you have the patience for it. He did help me up the stairs today... it was him, was it? Gilroy! To think, he saw me in the state I was in, sobbing... I must have looked hideous!"

"I'm sure he didn't notice."

"Of course he did! He's Mr. Darcy - he notices everything. If you weren't drowsy so often or lulled with food and drink, you'd see how observant he is."

"I'm sure I would. So, observant... what else?"

"He is a good friend to my brother. He takes dear Charles under his wing whenever the boy is in need of advice, which is quite often." She pauses. "That's all I can think of now."

"Very well... now, what of Miss Elizabeth Bennet?"

She groans. "Could we not start with her sister first?"

"Which one?"

"You know which one!"

"Miss Elizabeth," I insist, adamant.

Louisa bites her lower lip. "She's... lively. Like Bingley, she also loves life... though there's far more wit in her than there is in my brother."

"Anything else?"

"Outspoken, impertinent, inelegant..."

"Louisa..."

"... insolent," she concludes with a sneer.

I'm not mistaken when I detect - in addition to some real distaste - a hint of envy in her voice as well, a longing of sorts. She looks to be deep in thought, a frown etched into her forehead.

I decide to throw her off and skip to whom I think is the hardest one. "Your sister, Louisa."

"What?" she says, startled out of contemplation.

"Caroline."

Louisa nods slowly. "Fashionable, elegant, well-bred..." her voice dies away. "I suppose those aren't qualities you wish to hear of."

"I don't know. Do you?"

She remains perfectly still. "I'm not sure."

"Can you think of any others, such as a few of the ones you named for other people?"

Silence is the only answer she can give. She puts her hands to her mouth and trembles. "I'm sure she has... she's been such a good companion... I'm her confidante, too... I'll have to think about it, Gilroy. I'll have to think about it some more. There has to be something in her, too."

And I think, When you find it, wife, perhaps you'll be wiser than I am, after all. Or merely more inventive.

Louisa suddenly narrows her eyes in the darkness and peers at my cheek. Her hand comes up to feather it lightly, before dropping back to her side again.

"Any marks?" I ask.

"Only from two fingers. I would venture to say the index and the middle fingers - those two have always been my strongest."

"Ah."

She sighs, shifts about uncomfortably, and then mumbles something.

"Pardon?"

"Well, what I just said was..." and then she proceeds to mumble it again.

"I can't hear you."

"Can you not?" she snaps.

"No, indeed."

"I said..." and then her voice plummets in volume. This time, though, I manage to catch the words: "I'm sorry."

Holy Lord! Louisa... apologizing? This is progress indeed. I decide to conduct myself graciously and accept her apology without much fanfare. She waves me off and, making comments about general exhaustion, wishes me a good night and crawls into bed.

I am not long in joining her, though I can't say I fall asleep as quickly. All this talk of self-improvement has led me to cast a critical eye upon a few aspects of my own conduct. By the time I do doze off, I have laid down a few resolutions of my own, to be effected at the dawning of tomorrow.

Chapter 11, Part 2

You may be wondering what these personal resolutions are, that I arrived at so decidedly while lying awake in bed. The chief one pertains to my general physical habits. The comment my wife made about Darcy's physique recalled my huffy-puffy trudge through Bingley's garden earlier - the excessive amount of perspiration, the requisite pause at every bench along the path... in short, the unequivocal proof of my being unfit.

Now, I'm too realistic to ever believe that I will ever, under any circumstances, look like Darcy. I am simply not cut from the same cloth. My father, and his father before him, and his father before him - bless them all - were neither very tall, nor very striking, nor very chiseled. We Hursts are naturally a round and romping sort.

My father, though prone to eating copiously, was a very robust, active man. He forsook carriages and stomped about on foot whenever possible. And - whether or not she truly needed his assistance - he was always carrying my mother up and down the stairs, and, in the evening hours, performing the task with an inordinate amount of alacrity. I initially did not understand why; when he was not at home, she managed the task quite well on her own despite her oaken limb and in defiance of her solicitous servants. When I grew older, I knew better, and came to understand that my father's bustle and energy naturally spilled over into areas that I had never quite given him credit for.

Laying amorous tendencies aside, my point is that my father was both plump and fit. The two are not necessarily a contradiction, you know. Size and shape are not always changeable; personal habits, on the other hand, are. One can be plump without being indolent or physically incapacitated. Of course, one would hardly know that, studying me.

My first resolution, then, is to amend a few of my habits so that I can achieve my father's level of energy and health. Why had I never thought to emulate him earlier? I can tell you why: sheer laziness. That is one of Gilroy Hurst's chief character flaws but, hopefully, no longer.

Invigorated with my new resolve, I rise early this fine Friday morning, slipping out of bed before Louisa and - can you believe it? - before almost anyone else in the household. Rupert's certainly not up yet, so I dress myself, all the while eyeing my imminent conquest from the window - Netherfield's western parklands. Henceforward my daily task shall be to walk as far as the low fence at the bottom of the hill and back, five times, without pause. With noble purpose, I make my way downstairs and out of doors, feeling all the while like a new man at the dawning of a new era.

By the time my morning exercise is over, I am slumped against the wall, my bottom warming the dirt. I didn't mean to sit on the ground, but my legs simply gave out from under me. For many moments before, I was very foggy-headed, but now, thankfully, my mind has cleared, though my head does feel like it's floating a good three or four meters above my body. I do wish to get up - I really do - but it's so nice just to sit here and be weary. I'm sure that, if any passer-by chose to poke me, I'd quiver like pudding.

Much to my dismay, a passer-by does join me quite soon. I hear the clops and whinnies of his horse before I see him. With a sigh, I realize that I should have known better than to choose a spot between the fields and the stable... not that I imagined that anyone would be out riding so early.

It's Darcy - in case you haven't already guessed - and he's the last man alive that I'd want to look like a blob of jelly in front of. Fate has other thoughts though, and I can literally do nothing when he dismounts and appraises my current state. "Are you in need of assistance, Hurst?" he inquires in formal tones. From the ground he appears even more haughty and formidable, and I just wish - right now - that I could hoist myself up and mask the fact that my muscles are no more solid than mashed potatoes.

"Oh, I'm fine where I am," I bluff.

"Indeed, there's no better spot to sit and think in all of Netherfield," he says.

I blink. Is he actually teasing me? Yes he is, blast him! And behaving so oddly. Leaning almost casually against his horse, hair tousled and head bare of a beaver hat, clothes slightly disheveled, and cheeks flushed a deep red. And... and that infuriating little twinkle in his eyes. I decide to play his game.

"It is a good spot," I reply, stretching out my legs and patting the ground. "Care to join me?"

He stiffens a little, no doubt contemplating the indignity of settling down on cold dirt. For a moment I think he'll make off again, but instead he remains rooted by his horse, staring down at me. Then the slight alarm in his expression relaxes into amusement once again.

"Well, Hurst, if you wish for me to take a seat, you'll need to stand where I am and hold the reins for me." He pats the stallion's head. "This fellow is a wild creature. I would not leave him unattended."

Deft, Darcy - how smoothly you managed to extricate yourself from my challenge! You see, he knows that I'm nervous around large horses... the best I can handle is an obese pony.

"Touché," I mutter, and he flashes me a grin.

Yes, you read correctly. He flashes me a grin. It's there for a moment, years dissolve from his face, and then it's gone again, replaced by the suppressed smirk and the sardonic twinkle in his eyes. I can't help but recall something Miss Elizabeth said yesterday in regards to Bingley's large dog, Drake, as she played fetch and tug-of-war with him: "He looks rather forbidding, but is quite playful at heart."

"What are you doing out of doors so early, Hurst?" he inquires.

"Merely taking in a bit of exercise, as you are."

"With a few unforeseen consequences," he adds, nodding towards my pained and recumbent pose.

"I would not say that this is unforeseen," is my reply, to which he coughs out a chuckle.

"You ride often in the morning?" I go on to ask.

"At any time of day."

"Taming that horse?"

"He's tame enough for me," he says, stroking its mane.

"I thought you called it wild before."

"Precisely. He's tame enough for me to fit him with bridle and reins, that is all." He pauses and looks at the ground. "I would not wish for him to be any meeker. Then the ride would grow far too dull."

He is still speaking of horses, isn't he? Yes, he has to be.

"I suppose one would never wish to break the spirit of certain creatures, especially when their spirits define what they are."

He nods. "We agree upon something, Hurst." He remounts and gives me a wave of farewell. "You see," he calls over his shoulder, "my salutes are not always unusual." And with that, he disappears around the corner.

Thoughts of Darcy's unexpected and perhaps latent playfulness don't occupy me for long. There's still the matter of getting back to my dressing room and readying myself for breakfast. The task is easier said than done, and it's an astonished Rupert that helps me to my seat when I reach the chamber at last.

He laughs heartily when I discuss my new physical regimen with him, making me wonder if I should petition him for advice in regards to my second resolution. After a little bit of an inner struggle, I summon up courage and ask him how it is precisely that he manages to do so well with women.

"Why do you want to know?" he asks, combing my scant hair. "You're married."

"So?"

He snorts. "I thought courtship ends with matrimony. One of the reasons," he adds, "that I never want to get married."

"Well what if your marriage was never romantic to begin with?"

He smirks. "I suppose I could give you a few tips. But why the sudden change?"

"Because, Louisa is resolving to transform herself. After yesterday afternoon's disaster, she decided that she possesses a few character flaws that must be repaired."

Rupert raises his eyebrows. "Astonishing!" he declares. "How long do you think it will last?"

"Don't say that. For the sake of my fragile optimism, don't say that."

"Oh, all right, Gil. Fine... so you want to court your wife." He smiles. "That's very sweet, you know."

"Don't make this overly sentimental, Rupert."

His grin is as impish as I've ever seen it. "There are conventional ways you could try - flowers, food, a feeling recitation of love poetry."

"Food is the only tempting inducement on your list."

"Ah, but I have not yet spoken of... more unorthodox methods."

"Which are?"

"Anything surprising. I'll give you an example. One of the upstairs maids in the Bennet household - and there's only two of them, thank you very much - expressed a dream of hers this past Sunday, of wanting to dance at a ball with all the richest gentlemen in England. So, just yesterday afternoon, I invited her to a clearing in the woods by Longbourn, and we had ourselves a charming little ball."

"Is 'charming little ball' your own euphemism for some other activity, Rupert?"

"No indeed, you slop-head," he smoothly parries. "We were innocent at all times. And what a surprise I gave her. I had Bingley's valet come and play a few old tunes on his violin. I laid out a blanket on the ground to be the dance floor."

"And I suppose she sashayed around you with her apron."

"Not at all. I took the liberty of borrowing one of Louisa's old evening dresses. It fit her perfectly."

"Rupert!"

"As for myself, I wore one of your waistcoats and linen shirts."

"Why... you're half my size! You must have been drowning in them."

"I was. But what a fun time was had by all." He sighs with pleasure.

"You, her, and Bingley's valet. A marvelous ensemble, indeed."

"No, the other upstairs maid joined us, too," he says, rubbing his chin. "She's about twice my age but Lord, has she got spirit in her. Real fire. If I was around twenty years ago, I would've-"

"I don't want to hear it!"

"So squeamish, Gil," is his unrepentant admonishment. "You see what I speak of, though? Surprise. Gallantry. I had an unforgettable afternoon - I danced, I laughed, I wore your clothes... perfect."

Leaving him to his dreamy reminiscences, I descend the stair and join Bingley, Darcy, Caroline, and Louisa for breakfast. My wife is partaking of twice her usual portion - the absence of lunch and dinner from her schedule yesterday has made her ravenous. I, on the other hand, eat hardly anything and attempt, with all my effort, not to succumb to the pastries. The only one who notices my powerful struggle - or, the only one who chooses to comment on it - is Caroline.

"Mr. Hurst!" she exclaims, leaning across the table towards me and thus providing me with a view that would quench many an appetite. "Are you unwell? You've hardly touched any food at all."

"I... I'm merely not that hungry this morning."

If I wished, by this remark, to direct attention away from myself again, I fail. Such an extraordinary statement as this from the lips of Gilroy Hurst cannot help but make everyone silent. I must eat something, I think, before they send for a doctor.

I opt for the bowl of fruit at the center of the table, and attack it with relish. Seeing that I'm gorging myself once more, the rest of the party withdraws their eyes from me, and by the conclusion of breakfast, I have eaten three bananas, two peaches, and a rock-hard apple that perhaps should have first been baked.

The effects of this overwhelming intake of fruit do not wait long to assault me, and it is only much later that I find myself composed enough to join civilized society. Muscles aching from the morning's exercise and innards aching from other paroxysms, it is a tired Hurst that finds his way to the parlor, though I am greeted by a pleasant sight.

Apparently, in my long absence, Miss Elizabeth managed to assist her sister downstairs, and Miss Jane now sits by the fire, wrapped in a shawl, propped up by pillows, and attended by one very eager Bingley. They are so deep in conversation when I enter that I almost refrain from interrupting them, but this I do, making comment on the elder Miss Bennet's recovery before having the grace to withdraw again and allowing the pair to return to their semi-privacy once more. I say semi-privacy because Caroline hovers near, expending her energies in two directions. With one ear she eavesdrops on her brother's conversation, and with the other she attends to the argument Darcy is carrying out with Miss Elizabeth.

"I did not mean to suggest, Miss Bennet, that ladies only gossip," Darcy is saying.

"Indeed, in your humble opinion they also discuss sewing, lace, and London fashions."

"No, that is not what I implied," he counters, shifting in his seat and fixing an intense look upon her. "I merely stated that one will not hear discourse on politics and... and other matters of national importance in a drawing room."

Miss Elizabeth bites her lower lip and raises an eyebrow. "Ah, so you'll have me believe that every time you set foot in a gentleman's club or have a smoke after dinner-"

"I do not smoke, Miss Bennet."

"Very well, have a brandy after dinner. You do drink, am I correct?"

"Never in excess."

"Certainly not," she pronounces with mock solemnity. "I should be a poor judge of character indeed if I ever thought you susceptible to inebriation."

He nods once, giving her a small, smug smile. She continues.

"My point, Mr. Darcy, is that you would have me believe that every time you are exclusively in the company of gentlemen, you are privy to the most intelligent and informed conversation. Is that what you wish to convince me of?"

He pauses, purses his lips, reaches for his pinky ring, retracts his fingers at the last moment, and replies, "It would be an exaggeration to say that the conversation is informed every time."

She smiles slowly, triumphantly. "So, would you agree with me then that it's also an exaggeration to suggest that ladies speak only of trifles?"

"I would say that it depends on what company you keep." This, with a very meaningful glance at the young woman herself. A glance that she misses, or pointedly ignores.

"Likewise for gentlemen, then."

"Assuredly."

He abruptly gets up, eyes never leaving her face, and for a moment I think he will again ask her to dance a reel with him. Instead he turns and walks to the window. His expression is plain to me from the reflection on the glass, though, and I can tell you that it's an odd mix of discomfort and exhilaration.

Miss Elizabeth takes up her sewing once more, and I imagine how the argument got underway. Darcy probably tried to give her a compliment on her needlework but must have phrased his praise in such a way as to make it sound more like a thinly veiled insult on the petty abilities of women in general.

Oh, yes. Only Darcy could manage something like that.

I turn my attention to Caroline, who seems to be at a loss. She cannot contribute to the conversation between her brother and Miss Jane, because the two are entirely absorbed with one another and are no doubt discussing something that cannot be made an object of sneering ridicule. On the other hand, the argument between Darcy and Miss Elizabeth was probably too advanced for her to grasp. As a result, she sits in the center of the room, as if uncertain about where to go next or what to do with her time. Deciding to put her to good use, I ask her of the whereabouts of my wife, who is not in the room.

"Louisa? I hardly know. Normally she sits with me after breakfast, but she went off somewhere on her own," Caroline replies.

As if on cue, the person in question enters the room... a book in her hand. Not even throwing a glance in my direction, she passes me by and comes to a halt in front of Miss Elizabeth. The young lady looks up from her work, a question in her eyes.

"Miss Eliza," my wife begins.

"Mrs. Hurst?"

"Would you care to join me in the conservatory?"

The question is so unexpected that Miss Elizabeth cannot even find words to use in reply. She gives my wife a puzzled smile.

"You see," Louisa continues, slowly pronouncing each word, "now that I live in the country, I thought it would do me good to acquaint myself with all the wildlife in the area. I've always been fond of flowers, but the diagrams in this book are not very clear, and I would like your assistance in identifying the different kinds of flora for me. I'm assuming that, having lived in the country all your life, you'd be able to be of help."

The words are chosen carefully. There's not a hint of malice or teasing in her voice. She's taking an interest in something that has meaning in it, and making her first attempts at friendship - or stronger acquaintanceship - with a young woman who was an object of contempt to her only yesterday evening. I am astonished and not a little pleased.

Miss Elizabeth still looks puzzled, but she rises and takes up my wife's offer. I needn't tell you that Caroline can barely contain herself.

"Why my dear Louisa, what a charming idea!" she cries, nearly leaping to her feet. "I insist on joining you!"

Oh, no, I think. She's not going to meddle this time.

"Caroline," I say, maneuvering myself in front of my wife and her tentative, newfound companion. "Since Wednesday evening we haven't played at cards. Come... I'm certain Darcy would also wish to play, would you not, Darcy?"

The gentleman, who has already turned away from the window, nods gravely. "But if Miss Bingley is so eager to visit the conservatory, perhaps we should set up our game in there."

"Mr. Darcy!" Caroline exclaims. "It's so kind and generous of you to consider my preferences."

His eyes follow Miss Elizabeth's figure as she leaves the room. "Think nothing of it at all," he murmurs.

The card game in the conservatory is played perfunctorily at best. None of us can give it our full attention. I'm constantly on guard lest Caroline interrupt my wife and Miss Elizabeth, who stand at the opposite end of the room, poring over the book and at the various specimens of flowers. Darcy's eyes are drawn to that direction as well, with his ears also straining to listen to every fragment of conversation that happens to find its way to our distracted little table. And between praising Darcy's kindness, keeping an eye on her unusually-behaved sister, and musing aloud about how Bingley and Miss Jane are faring without us, Caroline manages to botch every single one of her hands.

At last, she gives up and rises. "I simply must check on dear Jane," she says, pushing in her chair. "Though my brother is attentive, he might overlook any signs of illness in order to keep her downstairs longer."

Once she disappears, I sigh and fold my hand. "Good game, is it not, Darcy?"

He blinks. "I beg your pardon?"

Before I can reply, quiet laughter assails us from the other side of the conservatory - two different strains of subdued mirth. The picture that the ladies present is one I never imagined that I'd see - Louisa, one hand over her mouth and the other on Miss Bennet's arm; Miss Bennet, whispering something to my wife and holding between her fingers a fallen petal.

Without even thinking, I whisper, "Charming," under my breath.

Without even thinking, Darcy whispers back, "Indeed."

Later on, before supper, I express to Louisa my approval of her behavior. She lifts up a hand to stem the flow of praise, conceding, in a somewhat gracious way, that although the younger Miss Bennet is a bit "rough around the edges, she certainly isn't boring, and has a few unexpected reserves of unpolished grace at her disposal."

"I still think," she adds, "that I shall perhaps find a more compatible companion in her elder sister. Jane Bennet is more genteel than her sister, after all."

But Miss Jane, as it turns out, is still too weak to join us for the evening meal, and Bingley makes no effort to mask his disappointment on that account. Of course, being Bingley, he can eventually cheer everyone up, including himself, and he hits upon the idea of inviting Miss Jane and her sister to extend their stay until early Sunday morning, upon which they will return to Longbourn and then attend church with their parents. Though Miss Elizabeth tells him that her sister will be well enough to take the carriage home tomorrow afternoon, my amiable brother won't hear of it.

This development puts Caroline in a very gloomy mood for supper. Not to mention that she still cannot figure out the change in Louisa's attitude. My wife spends part of the meal engaging Miss Elizabeth in further conversation, and the young lady's demeanor expresses a steady undercurrent of pleasant surprise as a result; perhaps, in all her years of observing characters, she rarely saw one whose sentiments transformed so suddenly overnight. Though the two of them might never be close friends, it seems to me that they have a sizeable chance of achieving mutual respect, of getting along without one thinking that the other is entirely insolent or superficial.

Though my wife is not very well-read or philosophical, she manages to dredge up remembrances of certain plays we've both attended, and certain musical performances that she's sat through without falling asleep. And Caroline is not the only one who notices Louisa's newfound capacity to hold discourse on topics that are not petty and shallow. Bingley, beaming at his older sister, can't help but participate in the discussion, and even Darcy, to my amazement, contributes a comment or two, though his efforts drag him into another debate with the cheerfully contentious Miss Bennet.

Without my knowledge, a further clash - less of a debate and more of a serious disagreement - occurs later on in the drawing room. I miss its substance because, for once, I am actually asleep and not just feigning drowsiness. The entire day, perhaps on account of my morning trek, was generally more tiring, and Bingley did furnish all his rooms with comfortable sofas. I'm awoken only when I hear the strains of the pianoforte, Caroline performing a sonata of Mozart's. I know that something is amiss when I spot the nervous look on her face and follow her gaze to the hearth, where Darcy sits on a chair, book in lap, while Miss Elizabeth stands a few feet in front of him, hands clasped before her. She is wearing a pair of flushed cheeks; he is clutching his book with fingers so strained they are nearly white. His eyes blaze challenge; hers crackle with distaste. They must have truly lanced each other this time, I surmise. His posture is entirely too rigid and defensive, whereas she has uncharacteristically riveted her gaze to the side.

I ask Louisa about it when we're both in bed later on, but she claims not to have paid attention, having been extremely tired herself. "Being amiable all day long," she yawns, "can be quite exhausting."

"If that's the case," I reply, "Bingley would have to hibernate the entire winter in order to store up energy for the rest of the year."

"Truly... sometimes I wonder how he carries on the way he does."

I smile. "I believe you did an admirable job today, though."

"It wasn't entirely bad," she agrees. "Though Miss Eliza is not very well-bred at all, she isn't half as flawed as Caroline makes her out to be. And besides, I think I might want to take up gardening come spring. That would be a diverting thing to do, would it not?"

"It would indeed."

She laughs. "Caroline thinks I've gone mad."

"Does she?"

"Yes. She actually burst into my dressing room half and hour ago and told me so."

"And what did you say?"

She sighs. "I found I didn't have anything to say at all. Think of it, Gilroy... for once, I had nothing to say to my own sister. Except for 'good night,' of course."

"She did have the grace to wish you a good night, as well, I hope."

"Oh, yes... but... but nothing more." Suddenly she sounds nervous. "I would not wish for her to ridicule me. We've been good friends for too long."

I do not remind her of Caroline's comment yesterday in the front hall, her sneer about a masquerade ball and hideous costumes. "Whatever she says," I advise, "do not listen to her. If she does ridicule you, ignore it. Perhaps, once she sees that she cannot affect you, she will accommodate herself to your behavior. You certainly should not accommodate yourself to her... by no means."

My voice takes on an edge that's far too commanding, and Louisa makes no qualms about pointing it out. Her reply to my orders is a sarcastic, "Yes, sir," and a swift elbow to the ribs. The nudge would ordinarily have left no impression on me, except that today all my body is more quiversome (there you go, I'm making up words again) than usual.

Upon hearing my small squeak, Louisa asks, "Are you all right, Gilroy? Don't tell me I actually hurt you."

"No, no..." I quickly say, unwilling as yet to tell her of my new physical regimen. "It's merely indigestion."

Louisa would have thought this a very implausible excuse had she actually noticed how much I ate the past day - to be accurate, about half of what I normally gobble up. Only in the middle of the night, when my stomach begins to howl into the darkness, do I realize that denying oneself food is not the wisest thing to do, that an improvement of eating habits should involve a change in the quality - and not the quantity - of one's consumption. So plaintive and insistent is this stomach of mine, that Louisa commands me to eat something immediately in order to shut it up, and, never one to shirk from good advice, I take up a candle and make my way to the deserted kitchen.

Conscientiously avoiding the breads and cakes, and very wary of fruit, I settle with some tomatoes and cheese. It's not long into my meal, though, when I hear the servants' door creak and someone tiptoe in from the outside. My cowardice instantly conjures up the sinister figure of a robber, while my absurd imagination dreams up a sequence whereby I hurl a tomato at his head and pin him to the floor. Fortunately for me, the intruder turns out to be my valet, and from the stink of him, I know he's been at the tavern.

Oddly enough, he's not drunk, and when he encounters me in the kitchen he has a troubled, preoccupied air about him.

"I know where you've been, Rupert," I say, "but I dare say you look rather sober considering."

His reply is a slight smile. "Oh, it's nothing, Gil. I... I just thought I saw two people that..." and then he breaks off.

"Two people?"

"I spotted them only on my way out and they looked a lot like... but I don't know what they'd be doing here."

"Who, Rupert, who?"

He rubs his chin. "I'll go back tomorrow and have another look. In the meanwhile, it's no use getting you anxious or angry."

He bows a good night and leaves. How cryptic of him, I think... either that, or his mind really is fogged up by drink. But it's too late at night to make sense of things, I'm far too hungry to even want to try, and the tomatoes and cheese are lying there on the table, just begging to be eaten. I oblige them.

Chapter 12, Part 1: Tales of Two Rogues

Posted On: Saturday, 25 January 2003, at 10:03 p.m.

True to my new commitment, though not entirely cheerful about it, I start off Saturday with another tramp up and down the parklands, though this time I choose to sit out my post-exertion stupor in a more secluded spot. During breakfast I allow myself a single slice of cake, as opposed to the three helpings I usually take, and I daresay it satisfies me well enough... in any case, I strive to convince myself that it does.

Miss Jane appears downstairs shortly after breakfast, and the weather being warmer and sunnier than it was yesterday, Bingley escorts her to the conservatory, where her golden hair and fair complexion are sure to be illuminated to their best advantage. Miss Elizabeth readies herself for a morning stroll, Darcy - quite coincidentally - readies himself for a morning ride, and Louisa is not long in joining her brother and his companion in their little world of smiles and sunshine. Remembering that she expressed a wish to get to know Jane Bennet a little better, something she most definitely will not be able to do with Caroline around, I sacrifice my morning by latching onto my sister-in-law and bidding her to play music for me in the drawing room.

Caroline is quite alarmed at the prospect. Not only is Darcy on his horse and unattainable, not only are her sister, brother, and a sweet but lowborn chit thrown together beyond her hearing, but now she also has to entertain me, her loutish brother-in-law. Several times I can see that she attempts to make an escape from me, but I express such an unbounded and unusual interest in that Scottish air and this Bach fugue, that she does not know what to do. The situation is not as bad for me as you might imagine. Aside from when she's singing, Caroline can produce music of a rather superior quality; what she lacks in genuine feeling, she makes up for in drive and technique.

During one long stretch of trills, I happen to glance out the window and see Miss Elizabeth walking in the distance, waving her bonnet about. I expect to glimpse Darcy in her vicinity, as well, but he is nowhere in sight. In fact, he spends most of the day avoiding her. During tea, when all our merry company is together in the parlor, he never casts a glance in her direction. Once, when she tells a joke, I see the corners of his mouth twitch, only to be squashed by a severe frown and a forced downturn of the lips. I have never seen him looking so openly displeased, not even with Caroline hovering around.

Speaking of my sister-in-law, she is busy extracting more information about the Bennet sisters' low relations. Her questions are directed almost exclusively at Miss Jane, who replies with artless truth. And by her responses alone it seems to me that she is not a fortune hunter. Fortune hunters normally do their best to exaggerate the material wealth and social rank of their families and the acquaintances their families claim. They wouldn't calmly reply that an uncle in Meryton is a lawyer, and that his wife - an Aunt Philips - rarely travels outside of Hertfordshire with him. If a fortune hunter is forced to admit to having an unfortunate relation, much is usually made of the tragic circumstances behind that relative's fall. Here though, Miss Jane paints a portrait of a simpler, but comfortable existence amongst her kinsmen. None of them are poverty-stricken; they each have servants; none have been robbed, pillaged, murdered, or betrayed by our government. In short, there is no cause to sympathize with them at all, to want to give them more money or support.

Miss Elizabeth also doesn't seem to be embarrassed by her connections. Though I'm sure she sees right through Caroline's game, she does not once color in the face or fidget in mortification. The mentioning of Aunt Philips does inspire an amused grin and a chewed lower lip, but talk of an Aunt and Uncle Gardiner brings a decidedly warm smile to her face. When Caroline brings the topic around to their residence in Cheapside, neither Bennet lady shirks from describing that locale. Quite the contrary, they begin to regale us with stories of girlhood visits to that happy home, sightings of gypsies, Turks, and Indians on the streets, trips to musty antique and costume shops, the Gardiner study with its maps and rugs and books in Greek, and of course, the cherished company of an ever-growing number of younger cousins.

Bingley, of course, is delighted with this all. I can't tell you the number of times he expresses the wish of meeting these charming people. Louisa, to my satisfaction, has kept silent the whole while, though her eyebrows do rise in shock more than once. At least, I think, her reactions are not performed in reference to her sister's, who looks horrified throughout. Darcy is more of a difficult read. I note that his eyes warm at several points, namely when younger cousins and Greek books are discussed. Turks and Indians, on the other hand, seem to have a rather different effect on him, especially when he can imagine them in such close proximity to Miss Elizabeth. I think he finds it appalling that the upbringing of young ladies can include such unorthodox experiences; on the other hand, it may be interesting to him that young gentlewomen with such experiences even exist. I'm sure he also notices that, though Miss Jane's descriptions rarely stray from the confines of her aunt's parlor, it is Miss Elizabeth who brings up Persian sword-swallowers and merchants from Goa who are only partly Portuguese.

"It is as I said, Gilroy," Louisa states before supper. "Miss Jane is entirely more well-bred than her sister." She smiles. "I have to say that she truly is a good person. It was hard to swallow at first, but I've come to believe that there's no malice about her at all, no greedy intentions. It's such a shame she comes from... from Longbourne!"

"Oh, be fair," I reply. "Only yesterday you were telling me how interesting the younger Miss Bennet is."

"Interesting, true," Louisa concedes. "Miss Elizabeth can be described as uncommon, even amusing, yes. But she's not to my taste. Her sister, on the other hand... I'm sure she would be receptive to advice on fashions and jewels and hairstyles... and she'd look quite becoming in them all."

"Louisa," I sigh, "don't think that the elder Miss Bennet is so lacking in sense that she'd allow you to make a doll of her."

Louisa pouts. "But she's so friendly and obliging! Who knows? Though, on second thought, with the little money her family has, she would not be able to afford half the recommendations that I'd make. A pity... she would have made an excellent project."

I roll my eyes, an action that does not escape her notice. "Would you rather," she says, "I work on her sister? That would be entirely more difficult, a complete remodeling from head to toe."

"Why are you suddenly so derisive of her?" I demand. "Just yesterday you spoke with her in the afternoon and at dinner. But now you're picking away at her once more. Why?"

"My dear husband!" she exclaims in tones revealing that she is thinking of me as nothing of the sort. "I believe I HAVE been too lax in praising Miss Eliza. She is a paragon of pure perfection - bouncing black curls, mischievous little eyes, a friend of Miss Lucas, and an excellent walker by all means..."

"Excellent walker," I whisper. "Those are the exact words that Caroline used to describe her when she first appeared at Netherfield's door."

Louisa falters. "So it is," she quietly replies.

"Let us continue this conversation, Mrs. Hurst, when you begin to express your own thoughts, not those of your sister. Unless of course, the two are one and the same."

Her jaw trembles with fury. "You... you unfeeling oaf!" she cries.

"Excellent progress," I reply, rising to my feet. "I believe the word Caroline usually uses to describe me is lout. You're quite original."

When I'm nearly at the door, I feel her hand encircle my elbow. "Stop," she commands and, quite involuntarily, I do so.

"Allow me to retract my previous comments," she begins, sounding very much like Uncle Philips, the local barrister. "I spoke in anger and in haste."

I blink, taken aback by her frank admission. "Very well," I say at last, "consider them retracted."

"I am aware," she continues, in the same measured tones, "that I spoke quite uncharitably about Miss Eliza just now. Though most of my comments reflected my own feelings" - this with a pointed glance at me - "I should not have gone on as I did about her. She is, as I said yesterday, not entirely full of fault. In fact, given the rather eccentric and deviant upbringing that she's had, one can hardly blame the poor soul for being unrefined. And," she concludes, rather pleased with herself, "if Miss Jane managed to turn out better under similar circumstances, it only proves that she is endowed with a truly superior nature, one to be greatly admired for having overcome such hardships."

Well... if that's Louisa's idea of charity, I suppose I shall have to get used to it.

The evening meal is the best that it's ever been. Five of us - Louisa, Bingley, the Bennet girls, and myself - have ourselves a lovely conversation, while the other two can only stare. Louisa, once again, leads the discourse, and I am proud to say that she behaves as she did yesterday. Her genuine spirits remain in the drawing room afterwards, and I think she actually feels regret - perhaps not as much as Bingley, but regret nonetheless - when one sister finally escorts the other upstairs again to bed. It will be their last night here.

"Oh, it shall be wonderful to have the house to ourselves again," Caroline sighs when they leave.

Upon receiving no rejoinder from Louisa - thank G-d - she turns to Darcy. "Is it not so, Mr. Darcy? Or shall you pine for Miss Eliza's pert opinions and fine eyes..."

Darcy abruptly turns to the window. "Quite the contrary," he mutters, much like a petulant child.

Caroline titters. "I can hardly blame you, sir. What an ill-bred and ill-mannered little upstart! She has an opinion on everything and the brazenness to air all her petty thoughts. As if we, who come from fashionable circles, wish to hear about her childish exploits with her tradesman uncle in that hovel, Cheapside."

As the vicious rant continues, I begin to hear humming from Bingley's direction. An expression of blank amiability, empty placidity, is plastered to his face, but he is definitely humming something as well. Sliding closer to him on the sofa and cocking my head to the side, I make out the sounds of... no, it can't be... not from Bingley...

"Bingley?" I whisper uncertainly.

"Yes, Hurst?" he replies.

"Were you just humming the Dies Irae from Mozart's Requiem?"

"I certainly was," he says with amazing good cheer.

"I see. You do know what that's all about, don't you?"

"Why yes... it's Latin for G-d's wrath." This, with a bright-eyed glance at Caroline.

It's always the ones that smile too much, I think, sliding away from him as he resumes his quiet song. I wonder if that's how he's always maintained his good humor while growing up with his two sisters, if he's always smiled blankly while venting his spleen through varied musical renditions of hell. Though, to be fair, eternal flames never sounded so cozy and inviting before.

Yes, only Bingley would make Judgment Day seem like a jolly picnic.

Oh, my... looking back over this chapter I've just come to realize that I've left out a very important figure, one I'm certain you'd like to hear from. I suppose now's as good a time as any to mention him, because his most major contribution to this day has yet to take place. I am referring of course to my valet, dear Rupert (and if you really haven't missed him, hold your tongue and spare his fragile heart).

Earlier in the morning, he told me to wait up for him, as he was planning to visit the tavern again and see who those two characters were that he was so disturbed about yesterday. Thus, I comply with his wishes and, after bidding a good night to my wife, go into my dressing room with pen and paper in hand, intending to pass the time by writing a reply to the letter Henry Fitzwilliam sent me. Halfway through my descriptions of Meryton's local populace, as I'm writing about the esteemed Lucas family, an odd and ingenious thought begins to blossom in my head - something inspired by Charlotte and her love of Henry Fielding. But before it can actually achieve definition, before I can name the idea and acknowledge it, Rupert bursts in, and the gust of wind from the swinging door manages to knock my missive into the hearth. It promptly dissolves to ash.

"Damn it, Rupert!" I cry. "Look what's become of my letter!"

"Letter, Gil? Letter? I don't give a cock's crow about your blasted letter!" He throws himself into a seat.

"I beg your pardon?" I whisper dangerously, rising to my feet.

"Oh, don't bother," he says, waving me down. "You'd best be sitting when I tell you the news."

Out of dignity, I remain standing. "And what news is this? What news justifies your rude and uncouth behavior?"

"Forgive me," he replies, briefly kneeling. "Forgive my temper. It's just the thought of having to deal with them again."

"Them? Oh, I take it you found out who those two gentlemen are."

"Gentlemen? Don't use that word, please, Gil."

"Why, who are they?"

He swallows hard. "Captains Benjamin Denny and George Wickham."

I blink. The blood rushes from my face and then back to it again. "You're joking."

"No."

"Don't toy with me, Rupert."

"I wouldn't dream of toying with you!" he protests. And then adds, "At least, not now."

"Zounds!" I cry, and promptly shrivel the curtains, wilt the carpets, and rot the woodwork with every expletive I can possibly dredge up from the seediest, most abased parts of my brain.

"What the bloody hell are they doing here?" I conclude, wiping the froth from my lips and plopping down exhaustedly into my seat. "They're actually captains in the regiment?"

"Indeed they are. Under Colonel Forster."

"Of all the counties in England, of all the towns... they show up here."

"That's right. As if they were following you. And me."

Now that's a frightening thought. But I suppose I should stop here and explain to you the reason behind my entirely ignoble and unclean reaction to the knowledge of their presence. I'm certain that, if you know nothing of the two, you might think me given to baseless hatred and fits of a near apoplectic magnitude.

Oh, where do I begin... let us start with Denny's story first. That one involves me more personally.

Benjamin Denny, believe it or not, used to be a clergyman in the village of Hunsford, which lies adjacent to the great estate of Rosings Park. In case you've forgotten - and somehow I can't imagine that you have - it is in this illustrious locale that Lady Catherine De Bourgh resides, and where the Viscount Fitzwilliam is presently fulfilling familial duties by obliging her ladyship with his presence. Hunsford Village is also where my late mother came to live during the last six months of her life, three years ago.

Failing in health, she had decided to leave the city and find a smaller, quieter place to spend her remaining days, and Hunsford seemed like the ideal location; no one knew her, and she would be left in peaceful solitude, which is what she wished for. I set her up in a comfortable house at the outskirts of the village, hired a doctor and nurse to live with her, and essentially spent that dark half-year in constant travel between London and Hunsford.

My mother and Lady Catherine hardly interacted at all. Lady Catherine condescended to pay her a visit once or twice, and relations steadily cooled from that point on. My mother, bless her soul, was no toad-eater, and Lady Catherine simply couldn't understand why this woman of lower rank insisted on being so contrary and opinionated.

It seemed that relations were also shaky between Lady Catherine and Benjamin Denny - or as the locals were fond of calling him before the scandal, Benny Denny. As clergyman, Denny enjoyed the patronage of Lady Catherine, but he did not spend an adequate amount of time fawning over herself and her daughter Anne and so seldom met with Catherine's approval. But because he performed his duties well, and because he was popular with the villagers, the lady had no real cause to remove him.

That is how matters stood when my mother arrived, and a week after she moved in, Benny Denny began to visit her regularly during tea time. I met him on several occasions, though I never failed to notice that he would not come around as often when I was in the house, a pattern of behavior that made me suspicious of him.

A couple of months into her residence at Hunsford, I finally inquired more deeply of my mother about the nature of his visitations. And it turned out that he had persuaded her to hand over nearly one thousand pounds of her fortune for charitable causes, good works amongst the village poor. Immediately I mistrusted his intentions. My mother, after all, would be the ideal person to dupe. Her ill-health had left her house-ridden and nearly secluded from everyone else, and her good nature, combined with benevolent old age, would make her very trusting and very willing to do good. Also, that same day, Rupert told me that he had spotted Reverend Denny openly flirting with my mother's nurse, and this further confirmed my belief that the man was a rotten pretender.

But first I needed to do some investigation. Visiting the poorer parts of the village, I saw that no good works had gone underway - there was no school being built, no new hospice being constructed for the elderly and destitute. There wasn't even talk of such things! I called upon Reverend Denny several times, but each time I showed up his housekeeper would inform me that he had just stepped out of doors, that he had just gone to such and such a place, that there was no possible way he could see me now. Clearly the man was avoiding me, and finally, out of sheer desperation, I appealed to his patroness, Lady Catherine herself.

Initially the lady was not too warm in her reception of me. She knew whose son I was, she did not care for my appearance (I believe she said I resembled a jam jar in shape), and, to make matters worst, my first action upon entering her house was to run straight into her daughter Anne and knock the poor girl onto the floor. My profuse apologies, I'm afraid, did nothing to appease either mother or daughter. Contrary to the Viscount Fitzwilliam's opinion, Anne is not quite the quiet and diffident young woman he makes her out to be; the look she gave me when I helped her up from the ground was fierce enough to make my heart freeze. I daresay that if she ever overcomes her poor constitution, she shall be more formidable and frightening than her mother.

But enough about young Anne De Bourgh. Though Lady Catherine's sentiments towards me were not at all friendly upon my arrival, she began to take an interest in my case when she saw that it could potentially implicate her clergyman in a crime and thus give her an adequate excuse to be rid of him. Wasting no time, she called in all his associates and assistants the next day, one by one, to be interrogated in her parlor. This was a sight that I cannot refrain from describing. She sat like a terrible queen in the largest chair in the room, a veritable throne that faced opposite the door. Whenever she wished for the next victim to be conducted into her presence, she would smack her silver-tipped cane against the floor and summon the man by name, using her coldest, most pitiless voice. The subject would then enter the parlor, the more cowardly ones dragging their feet, the more confident ones attempting to look her in the eye. To both types she would offer her bejeweled hand to kiss and then begin her questioning with all the ruthlessness of a peg-legged pirate. If one of her prey happened to give an equivocating reply or look away too often while answering, he would promptly feel the end of her cane pressed against the hollow of his throat. It was not surprising then that, within two days time, she managed to uncover the entirety of Denny's wicked dupe.

The Reverend Denny, as it turned out, had taken my mother's money and invested it in several up-and-coming phrenological societies. Before I continue, I must explain to you what phrenology is. Imported from the heads of two Austrian fellows - at least, their names sound like they're from that general region - phrenology is considered by a large number of people to be a kind of science. Basically, the premise is that the brain is divided up into various areas, each with its own function or trait (for instance, one area for language learning, another for amorousness, a third for loyalty), and that if a particular quality or propensity is strong in a person, that part of the brain will be large. Now, how would we know it was large without applying a mallet to their heads? According to phrenology, we'd have to see if there was a bump in the skull above the corresponding region; the larger the bump, the greater the size of the brain section, because the skull would have to rise up to accommodate it. Phrenology then is the science of studying character by running your fingers over a man's head and reading the bumps on his skull.

Now, I'm no scientist, but to me this whole phrenology business has always smacked of quackery. Bumps on the head, by my wisdom, merely indicate that a man was dropped too many times as a child; I find it hard to believe that they say anything about the scope of his character. And, I also can't say I agree with the logic of these phrenologists, in the way they determine what brain areas correspond to which traits. Take amorousness for instance. The founder of phrenology - I think his name was Franz Gall - said the "love center" was located in the back of the head because when he was once interviewing a widower, she fervently spoke of her late husband, was overcome by dizziness, and - fainting dead away - landed straight in gallant Gall's arms, whereupon he felt a heated swelling at the base of her skull. Thus, as he declared to the educated world, the woman's feelings for her deceased and beloved husband certainly had their origins in that part of her brain.

Maybe yes and maybe no, but if that's the only piece of evidence you're going to offer, you've earned my skepticism. In any case, phrenology was already beginning to catch in England, and in Scotland too, where several societies were already flourishing (those Scots are always ahead of their time), and scientists and educated laymen alike were (and still are) taking up the topic with relish, some opposing phrenology, others calling it the ultimate access to the human mind. Denny apparently wanted to cash in on this phenomenon. He invested part of the money in a new society in London. The rest went north to a few more in Scotland, including a portion to start up the Phrenological Society of Kelso. Kelso, aside from being beloved by Sir Walter Scott - who called it the prettiest little town in Scotland - had at the time produced a spate of really awful caber tossers. It seemed that none of Kelso's candidates for the regional caber toss championship could balance the cabers properly in their arms before heaving them. They would struggle with the weight, and the logs would bat against their heads. What an ideal place for phrenological research then, with so many bumpy subjects at one's disposal!

Now, from each society that Denny helped start up with my mother's funds, he would have later received a percentage of all other donations granted to the members plus a share of the profits from any money-raising events the society might sponsor (such as guest lectures, museum fees, etc...) Within a few years, the initial thousand pounds he conned from my mother could have potentially turned into seven or eight thousand.

But, thanks to Lady Catherine's unorthodox probe, he did not prevail. Summoned to her presence at last, the conniving clergyman, caught and fully aware of the fact that he was caught, desperately fell to his knees before the terrible lady and begged her for clemency, claiming outrageously that he had planned to use his investment profits for even greater charitable causes. He hugged her shoes, plied her hem with kisses, and burst into such a deplorable fit of sobbing that Lady Catherine De Bourgh grudgingly agreed not to have him thrown into jail. Instead, she reported him to his bishop (who had him defrocked) and banished him from Hunsford forevermore.

He wasn't done working his wickedness, though. On the night before his departure, someone attempted to break into my mother's house. I was sound asleep and snoring too loudly to notice, but Rupert (didn't I once tell you he had sharp ears?) caught the sound and traced it to a masked man climbing through the parlor window. In his hand the intruder bore a knife, and Rupert at once began to wrestle it away from him. What a tussle it was, my G-d - punching, slashing, biting, scratching! And still it didn't wake me up. Ultimately, my loyal valet got the upper hand, but just by a hair. He was bruised around both eyes, cut badly on his left shoulder (the scar is still there, and he impresses women by telling them that a tiger pounced on him in the Punjab) and the criminal escaped out the window again. Though the intruder's face was never revealed, Rupert did see orange freckles on both his hands and I knew, from standing in Rosings parlor and watching a pair of freckled hands clasp together in a plea of mercy, that the perpetrator was none other than Denny himself.

From that night on though, I never saw him again. The profits that began to trickle in from his investments were allocated to the new reverend, a very kind and very decent old man from a neighboring village, who used them for their initially intended purpose. Upon my mother's death, the new hospice and the new school were named after her, and although Lady Catherine was a little jealous, she was not so unfeeling as to begrudge my beloved mother any public tribute. Instead, in typical De Bourgh style, she tried to outdo the late and great Mrs. Hurst by funding a few charitable projects herself. Thus, much good was ultimately accomplished by all these sundry motives, England and Scotland were further enriched (or made more stupid) by the new phrenological societies, and Kelso has yet to win the caber toss championship.

By the by, Hunsford's magnanimous old reverend passed on this past year, and according to my dear friend Henry, Lady Catherine has found herself a perfect pet to replace him. Henry Fitzwilliam has never spoken much of this toady, and each time I petition him for more information, all he does is shake his head and say, "G-d must have been a bit distracted the day He made William Collins."

But, good reader, I digress. Now you finally know why I hate Benjamin Denny. And why Rupert, the Punjabi tiger tamer, hates him as well. Telling you this story has exhausted me entirely but, because I think highly of you all, I shall go on immediately and begin to relate to you how I met the darling Mr. Wickham.

It was only this past summer in the seaside town of Ramsgate. A distant cousin of mine had moved to America and left in my possession a small cottage he had owned by the shore. I had to travel to Ramsgate for two weeks to sign the ownership papers and so forth and, with the help of his lawyer, sort out the tiny mess my cousin had made by writing my name as Girloy and not Gilroy on all the documents. Sigh. So off I went to Ramsgate, anticipating naught but boring paperwork for a fortnight, though the promise of delicious seafood was enough to somewhat soothe my ruffled spirits.

I arrived in town, waded through papers for a week, and then had another week to wait before everything was duly processed, and I could officially claim ownership and procure the cottage's key. Deciding to give myself a well-deserved respite, I took Rupert down to the docks to investigate the local watering holes. One was half-tavern, half-brothel and thus immediately out of the question; though I can't always claim to have been an attentive husband, I was never unfaithful. Rupert, on the other hand, being unattached and lascivious, bade me the briefest farewell and disappeared within its doors. I was left to roam the rest of the waterfront myself, where I discovered Moe's Tavern (a repellant place - all its patrons were quite yellow with jaundice), a dubious-looking dump called The Skinned Sardine, and finally, the most respectable establishment in Ramsgate, The Gilded Squid. There I partook of some ale, watched the waves through the window, and - quite against my will - was joined by a very garrulous young gentleman, a Mr. Churchill I think his name was, who bored me to tears with countless stories of his secret engagement, his controlling aunt, and a father he never visited. By midnight I was sound asleep, head resting on the table, when Rupert shook me awake. Immediately, by the furrow above his nose (and by the fact that he had set foot in a place like the Gilded Squid, where nary a valet is seen) I knew that something was amiss.

"What's the matter, Rupert?" I yawned.

"First off, sir," he whispered back, "in an establishment such as this, one usually refers to one's servants by their last names."

"Oh, very well, Andrews. What is it?"

"A gentleman I played cards with back at the other tavern lost to me but refuses to pay his dues." He sighed and gritted his teeth. "And because he's of a higher rank than me, I can't very well... you know, persuade him to hand it over."

"Is that what you wish for me to do then? Go up to a fiend and bully him for your money? It is your fault, Rupert - er, Andrews - for associating with such men."

"You make an excellent point - sir - but that's not all. Though I suspected that you wouldn't want to confront him over money, there is another matter to be considered."

"And what's that?"

"I overheard him speaking to a woman who is a governess, or something of the sort. Her name is Mrs. Younge. In any case, this Mrs. Younge has a young charge under her wing, and she and the gentleman are both conspiring to take advantage of the girl."

At this, my ears perked up. "In what way?"

"With Mrs. Younge's encouragement, the gentleman is going to convince the girl to elope with him. Run off to Gretna Green. She apparently has a sizeable fortune apportioned to her... I think I heard them say around thirty thousand pounds or so."

"My, my... quite the scandal. Are the girl's parents alive? Does she have any relations?"

"I don't know. They didn't speak of that."

"Well then, what time is it?"

"You're the one with the pocket watch, sir."

"Excellent point, Andrews." I looked up the time and sighed. "Well, it is already a new day. Let us give it a courageous start."

"May I ask, sir," Rupert said, flashing me a nervous smile, "what exactly you are planning to do?"

I squared my shoulders, stuck out my belly, and in a brave and confident voice replied, "I haven't the foggiest notion!"

"As I thought. Now, would I be too bold in saying - sir - that my master has had a tad too much to drink?"

"No, but you'd be mistaken. It wasn't merely a tad, Andrews; give me more credit than that. Now, off we go. I want to meet this scoundrel."

Gentleman: Chapter 12, Part : 2 Tales of Two Rogues (Actually, We're Down to One Rogue Now)

Posted On: Thursday, 30 January 2003, at 8:51 p.m.

When I revealed my intentions to see who the scoundrel was and discover the identity of his intended prey, Rupert did not respond with any semblance of confidence or approval. Nevertheless, he steadied me to my feet and escorted me outdoors. Normally I would not have acted with such bravado, I would have gone about far more cautiously, but drink swelled my spirits and the night air bolstered my stride. As I swaggered through the cool summer dark, Rupert began to tell me a little more about the pit we would be entering.

"Pit, Rupert? That's rather ungenerous. I thought you'd be ecstatic in the company of such friendly women."

"Friendly yes," he replied, "but Frenchified, too." When he received only a blank look in response he added, "Never mind, Gil. I forget sometimes that you're quite an innocent" - pause - "compared to me, that is."

In due time we arrived at The Crusted Crab, as it was called, and slipped inside. A smelly, dank pit it was indeed, layered with foul stenches, echoing with the harpy song of fetid women and the bullish snorts of stewed and smelly men.

"Where are they?" I whispered, holding my nose, the din stirring me awake.

Rupert nodded over to a table by the hearth. There sat a dark-haired man, tall, sinuous, with glittering eyes and a charming smile... in short, a typical rake. On the other hand, his companion - the woman named Mrs. Younge - surprised me with her appearance, though I began to see why one could be duped into trusting her with a young ward. She had all the appearance of a kindly grandmother, down to the last details - spectacles, a shawl, her gray hair tied into the neatest little bun. Her face was broad, florid, and friendly; looking at her, one would never suspect treachery.

Rupert murmured, "They can't see us together, else they'd immediately suspect you." He disappeared into a group of snoring fishermen, while I sidled over to an empty table near the pair and slumped into a seat, pretending to be woozy and oblivious.

"But George," I heard Mrs. Younge say, "she still insists on sending a letter to her brother."

So George was his name. "I shall persuade her otherwise, I assure you," he said.

"She's not a stupid girl, you know."

"Oh, she's a little darling. A little cowslip. It shall be the easiest thing in the world."

"It'd better be. You know what her brother would do if he found out."

George's voice took on a decidedly chillier tone. "I'm willing to take the risk. It is thirty thousand pounds, after all, and once the marriage is consummated... well, there will be nothing that man can do then."

Mrs. Younge cackled. "Consummate a marriage with the little pixie. Hah! Don't you think she's a bit young for you, George?"

"Fortune has no age," he smoothly replied. "And as for the girl, though she could stand to be a bit more voluptuous, she's not without her charms."

As I was wondering exactly how old this girl was, two brazen chits sauntered up to me and sat on my lap, muffling my view and my line of hearing.

"Excuse me," I muttered, attempting to shake them off.

They giggled and threw their arms around my neck. "May we join you, sir?" they tittered, breaths reeking of gin.

"No!" I barked.

"And why not?" one coyly pouted. "We'll give you an evening you'll never forget."

"You can't," I groaned and pushed them onto their feet. "I'm... I'm celibate. I'm a monk. I'm a eunuch. I'm a castrato from Italy. Want to hear me sing an aria?"

They both exchanged puzzled glances and backed away.

Slouching with relief, I found George's eyes upon me. "I've never seen a gentleman who could repel two very willing women with so much ease," he said, flashing me a grin. "Are you really all those things?"

I licked my lips as an idea popped into my head. "No, not at all. It's only that those two... those two wenches were not to my taste. You see" - I so hoped my tactic would work - "I prefer women of a younger age."

It did. "Maybe we could marry her off to him!" Mrs. Younge joked, elbowing George as he belted his laughter.

"Marry me to whom?" I inquired, peering at them intently.

"Just a girl we both know," George answered.

"And what age is she?" I asked.

"An eager one this is!" Mrs. Younge cried. "She's innocent, sir. An angel. I don't believe she'd hang around the likes of you. Can't keep your hands to yourself, I'm sure."

"She's fifteen," George said.

I stiffened, ever so slightly, and hoped that the gloom would obscure my reaction. "That is indeed a... a ripe age."

"Ripe, I like that," George jested. "Yes, I would say she is very ripe."

Mrs. Younge leered. "Ripe for the picking, I wager." Again, they both laughed.

Suppressing the urge to shudder, I went on to ask, "And tell me, what is the fair one's name?"

"Georgianna," Mrs. Younge replied.

A faint alarm went off in my head. That name was familiar... from somewhere...

I almost asked for her last name, but I was afraid that my query would arouse some suspicion. Instead, I opted for a more roundabout approach.

"So this girl, can I really marry her?" I said with a waggle of my brows.

George smiled and shook his head, downing the last of his drink. "No, my eager fellow. I am to be the intended groom."

"Oh, my congratulations!" I gushed, my previous consumption of ale enabling my voice to sound a bit more boisterous than usual. "Shall it be a large wedding, then? Will her family be there?"

George and Mrs. Younge exchanged unreadable glances, and for one cringing moment I thought that they could perceive my motives.

They did not. "No, indeed," George said, chuckling and shaking his head. "That would be quite impossible. Is there ever a family wedding at Gretna Green?"

Mrs. Younge winked at George. "Was there ever a DARCY at Gretna Green is the better question."

They both laughed. And I, dear reader, felt the floor give way from under my chair.

Georgianna Darcy. Little Georgianna Darcy. I had seen her on a few occasions in the past... an elfin creature, harmless and shy, who preferred to voice herself through music rather than speak a single word. It was unbearable to know that she was in the hands of these two cretins, and perhaps already seduced by their charms and promises.

Struggling to regain my composure I asked, in what I hoped was not an overly interested manner, "Who is this Darcy family?"

"Ah, we've met a man who has not heard of the illustrious Darcys!" George declared with what I thought was an edge of sneering envy in his voice. "Have you been to London of late?"

When I shook my head, he said, "The society pages can't get enough of him. I can't repeat the number of times they've called him an 'eligible bachelor,' a 'perfect catch.' One would think he was an earl or a duke with all the attention given to his conjugal status. I don't think the ton will stop hounding him until he finally marries."

And I grew certain that if this man succeeded in eloping with Darcy's sister - or if the rumor ever got out that he had attempted to - wagging tongues would never be put to rest. If I was to stop this scoundrel from carrying out his designs on the poor girl, I had to proceed with discretion.

"By the way," George continued, interrupting my thoughts. "We haven't been properly introduced yet. What's your name, my good fellow?"

There was no chance that I'd tell him the truth. I was almost tempted to say 'Mr. Churchill', but thought better of it; who knew if George had not already made his acquaintance? Desperate, I instead blurted out the alias Rupert uses when he frequents London's cock-fighting hovels:

"Lee Ratmen."

I know, this is an entirely stupid name, and I've said as much to Rupert on several occasions. However, my valet really fancies it. He says it's a fitting appellation for one who scuttles through the gritty London streets at night, rubbing elbows with money-grubbing thugs and sniffing the air for barely legal lucre. To him, the name reeks of rodentia - fleas and foulness and sharp front teeth. "I can't go calling myself Rupert," he once said. "The name Rupert reminds you of little schoolboys with dripping noses. My cock-fighting associates"- yes, he called them associates - "would never let me live it down."

George's eyes widened at my admission. "Lee Ratmen..." he murmured. "An unusual name. Not quite the name you'd expect for a gentleman."

"I'll have you know that the Ratmen family - though very private - are rather wealthy and influential."

"Are they?" Mrs. Younge inquired, leaning forward and lifting her brow. "What parts are they from?"

"First," I said, stalling while I thought of a location, "you must return the favor."

George blinked. "Oh, yes, good fellow. Quite forgot to tell you. My name is George Wickham. And this is my, er, assistant, Mrs. Martha Younge."

"Assistant?" I asked, looking the woman up and down in what I hoped was a cool and appraising manner.

Wickham winked at me. "There is nothing this bird can't do. A falcon by day, with the sharpest of wits. And at night... she sings in perfect pitch."

"Oh, hold your tongue, you scamp!" Mrs. Younge exclaimed, though with a private blush and a brief pinch to Wickham's bottom.

Suddenly I was in need of another drink. Breathing hard and swallowing down the bile that was inching up my throat, I barely heard the musical Martha when she repeated her question from before:

"So, what parts are you from?"

"Hertfordshire," I replied, inspired by the letter I had received only a week earlier from Bingley, inviting me to his prospective new home in the coming autumn.

"I've never heard of it," Wickham said. "Though I'm sure," he added, "that it's a lovely place."

"Yes, yes... quite..." I agreed and, pulling out my pocket watch, made various exclamations about the lateness of the hour, succeeded by numerous apologies for having to quit the company of such agreeable people. As I bowed my farewells and stumbled to the door, I sensed a small, purposeful shadow following me. Rupert.

"I have to hand it to you," he said once we were outdoors, "for someone who's a bit intoxicated, you performed marvelously. Though it would've been better," he added, "had you found out where they're staying!"

I crushed my palm to my forehead. "Of course! Oh, I'm so stupid!"

"I know, but we can't help that now. Listen to me... listen, Gil..." He patted my cheek, and I nodded in attention. "You go to the inn now, but before you fall into bed, I want you to write a brief note to Darcy and have it sent by express post. Is he in Derbyshire now?"

"According to Bingley, yes."

Rupert sighed. "That's hardly a reliable source. Have two expresses sent... one to Pemberley and the other to his home in London. You understand?"

"Yes, understood. But what will you do?"

"I'll wait out here and then follow them home."

"Rupert!" I exclaimed. "You'd do that?"

"Of course. Until her brother appears, we both have to make sure she doesn't leave Ramsgate."

"Certainly. And for all our sakes, I hope he's in London... it's so much closer." I clasped his hand and shook it warmly. "Keep yourself safe, Rupert."

"I feel like Lee Ratmen now," he replied and, grinning, melted into the shadows.

When I reached the inn, I pulled out two sheets of paper, and on both I wrote: "Darcy - ride to Ramsgate without delay. Your sister needs protection", and signed them, "a true friend." I had given the matter of what to write quite some thought on the way to my lodgings, and had determined that it would not be a good idea to disclose the exact nature of the emergency. One of the posts would have gone to a house in which Darcy was not residing, and who knew what gossiping servant of his would have opened it up. I did not wish for a whiff of scandal to taint his younger sister. Although I never doubted her innocence, others might have read "Wickham" and "elopement" and dreamt up some salacious nonsense about the true nature of their relationship.

As to not attributing the notes to myself, that was merely to spare Darcy mortification; imagine receiving aid from a man who, in your estimation, is little more than a lumpy feedbag. "True friend" would suffice - I wrote it so that he might know that I was not planning to use my information in order to blackmail him.

Letters dispatched, I tottered back to my room and, with a great sigh, pitched forward onto my bed. It was early morning when I felt Rupert shaking me awake and dashing my face with cold water.

"Rise and shine!" he crowed, his voice throbbing through my skull. "Did you have a good night? Did you sleep tight? Did you let Mrs. Younge nip and bite?"

Dodging the pillow that I launched at his face, he cackled and handed me a mug of coffee. "Rouse yourself, Gil... we've got work to do today."

He went on to tell me that Mrs. Younge and her ward were living in a large, fashionable cottage situated on the promontory overlooking the waterfront; all we had to do was take the road from our inn and go up the hill. Wickham was not living with them; he had opted to rent a room a few streets away, in a less affluent neighborhood.

"He's trying to treat her like a gentlewoman, imitating courtship so to speak," Rupert informed me. "Not that I'm praising his motives, but at least we won't have to worry about him, you know, getting all beastly and forceful."

"Well that's a comfort."

"Though from what I heard by following them, they want to go off to Scotland tonight. The girl's not in need of that much more convincing."

"You would think, with his powers of persuasion, he had learned something from you, my friend."

Rupert looked offended. "Why, I never! I'm not mercenary, Gil! And besides, I always prefer women who know what they're about. After taking all the trouble to court them, it's nice when you can just lay back and let them do the rest."

"Enough!" I cried. "Forgive me! Now, what ideas have you got in mind?"

"Wickham's planning to make all his last minute arrangements today. I say that what you should do is accost him on the street outside of his lodgings. Pretend you're accidentally running into him. Then you insist on inviting him to a tavern again - just to talk, be chums - and while you're there, slip a little of this into his drink." He pulled out a small paper packet and, opening it, revealed a fine white powder.

"Rupert - what is that?"

"Just a spoon of this will knock him out for at least seven or eight hours."

"Good Lord, man, where did you get this?"

"Oh, well I... I took the liberty of spending some of your money at an apothecary's the past night."

"And he sold you this drug? Just like that?"

"If it makes you feel better, he said his poverty, but not his will, consented."

I took the packet from him and stared at its contents. "How much do I... do I... I can't put too much, because if I kill him, Rupert, then it's not good. Then it's a catastrophe of unbounded proportions, I mean religiously, and ethically, and the fact that I'll be beheaded for sure."

"I believe they hang murderers nowadays."

"That's not the point! And I don't want to completely knock him out either, or else he'll suspect that I've done something to him. And if he suspects, I go to prison and our plan collapses all around us. And did I mention that I'll be in prison? And when they ask me for my motive, I'll have to tell them about Miss Darcy, and then... but on second thought, Wickham might not inform the proper authorities; Heaven knows, he wouldn't want to get entangled with them now. Instead, he might simply butcher me to keep me mum! Oh, Rupert, you shall find my remains beneath a floor plank, believe me!"

"Good Heavens, Gil, you don't need coffee to rouse you in the morning. You've got your worries to do that for you." He shook his head. "Look, you slip a little bit in. It'll make him a tad woozy, disoriented, unable to really get out of his seat, but semi-conscious nonetheless. And you'll stay with him the whole time, like a real friend."

"And what will you do?"

He shrugged. "Watch you through a window and laugh?"

"I have a better idea," I growled. "Why don't you deliver a note to Miss Darcy. I've got it! We'll pretend that it's from her brother, all right? And it will say something to the effect of, 'My dear sister, chatter chatter, I shall be arriving at Ramsgate shortly with a big surprise for you. A huge present, or something. Please keep my imminent approach a secret, as the surprise involves Mrs. Younge as well."

Rupert pursed his lips and tapped his chin. "Very well, that's not the worst idea. It shall certainly pique her curiosity, make her want to remain here longer... and it does have some truth to it, too; he doesn't have to say that the surprise he's bringing is his own self. But," he asked, "is that in character for him? Is he that playful and spontaneous? I mean, this is Darcy we're speaking of. Would he tease his sister in that manner?"

"I think so, Rupert. I've seen them interact before; he softens up when he's around her." I sat down at the writing table and pulled out a sheet of paper. 'Dear Georgianna,' I scrawled.

"Ugh!" grunted Rupert. "What horrible hand-writing! Darcy would never write like that!"

"Then let us have it that he dictated the note to a servant, all right?"

"But even his servants wouldn't write like that! Think of his valet... would Haverford make such a big-bellied 'G' or such a loopy little 'I'?

"I could try to make it resemble Louisa's handwriting, but..."

"Allow me," Rupert insisted, gently pushing me aside. He printed out the opening again.

"I'm impressed," I whispered. "And ashamed, too. But if he were dictating the letter to a servant, would it still say 'Georgianna'?

"Just let us keep going. What's next?"

"I shall be arriving at Ramsgate shortly, with an enormous surprise for you. Please keep this information secret, because-"

"No, no," Rupert interjected. "Darcy wouldn't say, 'Please keep this information secret!' He would say, 'It is imperative that you keep this information secret.'"

"To his sister?"

"Why not? He is lord of Pemberley. And his sister is just another vassal."

"Rupert-"

"There... imperative. Now, how shall I conclude? 'Love, Darcy'?"

"Yes, Rupert, 'Love Darcy'! That's how he's known to his sister... she calls him Darcy. Write 'Your affectionate brother'. And then, 'P.S. You can see how very busy I am with travel preparations, as I have resorted to dictating this missive to my valet.'"

"Perfect." Rupert ended the note, fanned the paper, and sealed it in half. "I'm so excited, Gil!" he went on to exclaim. "All these intrigues going on all at once. And myself at the center of them! I don't remember ever feeling so deliciously deceptive!"

And as I strolled up to Wickham's lodgings later on, I couldn't remember ever feeling so bone-jarringly nervous. When Wickham stepped outdoors at last, it took a mighty effort to play the part of the jovial simpleton.

"George Wickham!" I cried, as if parched for his friendship.

He froze upon seeing me, but swiftly masked the look of annoyance that stole over his face. "Mr. Ratmen," he intoned. "What happens to bring you here?"

"I'm merely enjoying a morning stroll. I truly didn't expect to meet you here. Would you like to go down to the Gilded Squid with me?"

He blinked. "Well, I would love to, but you see, I'm rather busy today and-"

"Nonsense!" I cried, grabbing him by the arm. "I won't take up too much of your time, I promise you. To think, I was so regretful that I had to leave early yesterday..."

"It was past midnight. That's hardly early."

"...and I thought to myself, I would love to be able to spend more time with this delightful chap here." My arm snaked around his shoulders and gave him a squeeze. "So, what do you say to my proposal? Shall you join me for a spell? I'll pay for it all!"

The prospect of a free meal was what finally got Wickham to follow me to the waterfront, though he reminded me along the way that time was spare for him. Once we were at the Gilded Squid, he took advantage of my generosity and ordered pheasant, soup, and a platter of mushrooms. I hardly remember what I babbled about throughout the meal - the weather, no doubt, and the charm of Ramsgate, and the shape and color of the clouds in the sky. As the meal progressed, I found no opportunity to slip him a bit of the powder. At last, as our final drinks were served, I acted upon my despair.

"Look!" I exclaimed. "There's a sea gull attacking a man's head!"

Wickham peered out the window. "I don't see anything," he remarked. When I insisted that he had to view it from my angle, he leaned over the table, while I produced the packet and shook it over his drink. All was poised to go well, until Wickham - "hmphing" in confusion - abruptly sat back and knocked into my arm.

The powder spilled over the table, over his food, into his drink, onto his lap. His eyes widened, as he took in the evidence of my ineptitude.

"What's this?" he whispered.

"Sugar?" I offered and quickly rose to my feet.

His hand grabbed my wrist and forced me back down into my chair. The Gilded Squid was rather empty at that time of day, so no one witnessed our subdued altercation.

"Are you trying to poison me?" he inquired, his voice dangerously cold and level.

"What makes you say that?" was my brilliant retort.

"Is your name really Lee Ratmen?" When I hesitated he added, "If you do not tell me who you are and what your business is, I shall report you to the proper authorities."

"And if you report me to the proper authorities," I hissed back, "I'll talk, and you won't ever see a pound of that young lady's fortune."

He grew a little pale, and my fear diminished somewhat at his obvious display of consternation. However, when he followed up on his surprise by grabbing a knife from the table, inserting it in his pocket, and asking me to follow him outside, I have to admit that I was not entirely composed.

I did not wish to cry for help, for then both of us would be in prison - he for threatening to stab me (or for stealing dining ware), and I for attempting to drug him. No... only one of us would have to fall, and I was determined that it would not be me. Fear temporarily overmastered by my instinct to live, I clenched my jaw, nodded in compliance to his wish and, wrist still trapped in his grip, rose from my seat. As he followed suit, leaning into me slightly while getting to his feet, I suddenly threw my weight against him and, scooping up some powder from the table, shoved it into his nose and open mouth, jamming his jaw up so that he swallowed it with a gag.

He staggered back, coughing, and I bolted to the door, hardly noting the astonishment on the faces of the few patrons present. Once out of doors, I cringed to find that the entire length of road was sparsely populated; there were no crowds to disappear into. I opted then to veer into the alleys and narrower paths behind the Gilded Squid. These I traversed in a sprint, giving little heed to direction. The rasp of my lungs and the trembling of my legs were the only facts my mind registered, and it was with a general sense of haze and fatigue that I found myself standing in front of Moe's Tavern, unable to go on further.

I lurched through the front door and wheezed, "Someone... trying to... kill me... need... to hide..."

None of the four patrons - the same jaundiced four from yesterday - turned to face me. The bartender, wiping the countertop without looking up, muttered, "Yeah, yeah, we all got our problems."

What a coarse accent he had, gritty and American! I briefly wondered how an American was faring here, what with the war going on, but my concern did not survive for long. Seeing that no one would deign to address me further - it's American, I suppose, to not immediately defer to a gentleman - I decided to take matters into my own hands and staggered over to a small door at the back of the room.

"Hey, hey!" the bartender cried, moving around to intercept me. "What're you trying to do?"

"Need to hide," I panted back, still out of breath.

"Oh, no you ain't!" he barked. "Who are you?"

I shoveled up two handfuls of money from my pockets and showered them into his palms. "Does it matter?"

"Not any more it don't," he replied, spilling them into his - Good Lord! - his underwear, shaking his hips a little to settle them in place, and pulling open the door for me. I scurried inside and closed it almost entirely, leaving just a sliver of a crack to see through. I anticipated Wickham's entrance at any moment, aware that I'd probably left a succession of tracks and signs along my escape route from the Gilded Squid.

Sure enough, Wickham stumbled in about five minutes later. He, too, was breathing hard and looking a little pale; I wondered - and hoped - that some part of his haggard appearance and shortness of breath could be attributed to the powder.

"I'm looking," he began, crossing over to the bar, "for a Lee Ratmen."

The bartender cocked his head. "Say that again?"

"Lee Ratmen." Wickham looked at each patron in turn. "Did he stop by here at any point?"

"Hey, fellas!" the bartender cried. "I'm lookin' for a Lee Ratmen! You hear? I wanna Lee Ratmen."

The patrons suddenly, and inexplicably, began to snortle. "Hey, what's so funny?" the surly barman demanded.

One of the patrons gave out a loud snigger and belched so hard that his lips shook. "Yoohoo, Moe, darling," he said with a voice that could make an alley cat wince. "You can look at me all day long, if you'd like."

Just as Moe the bartender was about to reply, another man entered the tavern. Immediately Moe asked of him, "You Lee Ratmen?"

He gasped and vehemently shook his head. "I swear to you, I only like women."

Again, the rest of the patrons began to laugh. "You're the one man here who doesn't, Moe," said the belching cretin from before. Without much ceremony he rose, turned his backside to Moe, and wiggled it teasingly. "Feast your eyes, my sweet!" he cried. "There's enough beauty in Barnard Gumble for you to leer at all you want."

Dawning realization of the joke hit both Moe and myself at the same time, but whereas I bit down laughter, Moe turned a violent shade of red. Immediately he turned on Wickham and spat out, "Why you snake-eyed, goat-faced, milk-livered maggot! Think I'm some kinda fool? I'll split your head in two and paint the walls with your brains!"

"But sir-" Wickham feebly protested. I noticed that he was even paler than before. With one more attempt at speech, he blinked and pitched forward onto his face. The tavern fell silent for a moment. Moe stepped over to the now prone body, nudged it once with his toe and said, "All right, you stewed monkeys, drag him over to the corner."

Two of the patrons promptly did his bidding. I emerged from my concealment and kneeled over him. He was still breathing and, upon leaning in, I could detect him faintly snoring as well. Getting up, I inquired of Moe, "What shall you do with him?"

Moe shrugged. "When he wakes up, he can haul his own butt out." He paused and narrowed his eyes at me. "Are you ... is that someone's real name? Yours?"

"Oh, no," I replied with as much gravity as possible. "I'm Gilroy Hurst."

Never was I happier with my name. And when I reached the inn shortly after, exhausted and, broad daylight notwithstanding, ready to fall asleep, I couldn't help but dredge up one last chuckle at Rupert's expense. Lee Ratmen, indeed.

I woke up late in the evening, to find Rupert pacing across the room.

"I know about all that happened," he said, shaking his head. "I went to the waterfront in search of you and discovered Wickham sound asleep in Moe's Tavern."

"What's become of him?" I asked, blinking sleepily.

"He eventually woke up, and I followed him as he went to his own lodgings. Mrs. Younge was waiting for him there, and she gave him an epic tongue-lashing." He licked his lips. "They've decided to leave tomorrow, in the late afternoon."

"But the note...?"

"Miss Darcy has it," said Rupert. "I broke into the cottage, stole a liveried coat, clapped a wig on my head, and presented it to her on a pilfered platter. All without Mrs. Younge's knowledge, I might add. And what we do next... well, we can't exactly show our faces to them anymore. Hopefully Miss Darcy will have enough good sense to listen to the note and ask them to stay a while longer." He paused. "What I suggest we do is tomorrow, we stake out a spot within view of the cottage and watch for any activity. Watch to see if they're moving any trunks or other things out of the home. All right?"

We did just that, hiding ourselves in a little stand of birches by a walkway that snaked past the cottage and along the cliff. Stocked with food and drink, we idled away the morning, but nothing of interest happened. By early afternoon, Rupert was dozing against my shoulder, and I too was nodding off, my eyes aching from the glare of the sun.

Wickham's voice was what woke me up. I nudged Rupert awake, and the two of us watched as he strolled up the promenade with Georgianna Darcy on his arm.

"My sweet," he was saying, "please let us not wait. I yearn for you ever so much."

Georgianna giggled shyly, lowering her head and blushing to the roots of her hair. "I love you, too, George, but please... I've grown so very fond of Ramsgate, and I'd like to stay here a few days longer. Please, I should wish to remember this place forever as where I spent the final days of my girlhood."

"But sweet!" George insisted, flashing her a disarming smile.

"Please, George," was her insistent whisper. "Just a few days longer."

He sighed, raked a hand through his hair, and promptly turned around to escort her back to the cottage. Good girl, I thought, pleased with her evasion.

When we resumed our post the following day, a similar scene unfolded, only this time, George appeared more impatient than charming, more bedeviled than devilish.

"Look, sweet," I heard him say. "Everything is packed. Everything is ready for departure. Why stay here? Don't you know how lovely Scotland is?"

"I'm sure it is lovely," she murmured with what I thought was less confidence than yesterday. It took every shred of restraint not to leap out and butt him over the cliff.

"It is the loveliest place in the world!" George cried, barking out a laugh that made him sound like a broken bagpipe. "We'll return here as soon as you wish... as soon as you wish." He brought his fingers to her face and began to stroke her cheek. "Think of how eager I am to make you my wife. Think of how much I love you."

"George," she said, savoring his caress. "Will a few more days truly matter?"

"Every day, every moment without you as my wife, is torture of the most extreme kind. Please let us leave this place today."

Rupert tightened his grip on my arm, and I held my own breath as the scoundrel waited for his prey to respond. Confusion, trepidation, longing, and love all swept across her face. At last she pursed her lips, raised a hand to his cheek, and said...

"Wickham!"

Rupert and I both jumped. That wasn't a feminine voice, not a lady's voice at all. In fact, it was Darcy's voice; he must have been in London, and not in Derbyshire, after all. It was with a great expulsion of relief that I saw him striding up to the couple, his coat billowing out behind him. Rupert and I didn't stay in the grove much longer. Fatigued and cramped - and knowing now that everything would turn out for the best - we both slipped away unnoticed.

This, dear reader, is a faithful narrative of my dealings with Mr. Wickham. G-d bless you for enduring it with such patience.

Chapter 13

Posted On: Monday, 3 February 2003, at 10:58 p.m.

Rupert and I sit for a short while longer in my dressing room, musing over the potential pains and unpleasantness that the wicked duo's presence might wreak here in Hertfordshire. Perhaps my mind is not equipped to cope well with stress, because my thoughts soon wander through various childish fantasies that involve me wearing red tights and a black cape, slashing the air with a sword while wielding a dinner plate as a shield. Some of them end in my being killed - those are the ones where my shield has distractingly delicious food on it. Other times, I parry, lunge, and skewer, and if I can't manage to fight off both Wickham and Denny (who in my dreams are both eight feet tall with orange eyes) Rupert usually comes riding in on a donkey to save the day.

Suddenly I become aware of Rupert talking to me. "Excuse me?" I mumble.

He sighs. "All I said was that I'm tired, and I wish to go to bed. I'll keep an eye on those two, though I trust they won't be stirring up that much trouble. They're both officers now, and they probably wouldn't want to lose such respectable posts... not after their past job-related missteps."

"Perhaps," I muse. Then, with a smile, I add, "You and I could have sprung from the mind of Cervantes, my friend."

"Who?"

"I'm Don Quixote, the foolish knight, and you're my servant, the ever-practical Sancho Panza."

"Oh," Rupert replies. "Yes, I remember my mother used to tell me stories about those two." He laughs. "You fit the part of Panza much better than I do though, Gil. I could see you riding on an ass any day."

"Hmmm, yes, and you... you're the skinny, brainless wanderer who gobbles up romances."

"And falls in love with lusty peasant women," he adds, smiling. "Don't you forget that."

"Except he believes that they're queens."

"Oh, all women are queens to me," is Rupert's rejoinder. That, and a meaningful wink. "Good night, Gil. Our conversation is going to give me pleasant dreams tonight." He pauses before the door, snaps his fingers, and then turns around again. "I almost forgot. You expressed an interest earlier in wooing your wife, is that not so?"

"Yes," I mumble, a little unsure of what direction he's taking.

"Well," he says, reaching into his pockets and producing a small cluster of flowers, "you can start with these - they're asters, autumn flowers. Go in now, arrange them in her hands, and when she wakes up in the morning" - here he pauses, clutching them to his heart and letting his voice soar - "oh, Gilroy, my gallant goose, how lovely of you!"

I snatch them from his hands. "Thank you," I grumble. "You're a very thoughtful - and tactful - individual."

"Think nothing of it, Sancho," he croons, before departing with a careless wave.

Thoughts of slipping back into bad suddenly do seem very necessary and palatable, and so - flowers in hand - I creep back into my room.

Imagine my surprise when I find Louisa sitting in an armchair by the hearth, quietly leafing through a small book. She glances up at my entrance and offers me a weary smile.

"Why aren't you asleep?" I wonder aloud.

"Why have you got flowers in your hands?"

"Uh..." Well, so much for the surprise. "They're for you. You're learning about flowers, aren't you? These are asters." I wince. Lovely, Hurst... what a romantic speech. I can certainly hear her knees knocking now.

"That's sweet of you," she murmurs, her surprise obvious. She rises, takes them from my hands, and after briefly disappearing into her room, returns with them in a small vase, which she props up on her nightstand. "Come," she commands, "sit with me by the fire for a spell."

Never one to turn down such an amiable invitation, I join her in an adjacent chair, and for a short while we remain in silence. At last, she asks me, "What's troubling you, Gilroy?"

I blink. "Is it that obvious?"

"Why, yes. You have an absolutely murderous glint in your eyes."

I flush red. It's true... my thoughts had strayed to Wickham for a moment. "Ah, well," I reply. "I would not wish to burden you."

"What if I want to be burdened?"

I sigh. "If you must know, Benjamin Denny is in town."

She stares at me blankly.

"You know," I add, "the man who nearly cheated my mother of her money. The man who then broke into her house with a knife and-"

"Oh, right!" she exclaims. "Now I remember." She examines my face. I shift uncomfortably. "All right, who else?"

"What makes you think that there's anyone else?" I evade.

"I'm not sure. But if there is someone else, I am deserving of your confidence, am I not?"

Her comment nets me. "Very well... there's also the matter of George Wickham."

She mouths the name to herself. "Am I supposed to know who he is, too?"

I shake my head, groaning inwardly. I had never told Louisa about the Wickham affair, thinking that she would blurt it to Caroline, who would then most likely request a marriage proposal from Darcy in exchange for her silence. And although Louisa has certainly improved in my estimation, I still wonder whether I can, at this point, trust her completely.

It's as if she can read my thoughts. "You don't trust me, do you."

How do women detect these things? "It's not that, it's merely..." I falter, wondering how to conclude my statement.

"No, Gilroy Hurst, it is blatantly a matter of mistrusting me! It's rather noble of you to tell me that I'm capable of improving, it's all very fine of you to bring me flowers in the middle of the night, but this... this enormous doubt you have in my trustworthiness, it simply undoes all your good intentions!"

There is anger and hurt in her voice, and there is such rightness in her words. I stare at her for a moment, astonished by the sudden proof of her perceptiveness.

"Very well," I whisper. "I shall tell you. But under no condition must you relate this to anyone else, not even your sister."

"I promise."

Taking a deep breath, I tell her - sparing her a few of the more gruesome details along the way - about my adventure in Ramsgate. When my tale comes to a close, I watch her carefully for her reaction. It turns out that her reaction is very hard to watch, though, because it involves grabbing me on either side of the head and leaning in to plant a kiss on my balding pate.

I close my eyes at the sweet sensation, and any tension I was harboring simply dissolves, as if it never existed to begin with. I think then that, ever since we arrived at Hertfordshire, Louisa has acquired the uncanny knack of appearing before me in my times of distress. During the party in Lucas Lodge, less than one week ago - think on it, less than a week has passed - she was the one who came upon me as I shed nostalgic tears over a song; the following evening, she discovered me in the library when the dismal weather had cast a pall over my heart. Though she was hardly as comforting during those two times as she is now, I cannot help but see the emergence of a pattern.

She sits back in her seat, a tired yet warm smile on her face, the likes of which I've never before seen. "You know, Gilroy," she says, "I never imagined that you could be so exquisitely heroic." She sighs. "And poor Georgianna, poor girl... who would have thought that wealth could be the source of so much unhappiness? It confounds me, truly, that one's fortune could attract such misfortune."

Upon expressing her dawning realization that money alone cannot inspire joy, my wife gazes at the fire for several long moments, allowing her radical epiphany to settle in. I hold back my amusement, though eventually allow myself to venture a question. "And you, Mrs. Hurst... do you know of any possessions that do ensure a blissful existence?"

She pauses, cocks her head, and suddenly yawns. "Do you want to know why I was awake when you came in?" she says, not answering my question. When I shake my head in reply, she goes on to tell me, "I found it hard to sleep without you here as well. The bed is less... less warm without your presence."

Sometimes, dear reader, I fail to grasp subtext. My response to her admission is, "I can quite understand that. Given my mass, it's only naturally that I generate a lot of heat."

"Well, it's not just that," she insists. "It's..."

"Oh, I know, I can service myself as a pillow as well," I say, patting my stomach.

This elicits a smile and another yawn from my companion. "Very well then, Gilroy," she says, rising from her seat and extending her hand to me. "Let me put you to good use."

Quite wearily contented myself, I accept her hand, and she leads me over to the bed. Once we both clamber on, she does something that is unexpected and delightful - rather than crawling off to the other side of the bed, she curls up beside me, resting her head on my chest and her arm on my pillow... er, midsection. Feeling stupidly happy, I kiss the top of her head and, in a sleepy voice, inquire, "Louisa, what book is it that you were reading when I came in?"

She giggles in a slightly girlish and embarrassed manner. "Oh, just one of those light novels Caroline happened to loan me. A romance, set in Germany, rather silly really."

"Why silly?"

"Because all the characters keep walking around with their clothes half-torn from their bodies. You begin to wonder if German tailors and dressmakers are the richest folk in the land."

I laugh at her observation and can't help but think appreciatively of her surprising wit. As sleep steals over me, I feel a pleasant fullness, a pleasant contentedness settle inside me that, for once, has nothing to do with food or comfortable furniture.

The next morning I find that Louisa has not shifted positions overnight, a circumstance that makes me all the more unwilling to leave bed and begin my exercise. We both arise only when we hear Bingley coming down the hallway, knocking on doors and announcing that it's time to ready ourselves for church. From his sudden eagerness to pursue religious activities, I'm assuming that the Bennet sisters have already taken their early leave. Still disappointed with myself that I missed my morning romp, I ask Louisa, after breakfast, if she'd like to walk with me to church.

"But it's nearly two miles away!" she exclaims.

"What's two miles of good road? It's a very easy distance, quite near Netherfield."

"Near and far are relative terms," she says, glancing out the window. "I suppose, if it's sunny outside as it is now, and not too cold..." Her head whips back to me again. "All right, Gilroy. But if I grow fatigued, you're carrying me!" She pauses then and frowns. "But what if dirt gets on my clothes? What if I grow excessively sweaty, or there's a bit of wind and my hair moves out of place... what then?"

I snort. "I never thought that a slight exposure to the elements could so frighten the formidable Louisa Hurst, but perhaps I was mistaken."

Her eyes flash. "You think I'm frightened? Well, I'll show you, Gilroy Hurst. I'm walking! And I'm walking quickly! And if you can't catch up, well I suppose I'll have to leave you behind in the mud!"

"I give you permission to do so."

"Lord knows I won't look my best," she adds, more quietly.

"But I won't look my best either," I reply. "We'll make quite a couple."

She rolls her eyes at my statement, though I can detect a hint of a smile quirking the corner of her mouth. Much to everyone's surprise then - including Caroline's, who repeats all of my wife's anxieties about the wind, dirt, and body odor, though to no effect - we set off on our trek out of doors. At such a brisk pace it's hard to carry out prolonged conversation, though we do plod along linked at the arms, silently appreciating the beauty of the countryside.

"You know," Louisa admits when we're nearly three fourths of the way there, "one can't really know the country from a carriage window. One has to walk around in it to truly absorb the simple grandeur."

Uncertain of how she will receive such a comment, I refrain from telling her that she sounds very much like a certain Bennet girl and instead limit my response to a smile and a nod of agreement.

"And you, Gilroy!" she goes on to say. "Why, I thought you'd be struggling for breath by this point."

"I am struggling for breath."

"No, but I mean, I assumed that you would need to stop and rest a few times along the way."

I had thought so, as well. But it appears that, after only two mornings of vigorous tramping, my stamina has already somewhat improved. "Well," I say, feeling cheeky, "perhaps I owe my success to your spirits, Mrs. Hurst. They're doing an admirable job of keeping me buoyant."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Hurst," my wife replies, belying her words by giving my arm a squeeze and pressing a little closer to me.

We are the last of the Bingley party to straggle in for services. When we slide into the pew, opening up our hymnal between us, I notice that there's an empty spot beside me... in fact, it's the last vacant seat in the church. As I wonder who will possibly fill it, a large, bristling orange mass comes plodding down the aisle, pauses before our pew, releases a quiet groan, and then plops down onto it.

Noticing Foxtrot's arrival, my wife attempts to block him entirely from her peripheral vision by pulling our hymnal over to her and raising it to obscure her face. As a result, I am now left without a text to follow, and when the singing starts, I can hardly produce a single sentence that doesn't reek of sacrilege:

"Praise the Lord from whom all somethings flow,
Praise him all people, er, creatures, don't you know?
Praise him below, no above, you shining host,
Now let us pray and drink a holy toast."

I look up to find Foxtrot glaring at me with unmitigated severity. "For the sake of our beloved G-d," he mutters, shoving half his hymnal onto my lap, "don't sing from memory again!"

I thank him for his gesture, but still find it hard to concentrate on the words, as his moustache keeps flicking across the page. When the singing finally comes to a close and the sermon is set to begin, I sit back with a sigh of relief. Foxtrot also settles deeper into the pew, and, following his gaze, I see that he is staring at the Bennet family, moving his eyes from one daughter to another. I soon realize that he is attempting to find out which one is Mary Bennet.

"I'll tell you which one she is," I whisper to him.

He stiffens. "What are you speaking of, Mr. Hurst?" he inquires in wooden tones.

I sigh, wishing we didn't have to be on such bad terms. Maybe my current whereabouts have infused me with a spirit of brotherhood, because I begin to think that - although he does have his share of faults - he's not entirely bad, and that it would be delightful - and extremely amusing - to cultivate a comradeship with a man so different from myself.

"Look, Foxtrot," I suggest. "Perhaps we can put the past behind us. Bury the hatchet, so to speak."

He tugs at his braids and looks at the floor. "I am planning to restore good relations with you, Mr. Hurst, but first I have to fight back the last of my anger. After I have mastered my unholy impulses towards you, I shall embrace you as a friend."

"Unholy impulses?"

He nods gravely. "Throughout our confrontation, and in the hours following, I was repeatedly possessed by the urge to run you through with a sword." He pauses. "Forgive me, Mr. Hurst."

"I... certainly," I mumble. "Forgiven."

"I do wish to make my peace with you... and your wife" - an utterance that Louisa responds to by raising her hymnal higher - "but first let me eradicate the remnants of discontent from my soul." He smiles then and rivets his eyes back to the Bennet pew.

Foxtrot is familiar only with Miss Elizabeth, so if he wants to ascertain which one of the remaining four is Miss Mary, he could study their postures. If he goes by posture alone, there would be a tie between Miss Jane and Miss Mary in terms of spiritual attentiveness. Though, upon even closer observation, Miss Mary would ultimately be seen as the most proper and pious one by virtue of the fact that she does not once converse with any of her sisters, whereas Miss Jane occasionally whispers to Miss Elizabeth.

The sermon commences, and my gaze wanders over to the Lucas family. They happen to sit one row in front of us and slightly to the side, with Charlotte nearest to my wife and I. I see a book splayed open on her lap, partially hidden by a folded shawl that she is holding in her arms, and I wonder what book it could be that she has seen fit to peruse as the reverend delivers his sermon. Out of the corner of my eye I keep watch to see if somehow the title will be revealed to me and, by good fortune, my patience is soon rewarded. Gingerly turning the page without the slightest crinkle of sound, Charlotte lifts the cover up and I can see the name, Joseph Andrews, embossed in silver print.

To think, she's reading Henry Fielding in church! I glance at her parents, but they both seem oblivious to her surreptitious indulgence. Quietly clucking my tongue, I realize that this lady could never be a reverend's wife; that's possibly the one domestic role she would fail at. My thoughts then drift to a Sunday a couple of years ago, when I attended church in London with Henry Fitzwilliam, and he smuggled Tom Jones into the service and read a few chapters as the bishop sternly lectured the rest of us about abstinence. Appraising Charlotte once again, I suddenly grasp how similar they are - even-tempered and unassuming, yet in possession of a wry turn of humor; sensible and steady, with a spark of wit kindling their minds. Both domestic creatures, shunning spirited balls and colorful affairs, preferring the quiet of the home to the fanfare of large company.

Good Lord, they'd be perfect for one another. I make a mental note to write to Henry as soon as possible and, with Bingley's permission of course - though there's no possibility of Bingley refusing - invite him to Netherfield and introduce him to Miss Lucas. Pleased with myself and my matchmaking abilities, I relax in my seat, accidentally brushing shoulders with Foxtrot and making him bristle again.

Once the service is over and we are all outside, making various greetings and anticipating the midday meal (at least I am, with great impatience), I am treated to a very singular conversation that unfolds between Mr. Bennet and Colonel Von Glugerschplontz.

It begins when Mr. Bennet withdraws slightly from his wife, who has accosted Bingley and is currently slathering him with her drool. The moment the man takes a few steps away from his enthusiastic mate, Foxtrot - who has been eyeing him intently for the past several minutes - bears down upon him. I see Mr. Bennet's eyes go wide at the sudden appearance of this fiery figure, but his surprise immediately eases into humor. His mouth briefly undulates from a smirk to a half-grin, and his left brow lifts with delicate impishness. Smiling, I can't help but see Miss Elizabeth's unique brand of mirth in all his facial inflections.

"Excuse me, sir," Foxtrot begins, his voice low and level, "are you Mr. Bennet?"

"Indeed I am," the older man replies, sending his gaze up and down the hairy, hulking form. "And may I have the pleasure of knowing your name?"

"I am Colonel Wilhelm Von Glugerschplontz, though in England I am known as Colonel Wilhelm Foxtrot."

"Two names, eh? A pity. I believe you should have stayed with Von Glugerschplontz alone - it has such a noble ring to it."

"Noble ring, sir?"

"Quite. I hear it and I think of a bullfrog - an enormous bullfrog, mind you, king of the pond - and the magnificent sound it makes when it hurls its weight into the water." He pauses and momentarily purses his lips. "I envy you such a name. Mine is so plain and uninteresting. Bennets you can find in any county in England, but a Von Glugerschplontz... what a rare and precious string of syllables, like the cry of an ancient crow."

"You do me much honor, sir," Foxtrot replies, his caterpillars flexing in confusion.

"The honor is mine, my good fellow. Now, what brings you to Hertfordshire, Colonel?"

Foxtrot clears his throat. "Though I would enjoy continuing this conversation with you, Mr. Bennet, I am expected to dine shortly with a few of my officers and so would like to immediately broach my primary reason for introducing myself to you now." He stops, takes in Mr. Bennet's expectant look, and continues. "I would like permission to wed your daughter, Miss Mary."

Mr. Bennet's surprise is unrestrained. "Good Heavens!" he softly exclaims, assuming an air of ironic bemusement. "Though I've never considered myself to be the most attentive of fathers, I always assumed that I would know when a gentleman was paying court to one of my children. How long ago, sir, did my daughter accept you as a suitor?"

"She never did," is the simple reply, to which Mr. Bennet frowns.

"She never did?" he repeats, genuinely dumbfounded.

"There was no occasion for it, sir. I know of her by reputation, and I am quite convinced that she will make me a suitable wife."

Mr. Bennet blinks, a disbelieving smile stealing over his face. "You mean to tell me, sir, that you've never exchanged a word with her?"

"No indeed. Is that a problem?"

Mr. Bennet chuckles. "My good man, I'm not quite certain that you know this, but we are currently living in the nineteenth century, not the eleventh. It is now a matter of custom that, before considering matrimony, a gentleman must first acquaint himself with the lady in question and attempt to impress her with any good qualities he might possess or pretend at. Do you understand me?"

"I believe so," says Foxtrot. "Though my mind is quite made up about my choice of bride."

"Well, then let us see if she is equally amenable to your... intentions," Mr. Bennet replies, still gazing in unalloyed wonderment and mirthful glee at this fine specimen of a suitor. "Perhaps you can ask her to join us here for a moment."

"Certainly. Which one is she?"

Again Mr. Bennet's eyes widen, and he coughs, holding his fist to his mouth while discreetly biting on a knuckle. "She is the bespectacled girl," he begins, lowering his hand, "clad in the sober gray dress and plain straw bonnet."

Foxtrot sends a searching glance out into the crowd and, after alighting upon the appropriate person, smiles softly and gives a slow nod of approval.

"Perhaps I should summon her," Mr. Bennet suggests. "Mary, child!" he calls.

Mary Bennet looks up and determinedly wends her way through the throng. "Yes, Papa?" she queries without so much as a glance at the colonel.

"Mary, I would like you to meet Colonel Wilhelm Von Glugerschplontz, or, as he is known in this country, Colonel Foxtrot."

Her expression schooled to indifference, Miss Mary drops a quick curtsey as the colonel greets her with a deep and solemn bow.

"The colonel," Mr. Bennet continues, skipping further preliminaries, "wishes to marry you."

Miss Mary blinks and, adjusting her spectacles, peers up at the towering man. "I beg your pardon?"

The force of her gaze, coupled with the implacable set of her jaw, is probably not what Foxtrot anticipated. With somewhat less confidence than before, he murmurs, "Yes, indeed... I, I just spoke to your father about it."

"My good sir," Miss Mary begins, her tone brisk and business-like, "though I approve of your approaching my father for his consent, as it gives proof of honorable intent, you have yet to earn my own acceptance." She pauses, clasping her hands in front of her. "I am a young lady, sir, and as such possess a heart that is fragile and delicate. It is your duty then to gently subdue its modest defenses and respectfully embrace all the chastity and virtue that you find within." She pauses. "Do I make myself clear, Colonel?"

"Yes, indeed, Miss Mary," he whispers, his caterpillars pinned - permanently, it seems - to the crown of his head. Even from where I'm standing, I can see the beads of sweat popping out on his temples and along his upper lip.

"Good. Now, if you intend to go about tenderly defeating my heart, I demand that you conduct yourself at all times with proper decorum and seemly behavior. I do not wish to be offended by vice, folly, or lechery. Am I understood?"

"By all means, yes."

She cocks her head at him, giving him a long, hard stare. Suddenly a schoolboy, he shifts from one foot to the other, clearing his throat. The tables have effectively been turned.

"Do you drink?" she suddenly asks.

He shakes his head vehemently, braids flying to and fro.

"Do you frequent establishments of ill-repute?"

"Most certainly not."

She nods, rubbing her chin. "Are you well-versed in the Bible?"

"Very well-versed."

Her eyes narrow. "Let me be the judge of that."

"Indeed, only you can judge me," he stammers.

Her gaze, it seems, is piercing his very soul. "You're German, am I correct?" she inquires.

"Yes, I am."

"Hmph. From the north or from the south?"

"From the south, but," he quickly adds, hands held out in a gesture of peace, "I am not a Catholic."

She lifts her brow. "I see. Very well... you just might do. I grant you permission to call upon me tomorrow." She turns to Mr. Bennet, who has been absorbing the scene with unbridled amusement. "Papa, may he visit us for tea?"

"Certainly, my dear."

She nods and turns back to Foxtrot. "I expect to see you at Longbourne on the morrow, sir."

"Assuredly, I shall come."

"And please," she continues, "refrain from wearing a uniform." She frowns, releasing an impatient little sigh. "Do you intend on remaining in the army, colonel?"

"No, in fact, I am to retire soon."

"A wise decision; I commend you for it," she states. "So please be so kind as to garb yourself in plainclothes. I do not wish to be reminded of all the innocents you might have murdered in your military career."

He gasps and humbly bows his head. "I assure you, Miss Mary, I have not gone about murdering innocents."

Her look is one of polite incredulity. "Present yourself tomorrow, sir, and we shall see how clear your conscience is. Until then, I bid you farewell." With that, she drops another curtsey and excuses herself.

Foxtrot's eyes follow her as she comes to a halt alongside her mother, some distance away.

"Do you still wish to court her?" her father asks.

"Why of course, Mr. Bennet!" the colonel exclaims, stroking his moustache in a thoroughly flustered manner. "It would be a sin not to."

Chapter 14, Part 1

Posted On: Wednesday, 12 February 2003, at 9:59 p.m.

Watching the emasculation of Colonel Foxtrot at the hands of Mary Bennet puts me in a positively giddy mood. It seems that there's a common thread running through the Bennet sisters, in that they are all true to their professed principles. Depending on the sister in question, those values might encompass a commitment to gentle good temper, a refusal to simper and submit, an urge to be Hertfordshire's holiest, or a desire to crawl into an officer's pants... regardless, each Bennet girl commits herself entirely to her own ethos. It is delightful to watch the five of them dispersed outside the church. Miss Jane, hands clasped demurely before her, receiving Mr. Bingley's attentions with gentle smiles and glowing eyes. Miss Elizabeth exchanging smirks and laughter with her father. Miss Mary... where is she?... ah, yes, by her mother's side, glancing at the retreating figure of Foxtrot with a prim and self-satisfied smile. And the two youngest? Running circles around redcoats and squeaking like chipmunks in an acorn stash. Moments like this, I think, remind me of how rewarding an observant eye can be.

Further contributing to my elated and amused spirits, my wife approaches me shortly after Foxtrot's botched marriage declaration and suggests that we walk back to Netherfield rather than take the carriage. I eagerly agree and, although the trek home is fairly silent and fairly sweaty, I can't help but feel that I am growing closer to the woman currently hanging off my arm, this lively creature who pats at her coiffure and fans her face with a delicate, gloved hand. Her occasional comment is either a quiet paean to nature or a muttered complaint against fashionable footwear, but regardless of the content of her speech, I am beginning to like the sound of her voice a lot more than was my wont. It doesn't seem as shrill to me anymore, as screechy or harpy-like. It's certainly got fire to it, and pitch - when it comes to pitch, Louisa can climb an octave much faster than anyone I know - but rather than grating my nerves, it merely puts a spring to my step, so that I feel slightly less breathless and slightly more alive. Halfway to Bingley's home I request a brief pause in the shade of a few oaks, and in the subsequent moments of rest, with the sigh of the leaves above my head and the pressure of my wife against my arm, I think that I would not at all be averse to the idea of taking a nap right now - resting my head on the lady's lap, propping my feet up on a rock, and dozing for a good five or six hours.

Those several minutes of quiet peace, with no one but Louisa as my present company, turn out to be the highpoint of my day, even better than the morning's walk or the antics during and after church. I only realize this when the two of us reach Netherfield at last, and the rest of the day commences on an entirely disappointing note.

A letter awaits Louisa upon our arrival, one that embitters and aggrieves my very soul. It is a missive from her former governess, the current Lady Ophelia Brainbrack, who apparently had one of her personal servants ride overnight into Sunday morning to deliver the message.

It is not a great exaggeration or a wide foray into the figurative to say that this Lady Ophelia is a 'scheming piece of baggage,' because she acquired her current husband - the none-too-bright Lord Brainbrack - by curling up naked in his trunk and springing out at him during one of his estate visits in the west of Kent. Tired of being a governess for the rich and pampered, she apparently set her mind on the widowed lord and his money after he hired her to educate his only daughter. How she managed to get into his trunk is a matter of speculation, though. Most say that on the morning of his departure for Kent, she snuck into his dressing room, divested herself of her clothes, climbed into the trunk, and endured the entire carriage ride cramped up in this uncomfortable manner, cushioned only by his lordship's waistcoats and linen shirts. She knew that his lordship - a particularly fussy man when it came to attire - preferred to unpack and unfold his clothes without the aid of his valet; hence there would be no untimely interference from the servants. And so it was upon reaching Kent that she made her pounce, whereupon he valiantly caught her in his arms, struggled mightily - but in vain - to relinquish her from his grip, and wed her soon after in a ceremony at the estate's chapel, followed by a tour of the Continent that lasted nearly half a year.

Such is the woman who was Louisa's governess, and now her letter implores my wife to pay her a visit in London, for she is very pregnant, very fatigued, and would like - at least for a few days - to have a little lively company at her bedside. Louisa, she writes, was always her most beloved pupil and could always think of clever little ways to cheer her up, such as dissecting the latest items of gossip or reading ladies' magazines aloud to her. I watch my wife's reaction to Lady Ophelia's request, and note the evidence of internal conflict: the excited glimmer in her eyes, coupled with the thoughtful nibbling of her lower lip. At last, she looks up and, with a guilty smile, informs me that - as Lady Ophelia writes - the visit shan't last longer than a few days. Really, Gilroy, it shan't.

It is a new circumstance for the two of us, that one should be disappointed about the other's departure, while the other experiences feelings of ambivalence as to her own leaving. Matters have changed between us this past week, and it sorely weighs on me to know that under the influence of Ophelia, any good that has emerged in Louisa might be squashed again, and that instead of devoting the rest of the week to the continued development of our newfound relationship, I shall have to envision my wife in the clutches of a veritable osprey, a calculating bird of prey who might very well tear out any goodness of heart my wife has of late cultivated.

I also wonder if this visit will last only three or four days, or if the lady will insist that Louisa stay until after her child is born, or christened, or begins to teethe, or utters its first word (who knows?). My fears on this account are somewhat lessened during the midday meal when Bingley announces that a week from this coming Tuesday, he shall be throwing an enormous ball at Netherfield and that preparations shall commence on the morrow. My wife promises to return by next Monday so as not to miss out on the occasion, thus giving me some consolation that the visit shall not last long.

However, the topic of the upcoming Netherfield Ball leads to the second major sour point of the day - my raging argument with Fitzwilliam Darcy.

After the meal, Bingley, Darcy, and I congregate in Bingley's study, where my jovial brother-in-law proceeds to sit on his desktop, swing his legs above the floor, and rattle off more details about the upcoming ball.

"It shall be a mad, fabulous, fantastic, flabbergasting, phenomenal event!" he cries, going red in the face. "The finest musicians! The most scrumptious food! Sweets and meats and treats of all sorts! Chandeliers ablaze, candles in every corner, the lamps all lit-"

"The house in flames," Darcy whispers, glaring out the window.

"Oh, and think of all the charming people that shall attend!" Bingley goes on. "All the lovely residents of the neighborhood." He pauses, eyes brightening, tongue briefly but distinctly darting out to moisten his lower lip. "Miss Jane in a ball gown..."

Darcy looks up at him sharply, though Bingley hardly notices his friend's alarmed and somewhat accusing glare. By the glazed look in his eye he appears lost in some land of pleasant transports. I can see it all in his head... a moonlit terrace, a glissade of music, Miss Jane in elaborate evening wear... and then a bedchamber, with Miss Jane lying... no, wait, Bingley would never be so disrespectful, not even in his dreams - would he? - no, he would go straight to the logical outcome... a sunny park, a gaggle of golden-haired children, blue-eyed pups of the Bingley-Bennet breed...

"Excuse me," says Bingley, suddenly hopping to his feet. "I should begin to make arrangements with my housekeeper immediately. There's not a moment to waste." He disappears from the room, and I shake my head in good-humored indulgence at his touching eagerness.

"I was always under the impression that ladies are the ones who speak most energetically on the topic of dances and balls," Darcy mutters, pacing to the window at the other end of the room, "but perhaps my opinions are in need of some modification."

Normally I would have nettled him good-naturedly in reply, tossing out some flippant comment to the effect of, "Why, until today I was under the impression that Fitzwilliam Darcy never believed that his views could bear modification..." but, dear reader, I am still in a gloomy mood, thoughts of Lady Ophelia foremost in my mind.

Upon receiving only silence from me - and a grave silence at that - Darcy paws the carpet with his boot and adds, rather contemptuously I think, "And the eldest Miss Bennet... I could scarcely imagine her speaking as enthusiastically about him."

Irritated by his tone of voice, I frown and shift uncomfortably in my seat. "Are you a mind-reader now, Darcy?" I inquire. "I had no idea that you could disentangle a young lady's thoughts so insightfully."

"I do not claim to be a mind-reader, Hurst," he counters. "I do have eyes, though, and I tell you that I have not yet seen any sign on her part indicating warmth of feeling. At least not to the degree that he displays towards her."

I snort. "Did you ever think, Darcy, that people might express their feelings in different ways? And I imagine that if you ever did witness Miss Bennet clinging to my brother's arm or praising him to the skies, you would not attribute love to her then, either. You would most likely think that she was a scheming, flattering little fortune-hunter."

"I... would not," he replies rather haltingly, revealing to me that in fact, he would.

"No behavior of hers would please you, Darcy. Whether she be subdued or openly affectionate, you would always attribute mercenary motives to her actions."

He turns sharply to me. "Are you implying that I'm prejudiced?"

"Certainly," I plow on. "She is, after all, from Longbourne. She does have an outrageous mother and some very, er, unusual sisters. I am certain that you shudder at the thought of Bingley ever contemplating an alliance with such a family. Thus, Miss Jane has little chance of appearing favorably in your eyes."

He pierces me with his gaze, his expression reflecting surprise and ill-temper. "She is more well-bred than her family," he concedes at last, ignoring my enumeration of his biases. "Indeed she is fair and even-tempered and so forth, but I am still adamant about my position as to her lack of affection for Bingley."

"And as I said - Darcy - you always shall be. You will intentionally overlook even the smallest sign of regard."

"Are you questioning my integrity?" he asks, glowering at me.

"In this respect, yes," I reply.

He briskly strides to the other window. "I am not accustomed to having my honesty doubted," he seethes.

"I'm not suggesting that you're a liar, if that makes you feel more at ease. You are merely blind."

"Blind?!"

"Yes! Do you not believe that love can express itself subtly?"

"Subtle or not, I have seen nothing."

"Perhaps it would be easier for you if she did conduct herself like Caroline. Perhaps, as evidenced by the inordinate amount of attention paid to your person, Caroline truly is in love with you, Darcy. She cares nothing for your money, nothing for your estate, your carriages, your fine and fashionable clothes... she merely loves you for yourself." My gloomy mood takes a scathing turn. "And what is there not to love? You are perfectly amiable at all times. You are fair, considerate, and humble. You never brood."

"Do you mean to be insulting?" he whispers.

"No, no, Darcy... I am merely illustrating your character as I see it, and I find it captivating. You are an open book, my friend. If you ever fall in love, if you ever grow dreamy-eyed over a particular young lady, the whole world will know, so open and unguarded are your sentiments."

He plants his feet a shoulder-length apart, military-style, and stares down at me. "What are you hinting at, Hurst?"

"Oh, merely the fact that, if you were ever presented with a lady that you found desirable and enticing, you would never hold your feelings in reserve. You would never bait her into arguments one day, only to avoid her on the next. You would never address her as if she were an impudent serf. You would never, ever, frown at her or cast one of your dark looks in her direction. Oh, no, my friend... any woman fortunate enough to fall under your good graces would know it immediately."

"Hurst-"

"She would never think, for instance, that you find her only tolerable, and not handsome enough to be tempting."

He freezes, and his mouth goes slack. "She... overheard me?"

"Oh, yes. She heard every word you said. I was there... I saw it all. I also see things, Darcy; I, too, have eyes. Which is why I doubt your ability to read the thoughts of young ladies, to gauge their inclinations with your perceptive mind. Not only does Miss Elizabeth have no idea that you secretly long for her-"

"I... I do not!" he cries, in a most unconvincing manner.

"-she has also lumped you together with Caroline, as deserving to be caricatured and mocked."

He spins on his heels, hands behind his back, pinky ring roiling around, his face turned away from mine. Some voice - some pleading and cautionary voice of reason - sounds from the back of my mind, urging me to hold back, to exercise restraint, to desist from pushing too hard. In my bad mood, my general distemper, I ignore it.

"But really, Darcy," I proceed, "what does it matter if she did overhear you? It's not as if you'd ever extend her any real courtesy; it's not as if you'll ever - Heaven forfend - ask for her hand in marriage."

Darcy whips his head around again, but his face is in shadow, and thus unreadable.

"She's from Longbourne, after all, and, much like her older sister, is entirely unsuitable for one as esteemed as yourself. But don't," I say, rising to my feet, "don't think that merely because you hold her entire family in contempt and look down upon her relations with the utmost disgust, that Bingley should follow your example."

"Hurst," he murmurs dangerously, "that is quite enough. I am fed up with your insinuations about my supposed feelings towards Miss Elizabeth Bennet." He takes a deep, slow breath. "As for Bingley, I am his trusted friend and thus entitled to give him whatever advice I find sensible, whatever advice I deem will do him good."

My arms fold over my chest. The blood races to my head. "Whatever advice YOU deem will do him good? Is he your puppet, Darcy, your marionette?" I take a step towards him. "I forbid you to treat him as such. I am his brother-in-law, and I shall also have a say in the matter!"

"You will, will you?"

"Yes! Because he does not deserve to suffer from your arrogance and presumption."

"My arrogance and presumption?" Darcy cries, his voice leveling on a louder plateau. "I am merely looking out for the interests of my friend. If I find that he is seriously considering an alliance with such a... an abominable family, then it shall be my duty to warn him against it."

"Let Bingley make his own choice! Did you ever consider that love might be the deciding factor in his bid for a wife? Do you think that everyone is as proud and miserable as you are?"

"Proud and miserable?" he fairly growls.

"Truly! Even now you're frustrated that, because of your commitment to connections and class, you can't even contemplate a match with Miss Elizabeth and-"

"Do not mention her again!"

"-so I would not wish you to make Bingley equally as frustrated and lovelorn as you are. He is of a different disposition, after all. Rather than exhibiting a thoroughly selfish disdain for the feelings of others, he treats everyone with respect, forgives their foibles, and looks beyond petty differences in wealth. For that, he deserves all the possible happiness in the world."

Darcy rakes a hand through his hair. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes hard and bright. "You have said quite enough, Hurst. Quite enough." Pursing his lips and tugging at his cravat, he strides out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

"Insufferable man!" I mutter, making my way to the decanter of port that Bingley was kind enough to leave out on his desk. Only after the first of the alcohol begins to suffuse through my blood, do I feel the initial twinges of remorse and self-reproach. Although I was honest in everything I said throughout our heated exchange, I realize that the way in which I expressed those honest sentiments left much to be desired. Devoid of tact and lacking all propriety, I uttered several very wounding insults to a man who does not deserve such thorough disrespect. I could have made my point of view known without all the jibes to his imperfect character, for Lord knows I have my own helping of faults and far be it from me to lecture another on admirable conduct.

I sigh, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes. Perhaps I should apologize. But how, and when? Certainly not now. I suspect that if I approached Darcy now, he would give me such a look so as to curdle my blood and compel the remaining hairs on my head to fall out in dismay. And what would I say, anyway? I refuse to tell him that I did not mean what I said. That would be a lie, for I meant every word... his arrogance repulses me, and his threat to meddle in Bingley's affairs more than annoys me. But if I were to merely say to him, "I apologize for the way in which I spoke," he would know immediately that I still abide by the content of my speech - if not its form - and that I still think of him as proud, conceited, and selfishly disdainful of the feelings of others. Thus, his temper would not improve, and he would level me with the same curdling gaze. Either that or he would extract his riding crop and subject me to a severe flagellation.

And so, my kind - and dare I hope, sympathetic reader - I am at an impasse. And because I am crude and tactless and blunt, this stagnant state of affairs is almost entirely my fault.

If you think the day could not get any worst, you're right - it doesn't. Nor does it improve, though. Louisa spends her time preparing for her journey - she will depart early on the morrow - and, with Bingley busy, Darcy hate-filled, and Caroline... being Caroline, there is absolutely no one I can talk to. The evening meal is very subdued, and I retire almost immediately afterwards to bed, seeking to find some solace in sleep.

The next morning I rise with Louisa to see her off. As we walk towards the carriage, she on my arm and clad in her finest traveling clothes, she chatters to me about how dearly she misses her old governess, how marvelous a time they will have, what delicious distractions they will indulge in. I can only nod, force a smile, and inwardly sigh. Caroline makes an unusual appearance out of doors as well and, as I am handing Louisa into the carriage, she minces over, leans towards my wife, and whispers something that brings about an eruption of wicked laughter.

It's over, I think, even as I push the carriage door closed. For a moment, it seems as if Louisa casts me a hesitant, almost rueful look, but I assume that I'm probably imagining it, and that in fact, she is completely excited about fluttering over to that empty-headed friend of hers. As the carriage rolls away, I raise my hand in weary farewell and whisper good-bye to all the better qualities Louisa began to exhibit of late.

Rare and hard to imagine as this is, I am in a very truculent mood the rest of the day. I shut myself up in the library between meals, speak little to Bingley - my only ally - and at night, roll about restlessly in a bed that's suddenly far too large, even for someone of my girth.

The next day I decide to spend as much time as possible out of doors, thinking that the fresh air will do me good, and knowing that by ceasing to occupy the library all the time, I will be giving Darcy a chance to make use of it. His avoidance of me is complete and exacting at this point, and - unless it be the dining room - he does not set foot in any chamber accommodating yours truly.

My stroll, conducted in a haphazard way throughout the morning, eventually carries me all the way to Meryton. I enter the bookshop, attempting to ease my distracted mind by browsing the shelves. While thumbing through a few volumes of poetry, I happen upon a small, leatherbound book with a tiny flower stitched onto its cover. I open it and find a mix of Shakespearean sonnets and soliloquies, all dealing in some way with flowers. A smile begins to tug at my mouth, and immediately I tuck the volume under my arm, thinking that it will be the perfect gift for Louisa.

Then, the dark thought intrudes of my wife returning entirely as her old self, taking the proffered present and grounding it into pulp under her heels. I almost lay the book back down before thinking that perhaps I should have more faith in her. She has certainly surprised me before... perhaps the future will hold no exceptions. Immediately, almost as if I'm afraid of doubt insinuating itself into my thoughts again, I purchase the book and tuck it into my pocket.

On the other hand, it's always good to be safe, as well. If she does arrive at Netherfield with naught but malice and gossip on her mind, it would do me good to have an offering of appeasement and peace for her, perhaps a book that would better suit her tastes in those dire circumstances. As circumspectly as possible, I stray into the section of the shop that contains novels of a lighter, steamier nature.

"My, my," I whisper, scanning the spines of various love stories and sentimental erotica. "The Warrior's Heart. The Savaged Soul. A Pirate's Plunder. Good Lord, does love always have to be so damn violent?" I opt for A Pirate's Plunder, seeing as one of Louisa's most cherished childhood memories revolves around a voyage she took to Eire with her family. Hmmm... but what if it's too brutish? I glance around to make sure no one is watching before tentatively casting my eyes to the exposed page.

O.K.... long flowing hair, twitching muscles, French accent... my, my, this pirate certainly knows his poetry... what a soft-hearted fool... ah, yes, that's what he is, he's not a murderer, a plunderer... he's just a free and solitary spirit waiting to be unleashed by... the king's daughter... blah blah raven tresses... blah blegh... G-d, must this infernal woman always whimper?... haven't you figured it out yet, you brainless twit, he's not going to hurt you!... He's a gentle, sensitive pirate, like all pirates out on the wild seas... oh, this is so unrealistic... if this girl has never been on a boat before, she'd be leaning over the railing right about now, heaving up her supper, but no, we can't have the love doves exchange foully-flavored kisses, can we?

Sighing, I shrug and take the book over to the shopkeeper. He raises his brow and flashes me a peculiar look.

"I am purchasing this novel for my wife," I state.

"Mmmm-hmmm..." he intones, nodding gently at me.

"Truly, it's for her," I repeat. "As was the poetry book."

"Certainly, sir. Whatever you insist," he assuages, ignoring my scowl.

Transaction completed, I make my way to the door, step outside under the shop's awning, and stop dead in my tracks.

Across the road from me stand the Bennet girls, another man - half-obstructed by their bonnets - whose features I cannot make out, and... Denny and Wickham.

My glare lingers on these latter two, as they flash charming smiles, whisper clever words, and whip up laughter amongst the gaggle of ladies. Wickham, I notice, pays particular attention to Miss Elizabeth, who seems not at all averse to his advances. Then, quite unexpectedly, Darcy and Bingley choose to appear at the scene, on horseback. I pause, waiting for Darcy's boot to connect with Wickham's face, but alas, such deserving retribution does not come about. The gentlemen do not tarry long, and shortly after they leave, the Bennet ladies - and their male companion, a squattish, oily-haired sort of figure - depart as well.

Leaving Denny and Wickham alone on the road, staring after them.

My seething, pent-up discontent suddenly compels me to act rashly and bear down upon the two scoundrels... my discontent, and the fact that it is broad daylight, and I am on a busy road.

Denny is the first rogue to spot me and, blinking, utters, "Is that who I think it is?"

Wickham spins about to face me, goes slack in the jaw, and murmurs, quite unintentionally, "Good G-d, it's the omen of chaos!"

Omen of chaos, I think, stopping a few paces before them, I've never been called that before. Far from being displeased, I experience a surge of confidence in light of their momentary surprise and distress; indeed, to them I am the harbinger of foul tidings.

"Gilroy Hurst!" exclaims Denny.

"Lee Ratmen!" Wickham simultaneously hisses.

They exchange puzzled glances. "Wait a moment," Wickham ventures, "Lee Ratmen... I... that's most likely not his real name, of course... what did you say it was?"

"The name is Hurst - Gilroy Hurst," I whisper. "Are the two of you clear on that account?"

"You live here now?" Denny mutters.

"Are you here with Darcy?" Wickham inquires. "Do you work for Darcy?"

"You may query all you want, though many of your questions shall undoubtedly remain unanswered."

As I conclude my statement, the urge to laugh almost overmasters my cool control. I do not sound like myself at all... it is as if some brave, confident stranger has taken over my mind. Perhaps that hardy, musclebound pirate inspired me. Who knows?

"We will make inquiries," Wickham assures me, cutting into my thoughts.

"Very well," I shoot back. "But know that, all the while, I shall have my eye upon you both."

"He's threatening us!" Denny cries.

"You're a sharp one, Benny Denny. I was making an attempt at subtlety, but apparently I underestimated the powers of your mind."

"You're being sarcastic, aren't you?" he seethes.

"Again, you astonish me!" I sigh, clapping a hand to my heart.

A hate-filled pause ensues, in which the wind is suddenly knocked from my sails (damn, there's that high-sea imagery again!). I realize that what I am doing is a bit too dangerous for my disposition, that - busy road and sunshine notwithstanding - my tussle with Wickham took place in the daytime hours, and none came to assist me then. I decide at this point to make my departure.

"We are officers now," says Wickham, taking a step towards me. "Perhaps it would not be wise to tangle with us."

"I will not," I reply, "so long as you keep your distance from me, and from those whom I care for."

"Or else what?" asks Denny.

I lean towards him, raising my brows. "Or else I shall sic Lady Catherine on you, silver cane and all!"

He turns a furious, mortified shade of red, and I take the opportunity to turn on my heel and take my leave of them. Behind me, I can hear one whisper to the other, "How do you know him?" but very soon I am out of earshot and carry in my mind one determination: to call upon Messieurs Bennet and Lucas, on the morrow, and enlighten them as to the true characters of these fiends.

Chapter 14, Part 2

Posted On: Wednesday, 19 February 2003, at 11:18 a.m.

Plodding at a brisk, breathless pace back to Netherfield, I can't help but reflect on the wicked duo's power to charm unsuspecting females. What is it that ladies find so attractive in them? Wickham is completely serpentine: his smile never reaches his eyes, his lips are far too red, and one could shine a shoe with his voice, so unnaturally polished are its tones. All I've ever seen in him is danger, and so I wonder if that's what ladies love - the air of mystery, the thrill of fear. Perhaps empty novels, the ilk of A Pirate's Plunder, are to blame. Their heroes are always wild, enigmatic men who, with time and tender patience, eventually bare a scarred heart to the world, a wounded soul that needs comfort, petting, and a large bosom in order to make itself complete. Maybe that's what ladies think when they glimpse the likes of Wickham, that perhaps, beneath the dark, suave exterior, is a heart that aches for the love of some pure damsel and her indecent assets.

But what of Denny? He is not of the swarthy, sweltering kind. Admittedly, he is tall and rather imposing but... oh, I know, it's probably those freckles he has on his hands. Ladies must see freckles as a sign of innocence, as if a freckled man is more of a boy than an adult, and as such, exists only to be cradled and coddled.

My mind then wanders to Rupert. Like Denny, he's got a mop of reddish-brown hair and a grin that would make your grandmother blush but, unlike my nemesis, he would never objectively be considered handsome. He's short and wiry, with a lean and bony face; no, at first sight, one would never think much of his looks. Then why does the fairer sex fall all over him? It must be his attitude. Yes, that's exactly right. He's a free spirit, a fun and sprightly little devil who makes each woman feel like a queen by lieu of the fact that he plays the part of her jester. Yet, how he does this without losing his dignity mystifies me.

Upon reaching Netherfield and my emptier chamber, I begin to wonder if Louisa finds me attractive. Quickly I push the question aside, sensing somehow that its answer is far too depressing. Instead I steer myself towards the plan that I formulated yesterday in church: to invite Henry Fitzwilliam to Hertfordshire. What I write is as follows:

Dear Henry,

At last I have rendered myself useful by finding the perfect breeding mate for you, though I daresay that once you meet her, you shall find the term "breeding mate" far too coarse and ungenerous for a lady of her quality. She is sensible, plainspoken, witty, practical, and - are you sitting down, my friend? - she reads Henry Fielding in church. If that doesn't destine her for you, then you truly are a confirmed bachelor and shall remain one to the very end of your days.
I shall waste your time no longer. Cast this letter aside and come to Hertfordshire post haste, where I shall make all the necessary introductions. In exchange for my services, I demand half of Matlock upon your inheritance, including the kitchen pantry, the tomato garden, the old outhouse, and the surrounding fields in their entirety (don't gasp, but I've recently acquired a taste for walking).

Sincerely,
Gilroy Hurst

P.S. Negotiating the aforementioned terms shall prove futile, though in my infinite condescension, I shall deign to give you her name: Charlotte Lucas.

Seeing as the good viscount is set to arrive at London later on this week, I address the missive to his townhouse and have Rupert mail it off directly. Perhaps, if all turns out well, he shall be here before the ball next Tuesday, where I shall throw him into the path of Miss Lucas. And, better yet, imagine if Louisa returns - with her recent improvements intact - on the same day. My wife and one of my closest friends under the same roof as myself... that would be lovely.

I cringe then, thinking that perhaps I should have first asked Bingley before inviting the viscount. I go out in search of my brother immediately, and discover him in his study with Darcy. The moment I step into the room, the dour lad mutters his excuses to Bingley and strides out, his shoulder momentarily brushing against my own. My brother-in-law gazes after him with not a little bewilderment, and so I instantly set about distracting his perturbed mind. "Bingley," I begin, "I took the liberty just now of writing a letter of invitation to a friend of mine, asking him to attend your ball. He shall require a guest chamber as well, and... forgive me for not requesting your permission first."

Bingley laughs. "My permission, Hurst? Invite as many people as you'd like! The more the merrier."

I have to smile at his unaffected cheer. "Thank you, Bingley. I know that if you could, you would invite the whole of England to your fête."

"Darcy wouldn't want me to," he replies, rather quietly.

Immediately I conclude that the dark man must have been dripping ideas into his friend's head regarding the folly of a certain family, and the unsuitability of its eldest daughter. I swallow a knot of anger. "Which people would he not wish you to invite?"

"We chanced upon them just this morning."

Of course! All five of them! "And they do not meet the high standards of Fitzwilliam Darcy?" I mutter.

Bingley shakes his head sadly. "Though he wouldn't tell me exactly why. Come to think of it, it was really only one of them that he despises, that he wanted me not to invite."

He despises Miss Jane? "Oh, Bingley!" I cry with such feeling that his eyes widen in surprise. "You alone must discover the extent of your beloved's affection. Keep note of any special smiles, warm glances, bashful turns of countenance... I am certain you shall find enough evidence, enough proof of love."

My brother appears entirely confused. "In George Wickham?" he whispers.

I start, blink, and groan. What a complete idiot I am, or, as Louisa would put it, an unfeeling oaf! Off I go, assuming that Darcy is bent on relentlessly tarnishing the Bennet clan, when the topic of today's discussion was none other than George Wickham. Poor Darcy - in the span of two days he received an unexpected tongue-lashing from the likes of Gilroy Hurst AND encountered one of his worst enemies in the streets of Meryton (who also happened to be wagging his brows at Miss Elizabeth). I sigh. "Of course you shouldn't invite Wickham. Is that what Darcy requested?"

"Yes." He pauses. "Do you know why Darcy hates him?"

"Indeed I do, but not because he told me. In fact, he doesn't even know that I know, so please don't mention it to him."

"I won't, Hurst. Though I do wish he would tell me."

"Well, good luck convincing him to speak, Bingley." I clear my throat. "And now that we're on the topic, there's someone else I also wish that you would not invite."

Bingley bites his lower lip, a gesture that nearly tears my heart in two.

"It's only one other person," I quickly say, hoping to erase that mournful plea from his face. "Another officer - Benjamin Denny. I believe you must have seen him today, with Wickham; Darcy would mistrust any close friend of Wickham's. He's a scoundrel, Bingley; he nearly cheated my mother out of one thousand pounds."

"My goodness, Hurst! Certainly... certainly I shall see to it that he does not set foot in this house." He pauses. "But are you absolutely sure that his purposes were entirely dishonorable? Perhaps... perhaps he acted out of desperation, to raise money for an ailing relative. Was that not the case?"

I wearily shake my head. "No, Bingley."

"Well, what if... what if the money had been misdirected by a careless assistant? That could have happened."

"It didn't, Bingley."

"Truly?"

"Yes, truly, Bingley."

"Very well... but let's say-"

"Bingley!"

"All right. It's such a shame to have one less person attend, though."

"Oh, I'm certain Wickham and Denny shall find other ways to entertain themselves for the evening's duration. They are, after all, entirely too resourceful."

Not knowing enough to agree or disagree, Bingley merely nods. "It makes me feel a little better then, knowing that they won't be entirely bored."

My reply is a tired shake of my head, though my brother-in-law's sense of obligation towards everyone within a fifty mile radius - lords and ruffians alike - reminds me, right at that moment, of my own determination to pay a visit to Mr. Bennet and Sir Lucas.

The next day - after a wheezing romp and a hearty breakfast - I prepare to set out on my mission. Initially I think of trekking the three miles to Longbourn but, given the cloudy skies and intermittent drizzling, it would probably not be a good idea. Aside from inclement weather, I am also not yet fit enough to make such a trudge without collapsing into a mountainous heap at the Bennets' door, and in order to be convincing, in order for my words to have even greater force, I must appear as dignified as possible. This will be rather hard for me to accomplish, I think, clambering into one of Bingley's carriages. I do not possess a very imposing, dynamic demeanor. Eyes never turn to me when I step into a room. On the whole, I am inclined to retreat rather than confront, watch rather than make a move. When I do act it is usually because I am impelled by a sense of duty that just barely overrides my tendency towards inertia. And recently, I have been roused out of inertia far more often than is my wont.

Before I know it, the carriage has pulled up outside Longbourn's front door, and moments later the housekeeper, an elderly woman gray of hair and red of face, leads me to Mr. Bennet's study and announces my presence through the door.

"A Gilroy Hurst, you say?" asks a voice from within. "If he's another suitor, you may direct him to the parlor, Hill."

Then another voice, as familiar as the first one. "Papa... he is already married."

"What a pity. Your mother shall not take the news well." A pause. "You may show him in, Hill."

And so it is that I find myself in Mr. Bennet's study, standing before the irreverent man and his second eldest. From what I can tell, I have interrupted a rather intense game of chess, and I offer my apologies.

"Think nothing of it at all," Mr. Bennet says, waving me into a seat. "Lizzy is probably quite grateful to you for postponing her inevitable defeat."

"Papa!" she exclaims. "I would have you remember that yesterday's game ended in a draw!"

"Did it now?" he teases. "I cannot say for sure. I grow old, child, and my memory fades with time."

She sighs, shakes her head, and turns her attention to me. "It is good to see you, Mr. Hurst."

Before I can politely and sincerely reciprocate those sentiments, Mr. Bennet cuts in. "You know this gentleman, Lizzy?"

"Indeed, father. He resides with Mr. Bingley at Netherfield."

"I am his brother through marriage," I offer.

Mr. Bennet nods, letting his eyes glide over me once. "Are you fond of chess, Mr. Hurst?" he inquires.

I intuitively sense that his question is significant, and that any answer I give will be assessed for its worth. After musing for a moment, I reply, "I am fond of watching a well-played game, Mr. Bennet, so by all means continue while I look on."

A small smile - not ironic, not sardonic - slips onto his face. "We shall oblige you then," he says and, gesturing to an array of spirits in a cabinet at the other end of the desk, insists that I help myself to whatever satisfies my palate.

I grasp that somehow, without much calculation on my part, I have gained a measure of respect from the head of the Bennet clan. Satisfied with my progress, I select a fine-looking sherry, settle back down into my seat, and commence my observation of the game, its players, and their milieu.

The desk at which they both sit occupies one end of the room; the other is furnished with two armchairs, angled towards one another under the auspices of an enormous window. Between the desk and those plush seats are walls of books and, although the collection is not the largest one I've encountered, I assume that all the works are of good quality. My eyes drift back to the armchairs again, the way they are positioned so that two readers might sit with their toes nearly touching, that - if they so choose - they might occasionally look up from their respective readings and share a smile or a fond look. No matter how hard I try, I cannot envision Mrs. Bennet comfortably ensconced in either chair; neither can I picture Miss Jane placidly plying her needle in a room redolent of leather, ink, and old books. No, this is Mr. Bennet's domain, and when he arranged those two chairs, he had only one other person in mind: his second eldest.

I watch the pair closely, often at the expense of their game. Mr. Bennet, it appears, is not a man who openly displays his affection. He never reaches over to warmly clasp his daughter's hand, and any clever maneuver she executes in the bout is more likely to earn her a humorous quip rather than a sincere compliment. Yet there is no mistaking the subdued look of fatherly regard and paternal pride that he bestows upon her when she is hunched over the board, brow knitted in concentration and lower lip firmly chewed. And towards the end, when a single act of carelessness winds up costing her the game, he does not expose her to excessive teasing, but instead weathers her frustrated sighs with an amused patience, taking care to explain to her how the same error might be avoided in the future.

"Excellent game," he sighs, leaning back. "Did you enjoy it, Mr. Hurst?"

"Very much. It was most enlightening."

"I am glad to hear it. Though I suspect," he continues, "that you did not come here for the sole purpose of watching an old man match wits with his daughter."

At this point, Miss Elizabeth rises and announces her intentions to go for a walk. "Please remain," I tell her. "What I have to say is very relevant to you, as well."

She slowly settles back down, casting a puzzled glance towards her father, who responds with a shrug.

I steady myself with a deep breath and forge on. "Mr. Bennet, Miss Bennet, I am aware of the presence of two individuals here in Hertfordshire who, as past experience has shown me, may potentially cause quite a bit of trouble."

Though Mr. Bennet leans forward a little, indicating to me that his attention is now mine, he also belies his purposeful action by glancing over at his openly curious daughter and saying, "Well, Lizzy, do you think one of them might be Mr. Darcy?"

Miss Elizabeth purses her lip and turns a bit pink, though she makes no effort to contradict her father. Thinking that I could put the proud lad in a better stead, I state, "Mr. Bennet, it is inconceivable to me that Mr. Darcy could do anything as dishonorable as the actions that both these men have committed."

Mr. Bennet and Miss Elizabeth exchange glances, the father questioning, the daughter faltering. "Is that so?" Miss Elizabeth finally ventures, her voice somewhat quieter than before.

"You have my word, madam," I reply. "Though Mr. Darcy is certainly not faultless, he is by no means a fiend, either."

"To whom do you refer then?" Mr. Bennet inquires.

"Captains Benjamin Denny and George Wickham."

When the latter name is pronounced, Miss Elizabeth falls back suddenly in her seat, looking genuinely confused. Mr. Bennet nods once, steeples his fingers, and requests that I proceed.

I begin with Benny Denny and, although my listeners are disturbed and disgusted by the tale of his misdeeds, they both swallow down suppressed laughter when I mention his former post as clergyman of Hunsford Village. I can't imagine why they find this particular detail so hilarious, and I'm completely baffled when Mr. Bennet turns to his daughter and says, "Perhaps thievery is a crime common to them all, my dear. The good man did profess a great admiration for our silverware, our candlesticks..."

"The closet in the hall," Miss Elizabeth adds with a giggle.

"Indeed. I think you should go check if the shelves are still there!"

I look from father to child and frown. "Benjamin Denny was here already?"

Mr. Bennet shakes his head. "No, no... not at all. And he won't be, given what you've told us of him. Now," he says, growing slightly more serious again, "please tell us what you know of Wickham."

The smile disappears from Miss Elizabeth's lips, and she slides to the edge of her seat, her eyes searching my face. "Well," I begin, licking my lips, "this story does not concern me as personally... though I was somewhat involved in the matter and witnessed everything that transpired." I pause. "I shall refrain from mentioning names, but I would have you know that just this past summer, George Wickham laid designs upon a fifteen-year-old girl and nearly persuaded her to elope with him, his motive being the young lady's large fortune. He is a charmer, that one... he got to the girl by cozying up to her governess and once he had access to his prey, I tell you, he spared no false professions of love and devotion in order to win her little heart."

My account is met with a thick silence. I glance over at Miss Elizabeth and note that she is a little paler than before, and that she appears to barely be holding back some burning question. I have an inkling that she might have guessed at the girl's identity, though how she could make such a guess baffles me.

"Well, Mr. Hurst, this has been most informative," Mr. Bennet finally remarks. "And although I have no fear of my three eldest acting irresponsibly, perhaps it would be wise of me to keep stricter watch on the younger ones."

"Yes, father, that would indeed be wise," his daughter echoes. "Now, if you will excuse me, I believe I shall be taking my walk. I have much to think of." She squeezes Mr. Bennet's hand, bows politely to me, and - with a rather flustered look on her face - departs from the study.

Mr. Bennet rises and walks over to the window, his hands clasped behind his back. "They shall not attend gatherings without my being present, as well," he states. "And if they do go out on their own, it shall be only to the Lucas household." He seems to be speaking to himself, and only when I clear my throat does he turn to me. "Mr. Hurst," he inquires, leveling me with an alarmingly keen gaze, "what prompted you to expose their characters in this manner? You could have very well remained silent."

I shrug and scratch behind my ear. "I had the pleasure of meeting your two eldest daughters in Netherfield and thought that it would be a shame if either was deceived."

He nods slowly and that teasing glint creeps into his eye once more. "To think, I have to credit such honorable intentions to a near stranger," he mutters. "No, my good sir, I flat out refuse to believe in your sincerity. You must have an ulterior motive for disclosing this information. Perhaps you are anticipating something in return?"

Two can play at your game, Mr. Bennet. "Indeed I am," I reply, folding my arms over my chest and puffing my stomach out.

"Is it money?" he ventures. "For I'm afraid I can't help you very much in that regard." He pauses, emits a triumphant "Aha!" and adds, "I know - you wish to adopt one of my daughters."

I crack a grin. "No, sir, I do not."

"Not Kitty? Or better yet, Lydia? I assure you, you shall come to cherish their silliness almost as dearly as I have." He sighs, throwing up his hands in mock exasperation. "I give up. What is it that you want?"

"What I want, is to know why you and your daughter were hardly able to suppress laughter when I mentioned Hunsford village."

The merry twinkle in his gaze grows only brighter. "Perhaps you should go to the parlor now and find out for yourself. Aside from my daughters Jane and Mary, you shall meet a Reverend William Collins."

"William Collins?" I gasp.

"Ah, so you've encountered this fellow before?"

"No, no... but my closest friend, one of Lady Catherine De Bourgh's nephews, has told me a little about him." I pause, a bit puzzled. "What is he doing here?"

"A small world, is it not? He happens to be our cousin."

At this I have to laugh and, with an eager step, make my excuses and head for the parlor. In my haste though, I forget to ask where the parlor is, and so I find myself walking down a corridor that leads me to the kitchen door (somehow, dear reader, I always gravitate to kitchens). Before I can turn around and retrace my steps, I hear myself as the subject of an unfolding conversation.

"A member of Mr. Bingley's party is here, madam," says a voice that I recognize as Hill's. "He's with the master now in the study, but when they are done, should I show him to the parlor, or should I-"

"Oh, Hill, Mr. Bingley is here? Why did you not say so before? Bring out those delicious apple pastries you baked this morning! And get him out of that study before Mr. Bennet drives him away from us once and for all."

"Not Mr. Bingley, madam, but a member of his party. A Mr. Gilroy Hurst."

Silence. Then a quiet "oh," muttered with the keenest disappointment. "Hmmm... in that case, give him the dried biscuits left over from breakfast."

"But madam, I discovered a worm in one of them!"

"It doesn't matter, Hill! Or - or maybe it does, come to think of it... hmm, Hurst, he's that fat one... if we give him spoiled food he shall deliver an unfavorable report to Bingley and give us all a bad name! Yes, ply him with all the pastries you have."

Arrested by a mix of outrage and exasperation, I barely have time to turn on my heel before Mrs. Bennet flies out of the kitchen and nearly crashes into me. "Mr. Hurst!" she exclaims, dumbfounded. I watch her closely, eager to see if she will at least have the decency to blush, but she does not. "It's so good of you to come to Longbourn," she declares, taking me by the elbow. "Come, let me escort you to the parlor. Not only is it the coziest room in the house - according to our beloved Cousin Collins, that is - but, within a minute or so, you shall be feasting on some of Hertfordshire's finest pastries... specially made for you, Mr. Hurst."

Why do I suddenly feel like a food critic? But no matter... within seconds I'm seated in the parlor and presented with the one, the only, Reverend William Collins.

Egg-shaped body. Springy, poultry-like legs. A head like some great, oozing tomato left out too long in the sun. Oh, Lord, and a grin... a grin that could curdle milk. Don't be so uncharitable, I say to myself... for once, think happy thoughts like Bingley or, barring that, hum Mozart's Requiem under your breath... but it's too hard, all too hard, especially when he grasps my hand with one of his oily paws and says:

"Gilroy Hurst, I am so very pleased to make your acquaintance. I thought that a morning spent in the company of my fair cousins would sufficiently maintain my happiness, but such exceedingly pleasant circumstances pale in comparison to your existence within these comfortable walls. Indeed, I have rarely felt so enraptured... perhaps only in the company of my patroness, Lady Catherine De Bourgh. I am certain you've heard of her, hmmm?"

This is worst than what Henry described to me. I cast a desperate eye about the room but can see no way of making an escape or of finding someone more suitable to converse with. Mrs. Bennet sits nearby, watching us over her needlework; I suspect, by the way she's training her gaze on me, that she will soon unleash a flurry of Netherfield-related questions. Miss Jane, reclining on the window seat, is absorbed with an uneven trimming on one of her bonnets, while Miss Mary, crumpled into an armchair, has her face buried in a thick, forbidding book. The door creaks open and, hoping to see Mr. Bennet's wry countenance, I am instead greeted with the sight of a solemn-faced Hill bearing a tray of pastries. These she places before me with all the wariness and reverence owed a deity, and it is only then that my sense of humor kicks in once again. Relax, Hurst, I say to myself... there is much amusement afoot; savor it.

Yes, even savor the sensation of Collins's hand wrapped around your own, his sweat seeping into your pores. Grind that hand to yours, crush it, milk it of all its glorious perspiration!

"My, my, what a forceful handshake you have, Mr. Hurst," he fairly titters.

"I am sure it is no more forceful than Lady Catherine De Bourgh's," I say.

His face creases into a frown of concentration. "I would not know," he replies. "It would be absolutely disrespectful of me to even consider shaking such a noble, well-proportioned appendage. Though I imagine that her grip would resonate with great force, Mr. Hurst, for she is a lady of might and majesty." He breaks into a wistful smile. "I flatter myself to think that she possesses enough strength to hoist me up by my unworthy earlobe and hurl me halfway across Rosings Park."

"Mr. Collins!" Mrs. Bennet breaks in, probably deciding that our conversation has carried on for too long. "I just saw Lizzy walk through the gate into the garden. Perhaps you would like to accompany her on her stroll?"

The clergyman's wistful smile melts into a gelatinous grin. "Forgive me," he utters after a moment's pause, "but, if my lovely cousin is indeed partaking of a turn about the grounds, then it would be very remiss of me to deprive her of my company." He rises and tugs at his pants. "It must be very lonely for her to walk on her own. I only hope that I can keep abreast of her, for she is quite... robust."

As he makes a low, sweeping bow and bobs out of the room, Mrs. Bennet immediately moves over to his vacated seat and leans towards me in a disconcertingly familiar manner. "I see you haven't yet tried the pastries, Mr. Hurst," she clucks.

I glance down at the mouth-watering temptation before me but do not entirely forget my resolve to restrain myself around sweet things. "Your offer is most... generous, Mrs. Bennet, but truly I breakfasted quite late and am not so very hungry."

She looks at me in disbelief and then in unmitigated displeasure, as if I've just uttered some vile obscenity. Seeing that I shall have to be diplomatic, I quickly make amends and add, "They do look rather irresistible, though... perhaps I shall try one."

Instantly a smile breaks over her face, and she nods encouragingly. I opt for the smallest of the bunch and begin to nibble around its edges, fighting body and soul against the urge to cram it all into my mouth. Just as I feel a string of drool begin to escape over the crest of my lower lip, Mrs. Bennet wiggles her bottom - digging deeper into the chair - and opens her great, chattering jaw to no doubt ask me some question about my brother-in-law.

Wondering how I will extract myself from what might very well be a lengthy interview, I come to be saved by a most unexpected hero. For as Madam Bennet begins with "Tell me, Mr. Hurst, does Mr. Bingley have a house in town?" Hill opens the parlor door and announces the arrival of Colonel Von Glugerschplontz.

Continued In Next Section