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Chapter Sixteen

I discover this past night, that there are forms of physical exertion far more potent than a morning trek up and down a field. Consequently, upon awakening I rather doubt that I will be able to rouse myself for my daily walk. To be more accurate, I rather doubt that I will be able to do many things, like stand, talk, chew, and think.

Not that I’m complaining mind you. Not that I’m complaining at all. In fact, when Louisa finally stirs out of sleep, the first thing she does is inform me that I have a big, silly grin on my face… before devoting the next half-hour or so of her time to ensuring that it shall remain there for the rest of the day.

Once my very last reserves of energy are depleted and the fog clears from my vision, I am able to again register my environment, and what I see further widens my already cheek-cracking smile. When I asked Rupert early yesterday evening to douse the bed in petals, I did not for once think that he would dump so many on the covers, or that they would be subjected to such an enormous breadth and scope of activity. As it is, they’re now firmly imprinted into the blanket, into the sheets, into the pillows, and into our limbs.

"Louisa," I whisper with an impish giggle, "it looks like we’ve been making compost."

She blinks, runs a hand through her hair, and shakes her head in resignation. "Oh, well…" she sighs, appraising the state of the bed. "Perhaps, one could think of it as an elegant floral design."

"Ah, so now the two of us collaborate on cloth patterns and bedstead fashions? Let us go to Paris post haste and set up shop!"

"Why not?" she counters, sitting up on her side of the bed. "It would not be too far-fetched to say that we are a rather creative couple."

"Why, yes of course. Not only creative but prolific, persistent, productive…"

"I’d advise you to hold your tongue, young man," she chides, her mouth curving up into a half-smile. "I’ve heard enough improper speech from you these past several hours to last me a lifetime, and if you do not wish to run the risk of offending me, I suggest that you keep your indecent thoughts to yourself."

"I’m surprised you heard anything I said at all," I retort, carefully inching over to my edge of the bed. "You were rather vocal yourself, you know. Or were you merely attempting to drown out my own ungentlemanly remarks?"

She laughs and slides from the mattress onto her feet. For a moment she sways, footing unsure, and leans against the bed for support.

"Are you able to walk?" I inquire.

She shoots me a most exasperated look before making a stab at a few wobbly steps. But her unsure footing doesn’t last long, and soon she is at my side. "As you see, sir," she says, "I most certainly can walk."

"Excellent. Because I cannot."

At this she laughs, and I continue. "Would you do me the great service of escorting me to my dressing room door?" I ask. "My valet shall take over from there."

"If it is absolutely necessary," she says, sighing in mock weariness, "I shall lend you my support."

I wasn’t entirely joking when I said that I couldn’t walk. As I traverse the room with my wife and am required, on several occasions, to lean into her, I do so not only for the mere pleasure of sending my hand up the sleeve of her dressing gown, or planting a kiss on her petal-littered hair. She is quite near happy exhaustion herself though, and so we pause at several points along the way, including the chair where I unceremoniously dumped the champagne bottle and flutes on my way to the bed last night. As she sits upon my lap – a weight I shall always bear with good cheer – I pour two glasses for the both of us and we drink in delight. However, neither of us anticipates the effects of champagne on an empty stomach, and so we languish for some time longer, swapping unfunny jokes and giggling madly at them. At long last, I manage to hoist myself up and, after watching her stumbling, staggering, chortling progress to the other end of the chamber where her dressing room door is, I permit myself to enter Rupert’s presence.

My good valet has, at the moment, just finished filling up what promises to be a delicious – and necessary – bath. He looks up as I enter, a knowing smile on his face. "Well, well, Gilroy," he drawls, sauntering over and peeling a daisy petal from my forehead. "Were you really gardening all night?"

"Why do you even ask? Knowing the lascivious turn of your mind, Rupert, you probably watched the entire proceedings through a keyhole."

"And provided myself with enough fodder for ten nightmares?" he retorts, assisting me into the bath. "Not likely." He pauses, and I feel an inquisitive finger poke into the side of my neck. "Speaking of nightmares," he continues, "were you attacked by a vampire?"

I ease into the water, my brain bubbling with champagne and my good humor so very much intact. "The most vixenish, voluptuous vampire I ever had the good fortune of encountering."

My comment puts quite an end to his impertinence, for his only reply is to chuckle and cry, "Good show, good show, Gil! Well done!" As I simmer in the water like a big, dumb potato, he presents a tray of toast, tea, and eggs to my feasting eyes. But, though my stomach lets loose a savage growl of approval, I demur. "I promised Louisa to breakfast with her," I whisper.

"Oh, don’t worry," he says, practically stuffing the bread into my mouth. "You’ll probably have enough appetite for three breakfasts today."

His argument is bold and persuasive and induces me to gobble down all the contents on the tempting tray. Yes, laugh all you want, dear reader… I know what you’re thinking… oh, I can make a guess… you’re thinking that a man like Fitzwilliam Darcy could live off of naught but intimacy for whole weeks, and that somehow this would make him a far superior creature. Ha! I scoff at him. For I, Gilroy Hurst, am human, and proud to embody all of humanity’s appetites – both TABLE and bed.

I remain in my bath for nearly three-quarters of an hour, until I am quite the prune, before drying off, getting dressed, and joining my wife for breakfast. Knowing that the rest of Netherfield has probably dined by now, we have our meal in an upstairs sitting room. The time passes in contented, companionable silence, and I very much feel like a man who is newly wed. Giddiness has seized my heart and hers too I believe, for I find her often glancing up at me with a very promising smile and a glow to her cheeks.

But, if I imagine that my whole day shall be one of golden repose, I am quite mistaken, for sometime in the afternoon, when I wander off on my own to sit upon a bench outside and take in the cool air, Rupert stumbles upon me, looking a positive fright. He’s panting, sweating, and… and on his rump are three chicken feathers.

"Rupert?" I inquire, fearful.

"Gil…" he pants, then clutches his stomach. "I ran… I ran here from Longbourn just now."

"Three miles!" I exclaim.

"Well, not really… I rode on a farmer’s wagon some of the way, but… it was hard sprinting the rest and… Bingley feeds us servants entirely too well, drat him…

"Rupert, the sooner you get to the point, the sooner you can rest!"

"It’s Mr. Collins," he whispers, and in such a dreadful voice that I can’t help but think that the obsequious man has been murdered by Colonel Foxtrot.

"He’s still alive, is he?" I ask. "Foxtrot didn’t complete his interrupted impalement from yesterday night…"

"No, no… it’s simply that… that, well, first he proposed marriage to Miss Elizabeth."

I feel my left eyebrow hitch up. "And she said… good G-d, Rupert, tell me she said ‘no’!"

"She did, she did, and now the house is in an uproar, Gil. And during this uproar, Miss Lucas came calling… and I saw her run into Collins outside, on the front walk, and he began to talk to her, and he had a very queer expression on his face…"

I suddenly feel faint. "Queer expression?"

"O.K., not queer, but… but moony and… and I overheard him begin to propose to her as well."

Oh, no. Oh, dear G-d no. I surge to my feet. "Have a carriage fetched! I must go there at once!"

Rupert though is too incapacitated to run and fetch anything, so I stumble off to make the arrangement myself. So distracted am I by the prospect of Miss Lucas’s potential answer, that I do not think deeply into the reasons behind Rupert’s presence in Longbourn. I automatically assume that he spotted Miss Charlotte and Mr. Ooze on his way back from some silly tete-a-tete with a milkmaid in a barn (hence the befeathered rump). By tomorrow though, I shall be more enlightened.

But enough about Rupert. As I hoist myself into the carriage and bid the driver to be hasty, I wonder what on Earth I’ll do once I get to Longbourn. What if she has already – shudder, shiver, shudder – agreed to his proposal? Should I tell her that I have someone better in store for her? Oh, dear… what a muddle. What a horrible muddle. I have to do something. There’s no way on Earth I’ll allow that sweaty, simpering creature to interfere with my matchmaking schemes! With the hope of my best friend’s future happiness!

The carriage ride is agony. Though I will vouch for Miss Charlotte’s good sense any day, perhaps… perhaps she fell on her head this morning. Perhaps, even more likely, she has pressures from home to accept any offer she can get. Oh, dear, I remember her mother… I remember her mother that night in Lucas Lodge, berating her for failing to twitter at officers.

I ask the driver to bring the carriage to a halt some distance away from Longbourn’s front door, for I do not wish to announce my presence – at least not yet, anyway. Disembarking, I look around, thinking of what I can do and wondering if Miss Lucas and her doom are still on the premises. It’s then that I hear a voice coming from a copse of trees not too far on my right. I make my way over there, and discover that it is indeed Miss Charlotte’s voice. For one horrible moment, I imagine that Mr. Collins has somehow managed to lure her into the grove, and that perhaps they are celebrating their newfound understanding with a… a kiss? No, Hurst, please, no nightmarish thoughts, I beg of you. Give the lady more credit.

As I draw nearer, slipping behind a tree, I hear Miss Lucas say, "I hope your mother shall calm herself soon, Lizzy."

Rueful laughter ensues. "Oh, she shall be calm by tonight, Charlotte, but I shall be receiving frowns and disdainful sniffs from her all the week long." A sigh. "Already she is wondering aloud why I’m not like Mary. I daresay I shall hear such comments for days to come."

A pause. Daring to peek around the trunk, I spot the two ladies sitting on a large swing. As Miss Charlotte peers up at the sky, Miss Elizabeth begins to set the swing into a slight rock.

"Lizzy, I must tell you something," Miss Charlotte says, a strange smile on her lips.

My heart begins to pound faster. Miss Elizabeth looks at her friend inquiringly.

"After I arrived here," she continues, "I chanced upon Mr. Collins outside the front door."

"Was he terribly distraught?" Miss Elizabeth asks, looking entirely unrepentant.

"A bit flustered perhaps, though I detected no sign of a broken heart. Not that I’m an expert on such matters." She looks down at her lap. "In fact, his spirits seemed to revive as he began to speak to me. His conversation turned from berating you–"

"He berated me?"

"Not harshly, Lizzy. He merely thinks that you’re a stubborn, headstrong girl not wise enough in the ways of the world. That is all."

"Why that ridiculous, empty-headed, little–"

"Temper, Lizzy," Miss Charlotte chides with a small grin.

"Well, go on then, Charlotte. What did that silly man have to say to you?"

"He asked for my hand in marriage."

Miss Elizabeth’s mouth falls open in shock. "He moves quickly, does he not?"

"Certainly. Perhaps he is genuinely searching for a little affection."

"Come now, Charlotte, he receives plenty of affection from his patroness."

Miss Charlotte giggles and then grows serious again. "Did you know," she whispers, "that I entertained the notion of accepting him?"

"Charlotte!"

"I’m not joking, Lizzy."

"Charlotte, why – what an awful thought!"

Awful thought or not, I’m grinning at this point, having noted that ‘entertained’ is in the past tense.

"He could have given me a secure home, Lizzy. I’ve always wished for my own home, you know, and… I daresay his would have been a cozy and comfortable place, quite suited to my needs."

"Oh, but Charlotte, think of life with such a man."

"I did. Which is why I refused him."

Miss Elizabeth reaches over and lays her hand on Miss Charlotte’s arm. Her friend continues. "I think, not long ago, Lizzy, I might have agreed to such a marriage. I am not as young as you, and I would like – one day – to leave Lucas Lodge. I was never very particular about husbands, or about the need to fall in love. But… oh, what I’m about to tell you is rather shocking."

"What?" Miss Elizabeth whispers.

"The night of the party at my home, apparently someone… oh, my, this is entirely mortifying to speak of."

"I won’t breathe a word of it to anyone else."

"I know, Lizzy, which is why you’re the first to hear of this. After the party, I go up to my chamber, and I find a note on my pillow."

I clutch at the tree bark, feeling my cheeks and ears ignite in flame.

"A note! From whom?" Miss Elizabeth inquires.

"Anonymous. Whoever wrote it though, has a strong command of Greek mythology." A pause, a smile. "The note was… very pleasing to my sensibilities. It…"

"Charlotte, was it a love note?"

She pauses. "Nowhere did it mention love. It was more… more of a note of admiration."

"Of admiration? What did it say?"

"Whoever wrote it compared me to Vesta, goddess of the hearth, and… oh, this is embarrassing, Lizzy…"

"Come now, Vesta, keep up your tale!"

"Very well, very well. The author called me practical, sensible, witty, and gentle."

Miss Elizabeth breaks into a happy peal of laughter. "A very astute author then. It must be someone who has known you for years."

"I really don’t know. And then the note said, that anyone who understands me will see these qualities and admire and respect me for them." She smoothes out her skirt. "So you see, Lizzy, there was no profession of undying love in it… I think I would have found it rather silly if there had been. In any case, this note made me think about what I want in a gentleman. It made me realize that perhaps I should… I should find someone whom I could at least respect and could respect me in turn. Practically speaking, it would be nice to find a friend in one’s husband and I knew with certainty that I could not find a friend, an equal partner, in Mr. Collins."

"An understatement if I ever heard one." Miss Elizabeth grins. "You truly deserve someone far better than a Tartuffe-like imp. And who knows? Perhaps you shall fall deeply in love. After all, it’s not everyone who finds such a scandalously personal note on her pillow!"

"Lizzy…"

"I really wonder who wrote it."

"Whoever it is, he hasn’t shown up at Lucas Lodge to petition my hand yet."

"Perhaps he’s married," she whispers with a mischievous waggle of her brows.

I stiffen, thinking to myself that that young lady is entirely too smart. Fortunately, she is not serious and as Miss Charlotte blushes and admonishes her for her improper comment, she breaks into laughter anew. "Who knows? Perhaps that’s why it was anonymous!"

"Enough, I beg of you!" Miss Charlotte insists, while beginning to laugh as well.

When they both calm down, Miss Charlotte turns the table and begins to tease her friend. "And what of you, Lizzy?" she says. "Though my admirer may have been secret, yours was not."

Though I intended at this point to withdraw and leave them to their privacy, I guess at Miss Charlotte’s thoughts and choose to remain. Miss Elizabeth – less of a mind reader perhaps – replies with a puzzled frown.

"Mr. Darcy paid particular attention to you last evening," Miss Charlotte clarifies.

Miss Elizabeth grows still for a moment and then shakes her head. However, even as she does so, a slight blush creeps up her cheeks. "Charlotte, he danced with me once and that is all. It signifies nothing."

"Does it not?"

"No!" Miss Elizabeth insists, perhaps a little too stridently. "No," she repeats in a calmer voice.

A knowing smile steals over Miss Charlotte’s face. "Would you have liked it to signify something?"

"Charlotte! Just what are you suggesting?"

"I wish you to be frank. What do you think of him, Lizzy?"

Miss Elizabeth toys with the ribbons of her bonnet. "I hardly know what to think," she admits at last. "He’s unreadable. One moment he’s making an impertinent joke, and then at the next he’s – he’s frowning abysmally at me, as if I’ve sprouted a second nose. He will speak intelligently for a whole minute and then – then he’ll seal his mouth shut as if he’s the stupidest man on Earth and has nothing to say. And he always appears so stiff and proud… though I must admit that he’s… rather handsome as well."

"But do you like him, Lizzy?"

Miss Elizabeth releases an explosive breath of air. "I’m not certain. I don’t despise him, but I hardly know him well enough to say that I like him. Not that it matters… he would never condescend to marry someone of my status."

Miss Charlotte’s eyebrows rise up. "I do not see why. He is a gentleman and you are a gentleman’s daughter. And from what I saw of him yesterday night… well, he watched you a great deal, Lizzy."

"Well, he appeared to be bored for most of the evening. Perhaps he needed some object of amusement to alight upon." She clears her throat. "In any case, he’s not as open as Mr. Bingley. And I cannot say that I feel for him what Jane does for his friend."

"So does Jane truly love him?"

"Yes, Charlotte," Miss Elizabeth whispers, smiling broadly. "I’m so happy for her."

That is all I need to hear. I have intruded upon their privacy for far too long, and I retreat, leaving them to their conversation. I suppose I’ve learned a thing or too, though. First, that it helps to be open with one’s affection. Second, that Darcy is a fool. Third, that much good can come from sneaking into a young lady’s bedchamber, even if it requires a painful imprisonment in her wardrobe. Not that I shall be repeating any such course of action any time soon! There’s only one bedchamber I wish to enter now and when I do so, it won’t be by tiptoeing in like a common thief.

As the carriage rolls through Meryton on its way back to Netherfield, I happen to spot Miss Lydia Bennet and Miss Mariah Lucas chatting on the roadside with two or three officers. One of the officers hands them a note, which they pore over eagerly. Then, as Miss Jane steps out of one of the nearby shops and walks over to them, Miss Lydia stuffs the note into her little shopping satchel and – along with Miss Mariah – bids the officers adieu. The carriage passes then, and I see no more of them.

When I step through Netherfield’s front door, I am assailed by Caroline’s voice as it leaps from the drawing room out into the front hall. I can make out only a few of her words, amongst them "fool" and "Jane." This can mean only trouble, and so, with not a small sigh, I proceed to the source of the conflict and come to a halt at the threshold of the room.

Bingley and my wife both occupy the sofa, while Caroline stands a few feet in front of them, arms gesticulating and jaw trembling. "I urge you not to go through with it, Charles!" she cries. "Think of the consequences for our family and its good name! Why would you wish to ally yourself to the Bennet clan! No one knows of them. They’re rustic, obscure, and unheard of in the ton! What can you possibly hope for?"

"Love," Bingley says quite cheerfully, smoothing a crease in his waistcoat.

"Oh, please! Charles, every year you fall in love with a different girl."

"I beg to differ," he insists, looking up at her, his eyes begging for her understanding. "The other times were not love. That I can safely say, given the current state of my heart."

"But don’t you see," his sister counters, changing tactics, "you are allowing yourself to be dictated by your heart. Think of the situation practically. Her family is not wealthy, Charles, or prominent in society. And they’re ill-bred, all of them. All but your dear Jane behave as commoners do!"

"I would not go so far," my wife says. "Though I grant you the younger sisters are absolutely wild and the mother is astonishingly tactless, I saw no obvious flaw in the father, and Miss Elizabeth, though impertinent, is a very decent young lady."

I feel my cheeks lift up and squinch against my eyes. Oh, yes… there’s that big, silly grin again. Dear reader, I am enslaved.

Caroline hardly looks as happy, though, and – upon hearing Miss Elizabeth mentioned in even a slightly favorable fashion – glares at her sister, before casting an alarmed look behind her shoulder. It is only then that I notice Darcy, his back to the group, his nose nearly imprinted on the windowpane. No doubt Caroline is attempting to assess his reaction to Louisa’s comment on the impertinently decent young lady. But, in true Darcy fashion, he reveals nothing of his thoughts.

"Mr. Darcy," she cries. "What is your opinion on this unfortunate match?"

He turns around, his mouth pursed into a thin, white line, his forehead pinched into a furrow of great depth and length. However, he keeps his gaze to the floor and begins to toe the carpet with his boot. After some moments pass he looks up with a sigh, opens his mouth, and then spots me at the door. His eyes widen slightly in surprise, before blinking in confusion. It’s then I realize that I must still be grinning. I wipe the dreamy expression off my face, step into the room, briefly regain the dreaminess as my wife smiles upon my entrance, restrain myself once more, and then speak.

"What if I offer you fact, Caroline, rather than opinion?" I inquire.

She bores into me with a gaze so cold my teeth nearly chatter. Though I can’t be absolutely certain, I think it wouldn’t be too farfetched to say that she has not yet forgiven me for stepping on her toes and abandoning her on the dance floor the evening before.

"And what fact would that be, Mr. Hurst?" she sneers. "That the Bennet family is monstrous? That my brother fancies himself in love? That Miss Jane hardly returns his affection?"

An imperceptible flinch goes through Bingley at that last remark. Swallowing down anger, I reply, "Actually, Caroline, none of those are facts. The Bennet family is not monstrous. Bingley does not merely fancy himself in love – he is actually in love. And Miss Jane does love him in return."

A golden light erupts in the room, and I blink, shielding my eyes. "Bingley," I command, "stop smiling, you’re blinding me!"

He hides his teeth, though his lips stretch for about as far as they can go. Louisa looks up at me and asks, "Is your source reliable, Mr. Hurst?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hurst, it is," I reply. "I happened to overhear – quite recently in fact – Miss Elizabeth inform Miss Lucas that her older sister is very much in love with our dear brother."

Bingley sways to his feet and stares at me with all the hope and wonder of a lovesick fool. "Is this real, Hurst?" he breathes.

"Yes, yes," I insist. "And don’t be so surprised. After all, it’s not every gentleman who loves whiskers on kittens. You stand out from the herd, my friend."

"This is preposterous!" Caroline cries. "An alliance with that family would tarnish our name. Mr. Darcy, I beg of you," she implores, "speak sense to my brother!"

All eyes turn to Darcy. He is very much cognizant of this attention, and stiffens in response to it, staring at each of us in turn as if daring us to contradict what he is about to say. Though I don’t quite have the energy for it, I have no qualms about disputing with his opinion.

Assuming, of course, that he voices one. For several moments he remains silent and motionless, legs planted apart, arms behind his back, pinky ring twirling perhaps though I cannot say for certain. Then at last he begins.

"Bingley," he says, "the Bennets have no wealth, no substantial property, and no respectable connections. Upon marriage, you shall be subjected to a meddling mother-in-law, and you shall claim, as your relations, tradesmen, barristers, chatterboxes, gossips, an idiotic clergyman, and a bellowing, sword-wielding Teuton." He pauses, clearing his throat. "However, if you think you can extract some measure of happiness from such an unfortunate alliance… if matters of the heart are truly your only concern… then how can I stop you? You are a man committed – foolishly perhaps – to lofty sentiments. I wish that all goes well with you and that a year from now you shall not be regretting your impetuousness."

A long silence ensues in which Bingley gapes at his friend. Then he bursts forth once more in a beaming smile and cries, "Darcy, I’m so happy to have your blessing!"

"Well, Bingley I–" his friend begins.

But whatever Darcy was planning to say is drowned out in an enthusiastic embrace and a breath-stealing clap on the back. Caroline looks aghast, staring helplessly at the object of her pursuit, before turning to my wife. "Louisa, please," she says, "I depend on you now to agree with me!"

Louisa sighs and throws up her hands, as if helpless. "Though I could have hoped for a better match, if he indeed loves her and she loves him in return then… well, I suppose that makes it a little better. What we can do is merely hope for the best, and hope that he truly is happy." She turns to Bingley. "Brother, I’m assuming you wish to call on her tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow yes," he agrees, releasing Darcy. "Right after breakfast. Tonight I shall compose a speech, have a bouquet of flowers prepared, and… and I shall have to select the most flattering attire." He pauses. "Ah, yes, and a cream-colored pony. That shall be my mount on the morrow."

"Perhaps," Louisa continues, smiling at him and shaking her head. "I may join you? I could distract Mrs. Bennet while you make your declarations. One can hardly depend on her allowing you and your intended some privacy."

"You’ll do that?" Bingley whispers, before rushing over to plant an impetuous kiss on her cheek. "Oh, Louisa, you are too good."

She nearly rolls her eyes, patting him on the arm as a governess would an eager pupil. Her eye then catches mine and the look we exchange… well, it is hardly suitable for a drawing room. Though it does – quite accurately – foreshadow our interactions later on.

The next morning I wake up in yet another exhausted stupor, but manage to see Louisa and Bingley off on their collective mission. Claiming a headache, Caroline did not descend for breakfast and though Darcy was sullen and quiet, Bingley’s mood did not in the least bit grow dismayed. After he and my wife leave, I go off to the library. Darcy is there already, occupying a wing chair at the far end of the room, his back to the door and his face buried purposefully in a tome. So absorbed does he appear that I opt not to disturb him, instead plopping down with my own text to pass the time.

I anticipate Bingley’s joyful arrival. I anticipate a lengthy litany of Miss Bennet’s charms, and a drawn-out musing on his future happiness. I anticipate a night off for the servants in celebration, and a request for happy music at the pianoforte.

I do not anticipate Louisa’s sudden entrance, the bang of the library door as she throws it open unceremoniously, her face pale and distracted. Immediately I sense that something is wrong, and I cast my book aside. "She refused him?" I blurt out, not certain of how to interpret her expression.

"He did not even get a chance to ask," she says.

"What? Where is he?"

"He is still at Longbourn," she replies, vehemently shaking her head. "And I wish he were not. I could tolerate their status, their manners, as long as he and Miss Jane truly loved one another, but even love cannot help this, and I cannot sanction this match anymore! It shall heap scandal upon us all!"

"Louisa! What happened?"

"At first, on the way there, we thought that misfortune only struck the Lucas family, for we heard from the street that Captain Denny ran off with Miss Mariah yesterday night, but upon arriving at Longbourn, we learned that Miss Lydia has also gone off, and with another officer as well, a Captain Wickham! Can you believe this?"

Chapter Seventeen

Posted on Thursday, 10 April 2003

Louisa, ever anxious to pour forth all facts, all conjectures, all anxieties, all high emotions from her restless heart, takes but a moment to note my current state of shock before proceeding with the details. These she gleaned while attempting to politely remove her brother from Longbourn; apparently the house was filled with frantic conversation and exclamations of grief, so much so that from these she could piece together an idea of what happened and what is being done.

It was a premeditated crime, so it seems, abetted by good intentions. Though Mr. Bennet vowed, on the day I spoke to him, not to allow his daughters to attend balls and parties unchaperoned, his restrictions on their goings about did not include a ban on daytime romps to Meryton. Miss Lydia increasingly went on these walks with Miss Mariah, for Miss Kitty – upon seeing that Miss Mary had garnered an admirer – opted to stay at home more often with her older sister in the hopes of having Miss Mary’s newfound attractiveness to men rub off on her. Miss Kitty appears to be one of those young ladies who often changes loyalties and allegiances, though one can hardly complain about such weakness of character now – it quite possibly saved her chastity.

In any case, one can guess that Miss Lydia and Miss Mariah ran into Messieurs Denny and Wickham on a few of their walks and, despite warnings from their fathers, flirted and fell in love with them. For Denny and Wickham, whose thwarted phrenological scam and ubiquitous debts were – and still are – hanging over them miserably, the availability of two empty-headed, near-sighted, and superficially attractive females provided them with the means to exact revenge on those who were instrumental to their failure. And it’s not as if the art of wooing was hard for them. Miss Mariah was attracted to Denny from day one of their acquaintance, the morning he paid a visit to her father and performed a phrenological demonstration on her silky scalp, whereas Miss Lydia most likely couldn’t resist Mr. Wickham’s smiles and insinuations. After all, Miss Georgianna Darcy certainly did not, and she is better bred than the youngest Bennet.

The quartet of conspirators did not even have to communicate in person. I recall going by carriage through Meryton just yesterday and witnessing a note passed from three anonymous officers to the two absconders. Because Miss Jane’s presence prevented Denny and Wickham from making an appearance, they had go-betweens deliver a letter instead. I can scarcely doubt the content of the note transmitted yesterday afternoon; it was most likely a final confirmation of their arrangements.

Though I cannot know – based on the information I now have – how Miss Mariah left Lucas Lodge, one can surmise that she abandoned ship much as Miss Lydia did, and escaped through the front door (at least that’s where Miss Lydia left her farewell note). One could make more noise and potentially wake up more people by going through the servants’ entrance; ironically enough, the front door was the best escape route. Denny and Wickham were no doubt waiting outside the residencies for their cheerful birds to fly the coop, and the quartet departed from Hertfordshire… perhaps in separate pairs, perhaps together, no one really knows. And seeing as Miss Lydia’s note was discovered only at half past nine this morning, it is reasonable to say that wherever they’re going, they now have a substantial head start on any potential pursuers.

If you think the story thus far is rather depressing, wait until you hear exactly how Miss Lydia’s absence was discovered. The Bennets descended for an early breakfast and neither they nor their servants noticed the folded square of paper at the front door. Only two people failed to show up at the dining room. Mr. Collins was still in his chamber, ostensibly saying his morning prayers (though in my opinion, he was most likely struggling with his attire – a man like that must have difficulty dressing himself). And Miss Lydia, it was assumed, was still in bed, sleeping late. Yesterday evening she complained of a headache and retired early, and little did her family know that she did this to pack rather than get a good night’s rest. In any case, nothing of suspicion was noted until Miss Elizabeth, heading out the door for a post-breakfast walk, happened upon the note and alerted her family to its contents. As Mrs. Bennet no doubt swooned and was helped to a chair by her remaining daughters, Mr. Bennet ascended the stairs to investigate (I shall render him energetic and say that he did it two steps at a time), only to collide with Mr. Collins at the second floor landing. The collision sent Mr. Bennet halfway down the stairs again, whereupon he broke his leg.

In reaction to the accident, the agent of his misfortune let loose a perverse shriek, followed by another shriek upon learning immediately afterwards of the scandal that transpired overnight at the very home at which he was a guest! Thus, as the doctor arrived to help Mr. Bennet into bed and tend to his injured limb, Mr. Collins made his own hasty departure. His final words to the Bennet family consisted of much friendly advice, urging the shamed clan to abandon their youngest member to the hounds of hell and wear naught but sackcloth and ashes for at least a year. As Louisa tells me, Miss Elizabeth – inspired by her father’s cries of "Be gone, you infernal worm!" – at last managed to politely but firmly propel Mr. Collins out the front door.

Who then remains to search for the young ladies? Mr. Bennet is clearly incapacitated. But as it turns out, Bingley graciously offered his services; on the morrow, he shall depart for County Kent and Ramsgate (a town Lydia mentioned in her note when she gushed about "all the places she and Wickie would visit in their honeymoon"). Colonel Foxtrot also arrived when Louisa was still there and offered to head for Gretna Green where one or both couples might have fled. As for covering London, Miss Jane and Miss Elizabeth composed a letter to their Uncle Gardiner in the hopes that he will conduct a search over there. And what of Sir Lucas? His intentions are to accompany Bingley to Kent. If their efforts in that county prove futile, they too shall go to London.

"He should not involve himself in this!" Louisa cries, wearing out the carpet in front of me. "He loves Miss Jane but… but one should refrain from such impractical sentiments in the face of shame and scandal! Do you actually believe that the two captains intend to marry those foolish girls? Certainly not. The Bennets and Lucases are irrevocably ruined, Gilroy, and I for one can no longer sanction a union between my brother and–"

"They are most likely in London," I whisper.

Louisa pauses. "What?"

"Though one cannot discount the other locations, I’m guessing that they are in London. It would be nigh impossible to find them there. And if they’ve traveled all night, they are probably there already."

She blinks at me. "So what if they’ve gone to London? What does it matter? The scandal remains a scandal."

"I’m going there," I announce, putting my face in my hands in an entirely unheroic fashion.

Silence. "You’re joking," she utters at last.

"Not at all," I state. The guilt and remorse that simmered throughout her recitation of Longbourn and Lucas Lodge’s litany of misfortunes wells up and spills out in my speech. "Louisa, don’t you see? I could have played a part in preventing this. I sensed, once Mr. Bennet and I thwarted their phrenology scam, that they would be desperate and perhaps do something vengeful. They are debt-ridden, after all." I rub my eyes. "Perhaps the only way they’ll ever marry the girls is if Mr. Bennet and Sir Lucas agree to pay off their debts; only, the two gentlemen do not have so much money."

"Gilroy," Louisa cries, "I’ve heard enough about debts and scandals and stupid young girls. I want you to speak with Bingley when he gets back and persuade him to give up his foolishness and break off connections with the Bennet family."

I hardly hear her. "Louisa, I guessed that they would do something like this. And for the past week I kept reminding myself to go and see Colonel Forster and convince him to remove them from Hertfordshire, where they were posing a risk. But I didn’t. I put it off and put it off and now… now look at what’s happened!"

"Do you honestly blame yourself for this?"

"Well not directly!" I cry, rising to my feet. "It’s not as if I put a gun to their heads and ordered them to make off with the girls! But I could have done something, Louisa. I could have spared them so much of this misery." And, though I do not say this aloud, I am also thinking of my friend, Henry Fitzwilliam, and the wife I promised him. Even without a scandal he would be in defiance of his father by marrying a lady like Miss Lucas, though I’m certain the Earl would get over the initial shock and perhaps welcome her to Matlock one day. However, with this scandal overshadowing the Lucas family, I think the Viscount himself would be quite hesitant to make a marital alliance; it would not be unreasonable to say that his father could very well disown him for such an ignominious match (assuming, of course, that he did not keel over from a fit of apoplexy first). No… Miss Mariah must be married – and discreetly – for the taint of shame to lift from the Lucas family.

I clear my head and find Louisa staring at me in a curiously horrified manner. "Gilroy," she whispers, "please tell me you’re not serious."

"I am," I say. "I wish to go to London tomorrow. I shall behave discreetly, I assure you. As few people as possible should know of what happened this past night."

"As few people as possible!" she cries. "Nearly all of Meryton knows by now!"

"Well as long as the word isn’t flying about in London," I muse, dwelling on the Earl of Matlock and his status in the ton. It is then that my wife steps up to me, seizes my face with her hands, and plants a devastating kiss on my lips. When we eventually break apart, she keeps her hands on my cheeks as I gasp for air.

"You are staying here," she commands. "I do not want you going to London, snooping around in the shadiest neighborhoods and risking your life. You belong here and here you shall remain.’

Sighing, I remove her hands from my face. "My dear," I reply, "I shall not feel easy with myself unless I help." I offer her what I hope is an endearing smile. "Perhaps you’d like to come to London with me? Though I would not wish for you to accompany me on all of my… my investigations… it would be nice for you to at least be at our home."

Apparently my smile is not endearing enough, for her only answer is to mutter, "Both you and my brother are mad," before storming out of the room.

After keeping my eyes on the empty doorway for a few moments longer, I sigh and sink back into my seat. Not many minutes tick by though, before I grow faintly aware of another presence in the room. Oh, damn… Darcy’s been here the whole time.

I wearily look up and find myself pinned by a gaze of near-frightening intensity. "What is it?" I groan. "Haven’t you ever seen a bald, fat man get kissed before?"

He briefly closes his eyes. "Hurst," he huffs, "it was not my intention to witness your display of marital felicity."

I snort. "What marital felicity? She thinks I’m a madman now!"

"But what do you think of yourself?" he asks.

"I’m a fool!" I cry, hoisting myself up again. "Or at least a lazy lout. Come now, Darcy, you were here the whole while. Did you not hear what I told my wife?"

"I heard every word," he states, leveling me with that spear-like look again. "I did not wish to intrude upon your private conversation, but I could not find an opportune moment to depart from the room unnoticed." He clears his throat. "But what I’m trying to say, so inarticulately, is that I would never have believed this of you, Hurst."

"I wouldn’t have, either. To think, I’ve always considered myself to be a man of some intelligence. And it’s not as if it had never occurred to me to go to Colonel Forster. Oh, no… I was merely lazy." I sigh. "Not to mention short-sighted."

"You mistake my meaning," he cuts in. "I am merely surprised that you would take such great responsibility upon yourself."

Confused, I reply with a blink and a knit of my brows. He continues. "You do not know this, Hurst, but… but I had a particularly painful clash with Wickham this past summer. A dreadful encounter." His face momentarily contorts in pain. "I know what he is, and I too could have… could have gone to speak with Colonel Forster. But I did not think to do so." He marches to the window and peers out. "I am partly responsible for this. If you are, then I am as well."

All I can do is stare at his backside in wonder. Not in wonder of his backside, mind you, but merely… well, his backside is a convenient sight to fixate on when you’re full of wonder. "You also feel guilty?" I venture.

He turns to face me. "Yes," he whispers. "But now, in part because of you, I know what I must do." He takes a deep breath. "I go to London. On the morrow."

So astonished am I that the only coherent reply that I can produce is, "You’re going to London because of me?"

He releases an impatient puff of air. What he says next probably costs him a part of his soul. "I shall admit," he grumbles, "that at times, you can be… at times, Hurst… a bit, um… inspiring… perhaps."

Well, tickle my rump and call me Annabelle! A compliment? From Darcy?

"So," I say, nearly crowing in triumph, "you find me inspiring, eh?"

"Shut it, Hurst," he mutters, though I detect a shadow of a smile on his lips. "I merely could not believe that you – of all men – were capable of such resolve."

"Hmph. Should I be insulted or gratified, Darcy?" A thought suddenly occurs to me. "Though I find it hard to believe that I am your only source of inspiration. I may have been the immediate catalyst, the final kick to the rear that sent you on your way, but–"

"We depart on the morrow," he interrupts, his voice low and dangerous. "I, too, wish to remain discreet in my goings-about. Let us both say that we are leaving to conclude some business or other, and that you are traveling in my coach for the sake of efficiency. The less transportation that has to be arranged, the quicker we can arrive at London. Besides, Bingley shall require the use of his own carriage and–"

"You wish to travel with me?" I murmur, flabbergasted.

Darcy sighs. "If it is agreeable with you, yes. And your valet may share the servants’ coach with my own as well." He begins to pace. "Though it may be for the best that Bingley and the others search elsewhere – for one never knows exactly where the scoundrels might have fled – just like you I believe that they have gone to London. Whether they are occupying the same lodgings or not is another matter."

"We must share information between us," I say. "I shall focus on Captain Denny, but whatever I find out about him might help your search for Wickham. And vice versa."

"I agree. Though their paths might have forked, one might know of the other’s whereabouts." He pauses. "But whatever we do, I wish to remain discreet. Not only before Bingley and the afflicted families but… you realize that we cannot rely on agents of the law either, do you?"

"Of course not," I concur. "I am not afraid though, Darcy. Aside from being an eminently courageous man – if I may presume to say so myself – I shall be depending upon the aid of one who knows London like the back of his hand."

"And who is this?"

"My valet." When his pacing grinds to a halt, I roll my eyes. "Rupert, er, Andrews is a trustworthy individual, Darcy. He is clever, sly, and agile, precisely what we need to achieve success. He also won’t blurt a word to any other London servants."

"Very well, very well; I shall trust your judgment. It’s simply… well, I would never consider using my own valet for such purposes. No, I shall enlist the help of one of my relations who is in town now – my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam."

It’s no use. I cannot suppress the snicker that erupts from my mouth. "What is it?" Darcy inquires, frowning at me.

"You do know, Darcy, that I am a very good friend of your eldest cousin, the Viscount."

"Ah," he murmurs, "I did forget. I haven’t seen Henry in quite some time. And I correspond far more frequently with his younger brother."

"Yes, yes, I know, " I reply and wave my hand dismissively when he sends me yet another puzzled glance. "Perhaps your younger cousin’s military penchant shall help our cause," I add, shutting out the pervasive mental image of uniformed sheep.

He nods. "Well then, I suggest we go make our arrangements for tomorrow." He begins to stride out the door, but stops himself at the threshold, where he does an about-face and marches back up to me, extending his well-groomed hand. As I accept it, he gives my hand one vigorous shake before allowing it to drop back to my side. "May we meet with nothing but success," he whispers, his expression earnest and solemn.

"Oh, we shall," I say, attempting to lighten the mood. "You’re the sort of man who wouldn’t have it any other way, Darcy. If Fate ever dealt you a bad hand, you wouldn’t keep quiet and make the best of it… you’d stride right up to her, grab her by the shoulders, and proceed to shake her until she saw fit to change her mind. Fate, my good man, does not stand a chance with you."

My intentions are realized. The corners of his mouth curve up, ever so slightly. "Now, now, Hurst," he counters, as we both leave the library, "it would not be very gentlemanly of me to seize a lady like that, even if she were the ever-capricious Fate."

"You’re perfectly right," I tease. "Force would not be necessary. All you would have to do, Darcy, is work your charm on her, your open, unaffected charisma and then–"

"Hurst!" he growls.

I am saved from any forthcoming chastisement by the arrival of Bingley and Colonel Foxtrot, who step through the door just as Darcy and I reach the front hall. As Bingley and Darcy depart to speak with their valets, I linger behind with the Colonel and learn that he is indeed intending to go to Gretna Green.

"I shall stop at every door, comb through every inn, track through every field and forest," he grumbles, his face humorless and formidable. "Pray for their souls if ever I come upon them for once I do, they shall know true helplessness!"

When he concludes his brief declaration, I’m trembling… with suppressed laughter. I imagine him becoming a monster of legend, the kind of horrible, mysterious figure that parents conjure up in order to frighten their children into obedience. I can see a defiant young man threatening to elope with his lover, and I can hear the young man’s father saying, "If you elope, the Foxtrot shall get you. He lurks in all lovers’ retreats. He spies on your every step." And the son shall quiver with the thought of a cozy room in an inn, and the object of his infatuation reclining in a silk nightgown before a fire place, and then… then!… at the window, behold! The terrible bemoustached visage of the Foxtrot, pale and resolute against the pane. A dreadful pause. A shriek. The sound of glass smashing… ha, ha!… the last coherent thought before death – "oh, if only I’d listened to my father and – GAAHHHH!!!"

Oh, yes – that could scare anybody into submission. Foxtrot, dearest Colonel Foxtrot, you are the stuff that nightmares are made of!

This humorous thought alone is what sustains me for the rest of the day… and night. For Louisa, as it turns out, refuses to speak with me. Oh, she says one or two things like, "You’re a fool," and "You’ll lose your life in London, you clod," but other than that, she remains quite close-lipped when I’m around. At night, as I gingerly ease into bed, she determinedly rolls over, positioning her back to my fallen face. I lie awake for a few hours, wondering if morning shall bring me respite from her intense coldness, and when I awaken I catch her gazing at me, her face drawn, her eyes – dare I hope? – tender. But when I open mouth to say… I’m not sure what I wish to say, but it is something dreadfully important… she pinches her lip and rolls over again. I send a hand over to her shoulder, and she shrugs it off. "Good-bye, Gilroy," she mutters. "Go heap mortification upon our family. Go put yourself in harm’s way. I shall have none of it."

And that, dear reader, is the last image I have of her before departing for London – back stiff, fists balled, face pushed determinedly into the pillow. My dejection must be scrawled over every feature, for as soon as I stumble into the dressing room, Rupert asks me if I was kicked in the face by a horse. His attempts to cheer me up involve splitting his cinnamon bun breakfast, remaining silent while tidying up my appearance, and revealing to me our new secret weapon. Or shall I say, weapons.

He leads me downstairs and out the front door to the servants’ carriage where, perched atop my trunk, is a bulky object covered in a blanket. I hesitate upon approaching it but, at his encouraging nod, I creep up and twitch the fabric aside.

Thank goodness he has the presence of mind and physical quickness to clamp a hand over my mouth. Thank goodness no one in Netherfield can hear my muffled, womanish cry. For beneath the blanket is a cage and within the cage is a monster, a menacing, mud-splotched, sharp-toed, razor-beaked rooster repeatedly hurling itself at the bars. Only when Rupert utters an indistinct ululation does it stop, stilling its body and pivoting its head to keep one predatory eye upon my every move.

"Meet Abaddon, destroyer of the barn," he breathes.

"Hello, Abaddon," I whimper.

"His trainer did an exquisite job, do you not think? He hates the sight of other roosters and, if no roosters be found, he will go after men. Not women, not children, just men. And not just any part of the man either but–"

"Rupert!"

My valet cracks a fiendish grin and then whistles low. I jump as a smaller feathered mass throws itself against the cage. Rupert whistles again and it flutters to a stop, revealing the bristling body of an incredibly mean-looking hen.

"His partner," Rupert whispers. "Brooding, bossy, and – unfortunately – infertile."

"And what’s her name?" I choke. "Delilah? Jezebel? Emma the Emasculator?"

"Caroline," he says with a snicker.

I feel my mouth fall open in shock. His laughter intensifies. "It wasn’t her original name!" he cries. "Up until yesterday she went by Buttercup."

"You named an infertile hen after my sister-in-law?" Though I try to summon outrage to my voice, though I try to appear displeased and reproachful, my efforts are completely undermined by the enormous grin on my face. In order to save myself from further hypocrisy, I change the topic and ask, "So tell me, who trained these pestilential poultry?"

He swallows hard, looks left and right to make sure we’re alone, and then whispers, "Hill."

I roll the name around on my tongue a few times, my confusion increasing. "The Bennets’ housekeeper," he adds and, ignoring my subsequent astonishment, proceeds with an explanation. "For three years now, she and several servants from nearby estates have labored hard to organize a cock-fighting tourney. A very covert affair, mind you, known only to a most select, discreet group. I paid her call two days ago – in the early afternoon, before I spotted Miss Lucas and Mr. Collins – to have a look at these future champions and see if I’d be willing to wager money on them. But now, after the scandal, she says she’s done with cock-fighting, Gil, because if her involvement were ever discovered, it would just heap more shame upon the Bennets, and they’re blighted enough as it is." He sighs. "What a woman, eh? A lass of principle, puts her employers first. I tell you, if she was just oh, twenty-five, maybe thirty years younger, I’d…"

Fortunately I’m spared further detail by the arrival of Darcy and his valet, Haverford. Rupert quickly tugs the blanket back over the cage and whispers, "Though I don’t know for sure if we’ll need to set these two birds on Denny and Wickham, I can see myself keeping Haverford in line if he bothers me during the carriage ride. I’m certain he’ll soil his sensible pants at the sight of them."

As he and Haverford join their feathered friends in the servants’ coach, Darcy and I climb into our own equipage. Bingley momentarily appears by our window and wishes us a speedy resolution to our business dealings, though I hardly process a word he utters, so intent am I at scanning the premises for Louisa. Even as the carriage pulls away I am still searching, perched on the edge of my seat, gaze restless and watchful. Only when Netherfield disappears from view do I slump back, meeting Darcy’s eyes in the process. His expression is softened with a bit of compassion, a hint of concern, and I feel the heat crawl up my cheeks. Emitting a raspy grumble, I begin to feign sleep, and – from under half-lidded peepers – watch him produce a book shortly afterwards and begin to peruse it. He doesn’t turn a single page throughout the entire trip. And I… I do not sleep a single minute. But we are men, Darcy and I, and if he is moved to sympathy on my behalf, if he is consumed with worries about the trials ahead, he does not say it, and if I am miserable with heartache, if I am near the verge of tears at times, I do not breathe a word of my distress. We are stalwart, we are silent, and we remain defiantly male until our arrival at London’s outskirts at dusk.

Then comes the first show of understanding, the first oblique display of kindness. "Hurst," Darcy mutters from somewhere behind his unread book, "I think it would be most practical if you stayed at my residence for our duration here." When I do not reply, he looks up at me, clears his throat and adds, "We shall need to exchange information on a frequent basis, and it would be more practical, more efficient, for us to lodge in one location. I sent an express ahead to my cousin, and he shall also be joining us."

I do not remind Darcy that my house is only three neighborhoods away, that if I wished to I could easily call upon him at any time of day to divulge a new development in our investigation. His suggestion, I immediately realize, is not about practicality and efficiency. He must have recalled my plea yesterday to Louisa in the library, for her to join me in London and keep me company, and he must be offering me his home because he does not wish for me to be lonely. I cannot begin to fathom why I am suddenly the recipient of such consideration from him, but I murmur a gruff sentiment of gratitude and acceptance nonetheless, lapsing into silence as he hides his countenance from me again.

So it is that I settle in Darcy’s proud abode, a splendid, elegant, tasteful, [insert positive adjective here] sort of place. It has been a while since my last visit, and I request a brief tour from the kindly housekeeper, Mrs. Fairfax, for it is best to know immediately where all the essential rooms are, such as the kitchen, the pantry, the library, and the kitchen. Through a window I espy the servants’ coach pull up at a side entranceway and watch as a pale and shaken Haverford disembarks, followed by Rupert, who bears the cage of torment in his hands while cackling like Lucifer himself.

The supper is light, yet exquisite, the dining room is diffused in the golden ambience of a blazing chandelier, and the atmosphere is one of brooding silence and forced conversation (or as I like to call it, Classic Darcy). Several times he mutters a "where is he?" and I realize that he is impatiently awaiting the arrival of his cousin, who can no doubt contribute much to our strategizing. I too am eager to meet this overzealous sheep torturer and see what he is like in person, but for the sake of Darcy’s nerves I remain patient and focus my attention on London’s finest food.

The clock strikes seven, we repair to the study for some much needed brandy, and not two minutes pass before the housekeeper knocks on the door to announce the much-anticipated arrival of Colonel Fitzwilliam. Heavy footsteps then resound from the hall and, before we can rise to greet the newcomer, the study door swings wide open and thuds against the wood-paneled wall. In steps a sandy-haired man, tall, clad in uniform, a ceremonial sword swinging pendulum-style from his belt. He is panting hard and sweating profusely, and as I begin to wonder whether he’s run all the way here from the Matlock residence – while bearing his traveling trunk and sundry belongings on his back – I look into his eyes and note that they are just a tad too bright, a hair too wide.

"Well, gentleman," he shouts, rubbing his palms together, "when do we break out the guns?"

Chapter Eighteen – Part One

Posted on Thursday, 24 April 2003

Colonel Fitzwilliam’s zeal for firearms frightens me nearly as much as my earlier run-in with Abaddon the destroyer of the barn. Setting aside my glass of brandy, I slide over next to Darcy, positioning myself behind the dark lad in the hopes that, if his cousin’s mind completely unravels, I will somehow find safety in his protective shadow. However, Darcy is unwilling to play the part of savior, for he merely rolls his eyes at me and walks over to greet Colonel Fitzwilliam as if nothing is amiss. Though their embrace is warm and brotherly, I note that the Colonel’s face deflates somewhat after a quick and piercing perusal of the room.

"No guns yet?" he barks, placing his hands on his hips.

"I hope they shall not be necessary," Darcy replies. "What we need now is a plan to find the four absconders. London is filled with holes and hovels, nooks and niches… we must determine where to begin."

Colonel Fitzwilliam nods and rubs his chin. "I brought a map with me. It is in my trunk, let me fetch it!" He turns on his heel and barges out the door again.

Darcy sighs and downs the last of his brandy.

"Uh, Darcy…" I venture, not certain of how to proceed.

"I know, Hurst, I know," he mutters. "He’s not always like this though. Only when he’s engaging in… these kinds of military-style operations."

"Ah."

"Yes, well, that is why he was given leave for a year. His commanding officers thought he needed some rest."

"For his nerves, you mean."

"Nerves? Certainly not! He… he merely throws himself into his work with too much zeal and gets far too… excited."

"Oh."

"Begins to imagine enemies where there aren’t any."

"Dear me."

"But in day-to-day conduct he’s quite amiable. Very popular with the ladies," Darcy adds, speaking with much pride, some amusement, and a faint touch of envy.

"I should say. He cuts quite a figure in his uniform."

Darcy casts me a strange look. "Objectively speaking," I’m quick to add.

He nods, and his cousin pops into the room again, striding over to Darcy’s desk and unfurling an enormous map of London upon it. His index finger stabs down into a point by the river. "The key to London," he breathes, "has always been Chatham Place. The Scythians knew it, the Visigoths knew it… hell, the pirates of Tripoli knew it too. So did the Normans when they hurled themselves against our shores. Once we secure Chatham Place – I repeat, once we secure Chatham Place – all of London shall fall into our hands: the lawyer in Temple Bar, the Regent in St. James Court, the beggar on Surrey Street, and – most importantly! – Captains Wickham and Denny… all of these men shall be ours to order and command."

He looks back and forth between Darcy and me. I look at Darcy, attempting to convey, without words, my sheer bafflement and fear. Darcy looks at neither of us, opting instead to stare at some distant point beyond the Colonel’s head.

"Darcy," I hiss, "what in the name of Hades is Colonel Fitzwilliam trying to tell us?"

Unfortunately, Fanciful Fitzwilliam overhears my frantic question and makes the reply. "Are you Mr. Gilroy H. Hurst?" he barks.

I fall into attention. "Y-yes, but without the middle initial."

"Hmmm… I distinctly recall Darcy referring to you in his express as Mr. Gilroy H. Hurst."

"I did not, Cousin," Darcy murmurs. "Or perhaps, in my haste, I wrote the letter ‘H’ twice."

"I see. Very sloppy, Darcy. I cannot abide by sloppiness." He pauses and swallows hard. "Mr. Gilroy Hurst – if that is your real name – I would like to make a simple request of you. When we are on duty, as now, and working together in order to rescue damsels, garner glory, and secure our names in the annals of history, you are to refer to me as The Colonel. Not Colonel Fitzwilliam, not Colonel Fitz, not plain Fitzwilliam, and not Fitzywitzywillsy, as my female companions are fond of calling me. Merely, The Colonel."

Again, I glance over at Darcy, but he continues to ignore me. "Uh," I mumble, daring to peer into The Colonel’s overly-bright eyes, "what if I’m not speaking of you to someone else? How shall I address you directly?"

"As ‘sir’. You shall call me ‘sir,’" he replies, not missing a beat.

"Assuming," I add, somewhat peevishly, "that you shall call me ‘sir,’ in return."

"Poppycock!" he cries. "I shall call you no such thing. You I shall address as Hurst, soldier, or young man. Do you understand me, young man?"

I begin to get fed up with him. My nervousness ebbs away, to be replaced by an annoyance of the most exasperating kind. "How old are you?" I demand, folding my arms across my chest.

"Thirty-five years, six months, and eight days."

"Well I’m one year younger, blast it, and I shan’t be having you call me ‘young man’ as if I’m in grammar school."

"Oh, really," he seethes, flattening his palms on the desk and leaning forward. "Perhaps, if you cannot civilly acknowledge your superiors, we shall have to resume our conversation out of doors. What do you say, eh?"

"Demanding a brawl in the street, are you?" I sneer, sounding very much like a petulant grammar school boy. "What an eminently mature way of handling the situation. But at least it shall bring about a speedy resolution – that, I grant you. You shall have your sword there, but I shall have Abaddon, and then… then we shall see if the name Fitzywitzywillsy ever falls from the lips of your lady friends again!"

A silence descends upon the room. "Abaddon?" Colonel Fitzwilliam whispers. He steps around the desk and, before I can flee, clasps my hands in his own. "Are you in legion with the dark?" he inquires. "For if so… it gives us a substantial advantage over our enemies."

"No, no," I protest, disengaging my hands. "It’s not that at all. He’s merely a rooster. Abaddon is just a rooster."

"The angel of destruction – a rooster?" Fitzwilliam murmurs. "I would have never thought."

"Again you mistake me!" I cry, doubting if I shall still be sane by the time I retire for the night. "Come, I shall have my valet bring the cage here." I glance over at Darcy to see if he will raise an objection to having a barn animal – nay, two barn animals – in his study, but he’s in his distant place again, no doubt frolicking among mental waterfalls and imaginary flowers, far away from the blathering of Gilroy Hurst and the raving of Cousin Fitzwilliam.

A servant is dispatched to fetch Rupert, and it is not long before my valet appears, covered cage in tow. It always irritates me how he can pretend to be the perfect servant when others are around – his features schooled to indifference, his eyes inexpressive, his manner unobtrusive. But the moment Darcy and The Colonel look the other way, he grins and winks and waggles his brows at me. Impertinent scamp…

He places the cage at the center of the room and Darcy, who has taken to rubbing his temples, mutters, "Well, unveil whatever is in there and let us be done with this foolishness."

Rupert makes no move. "I do not mean to give offense, sir," he replies, his tone deferential yet firm, "but I simply cannot do as you bid." As Darcy’s eyes proceed to widen in shock the imp adds, "I obey only my master’s orders."

I nearly choke. So does Darcy. Colonel Fitzwilliam, on the other hand, seems to gain a bit more respect for me. "I see that you inspire great loyalty in your men," he remarks. "I approve."

Ignoring him, I turn to my valet, whose expression is entirely too solemn. "Andrews," I command, struggling mightily to invoke stern authority in my voice, "please proceed to reveal to us the contents of that cage."

"As you wish, sir," he says, punctuating his acquiescence with an impressive bow. That is all the warning we get, for he rips the blanket off immediately after.

Not a moment passes after Abaddon hits the bars when I feel a sharp, unyielding pain in my left arm. It cannot be that my heart is giving out, I muse, before looking down at the source of my sudden distress. As it turns out, Darcy’s hand, already white at the knuckles, is gripping my poorly muscled limb.

I glance up at his face and find it to be seemingly impassive, although his eyes are fixed with suspicious steadiness upon the monstrous rooster. Upon my uttering a discreet cough, he glances down at his forceful clasp and, emitting a whisper of dismay, loosens his grip, pretends to swat a particle of dust from my sleeve, and then proceeds to tuck both his hands behind his back where I am certain his pinky ring is now peeling off not a small amount of skin from his tiniest, most vulnerable finger. To his credit, he does not betray any shock when the hen next makes her appearance, pecking, scratching, ruffling her feathers… and conquering Colonel Fitzwilliam’s heart.

"If the rooster is Abaddon," The Colonel breathes, "what do you call that absolutely stunning hen?"

"Just recently," I reply, pinching myself to keep from laughing, "she was renamed Caroline."

This vital piece of intelligence sends Darcy over to the nearest window where, if I didn’t know any better, I would think he was attempting to master some sudden upwelling of outrage or fury. But I do know better, for what with the darkness outside and the lamplight within, I can clearly see his grin reflected on the pane.

"Caroline?" Colonel Fitzwilliam whispers. "What a lovely name." He kneels before the cage. "Oh, she’s a beauty, Caroline is. A real beauty. Hello there, girl," he coos, waving at her, "you’re the prettiest bird I’ve ever seen."

At this point I no longer need the reflection on the windowpane to note that Darcy’s shoulders are shaking… with barely suppressed indignation, of course.

Fanciful Fitz’s voice bores into my skull. "Breeding barn animals for battle?" he cries. "I like your style, Hurst – I like your style very much. I think we shall work well together!" He glances over at the cage again. "All we need now are a couple of sows, a barn owl or two, maybe an ass, and sheep – we musn’t forget those! A brigade of sheep! Ha, ha! Wickham and Denny don’t stand a chance against us!"

Before I can beg to differ, Darcy – ever the man of action when he’s not cowering from roosters or painting windowpanes with his mirth – walks over to the tray of liquors, pours another glassful from the tumbler, and then turns his back to us, effectively blocking any of his further activities from view. Although tempted to crane my neck around to see what he is doing, I instead take the opportunity to dismiss Rupert, who – with a parting surreptitious wink – tears Caroline away from her new admirer and departs from the room with both of Housekeeper Hill’s pugnacious poultry.

"I need a brandy," The Colonel declares. "A brandy, a cigar, and some time alone with my thoughts. Grand ideas are blossoming in this brilliant brain of mine and I would be lax indeed if I allowed them to ripen unnoticed."

"Here is your drink," Darcy says, offering his cousin the recently poured glass. With a grateful nod, the Colonel sets about draining the liquid and within two minutes time has crumpled into the nearest wing chair, fast asleep.

"The poor man must be suffering from a lack of nightly rest," I murmur, gazing at the juncture of his chin and chest. "There are drawbacks to being popular with the ladies, I suppose."

Darcy rolls his eyes and hisses, "Sleeping powder, Hurst, I dropped a pinch of sleeping powder into his drink."

"You drugged your cousin?" I gasp, pressing an appalled palm to my wildly pounding – er, make that sluggishly pounding – heart.

"What would you have me do?" Darcy snaps. "Suffer patiently as he enlists more barn animals to our cause? No!" He sighs, swallowing hard. "My cousin, Hurst, is a talented military tactician. You may not know this but–"

"I do know this," is my soft interruption. I understand Darcy’s defensiveness, the matter of family pride that is at stake for him here. "I do know this. I can tell by all those medals glued to his chest that he is indeed a man of highly commendable military skill." Seeing his expression relax (somewhat) I go on. "Madness is merely the price he has to pay for his extraordinary genius."

It is a long moment that Darcy spends fuming at me, before he utters – through his perfectly white, perfectly clenched teeth – "Go to bed, Hurst. Now."

Astonished, I nearly inform him that, with such a comment, he might as well take to calling me ‘young man’ as well, but the dark expression on his face brooks no opposition. With a humble nod of my head, and a whispered "yes, Papa," I make myself scarce.

To my surprise, Rupert does not poke fun at the evening’s festivities when we are alone in my dressing room (a lavishly appointed place… Darcy could offer no less to a guest of such import). My valet instead lists several places that he’ll be scouting out on the morrow, a few of his old haunts in addition to other locales even more dangerous than those he is used to frequenting.

"Just take care, at least for my sake," I mutter, trying in vain not to betray too much distress. For as often as I call him a scamp and a rake, I do still regard him as one of my dearest friends, and I should be terribly grieved if serious harm ever came to him.

"Oh, don’t worry about me, Gil," he replies, emitting a careless laugh.

"I can’t help it," I sigh. "I would not wish any misfortune to fall upon the esteemed Lee Ratmen."

I can’t help but let a snicker escape from me as I conclude my remark, and he scowls at my poor jibe. "I’m certainly not calling myself Lee Ratmen anymore," he contends, folding his arms over his scrawny chest. "It’s not a fitting name for a lad of my tastes. No, I’ve come up with a new nickname, one that suits me better than any other."

"What is it?" I inquire.

"Abel Humperdinck."

Abel… Abel what? My mouth opens and closes a few times before I can finally splutter a request. "Could you repeat that, please?"

"Abel Humperdinck," he again replies, enunciating each syllable.

I produce a nervous little chuckle. "Oh good, because for a moment there, I thought you had said–"

A knock at the door cuts me off. "Enter!" I bid, relieved by the interruption.

It is the ever-impeccable Haverford. After depositing a correct bow in my general direction, he states, "I have just come to inform you, sir – and you, Andrews – that the enormous cage I found sitting upon my bed has been removed to the stable. And," he continues, as Rupert opens his mouth to protest, "any attempt to transport it back to the servants’ quarters shall result in a glut of poultry on tomorrow’s supper menu."

Rupert snorts, "As if Mr. Darcy’s cook will have the mettle to handle them."

"I believe Mrs. Briggs shall have no problem with your pets, Andrews, for – as you pointed out to me repeatedly during our carriage ride today – they do not lunge at women and children, but only at men… and not just any part of the man, either, as you were so kind enough to inform me."

My valet scowls but remains silent. Clearing my throat, I speak in his stead. "Should you not be tending to your master now and readying him for bed?"

Haverford stiffens, his expression suddenly conveying great uneasiness. "He has dismissed me for the night, sir. I believe he wishes to remain in his study."

I sigh. "Brooding, isn’t he?"

Haverford pauses, no doubt formulating a reply that will be maddeningly discreet. "He keeps his own counsel, sir, and it would be presumptuous of me to interpret his actions or venture to guess at his thoughts."

Good Lord, this valet could be a barrister if he so wished! I thank him for his uninformative reply and – much to his relief – dismiss him from my presence. Shortly after, Rupert goes off to check on Abaddon and Caroline, and I make off to bed.

It is a large bed that Darcy as given me, and the mattress is incredibly soft and yielding, so much so that when I clamber onto it, it immediately caves under me and sends me rolling to the center of the bed. I find myself thinking that if a certain other person were here, her weight could somewhat counterbalance mine and I would not be trapped in this veritable sinkhole. Or, given that her mass could not offset mine, at least we’d be stuck together in very close quarters. But such thoughts are fruitless and saddening. She made it quite clear this morning that she thinks my actions are harebrained and foolish; you saw it for yourself – she did not even see me off or wish me luck. Women, I think, can be so changeable. Perhaps it was naïve of me to believe that she would remain loyal and supportive in a time of trouble. It is all well and easy for a wife to behave in a kindly fashion when you’re reading her poetry, lending an ear to her woes, or exerting yourself nightly for her benefit (and – admit it – your benefit too, Hurst), but once fate lays an arduous task at your door, off she goes… no doubt she and Caroline have been commiserating over tea today, discussing how grand a lout I am, how big a fool Bingley is for trekking off to Kent with Sir Lucas, and how best to ultimately talk him into giving up Miss Jane Bennet and banishing her pretty smiles from his mind.

I suppose I’ve placed too much faith in Louisa, and I promise myself – lying here alone in bed, under Darcy’s roof – that I shall not make the same mistake in the future. It hurts too much to place your hope in someone, only to have it dashed to pieces.

Given my thoughts, dear reader, you can well imagine that the night does not pass very restfully for me. When I make my way downstairs early next morning, tired and stiff, I find the dining room devoid of breakfasters and the sideboard devoid of any morning sustenance. Scowling, I decide to look into Darcy’s study and see if he is actually still there.

It is a sad – and somewhat amusing sight – that greets me. Having slid from his wing chair sometime overnight, Colonel Fitzwilliam is now sprawled out on the floor, a bit of drool dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Darcy is stretched out on the sofa by the hearth, his head pillowed by his hands, his cravat half-unwound and snaking towards the floor. Dark half-moons have appeared under his eyes, and he is still dusty from yesterday’s travels.

"You need a bath, a shave, and a warm bed," I whisper, drawing near. But when I reach out and shake him by the shoulder, he bats my hand away in a flurry of agitation.

"Be gone, Miss Bingley," he mutters, his nose crimping in disdain. "Must you always circle me like a crow? Believe me, you shall not roost in this tree, not if I can help it."

I clamp a hand over my mouth to keep from chuckling. No wonder he looks so haggard… not only has he been brooding half the night, his dreams are stocked with nightmarish figures as well.

Then, quite unexpectedly, his mouth melts into a soft and sleepy smile, washing away care and woe and years of responsibility from his face. "Oh, it is only you, Miss Bennet," he whispers in what could readily be construed as a seductive drawl. "Certainly, madam, you may feel free to alight upon me at any time."

Well. So much for nightmarish figures. Beginning to grow embarrassed for his sake, I whisper his name in another attempt to rouse him from his suddenly pleasant sleep.

He does not hear me. "You appear shocked at my profession, madam," he continues, "but I am not ashamed of the feelings I related. They are natural and just. Do you not expect me to rejoice at the thought of your delightful figure perched upon my lap? Nay, if your connections were not so decidedly below my own I would have you ensconced there permanently like a queen upon a living throne but… your relations…" he trails off into a series of incoherent mutterings.

So there lies the crux of the matter. I stare down at him, disheveled, unshaven, lying in an undignified heap on the sofa, and I marvel at how matters of pride and wealth and breeding still disturb him when he is in such a state. I also marvel at how talkative he can be when he slumbers and remind myself that, unless I wish to be a lout and eavesdrop further on his inner conflicts, I must wake him up immediately.

I shake his shoulder again and in louder tones repeat his name.

He frowns. "Elizabeth… your voice… it’s grown so deep."

Hang it, I am a lout. Because I cannot resist replying, "The better to profess my love to you… Dearest."

His frown deepens. His eyes flutter open. His gaze drifts to my smiling face.

We’re back to nightmares again. "AAAHH, Hurst, it’s you!" he cries, flying to his feet and raking a hand through his hair. He pauses, looking utterly confused. "Did you just profess your undying love for me?" he breathes.

"Something along those lines, why?"

He stares at me in unconcealed horror as I struggle hard not to laugh. "Do not trouble yourself on my account, Darcy. I am a married man and as such, I cannot act upon my impulses. Though admittedly you do present a tempting sight, unwashed and lolling about in yesterday’s clothes."

His frown has reappeared. "If I were not so tired right now, Hurst, I would call you out."

"Oh, please. It was your foolish idea to stay up all night in your study. Just what were you thinking about?"

He looks at the floor. "Many things," he whispers. "A great many things."

"Like what?" I press, the urge to tease him effectively quelled, though I do admit that at this moment he is as infuriatingly evasive and discreet as his valet.

"Of what concern is it to you?" he intones, his voice suddenly cool.

"Why are you really here? That is what I wish to know. Why are you really here in London?"

He walks over to the hearth, seizing up a poker and attacking the ashes. "As I already informed you yesterday, I am here because my conscience forbids me from doing anything less. Like you, I feel as if I could have prevented the misfortune that befell the Bennet family. Is that not clear to you?"

His words are truthful and sincere. However, his answer is not complete. "I believe you, Darcy, but I rather wonder if that is your only motive."

He drops the poker and turns to face me. "What evidence do you have to the contrary?"

"Well, you were in the midst of a very pleasant transport just moments before."

He pales, and I continue. "I tell you, Darcy, if I were the girl’s father I’d be pulling out a pistol on you."

Darcy closes his eyes and clenches his fists. However, he is spared from making a response by the eager voice that suddenly springs to life behind us:

"Did somebody say pistol?"

Yes, you guessed it, The Colonel is up and ready to go. And my question to his cousin remains unanswered.

We venture our separate ways today. The Colonel is determined to take up post at Chatham Place, convinced as he is that an important and decisive event shall somehow transpire there. Darcy makes his way to Limehouse Dock and the surrounding streets. I trek off to the vicinity of Dorrington Street and Baines Row where the House of Correction and new prison ground lie. And Rupert… I have no idea where he heads off to, though I do wish him the very best of luck.

That evening Darcy and I are the first to return from our exploits. He looks exceedingly tired but, uncomplaining as ever, he refuses to sink into a seat and acknowledge his weakness, opting instead to pace. I, on the other hand, am under no such pressure to appear strong and, collapsing onto a settee, groan and wiggle my toes.

Neither of us wishes to speak of our futile search. To speak of failure is to make it more of a reality. It is in silence that we wait for The Colonel, to hear what he has to report.

When he finally arrives and relates to us his news, I do not know whether I want to buy him a plot of pastureland or tear my beloved combover off of my head (though on second thought, I could do both). For as it turns out – oh, the irony of it! I still can’t get over the irony of it! – Chatham Place did become key to our endeavors and offered us the first major development in our quest. At around the hour of five o’clock, as Fanciful Fitz stood post outside of a barber’s shop in that illustrious, conquest-craved locale, he happened to spot a particular lady shuffling along on the other side of the road. I have described her to you before – sweet round face, a gray, grandmotherly bun, stout body wrapped in a shawl. Can you hazard a guess as to her identity? I’ll give you a few more hints… she’s frisky, she pinches people’s bottoms (no, it’s not Foxtrot’s German aunt)… another clue: she loves Wickham. Ah, do I see the light of recognition in your eyes? Yes, it is none other than the old Mrs. Younge. Making her way through Chatham Place (of all places, bloody Chatham Place… bless that Colonel and hang him both for all his talk of Scythians and pirates… was there a method to his madness, do you think?). Suffice it to say that The Colonel followed her home, where I predict she shall be paid a visit by both the military man and his cousin early on the morrow. Now that’s a sight to wake up to, isn’t it? A glowering dark ogre and a wild sandy-haired loon, loaded with questions, threatening coercion, willing at any cost to procure information.

Wickham, your days might very well be numbered. As for Denny… we shall say that his days are numbered as well, because it makes me feel good to write such a thing, although I do so without the full force of any conviction.

Continued In Next Section