Beginning, Previous Section, Section IX , Next Section

Chapter 20 – Part 1

Posted on Sunday, 6 July 2003

In all great heroic escapades – even the most triumphant ones – there is usually a sacrifice, a poignant tragedy reminding us that bravery is not always met with happiness and honor, but can just as easily cost a man (or a beast) his life. My foray into adventure (which, thanks to wife and friends, turned out successful) was no exception to this rule. For as I flip through the newspaper at breakfast the next morning, I come upon the headline, Mad Rooster Made Into Soup, and I know, without even reading the article, what happened to Abaddon after he saved my life yesterday morning. Scanning the page through eyes suddenly misty, I confirm my sorrowful suspicions – Abaddon, great raving rooster, apple of Rupert’s eye, hellion of Hill’s heart, impregnator of Caroline’s seeming infertility – was plucked from the living world after permanently inflicting nightmares upon eleven men in a tavern by Bucks Row. According to the report, it took six shots to slow him down, five more to make him still, and one final bullet to close the chapter of his life – that’s how tenacious he was. Suffice it to say, by the time I finish reading about his glorious, blazing departure, my tears are spilling unchecked, distress and admiration swelling painfully in my heart. When Darcy enters the dining room and encounters my weeping countenance he cries, with more feeling than politeness, "Good G-d! What is the matter?" but when I hand him the piece – the entire account of dear Abaddon’s demise – his alarm subsides to a watchful wariness. "Hurst," he inquires, slowly laying aside the paper, "are you quite all right this morning?"

Oh, as if he would understand! I assure him that indeed I am all right and with a sniffle resume my meal. However, I cannot wait much longer afterwards to share the news with Rupert. Wondering how he will take it, I proceed with caution to his room below stairs, though my sensitive reluctance is dispelled by curiosity at the sound of his voice from beyond the closed door.

"A little higher, that’s right. No, not like that… there, that’s it. No, no – now my shoulder’s at a tilt. Oh, now it’s good. Can you rub my neck, too? What do you mean, you won’t? What in the hell is Darcy paying you for, if you can’t… oh, all right, come back! I promise not to give you any more trouble. Yes, I know I’m a terrible liar."

Thinking that he is tormenting some hapless serving girl, and suddenly of a mind to give him a sound scolding for it, I barge in all puffed up with anger, only to stop dead in my tracks, completely stunned. For, catering to Rupert with the carefulness of a nurse (and the clenched jaw of a man contemplating murder) is Haverford! Of all people, it’s Darcy’s persnickety valet, even now fastidiously undoing the bandage around Rupert’s shoulder wound.

"Isn’t he great?" Rupert exclaims, as if reading my thoughts. "First, with my gentle guidance, he made sure I was completely comfortable, and now – look at him! – tender as a mother hen and just as OWWW!"

"And just as easily ruffled," Haverford intones, his words belied by a seemingly unperturbed demeanor.

Though I would have liked to further enjoy this spectacle, the ‘mother hen’ comment has clouded my spirits anew. Tearing his eyes off of Haverford’s unrepentant mien, Rupert’s glare softens into questioning concern when he spots my down-turned mouth. "Whatever is the matter, Gi- Hur… er, Master Hurst?"

Sighing heavily, I pull up a seat alongside him and inform him of everything that transpired yesterday, and of what I read just now at the table. Rupert purses his lips, stays Haverford’s hand, and lets his head settle back onto the pillow. As he is observing this moment of respectful silence, I glance up at Haverford and notice that the corner of his mouth is twitching in barely suppressed glee.

"Found something to amuse you, Haverford?" I inquire.

He clears his throat and, with a brisk shake of his head, briefly bows to me. "Nothing at all, sir, nothing at all." Thenceforth he keeps his head down, so that I cannot see him further rejoice over the passing of a rooster who had given him so much trouble.

It is some moments longer before Rupert speaks, and when he does, he sounds exhausted. "At least," he sighs, "he shall live through his children." Suddenly he struggles to sit up, wincing with the effort. "Caroline, she is seen to? She is well?"

"Oh, you should have no worries on that account. She is now under the care of a man very much concerned about her welfare." I clear my throat. "This morning I discovered that the servants had her cage placed in The Colonel’s room. Her presence there is livening up his otherwise dull convalescence, and he no longer needs to be tied down to the bed in order to carry out his recovery. She shall remain with him until our return to Hertfordshire, where you shall hand her and the eggs over to Hill again."

Satisfied with this turn of events, he allows Haverford to resume his ministrations. At this I cannot allow myself to depart without a final comment. "Haverford," I say, "though you did express a certain amount of puzzled admiration for my man’s heroic deeds, and promised to personally see that he would be well cared for, I did not imagine that you would still be here."

"I am a man of my word, sir," he remarks with the air of one who has sold his soul to the devil.

I can’t help but admire his fortitude. "Be kind to him, Andrews," I chide.

But Rupert ignores me and, turning to Haverford, exclaims, "Admiring my bravery are you? As well you should. You know nothing of danger, my dear, absolutely nothing. Aside from occasionally weathering one of your master’s dark moods – well, maybe more than occasionally– you have no notion of discomfort, none at OWWW!"

Ah well. Perhaps, I muse, shutting the door behind me, they are better suited to one another than I first thought.

Now, moving on to other matters, I must confess to you that – regardless of whether or not you are still mourning Abaddon’s death – I can pine for lost poultry only for so long. When I return to my chambers and dismiss the servant assigned to temporarily replace Rupert, I take up a pen and paper, determined to push aside the deceased destroyer from my foremost thoughts and instead turn my mind (and heart) towards a far more inviting prospect. I am of course referring to my wife… my savior. For save me she did. Though Henry had already started out for London, he would not have continued to brave the bad weather that had beset him were it not for Louisa’s written plea. Without her letter, he would never have known, until it was too late, of the perils I was determined to brave, alone and incompetent.

But what to write… I need to tell her that I’m unhurt, so that she won’t worry, but should I also pour forth all my feelings as well? Speak to her of newly realized love? No, no – not yet. Such sentiments need to be expressed with one’s mouth, one’s eyes, one’s… mouth and eyes. (Whew, close one, Hurst. I mean, what would your readers think if they knew that you were contemplating a few… equally eloquent anatomical features? Oh dear… pure thoughts, pure thoughts – lambs, lilies, Lilith… aahh! Uh, doves, doves are good. Vicars, veils, lace, linen… bed linen… all right, that’s it. I never thought it would come to this, but… Caroline, Catherine, Collins. Caroline, Catherine, Collins. Caroline, Catherine, Collins. And… and Foxtrot! There, that did it.)

So where was I? Right, eyes and mouth. Clearly you can understand my dilemma. I cannot convey the depth of my newly discovered regard through ink, but neither can I scrawl out a nearly impersonal note pertaining only to my wellbeing. After much agonizing, I come up with the following:

Dearest Madam,

I write to inform you that I am quite safe from harm and am no longer heedlessly throwing myself into the path of danger. Yesterday I was a great deal more reckless, and nearly paid a dear cost for my blunderings, but I was fortunate enough to have been rescued by a very good friend, who had arrived at the city well expecting that I would be in harm’s way.

How he knew of my noble yet futile schemes is another matter entirely. He gave me a few tantalizing hints, telling me that a certain ravishing young woman had informed him of my foolhardy quest and the real possibility of my death. I have an inkling as to where I can find my mysterious heroine, and I promise to turn up at her door – her chamber door, to be more specific – at some point in the near future. What I shall do once I am in her bewitching presence… that shall be for her to decide. I am still too stunned at my good turn of luck to think or plan properly. That such an inestimable lady should care for me – for a plain, coarse, and unimpressive gentleman such as myself – is something that I shall never cease to be grateful for.

And so, dear Madam, I remain a smitten supplicant, a bedazzled, saucer-eyed swooner, though to spare your sensible mind from any further syrupy turns of phrase, I shall sign this missive simply as –

Gilroy Hurst

Which reminds me of the time I asked Henry why Darcy had grown closer to The Colonel than to him; after all, the ten years spanning between the dark lad and dear Henry is not far greater than the seven years seniority that Colonel Fitzwilliam has over his cousin. Henry’s response was enlightening. Growing up, he said, Darcy had taken more to Fitz’s company because the future colonel had never acted his age, and was so boisterous, so exuberant, and so downright mischievous that he provided the boy with a welcome relief from his strict upbringing in Pemberley. During visits to Derbyshire, Henry (though amiable to his younger cousin) could not rouse his spirits nearly as much as Fitz did. Fitz, who raced him on horses. Wrestled him to the ground. Spun the most fantastic tales of pirates and plunderers. And, much to the chagrin of Darcy’s late father, educated the dark lad about many of the fairer sex’s finer points.

Fitz had always served to remind Darcy that life isn’t all serious and duty-driven. However, there had been times when light spirits had not been appropriate, when more sobering matters had taken precedence. It was most telling to find out that, when Darcy had inherited Pemberley in such a painful, untimely fashion, it was Henry that he’d turned to for advice. Sensible Henry, the accomplished landowner, the practical thinker. Even now, when Darcy has long proven that he is an able master in his own right, the two still exchange correspondence pertaining to all matters of estate business, offering suggestions and advice to one another.

At the moment I find that they have been conferring on another matter though, an issue involving our trials here in London. Both have determined to visit the Gardiners, so that the lovely pair may write missives to Longbourn, Lucas Lodge, Gretna Green (where The Foxtrot stalks), and a few towns in Kent, Ramsgate included, where Bingley and Sir Lucas are engaged in their fruitless search. Foremost, they wish to ask of the brides-to-be for secrecy, so that no one else may know of our involvement in the affair. Their motive is understandable – they both want two particular ladies to approach them with sentiments more tender than mere obligation. Even so, their resolution is not entirely to my liking; I find that it would give their characters a good solid boost if the young women in question knew of their deeds. But, out of respect, I promise not to breathe a word, and instead change the topic by inquiring after Father Mackenzie and his availability for the ceremony; after all, Penny Lane is a fairly obscure street, enabling us to carry out the wedding discreetly. Henry informs me that he has already paid the man a visit, and that the wedding shall take place next Wednesday.

And so it is that the following Wednesday dawns on the double wedding of Denny and Mariah, Wickham and Lydia. Based on letters that arrived at the Gardiners from Hertfordshire, neither family is up to confronting the newlyweds, and so they shall set out to Brighton right after the ceremony and await the regiment’s arrival later on in the winter. Entering the church alongside Henry and Darcy, I can only think of our own journey though, back to Hertfordshire where I most desperately wish to be.

When the three of us step into the soft light of the church’s interior, we discover that the Gardiners and the brides have not yet arrived – only Wickham, Denny, and Father MacKenzie await us. Henry immediately saunters over to Denny and throws a fatherly arm around his shoulder, whispering words that further whiten the young man’s freckled complexion. Darcy, grim as death, takes to trailing Wickham until the exasperated scoundrel ceases his pacing. Bereft of company, I turn to the clergyman who, oddly enough, has perched upon one of the pews and is now darning a pair of socks. Intrigued, I sidle over to him and plop down, studying him closely – a pale, gray man, silent as dust, who could pass as forty years of age just as well as sixty.

"Those are lovely socks," I say, thinking that a compliment could get a conversation underway.

He flicks his eyes to me, smiles briefly, and then bends his head over his work again.

Undeterred, I make another polite venture. "Have you lived on Penny Lane for a long time?"

"Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes,"* he grumbles, his needles clicking like beetles on a hardwood floor.

I try to make sense of his gruffness, and wonder if he’s perhaps a bit put out for having to preside over such an undignified wedding. "I could have done more to prevent this misfortune," I confess, gesturing towards the devilish duo. "But I didn’t go to all the right people. I didn’t tell everyone that the grooms are scoundrels."

At my words he pauses and lays his socks aside. With world-weary sympathy in his eyes, he shakes his head and says, "Don’t carry the world upon your shoulders."**

I nod sadly, absorbing his sage advice. Still, my conscience twinges at the thought that within less than an hour’s time, two young women shall be chained for life to these bottomdwellers. Poignant tragedy indeed. I say, "Then tell me please, what do you do to overcome bitterness of spirit?"

A soft smile steals over his face. "When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom – ‘let it be’,"*** he replies.

I sit back and think, wondering what a divine figure would say to me if we ever had the chance to chat. But instead of a virginal Mary, the only female face I can successfully conjure up at the moment is my wife’s. Yes, Louisa, wearing an expression that few would describe as holy. I admit to the man beside me, "Father, the only person I can think of who can give me any solace at the moment is my wife," and with some shyness add, "whom I love dearly."

He cocks his head, mulling over my words before murmuring, "All you need is love."****

Wise man, I think, warming up to him. "One of the gentlemen here has finally realized that," I whisper, nodding towards Darcy. "Though, given that he looks about as amorous as an executioner now, one would hardly believe it."

I expect Mackenzie to rebuke me for my impolite remark, but instead he raises a brow and quirks his dry lips. "A Miss Elizabeth Bennet," I forge on. "He has always had difficulty talking to her, though. I wonder what he’ll say to her when next they meet."

"You make me dizzy, Miss Lizzy?"***** the clergyman quips, his face schooled to comic unreadability.

I let out a long, appreciative laugh, thus drawing everyone’s curious glance. Fortunately, the Gardiners and the girls arrive at this very moment, and – shaking free of mirth – I get to my feet and greet them as they come down the aisle. After warmly shaking hands with Mr. Gardiner and bestowing a most heartfelt bow towards his wife, I find myself standing to the side with Miss Mariah at my elbow. As I glance over to her, I notice that she seems a little nervous, fidgeting from foot to foot. As I think of some kind of soothing comment I can make (and Lord am I awful at those), she spares me the effort and says, "I must confess something, Mr. Hurst."

I nod kindly, hoping that she will proceed. Licking her lips, she whispers, "Last Wednesday, the Viscount and Mr. Darcy made us promise that we wouldn’t tell anyone about their – their involvement in our wedding. But you see, the day… the day before…" she trails off, pinching her lips shut.

"Please, go on," I encourage, as she sighs and wrings her hands.

"Before they made us promise, I sent a letter to my sister. I wrote it the evening I’d arrived at the Gardiners. And I told her about the Viscount, and then when Lydia joined me, I wrote something about Mr. Darcy, too. I just… I didn’t know then that I should be keeping all of this in confidence. But at least, I… I said that the whole affair was being carried out in a really quiet way, and that there must be something secret about it. So I’m sure she won’t tell anyone. Charlotte’s not a gossip."

No she isn’t, I muse, smiling to myself. But she might still share the contents of the letter with one other person. A close friend, perhaps. I glance from Henry to Darcy and my small smile bursts into an absolute beam. This could work out wonderfully for them! They shall be spared the embarrassing accolades of the town, the raptures of Mrs. Bennet, the bosom-patting of Lady Lucas (well, at least until any engagement is made official), but in the meanwhile they shall have already laid claim to some portion of each young lady’s heart. Marvelous!

"You did nothing wrong," I assure her, and she visibly relaxes. Then, her expression softening with love, she gazes at Denny, who is still locked in the Viscount’s chummy death grip. Unable to bear such a show of misplaced affection, I glance at Wickham, who has Lydia hanging off of one elbow and Darcy clamped onto the other, delivering what appears to be a few final words of warning. Happy day, indeed.

The ceremony proceeds smoothly, though after the vows are exchanged we all get an inkling of what married life will be like for the newlyweds as Denny buries his head in his bride’s shoulder and begins to sob, and Wickham caresses his own lady’s bottom in what he believes to be a surreptitious manner. Father Mackenzie puts it best when, peering at the pairs with pale, hooded eyes, he whispers, "No one was saved."******

Perceiving the infatuation that is plastered on each young lady’s face, I hearken back to his earlier statement – "all you need is love" – and think that it could bear some qualification. Indeed, it can’t just be any passing fervor or groundless passion; it must be something far deeper and more abiding than that. My gaze drifts from the Gardiners to the newlyweds, and continues flickering in such a fashion until Henry pokes me in the arm and tells me that we are leaving.

Yes, it’s off to Hertfordshire we go, right at mid-morning. Though Henry rides in Darcy’s coach with the dark lad and I, his own equipage leads the way bearing four servants. In another transport immediately behind them, Rupert – substantially recovered, though still in need of rest – is stretched out on one seat, while Haverford, Caroline, and her eggs occupy the other. It had taken no small amount of effort on Henry’s part to pry the cage away from The Colonel’s hands the evening past. While he was at it, the older brother also engaged the younger in a lengthy, private discussion that resulted in The Colonel’s absolute, ultimate promise that he would renounce soldiering for a year. Well and truly renounce it – no marauding barn animals, no midnight watches, no imaginary foes hiding behind tapestries and bedcurtains. In fact, he has already decided to channel his rampant energies into penning a book of some sort (which – Heaven help him – will no doubt have something to do with the military).

By the time we roll into Hertfordshire it is evening, and the weather has taken an ominous turn. Sleet begins to pelt against our coach and the temperature takes a plunge. Henry and I huddle a little closer for warmth, and offer Darcy the transport’s extra carriage robe, which he accepts only after much insistence on our part. Clenching my teeth against the chill, I keep myself as content as can be by constant reminders that soon – oh so soon – we shall all be in Netherfield, and I shall have a certain lovely lady to cozy up with. But fate has other circumstances in mind, because right after my soothing thought, a loud crack splinters through the air and our coach skids to the roadside.

From the Fab Four:
*Penny Lane
**Hey Jude
***Let It Be
****All You Need Is Love
*****Dizzy Miss Lizzy
******Eleanor Rigby

Chapter 20 – Part 2

Posted on Sunday, 6 July 2003

Shaken but unhurt, the three of us disembark and attempt to get our bearings. The carriage lamp has gone out, but even so, we cannot see either servants’ coach and have little notion of where we are. Our coachman manages to rekindle the lamp, and as we stand there squinting through the pelting cold, wondering what we can do about our broken wheel, I happen to recognize a few familiar landmarks – an oak tree I’ve seen before, a boulder smoothed by sitting and, farther down the road, the wrought-iron darkness of a gate.

"Gentleman," I whisper, "I believe we’re near Longbourn."

How Darcy handles this intelligence I do not know, for Henry immediately requests that I lead the way there, and it is not much longer before we are at the front door, waiting for good old Hill to admit us into the house. Unfortunately, the moment she responds to our knocking, Madam Bennet happens to be crossing the front hall, and comes over herself to investigate. Completely overlooking me, her eyes latch onto Darcy, who finds himself on the receiving end of a greedy, liplicking appraisal. And if I think the glint in her gaze is troubling at present, I have only a few moments to wait until she’s introduced to Henry. Hat and coat disposed of, fine clothes in full view, title imposingly attached to his name, he garners a response from the Bennet matron that makes Darcy’s reception pale in comparison. If Mrs. Bennet looked greedy when raking Darcy with her eyes, she looks positively predatory now.

Though our coachman has been led away by Hill to the kitchen, we remain where we are for several moments longer, as Mrs. Bennet struggles to compose herself in Henry’s presence. Tongue briefly darting out to lower lip, she finally emits a nervous little neigh and implores, "Come, my dear gentlemen, come and rest in the parlor, near the fire; you must be ever so tired. Two of my daughters are there at the moment and should keep you well-entertained…"

Taking in her covetous countenance, I am suddenly reminded of the sorceress Circe, and think of myself and my companions as three hapless travelers stranded on her isle. Maybe I’ll be turned into a succulent pig and get served for supper, as Darcy and Henry meet their fate in the form of sheep or donkeys. Oh yes, I can see them chained up in the barn now, threatened with lifelong four-leggedness unless they consent to marry one of the available Bennet girls. The thought is a sobering one, though the image of Darcy as a braying ass brings a smile to my face.

Upon entering the parlor, I see three of Mrs. Bennet’s daughters, not two – there’s Miss Elizabeth, Miss Mary, and Miss Kitty. Though I at first wonder if the Bennet matron is sorely deficient in simple arithmetic, I soon realize that she meant that there were two unattached daughters in the room; you see, Miss Mary is already engaged. I gather that if Miss Jane were present she would not have been counted as well, for despite the fact that Bingley never got the chance to formally propose (his timing coincided with the absoncion of Miss Lydia and Miss Mariah), it is a foregone conclusion that the moment he returns – and I’m not exaggerating by much when I say THE MOMENT he returns – he shall be at Miss Jane’s side, stammering out some silly, endearing speech about how only an angel can run Netherfield.

The three daughters rise and make their greetings. Mr. Bennet is also there, but his leg – still broken as a result of clergyman Collins’s clumsiness – prevents him from getting to his feet, so he remains where he is, propped up on a wheelchair, a book in his lap and a smile on his face. When all introductions are dispensed with, Mrs. Bennet immediately seizes the moment to arrange the seating to her approval.

"Viscount Fitzwilliam," she croons, grabbing his elbow and spiriting him to Miss Elizabeth’s side, "this chair right here is by far the most comfortable in the room."

"If it is," says Henry, gently extricating himself, "perhaps one of your charming daughters should sit in it."

"Oh, how kind of you!" she erupts. "But rest assured, sir, my daughters know how to behave when there is company, and would always defer the best seat to such an… illustrious guest."

"Or to any guest, Mama," Miss Elizabeth cuts in, color suffusing her cheeks. Clearly she’s onto her mother’s schemes, but there’s more to her look than that. After giving Henry a brief, purposeful appraisal, she slowly casts her gaze to where Darcy is still standing by the door. It is rather unfortunate that he is glaring at the floor right now, attempting to master his anger at Mrs. Bennet’s maneuvers, because he misses the artless compassion in her eyes. I, on the other hand, do not miss a thing, and I know right then that Miss Charlotte shared her sister’s letter with Miss Bennet. It is so plain to me, by the way she watches him, that she’s aware of his role as her sister’s redeemer, that I wish I could jab him in the ribs and make him look her in the eye.

Henry has finally conceded to Mrs. Bennet’s demands, and as Miss Elizabeth hesitantly takes up her perch alongside him, her mother exclaims, "Lizzy is an excellent conversationalist, Viscount Fitzwilliam. A marvelous hostess; she could keep a king entertained for an entire evening. And she has a bit of quickness to her as well, or so her father says–"

"Mama," Miss Elizabeth interrupts. "I believe Mr. Darcy and Mr. Hurst are in need of some assistance in deciding where to sit."

But apparently Darcy is decided, for as soon as the words leave Miss Elizabeth’s mouth, he begins to make his way over to the one remaining chair alongside her. As I plop down near Mr. Bennet, shaking hands with him but following the dark lad’s progress, I wince when Mrs. Bennet intercepts him and gestures towards her youngest daughter save one, who is curled up nearby with a sampler.

"Mr. Darcy, you remember my other daughter, Kitty? Or Catherine, rather. Isn’t it lovely that she bears the same name as your aunt? Mr. Collins told us all about Lady Catherine, and I am so honored that she and my daughter have something in common."

By the conclusion of this speech, Miss Kitty is frozen in doe-eyed terror, though her horrified expression is almost nothing to the alarm that widens Darcy’s gaze. And so the two stare at each other, the young lady frightened and the gentleman aghast, until he revives enough to escape. Seeing that Mrs. Bennet is still blocking the way to the desired daughter, he folds himself into a chair facing Mr. Bennet and hastily inquires, "Sir, is your leg faring better?"

Mr. Bennet can hardly conceal his surprise at being so civilly addressed by a man who has always appeared haughty and aloof. "Thank you, it is," he replies. "Shortly after he broke it, Mr. Collins saw fit to flee my home, thus removing one impediment to my recovery." Upon receiving a snort from me and a nod of complete understanding from Darcy, he adds, "The one glimmer of sense I ever saw in that man was his determination to wed Lizzy, though his persistence in the face of such blatant discouragement was in keeping with his general ridiculousness."

Darcy’s fingers curl tightly around the ends of his armrests. "He dared to ask for her hand?" he inquires, his voice dangerously emotionless.

Mr. Bennet glances up sharply, inspecting him under the arch of a fine gray brow. "My wife thought he was a good match," he replies, his gaze shifting to the strategic spot at the center of the room where Madam Bennet has planted herself, ostensibly to knit.

Darcy takes a deep breath and expels it slowly. "But your daughter did not," he utters, not as a question but more as a self-confirmation that yes, all is right in the world, and the sun shall come up the next morning, and the stars shan’t fall from the sky. As Mr. Bennet slowly nods, Darcy whispers, "Of course she would not. She is far too sensible and self-respecting."

Apparently he did not intend to say those words aloud, for he purses his lips and reddens under Mr. Bennet’s now open scrutiny. "What book are you reading, sir?" he asks, in what is an obvious attempt to change the subject.

Mr. Bennet quirks his lips and tents his fingers, clearly enjoying the younger man’s barely suppressed discomfort. "Sterne’s Sermons of Mr. Yorick."

Darcy relaxes, slightly. "I read it this past spring."

"Did you?" Mr. Bennet murmurs, now making no attempt to hide his wonder. "And what did you think of it?"

As a discussion commences, two servants enter bearing refreshments, and I am content to nibble and observe. I watch as Mr. Bennet grows progressively intrigued with his present company, whom he now seems to regard more as a companion than a stuffy object of ridicule. Darcy, I must say, earns my commendation as well. It’s not that I’ve never heard him speak intelligently before, but under the current circumstances, I wonder that he can even surpass monosyllabism. For in the various breaks in his talk with Mr. Bennet, as the older gentleman leafs through his volume to find a particular page or pauses to think of a retort, the dark lad throws his gaze sidelong at Henry and Miss Elizabeth. In those stolen moments, he allows his true feelings to swamp his eyes, and believe me, there’s no mistaking the sheer frustration and bitterness found within them.

Miss Elizabeth happens to look at him as well, but only when he is preoccupied with her father (those two… I could smack them for their sense of timing!). Mostly she is an attentive hostess though, and she and my friend seem to be carrying on in a perfectly amiable manner. I long to tell Darcy that it is just this – amicability, friendship – and that there’s truly nothing to gnash about. Henry is anticipating his meeting with Miss Elizabeth’s close companion, and Miss Elizabeth herself might be keeping up such animated conversation in part to draw my friend out and see if he would be suitable for Miss Lucas. If she is indeed privy to Miss Mariah’s letter, which I’m certain she is, she might very well be entertaining thoughts of pairing Miss Charlotte with the Viscount. But I can’t say a word to Darcy, not at the moment, and so I have to sit there biting my tongue as he tortures himself over the possibility that his beloved and his elder cousin are even now falling madly in love with one another. Green does not look good on Darcy; he bears his envy as well as I do my belly.

Henry suddenly lets out a soft laugh and Darcy picks up on it immediately, so that even as he is telling Mr. Bennet why he found Sterne’s book amusing, a couple of veins along the side of his throat begin to throb in a most alarming fashion. I cast my eyes to Miss Elizabeth – she is grinning, gesticulating, active and lively in every way as she exhibits that unpretentious vitality that draws Darcy in. Or out, I should say. The same goes for the crazy Colonel and the buoyant Bingley – it’s that enjoyment of life that attracts Darcy – though there’s far more than high spirits and good cheer in Miss Bennet. The dark lad also craves sense, practicality, an intelligence that can deliver wit in one situation and wisdom in another, depending on what the circumstances call for. And Miss Bennet embodies that as well, bridging levity and gravity, playfulness and thoughtfulness. She is the ideal partner for him, such a bloody perfect fit that I want to just boot him out of his chair right now and make him fall headfirst into her lap.

No such luck. The single encouraging development between them transpires just moments before a carriage arrives from Netherfield to fetch us. For once, the two happen to glance at one another at the same time and… the clock ceases to tick, the sleet ceases to pelt, my mouth ceases to chew (no, not really), and Henry gives me a sly, knowing wink from across the room. To be honest, neither party bats lashes in a lovey-dovey way… Miss Elizabeth looks like she has several earnest questions to ask, whereas Darcy looks, quite frankly, desperate… but the intensity is there, that’s for sure. The spell is broken only as the search and rescue party from Netherfield knocks, and Mrs. Bennet, rising to her feet, blocks each party’s uninterrupted view.

When she realizes that the three of us must now leave – and though Darcy may want to dawdle all night, I have a wife to see – she attempts to ensnare us for another evening by extending an invitation for supper tomorrow. "Let us make it a celebratory meal," she exclaims, "in honor of my youngest daughter, whose wedding took place just today. And what an advantageous match! Her wardrobe is already on the way to Brighton, where he shall be joining his regiment. Such a dashing young officer he is…"

"Mama," Lizzy chokes, "the storm has abated somewhat, and the gentlemen must be taking their leave now lest it worsen again."

"But to think," her mother continues, ignoring her, "Mr. Bennet is still loath to welcome him to our home."

"Rest assured, my dear," Mr. Bennet replies, "I shall invite him along for a quail hunt one of these days, and we shall have ourselves a nice little accident in the woods. How does that sound?"

"Quite appealing," Darcy whispers to himself, with what is the first genuine half-smile I’ve seen from him the entire day.

"Oh, Mr. Bennet, how you delight in vexing me!" his wife cries. "But gentlemen, do say you shall come for supper."

The three of us politely mumble our acceptance, and the satisfied ferality creeps back onto her face. Only to be replaced with alarm as Miss Elizabeth adds, "If tomorrow evening is to be a celebratory meal, Mama, we should invite Charlotte as well. Her sister has also recently made a most… advantageous match."

"Lizzy, be reasonable!" Mrs. Bennet cries. "You know how Lady Lucas is suffering from a cold. And Charlotte is the only one who can care for her properly." Turning to Henry and Darcy she adds, "She is so attached to her family. I don’t think she’ll ever want to leave Lucas Lodge."

Anger kindles in Miss Elizabeth’s eyes. "Indeed, Charlotte’s devotion to her mother is exemplary, and because of this patient, uncomplaining care, Lady Lucas – last I heard – has improved enough to spend one evening alone at home, without having her daughter wait on her hand and foot."

As she sends a pleading look to her father, Mr. Bennet says, "Indeed, Madam, if our happy little supper cannot be postponed until the arrivals of Mr. Bingley, Sir Lucas, and Colonel Foxtrot, then I daresay we could benefit from additional company, especially of such a pleasant, sensible kind."

"Oh, very well," Mrs. Bennet accedes, though not before sending one more vexed glare towards her second eldest. "Charlotte shall come."

When we are out in the front hall, pulling on our coats, Henry whispers, "I’m relieved to find that Darcy has some taste in women. And you say it gets better?"

"For you it does," I reply, to which he nods, looking decidedly content.

Darcy meanwhile is staring at Miss Elizabeth, who has just joined her mother to bid us farewell. Her eyes still have a hot-tempered glimmer left over from her recent defense of her friend, making them look especially fine. "I wish you a safe journey," she says, ostensibly addressing all of us, though her gaze lingers on the dark lad. He opens his mouth, closes it abruptly, and then gives her a bow of such force, I fear his coat will fly up over his head. It doesn’t, and we depart with no cause for embarrassment.

During the coach ride, as he stares silently out the window, I very quietly inform Henry of his possible envy. And Henry, ever the gentleman, sets about rectifying the situation in his usual, straightforward way. "Darcy," he begins, coaxing his cousin’s attention from the window, "let me give you something pleasant to think about when you retire for the night."

"Does it involve Wickham being mistaken for quail?"

"No, no, leave such thoughts to me. After all, I was not the one who had a delightful young lady repeatedly seek out my attention. From across a room, no less."

"I beg your pardon?" Darcy nearly gasps.

"It must be the touch of silver at my temples. I’m not the youngest blood around, I suppose." He makes a sigh of mock dejection. "I wager that she’ll want a different conversational partner tomorrow."

"I’ll double that wager," I add. "Though I am reluctant to do so, seeing that some gentlemen are less inclined to talk than others."

"Oh, indeed," Henry agrees. "Those gentlemen can share a sofa with Miss Mary… or with Miss Catherine."

"Who happens to have the same name as your aunt, isn’t that right, Darcy?"

"Enough!" the dark lad snaps, though I catch the appearance of his second genuine half-smile of the day. It quickly melts into an expression of half-hoping doubt and remains thus until we arrive at Netherfield. And after we set foot indoors, I’ll be quite honest with you, I don’t exactly know what his face looks like. My eyes, after all, have someone entirely different to drink in.

She greets us in the hall wearing a simple, yet elegant dress, one I’ve seen numerous times before, though now I am convinced that it looks as becoming as a ball gown on her. Her face is also unchanged from when I saw her last, yet I believe I never found it so beautiful until now – the fiery little crackle in her eyes, the charmingly arrogant upturn of her nose, the complacent curve of her mouth… and when her gaze rests on me, the welcoming smile she bestowed on Darcy and Henry widens just a hair. Just a hair, mind you, but that hair of widening is all for me! I suddenly feel such a surge of exuberance – a heady mix of ecstasy and pride – that I nearly stick my tongue out in triumph at the two bachelors by my side.

As servants unobtrusively remove our outdoor apparel, she accepts a bow from Darcy and a kiss on the cheek from Henry. I see her mouth a quiet ‘thank you’ to him, and knowing what she is thanking him for makes me want to whisk her away all the more, particularly when she declares her intention to escort us to the dining room and have us fed. Darcy and Henry are not at all averse to this idea; neither ate as much as I did at Longbourn, and our last meal was several hours ago. But as Louisa draws near to place her hand on my arm and lead the way to what shall be at least another hour’s delay before we can greet each other properly, I grow increasingly impatient, increasingly tormented. What finally breaks me is the look of unmistakable warmth in her upcast eyes as we near the corridor; it is then that I succumb to my heart’s wishes.

No, I don’t kiss her. What I do is even more shameless than that. For you see, I carry out the resolution I voiced to Henry last week – that when next we meet, I shall sweep my wife off her feet and bear her up the stairs. Let the servants talk, let Darcy gasp, let Henry laugh, let the whole world shake its head and cluck in disapproval, I can bear it no longer – it’s either my wife and the staircase, or an outright tantrum of frustrated longing right on the dining room floor. And I prefer the former.

It’s rather easy to get her into my arms; so shocked is she that she offers no resistance. It’s also easy to ignore the gaping gentlemen and stride to the stairs. The stairs, on the other hand… well, follow me as I ascend and we shall see what happens.

"Gilroy," she hisses, as I mount the first step, "what on Earth are you doing? Put me down this–"

"Silence," I bid, with what I hope is an endearing smile. "You should be swooning in amorous rapture right about now."

She rolls her eyes, but tightens her grip on my shoulder as I nearly trip over the third stair. "How shall I face anyone tomorrow? Put me down now, I say!"

"Not a chance."

"And what of the others? Tell me, hmmm? What of their comfort? Are they to be so inhospitably ignored?"

"They’re grown men, they can fend for themselves." I strain on the sixth step. "I need you now."

Though the eyes go rolling again, the happy twitch of her lips betrays her. "Does that make you a little boy, then? One who requires my constant attention?"

"I’ll admit to being anything – a boy, a pig, a unicorn – if it will get me your constant attention. Now swoon, Madam."

But it appears that I shall be the only one fainting, for as I reach the first landing, my legs begin to quake against each other and it takes all my strength not to totter. It appears that Henry may have been right – when I told him of what I would do to Louisa when I saw her again, he predicted that I would have to set her on her feet and lean on her like a crutch after the first several stairs. Well, I’m not about to prove him right, not when my dignity, my pride, my very virility is at stake! Wondering how I can rest for a few moments without giving away my fatigue, my gaze lands on a painting right alongside my head, depicting Netherfield’s façade.

"Louisa," I whisper, "look at the painting."

"What?"

"Pretend you’re really interested. Do it, please!"

"What on Earth–"

"I can’t let them know that I’m weary," I say, referring to the two gentlemen who are now goggling up at us from the bottom of the first flight. "Please, I’ll make it up to you, I promise!"

"You’d better, Gilroy Hurst," she hisses, but does as I request, even tapping thoughtfully on her chin for added effect.

I turn to the gentlemen, whose shock has turned into puzzlement. "Art lover," I strain, with a pale parody of a shrug. "Nary a painting she can pass by without perusal."

Though Darcy raises a baffled eyebrow, Henry almost immediately makes the leap from confusion to comprehension. "The painting is rather idyllic, is it not?" he remarks, flashing me a dreadfully smug smile. "Makes you feel very restful."

Lord do I want to cane him. Bowing my head so as not to meet his knowing eye, I find myself staring straight on, up close, at my wife’s extremely enticing figure. Oh, no… Caroline, Catherine, Collins, Caroline, Catherine, Collins, Caroline…

With a desperate groan, I lurch up the second flight of stairs, my travel-weary limbs feeling as if they will give out at any moment. I do manage to make it to our bedchamber though, where I promptly collapse onto a chair, Louisa ensconced in my lap.

"You infuriating… exasperating… mortifying man!" she cries, while planting kisses on my poor, sweaty brow. As I attempt to capture her mouth with my own, she laughs and pushes back, rising to her feet.

"Where are you going?" I demand.

"To ready myself for bed of course," she replies. "It’s not as if I shall be able to look either Henry or Mr. Darcy in the eye tonight without the greatest sense of embarrassment… I might as well retire then."

"But–"

"I shall brook no refusal. Do the same – freshen up, catch your breath, and then join me." And with that, she disappears into her dressing room.

"You tease!" I cry, waving an indignant fist in the air. But, no matter how much I crave immediate appeasement, I do see the sense in her words, and dutifully drag myself to my own dressing room. Rupert arrives only some time later though, and even then his injuries – not entirely healed – slow him down while assisting me, so that by the time I enter the bedchamber again, Louisa is already there.

You would think that I would not hesitate another moment before diving straight for the mattress, but the sight of her – propped up on a few pillows, covers tucked about her waist, hands folded demurely over her lap – is such sweet relief to me after all this time, that I can scarcely move. I hear my dressing room door shut softly behind me (good old Rupert, behaving discreetly for once), but even the newly acquired privacy does not stir me from my spot.

She shifts impatiently, adjusting the décolletage of her nightgown. "Are you going to stand there all night?" she inquires. "I was rather hoping we could delve into the identity of that ravishing woman who sent the letter to your friend."

I feel my cheeks burn at her words, though I cannot help but ask, "Why did you not tell me that you were concerned, all along? The morning I left you, I believed that you were terribly angry at me!"

"I was!" she insists with a distracting pout. "You went off to risk your life without a thought as to how I would feel!"

I fold my arms over my chest. "But you do admit now, in hindsight, that it all turned out for the best, am I right? That it was absolutely necessary for me to go to London."

"I shall admit to nothing until you come to bed."

"Minx!" I shout, unwilling to give in.

"Rascal!" she retorts.

"Wench!"

"Toad!"

"Harpy!"

"Knave!"

I laugh and then, undone, utter my true feelings. "I love you, Louisa."

For a few long moments she is silent, but before the dread of rejection fully settles within me, I catch the unsteady glimmer in her eyes and realize that she is holding back tears. "I love you too," she whispers at last, struggling hard – like any well-bred lady of fashion – to give all outward appearance of indifference. Indeed, the way she speaks now, one would think that she has just ordered a servant to fetch more tea. Only the brightness of her gaze, the slight, nearly imperceptible hitch in her voice, tells me otherwise.

So as not to fall to the floor weeping in happiness, I resort to some teasing. "One would think, my dear wife, that I forced a horrid confession out of you just now. If I am to hear these words on a daily basis, I would wish for them to sound more melodious and sweet. Let us try again, shall we? I love you, Gilroy," I conclude, speaking in a high-pitched croon.

"Come to bed, you baboon, right now!" she demands, her lips blooming into a saucy smile.

With a cool shrug, I reply, "I shan’t join you until you speak from your heart."

"Oh really?" she drawls, kicking aside the covers and stretching out like a cat. "You won’t hold out for more than a minute."

She’s right. I don’t.

Chapter 21

Posted on Monday, 21 July 2003

It is a very happy Hurst that awakes the next morning in his wife’s arms. I, dear reader, am an absolutely blessed man, though it is rather odd that as I lie there ruminating for a while, Louisa still oblivious to everything but her own dreams, my thoughts take a turn and land soundly on… her sister. Out of nowhere, it strikes me as very strange that Caroline had not been present to greet us last evening. One would think that with Darcy setting foot in Netherfield after such a painful absence, she would be there ready to coil around his arm, lick the melting sleet from his coat, spit her laughter into his frozen face. A wonder indeed, and I waste no time asking Louisa the moment she awakes.

"Was that the first thought that came to your head this morning?" she yawns

"Heaven help me if it was," I reply. "I’m merely wondering at her not being in the hall yesterday, considering who arrived."

"Oh, hardly a surprise to me," my wife sighs. "She’s not at Netherfield."

My astonished grin cannot be restrained, but as Louisa clamps her hand over it with an exasperated shake of her head, I see that although she is not entirely unhappy with the circumstances, she is not truly pleased either. "She went to London two days ago to purchase new items for her wardrobe. She may not be back for a few weeks, as she intends to visit several friends, as well."

"Oh, but the moment she finds out that Darcy is no longer there, she’ll be back here quicker than you can say Pemberley."

Louisa shakes her head. "I’m not quite sure that it would be so quickly, Gilroy. She feels a little safer now about him; she believes that with the Bennets’ shame, there is no chance of him pursuing Miss Elizabeth, if there was any to begin with." She pauses. "But what exactly did he do in London?"

Once I inform her of everything that transpired in the city, she indulges in several moments of thought before saying, "Rest assured, husband, I shall not write to her of any of this. Let her think herself unchallenged and secure."

Resoluteness brightens her eyes, though her face also grows slightly longer with sadness. "Louisa," I whisper, "what happened here when I was gone?"

She sighs and then aimlessly pats her hair, pretending to an indifference that she does not possess. "We had a minor row," is her simple reply.

"Rows are never minor," I press. "What happened?"

"I do not wish to speak of it now," she insists, but then adds, "I promise to tell you another time. I simply do not wish to spoil this perfect morning." Somewhat appeased, I am about to further enhance the perfection of the morning by less verbal means, but she piques my curiosity by adding, "I must relate one point to you now though, that I ask you to discuss with your valet immediately."

Rupert? Now there’s a thought that will dispel an amorous drive. "What of him?"

"Caroline and I have exchanged maids," she says, "and your valet will most likely know why by now." As I blink in confusion she continues, "He’s an altogether eager little scamp… not too unlike his master, and–"

"Oh, my dear, you can hardly think me little," I say, gazing down at my paunch.

"No, indeed, I cannot," she murmurs but then, after shaking her head free of some distracting, unreadable thought, informs me that my valet is on his way to being a father.

"I’m absolutely serious," she insists as I gasp like a floundered fish. "And when Caroline found out, she wished to turn the girl out. I asked for the exchange instead, and after some bickering she relented. After all, my maid has always been better informed in matters of gossip and fashion – I think she’ll serve my sister well. Whereas I believe I’ll be able to tolerate Emily… Caroline’s maid, that is. As long as she reforms herself, of course, and heeds me when I set about improving her character."

Louisa? Improving someone’s character? Not very long ago I would have laughed outright at such an idea, but now I am filled only with admiration, even as my mind reels at Rupert’s forthcoming paternity. He… a father? Good Lord, have mercy on that child! Though I do wonder what he’ll name it… I hope it’s after me… that is, if it’s a boy of course, because it simply wouldn’t do to have a girl with the name of Gilroy… not unless you can pretty it up a little … Gilroya? Gilroyette? No, no…

"Gilroy, whatever are you thinking?"

Snapping out of my reverie – and finding myself too embarrassed to divulge my present thoughts, if you can even call them thoughts – I entwine my fingers with Louisa’s and murmur, "Your maid… I’m certain there’s much you can teach her."

Smiling, she voices her whole-hearted agreement. "Indeed, there’s very little I don’t know about being a wife."

Opting to leave that smug comment unassailed by a teasing retort, I instead say, "I suppose I shall have to ask Rupert to make an honest woman of her."

"Without delay. For she has already consented to make an honest man of him."

And what a trial that shall prove. Not quite ready to lecture my valet, I decide to linger a little longer in bed. "So am I to believe that you and Caroline fought only over this matter of maids?"

She purses her lips. "That was one point of contention." Raising her hand to stem any further questions, she adds, "No more for now, Gilroy. It is all too fresh in my mind, and I would like to be able to speak of it without ripping my pillow in two."

Hmmm… Louisa on a rampage, clawing apart everything in her path. An altogether disturbing image, though not entirely unpleasant. Clearing my throat I inquire about the company that Caroline may be keeping in the city.

"Lord and Lady Brainbrack," Louisa whispers, mentioning her former fortune-hunting governess, who insulted her when last she was in London, though what she said I still do not know. Before I can broach that topic again, Louisa quickly adds, "And Lady Catherine De Bourgh of course."

Now I positively splutter. "Darcy’s aunt? How does she know Darcy’s aunt?"

"Have I not told you? They met last winter and have maintained a correspondence ever since. Though if the lady knew of my sister’s intentions towards her nephew, she would not be forgiving enough to continue the acquaintance."

"But is Caroline still ingratiating herself to the young Miss De Bourgh?"

"She attempted to," my wife replies, "whenever she paid a visit to the De Bourgh’s London home. Miss De Bourgh initially struck her as someone sickly and pliable, a young lady of little conversation and no talent… like a tiny mushroom, Caroline said. Yet there was something about her that rebuffed my sister’s advances. Caroline couldn’t quite place it… she called Miss De Bourgh a strange creature, that was all, and said that occasionally, when she turned to her during a conversation, the young lady would have a sharp, peculiar look in her eye."

"I can well believe it," I whisper, thinking of the piercing glare she sent my way when I knocked her over that one time. "So Caroline still hopes to be her companion?"

"Lady Catherine has expressed the wish that they be friends, even extending a few invitations to Rosings. It has taken all of my sister’s diplomacy to decline those without incurring Lady Catherine’s wrath… and Caroline would take the risk, for as you well know, she has always preferred the company of the nephew over that of the aunt."

"Anyone would," I agree. "Though it pleases me that Darcy shall have some rest from her now."

"And are his intentions towards Miss Eliza truly serious?"

"Oh, yes. So serious he can hardly speak of it. In fact, you shall observe them tonight, my love, because we’ve been invited to the Bennets for supper." I speak those last words hesitantly, anticipating that her reaction will not be favorable; after all, aside from Miss Jane and, to a lesser degree, Miss Elizabeth, my wife has not expressed a favorable opinion of the Bennet clan. But she seems to take the news with good enough grace and even initiates a round of kissing, though I suspect the latter has something more to do with my manner of addressing her rather than the prospect of dining at Longbourn.

But no matter how delectable the delay, I cannot hold off speaking with my valet any longer. And so it is that I enter my dressing room, brimming with stern remarks about honor and commitment and duty (in addition to a few comparisons with a certain deceased rooster), only to find Rupert standing by the window, weariness written on his face.

He knows; that much is now plain. "Rupert…?" I venture. When he doesn’t reply, I summon up a firmer voice and repeat his name. His response is to raise his hand in the air, as if to ward off an assault.

"Good morning, Gil," he grumbles at last. "I’ll have you know that I’ve already proposed, so there ends the matter."

I blink, disappointed at not having an excuse to order him around, yet secretly relieved that I’ve been spared the effort. "You sound as if you’ve been sentenced to death, Rupert."

He manages a weak smile. "No, no, I am not so saddened as that. I always did prefer her, above all the rest. What I can’t bear is that there won’t be an ‘all the rest’ anymore."

"Hmmm… Lamentations on Monogamy, by Rupert Andrews. I wager it would sell like silk stockings in the ton."

This time his smile is more genuine. "Is this permission for me to carry on as usual?" When he notes my subsequent frown, he shakes his head. "I jest, Gil, I jest."

"Believe me when I say that I shall not tolerate such behavior from you once you’re wed. And believe me when I also say that monogamy can be a very fulfilling arrangement. Very," I repeat, even as I feel the telltale heat creep up my cheeks. "There is very little to lament in marriage."

"But it’s an idea that I have yet to get used to. Just think of it," he cries, "my wedding day shall mark the end of an era!"

"Hmmm, yes, the legendary Age of Andrews… golden years when breeches fell with nary a dry spell. Forgive me for not being able to summon a tear; I’m trying very hard, you know, but my eyes just won’t cooperate."

His own go rolling around. "Your bath, Master Hurst, has been drawn, and I suspect you have a few sore limbs to soak."

Again I blush, avoiding his gaze as I disrobe and slip into the water. He laughs. "Beneath all the good deeds and respectability, is merely a man who likes his table and bed. How does the saying go?" he continues. "No man is a hero to his valet?"*

"That," I retort, "is not because the hero is no hero, but because the valet is merely a valet."** To which Rupert replies by unceremoniously dumping water over my head and succumbing to a fit of snickers as I splutter at the onslaught.

The rest of the day is agreeably spent, largely in the company of my wife, who after breakfast entertains Henry, Darcy, and myself at the pianoforte. Though the Viscount and I have enough presence of mind to admire her considerable talent at the instrument, Darcy seems slightly less attentive. He responds to Bach and Rameau by wandering from window to window, and not in time with the music either. His face appears more guarded than ever, especially when it comes time to depart for Longbourn.

It is a very quiet carriage ride that the four of us make to the Bennets’ door. A steady cold rain falls without as we rock quietly in the darkness, and though Henry, Louisa and I make some desultory conversation we are for the most part content to not speak at all. As we draw nearer to our destination I notice that Henry shifts in his seat a few times, his slight movements contrasting sharply with his cousin’s complete stiffness. Leaning over to my friend I whisper, "I am certain you shall like her."

Henry smiles. "If that is so, I’ll purchase for you the finest madeira I can find."

An agreeable proposition indeed. But when we alight at Longbourn I am not immediately able to ascertain whether or not I’ll be the proud owner of some fine dessert wine. After the four of us are ushered into the parlor for a brief wait before supper commences, I see that Miss Lucas is not yet there.

"Oh, could she not arrive on time?" Mrs. Bennet laments, even as she latches onto the Viscount’s arm and steers him towards a mortified Miss Elizabeth. I wonder at the boldness of the woman, how she can so easily maneuver a titled peer from one end of the room to the other as if he were no more than a potted plant.

"She travels alone in poor weather, Mama," Miss Elizabeth remarks.

Her admirable loyalty to her friend inspires yet another ardent gaze from Darcy, though the warmth fades from his eyes as they come to rest once more on Henry and his enviable proximity to the lady. Mrs. Bennet meanwhile whispers something to Miss Kitty, and Darcy – suspecting the worst – shelters himself alongside Mr. Bennet, as he did the evening before. The older gentleman seems by no means displeased with his new company and before I join them myself, I turn to look for Louisa in order to see if she is comfortable in the midst of all these Bennets. To my delight she is already in conversation with Miss Jane, the two of them perched companionably on a settee by the corner. Marvelous, I think, only to be distracted again by Mrs. Bennet, who is plying Henry with some caricature of conversation. My friend faces her with raised brows, while Miss Elizabeth, who looks as if she’ll die at any moment, fidgets in her seat and glances repeatedly at the parlor door. Indeed, when shall Miss Lucas arrive? If not soon, I’m afraid that a few of us in this room shall be in need of Henry’s madeira, and not in small quantities either.

Fortunately we do not have much longer to wait before Miss Charlotte is announced. Unfortunately Mrs. Bennet is the first to speak when she steps into the room.

"Charlotte!" she exclaims. "How pale you look! You must have truly exerted yourself for Lady Lucas’s sake. I can imagine that she was loath to part with you for the evening; you’re the sort of daughter who would always be wanted around the house. Indeed you deserve all the gratitude in the world for being so attached, so bound to that fortunate family of yours. What would they ever do without you?"

It is painful to listen to this speech with all of its falseness and shrill insinuations, and I am thankful when it is done. But Miss Charlotte evinces no discomfort. Her face is unclouded, composed, and if it is a little paler than usual she looks none the worst for it; her complexion contrasts all the more strikingly with the dark blue dress that she wears and the simple gold pendant at her throat. When Mrs. Bennet mercifully falls silent, Miss Charlotte smiles slightly and replies, after scarcely a pause, "When I’m not thanked at all, I’m thanked enough; I’ve done my duty, and I’ve done no more."***

Even from where I’m sitting I can hear Henry’s sharp intake of breath. I’m certain he wasn’t expecting Fielding from the start and alluded to so fluidly as well.

Be still his heart.

Miss Elizabeth and Miss Jane walk over to their friend and greet her more warmly with kisses to the cheek, though when Miss Elizabeth announces that she has someone to introduce her to, Mrs. Bennet firmly steps in as the hostess again. "Charlotte," she cries, "this is the Viscount Fitzwilliam, eldest son of the Earl of Matlock." Then, as Henry opens his mouth to utter something, she declares that supper will now – right now – be served. And that can mean only one thing – an unsatisfactory seating arrangement.

Not particularly for myself, mind you. I am seated opposite Louisa (so it’s quite the grand view I have), and Darcy’s at my right elbow and Mr. Bennet at my end of the table and Miss Charlotte at Louisa’s elbow… marvelous for me. As for the other two gentlemen though… opposite Darcy sits Miss Kitty, while Miss Elizabeth is at the other end of the table next to her mother and opposite Henry. Miss Mary and Miss Jane fill out the middle along with Miss Charlotte, whose seat is placed at the exact center.

At least the food is delicious. With Henry and Darcy invited to her table, Mrs. Bennet spared no expense… much to the advantage of my palate. ‘Tis a shame that neither gentleman – dark Darcy in particular – will have the requisite heartiness of spirit to enjoy the feast. A few times his and Miss Elizabeth’s eyes meet from their opposite corners of the table, but for the most part Mrs. Bennet keeps both her second eldest daughter and my close friend quite occupied with her abundant exclamations. Rather than initiating a conversation that everyone can partake in, she focuses her energy on those two alone and, Mr. Bennet himself not the consummate host, the talk at the table breaks down by region. Once more Louisa stuns me when she and Miss Lucas embark upon polite conversation. For some moments I simply sit there, ignoring the food on my plate – imagine that! – and stare at her, attempting to convey in my gaze all the love I feel. But I am no Darcy… I cannot school my face to seriousness while keeping the emotion contained within my eyes, and so I spot Mr. Bennet peering at me with barely restrained mirth. Good Lord, I think, attacking the contents of my plate once more, I must look like the most lovesick lad in England. Not a very dignified expression for a man of thirty-four years. And it is all for naught anyway… Louisa fails to spot my dreamy regard, and I make no repetition of my moony performance, though by now Mr. Bennet is engrossed in conversation with Darcy and would be less observant of me.

They talk of many things and occasionally I participate as well (even daring to meet Mr. Bennet’s knowing eye) though for the most part I am content to merely listen. They cover books and politics and horseflesh, fishing and philosophy and farming. Their growing interest in one another is not lost on Miss Elizabeth, who looks down the table at the two of them with an expression that is nothing short of pleased… until her mother speaks to her again and coaxes her attention away. Indeed, Mrs. Bennet is very busy at the table, assuring that all the courses are served punctually, managing the conversation between Miss Elizabeth and Henry, and even extending her reach to poor Miss Kitty.

The unfortunate girl, trapped next to her father and across from a man that she finds no less than intimidating, has hardly uttered a word throughout the entire meal. She keeps her face bowed to her plate and though she smiles at Louisa on occasion, her expression never strays far from sullenness and discomfort. That is, until I hear the distinctive clink of Mrs. Bennet’s fork against her plate. Normally one would disregard such a sound during a meal – a fork knocking against a plate is far from uncommon – but this particular noise seems jarring and distinctive, as if it were caused on purpose. And how do I confirm its purposefulness? And how exactly do I know that it springs from Mrs. Bennet? Because as soon as the sound shivers through the air, Kitty, swallowing hard, looks up from her plate and begins to bat her lashes most convulsively at Darcy.

Oh, Lord, I think, looking on in morbid fascination. Fortunately no one but me spots this display of coquetry though I can suspect that it will be repeated some time soon. And I am right. Not ten minutes pass before the ominous sound rings again, louder this time, so that even Louisa and Miss Charlotte pause from their conversation to glance around them. And the batting begins anew. Wincing, I look sidelong at Darcy, whose jaw has gone slack and whose eyes have gone wide, so that if I were a stranger unacquainted with him I would think that he was indeed fascinated with this display of female flirtation, and not merely overwhelmed by sheer silliness and want of propriety. It only ends when Mr. Bennet inquires, "Kitty, my dear, do you have something in your eye?" To which the young lady responds by demurely dropping her head again.

The rest of the meal passes in a relatively normal fashion, though the minute that Mr. Bennet declares his intention to partake of some port in his study, the truly amazing transpires. Before any servant can step forward to offer assistance, Darcy gets to his feet and, taking his place behind Mr. Bennet’s wheelchair, assumes the responsibility of conveying the gentleman to his study. Quickly I turn to Miss Elizabeth, to discover her with a disbelieving smile and admiring eyes. Grinning, I nudge my wife beneath the table, but an ‘oof’ from Miss Kitty informs me that my aim is not true. Oh, dear, I’d better not attempt that again…

After a quarter hour of sipping and talking in the study, Mr. Bennet suddenly summons a servant to escort him to the kitchen. Apparently there is some sort of discomfort with the position of his injured limb that only Hill is adept enough to speedily care for. When he goes off with our hopes for his quick return, Henry does not wait a moment longer to join the ladies. Darcy seems somewhat more hesitant; the two of us trail behind Henry at a slower pace and – after the Viscount disappears within the drawing room door – come to a standstill in the corridor.

All right, something is strange. I study him closely – inscrutable face, ruffled hair, fencepost posture… what on Earth is wrong with him? "Darcy," I say, "are you actually going to wait for Mr. Bennet to arrive? Please do not, for I believe he would wish you to entertain his second eldest while he’s away."

I cringe, anticipating a dark look for my forward words, but all he does is purse his lips. Though his hands, I notice, have discreetly slipped behind his back. Which can mean only one thing in these circumstances…

"You’re doing it again, aren’t you." At his inquiring look I add, "The pinky ring business. Be done with it now and join me."

His mouth slackens and then abruptly closes. I begin to get fed up. "What is the matter with you?" I press. "Why are you so nervous?" Before he can even muster a reply I add, "It’s because you’re afraid you’ll think of nothing to speak of with her, is that it?"

The redness that rushes to his cheeks is a good enough response. "Oh, for Heavens sake!" I cry. "You kept her father entertained the entire evening. That can’t mean that you sounded like a bacon-brained buffoon. Just pretend she’s her father… imagine the whiskers, the gray hairs, the baldness and pale blue eyes…"

"Hurst, I–"

"Don’t ‘Hurst’ me, young man," I interrupt. "Pay attention instead. I want you to march yourself into the room, sit your bottom down, and work your mouth until syllables begin to come out. Do you follow? And once they come out I want you to somehow arrange them into words, and nice words, mind you. None of that boorish sniffing that you’ve mastered over the years. Understood?"

I believe the redness in his cheeks now reflects more anger than mortification. And well it should. At least he’ll do something now, and as long as it doesn’t involve knocking me to the ground, I will be quite content.

"Hurst," he fumes, his voice forcibly calmed but edged with anger. "How dare you speak to me this way?"

"Oh, tut, tut. If you take my advice, you’ll be thanking me by the evening’s end."

His eyes widen. "I’ve never heard such disrespectful, presumptuous–"

"Save your breath for your beloved, Darcy. Go on, enjoy her smiles; you are wasting your time with me."

He stands there a moment longer, jaw clenching, cheeks high in color, eyes bright and almost feral, so that I have to actually remind myself that he is Darcy the gentleman and would never shed blood… at least not in another man’s house. But my fears are for naught; without another word he turns on his heel and stalks into the drawing room. I remain without a while longer, waiting for my heart to lapse into its usual lazy beat.

Upon entering the room at last, I am pleased no end with what meets my eyes. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth, not more than three feet away from one another, converse at a table in the far corner. The dark lad’s face is still flushed, but I suspect that – given the twinkle in Miss Elizabeth’s eye – he has made the leap from belligerence to besottedness with great ease. Not very far away sit Henry and Miss Charlotte, devoid of blushing or barely restrained energy, but no less deeply involved in discussion. As I wonder at how Mrs. Bennet has not accosted either of them by now, I see that Louisa has tied her, Miss Jane, and Miss Kitty to a game of whist. My wife truly presides over their little table, chattering at Mrs. Bennet’s face every time the older woman twists her neck around to glare at Miss Charlotte.

After what appears to be the third game and after Mr. Bennet is finally rolled into the room, a frustrated Mrs. Bennet tosses down her hand and calls for music. "Lizzy, do entertain us!" she implores, to which her daughter assents, but only after asking Miss Lucas to turn pages. And so the two esteemed ladies take up their perches at the instrument, while a certain pair of gentleman exchange their present seats for ones that are a little closer. "Cannot Kitty turn pages?" is Mrs. Bennet’s desperate query, ignored as the two close friends hold their heads in conference over what music they shall deliver to their appreciative audience. They settle on Caccini’s "Amarilli, mia bella," and as Miss Elizabeth sings "Do you not believe, O my heart’s sweet desire, that you are my love?" I drift over to sit beside Louisa.

"Thank you for distracting Mrs. Bennet," I whisper.

"Well," she replies, "it’s not as if your meddling self can be in all places at once."

I chuckle, lifting her hand to my lips. "I am grateful to you that I do not have to be. Omnipresence does sound rather daunting."

She shifts in her seat and withdraws her hand. "Not here, Gilroy. Your gratitude can wait for a more suitable time."

Her sultry, sidelong gaze nearly makes me groan. "How can I wait when you provoke me so?"

"I am not provoking you," she sniffs.

"Do not argue with me, Mrs. Hurst; you are entirely too provoking."

Her mouth falls open, snaps shut, and then pouts. "I will argue with you as much as I see fit," she says, leaving the second part of my comment unchallenged.

"Oh, is that so? Well, you leave me no choice but to haul you up the stairs again."

She gasps. "You wouldn’t dare!"

When a brazen grin is her only reply, she slaps me lightly on the knee and turns her attention to the music again, allowing me to study her sublimely arrogant profile. After Miss Elizabeth’s song concludes, my wife is next in line to entertain, and as she begins to execute a sparkling Fantasia in C by Haydn (a performance that Mr. Bennet will mention to me for days after) Miss Jane comes to sit beside me, though she waits to speak only when Louisa finishes her first piece and is being petitioned for a second.

"Mr. Hurst," she begins without further ado, "I can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness towards my sister and towards Miss Mariah as well." As my mouth falls open she continues, softly but quickly, "Miss Mariah wrote of you, the Viscount and Mr. Darcy in a letter to her sister, which Charlotte shared with us in the greatest confidence. I beg you not to be troubled; I can assure you of our secrecy, and that if my sister and my friend wish to express their gratitude towards the other gentlemen, they shall do so most discreetly."

Given my recent conversation with Louisa, I can’t help but furiously blush when she speaks of the ladies conveying gratitude to Henry and Darcy. And discreetly as well!

"Mr. Hurst, I am sorry if I have agitated you," Miss Bennet whispers.

"No, not at all, I’m quite all right," I reply, offering her a weak smile.

She smiles back. "You are just as gracious as your wife. Why, did you know, that in the past fortnight, when former acquaintances ceased to send us invitations" – here she pauses, and takes a calming breath – "Mrs. Hurst invited not only myself and my sisters, but Charlotte as well, to Netherfield?"

I sit up slowly. "Did she?" I whisper.

"Oh, yes… on a few occasions. And she called on us here as well."

I settle back down, my gaze instantly turning to Louisa. She has deferred the pianoforte to Miss Mary and is now assisting the young lady in selecting some music. As the middle Bennet child finally embarks on what sounds like Beethoven’s Andante Favori, I am struck again and again not only Miss Jane’s enlightening words, but by the depth of sense Louisa has once more exhibited by steering Miss Mary towards a piece that lacks a vocal component. Licking my lips, I attempt to do what I failed to at the table, squeezing every bit of adoration into my gaze and hurling it over to where my wife stands, poised to turn pages. As if in answer to my prayers, her eyes slowly lift from the music and there, in the Bennets' drawing room, we hold each other entranced in a look of sheer earth-shattering intensity. Oh, I think, if only I could latch onto this moment forever…

But soon it is time to depart. The rain that fell earlier has now turned to sleet and storm, and we had best be on our way before it worsens. Yet something completely terrifying occurs as we pack into the front hall to gather our cloaks and hats and winter wear. As the wind’s low moan creeps to a terrifying wail, as the windows tremble and the sleet pelts the walls like so many stinging insects, the front door flies open with a resounding bang. Gasping, we find ourselves confronted with a dark towering form, a human-like figure, hulking and horrible, blotting out the black night behind it with its staggering frame. Darcy steps in front of Miss Elizabeth, Henry steps in front of Miss Charlotte, Louisa steps in front of me and, together with Mrs. Bennet – for whom there is no protector – we brace ourselves for the unknown.

Then Miss Mary enters the scene. "Colonel Foxtrot!" she exclaims, and at her words the benighted giant steps into the light, revealing to us his orange glory.

"I have come," he intones, stooping to kiss her hand.

After recovering her ability to respire, Mrs. Bennet invites him to stay for the night, an offer that he accepts with a chivalrous bow. To the rest of us, still astonished, he states that the roads are in poor condition and that if we intend to travel, we must not do so alone. This intelligence prompts Henry to offer Miss Charlotte the conveyance of our carriage; Louisa seconds the suggestion, declaring that Lucas Lodge lies along our course to Netherfield anyway.

Miss Charlotte gratefully joins us, sharing a seat alongside Louisa and myself, as Henry and Darcy sit opposite. Though hardly anyone speaks, I do note that she and Henry smile gently at each other almost the entire way to her front door, where he gets out himself to assist her descent. Once he is back inside, I lean over and whisper, "Well, my friend?"

To which he replies, "I believe I owe you that madeira... and quite possibly my future happiness."

*A sentiment expressed by many, including Goethe
**Hurst is expressing a thought that will also be published years later in Hegel's Philosophy of History (Gil is just such a brilliant guy...)
***From Henry Fielding's Tom Thumb the Great; Act I, scene 3

Chapter 22 – Part 1

Posted on Thursday, 7 August 2003

Bingley and Sir Lucas return to Hertfordshire two days after the dinner party at the Bennets, and I needn’t tell you that almost as soon as he arrives, Bingley is off again to Longbourn to formally propose to Miss Jane and ensure his future happiness once and for all. When he returns to Netherfield that evening, his mind dazed and distorted with joy, I wonder if he can remember our names, let alone his own. When the butler approaches him for his coat and hat, he cheerfully unwinds his cravat, drops it into the bewildered man’s hands, and skips up the staircase, still clad in his outdoor clothes.

But enough about my dear brother. Let us now turn to Henry and how he fares with his suit. The day Bingley rides off to lay his melting heart at the fair-headed Bennet girl’s feet, Henry departs for Lucas Lodge and asks for permission to court Miss Lucas. The result is that a week later, he returns to Netherfield quite late, past dinner, and – although he does not bestow his cravat upon the butler – he does dump a great amount of sugar into his tea. Whole spoonfuls, until I suspect there’s more sugar than tea in his cup. And then he drains the cup in one long draught, licking his lips contentedly at the end, before announcing, with a glazed sheen in his eyes, that he is a betrothed man.

Darcy is the last to propose, a little over a week after Henry. Although he courts Miss Elizabeth without a great deal of discomfort from outsiders (the town, you see, is too absorbed with Bingley and then with Henry) it does not surprise me that he is the last to ask the question above all questions. The words, dear reader, the words can barely fight their way out of his mouth.

Two mornings before he does finally propose, I am walking through Netherfield’s groves, enjoying a bit of solitary exercise and contented contemplation, when I hear these words coming from behind one of the oaks: “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

Understandably, this declaration – as much as the voice of the speaker – brings me to a halt and makes me retrace my most recent steps so that I can peer around the concealing trunk and see if it is indeed Darcy proclaiming his love. Briefly I wonder what Miss Elizabeth would be doing at Netherfield before breakfast, but my wonder gives way to understanding when I spy the dark lad all alone. He’s not proposing… he’s practicing.

Now, most gentlemen – when witnessing such a spectacle – would quietly make a retreat and intrude no further into another man’s privacy. Well… some gentlemen would. All right, few gentlemen. And, with some shame (though not too much), I must admit that I’m not among those exalted, faultless, principled few (as if you didn’t already know). So rather than slipping away at the moment and spending the rest of my day dying of unsatisfied curiosity, I sneak deeper into the shadows and watch the show.

He repeats his line. “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” Then he frowns, clearing his throat. “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I love and admire you.” Another pause. “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I esteem you and love you. Admire you and love you. You must allow me to passionately proclaim how rapaciously I respect and adore you. You must allow… allow me to…” Here he trails off again and gives the oak an unceremonious jab with his malacca. “You must allow me to tell you how… but why must she allow me? I will tell her so even if she doesn’t want to hear a word of it,” he grumbles. “There. Miss Bennet, I am going to tell you how much I admire and love you, whether you like it or not.” And he jabs the tree again.

He once told me that matters of the heart must play out as a conquest of sorts. And now he fairly bristles with martial energy. Some moments pass as he paces around a bit, before finally turning on his heel and facing the tree once more. “This is your fault, Elizabeth…” Poke. Jab. “With any other lady this would be so simple. But, no, you are not like other ladies… which is precisely why I wish to marry you.” Poke. “There, I said it, love, so accept me.”

I know that it would be terribly wrong of me to interrupt this ridiculous monologue and offer a few suggestions, so I remain silent, no matter how great is my urge to offer a few words of wisdom. For instance, he should not be rehearsing his speech while violently attacking the tree. Because who knows if, unwittingly, that behavior will carry over to the actual proposal? I can just see him standing in Longbourn’s garden, saying, “Miss Bennet (jab), you must allow me to (jab, jab)… where are you going?” “Ladies do not take too kindly to poking, sir,” she would call out over her shoulder, all while indignantly rubbing her kneecaps.

Another point I wish to bring to his attention is that he does not have anything to worry about. Two days ago Miss Jane and Miss Elizabeth called on Netherfield, and I watched Darcy and his beloved quite closely as we gathered in the drawing room for tea. What I saw is that when she looks at him, the message in her animated eyes is nothing short of ardent and encouraging… I know this, because I see the same expression in Louisa’s as she gazes upon my happy, homely face.

Bah! I am through with meddling. He’s a grown man; let him fend for himself. And indeed, he performs well enough on his own, for two days later he makes his own triumphant return to Netherfield. Except at first, he does not appear to be all too triumphant. His face is grave, his mouth is pursed, his brow is dark and low… but then I glimpse his eyes, and they are bedazzled by so much joy that I know his suit was a success, that any feelings he professed were just as warmly reciprocated. And when he announces his engagement to us at dinner later on, he even allows us to witness a brief, broad grin before he settles back into his forbidding shell again.

All of Meryton is abuzz with talk of matrimony now, and Mrs. Bennet and Lady Lucas are quite beside themselves. But before they can set about planning four separate weddings – each more elaborate than the one before it – the betrothed couples successfully argue to be married all on the same day. This causes some consternation in the two matrons. Mrs. Bennet, who is still a bit disappointed that the Viscount did not marry into her own family, hesitates to have her daughters share the altar with Lady Lucas’s offspring. And Lady Lucas, who does not wish her eldest daughter’s long-awaited wedding ceremony to be overshadowed by the presence of three well-matched Bennet girls, has her own reservations. But ultimately the couples prevail, their success stemming, in part, from a few threats – only half-joking – of hieing off to Gretna Green. So the day is fixed – February 24th, nearly two months from now, there shall be a quadruple wedding in Meryton’s church.

In the meantime, letters must be written, and so Henry and Darcy send missives to their family, while Louisa pens a brief note to Caroline, who is still in London and still oblivious to all of Hertfordshire’s happenings. It must have been some row she had with my wife to stay away for so long and for Christmas as well! The morning after the holiday, as Louisa and I lie side by side in bed, savoring contented silence, I take it upon myself to shatter the peaceful mood and broach the topic again.

Though she makes her displeasure at my query evident by means of a rather hefty sigh, this time she answers my questions with a directness that I admire. “The reasons are all quite simple, Gilroy,” she says, her voice cool and nearly devoid of emotion. “Though initially I feared that a connection with the Bennet family would lead to our own disgrace, especially after the disastrous marriage of the youngest daughter, my views soon changed and I made an effort to invite the remaining Bennet girls, and the similarly afflicted Miss Lucas to Netherfield. Caroline balked at their presence, and we had several heated arguments about my presuming to have them for tea or for supper.”

“And I gather she did not check her tongue during those arguments?” I venture.

“No, she did not,” Louisa replies, her eyes going cold. “She quite cuttingly insulted both you and me.”

I wince. “But she has always hurled insults at me…”

“Not in this way. Not so maliciously. She accused you, among other things, of making me common, of tarnishing my manners, of disgracing me in the eyes of the fashionable world… and then she went on to say that if I value your company, particularly over hers, there must be something truly aberrant with me. And that it was you who changed me from what I was to what I am now… from what she considers a respectable lady to an ill-bred hoyden. She declared that nothing good has come out of my marriage to you, that our union was a mistake.”

Strangely, those words, coming from Caroline, affect me not at all. Being insulted by her is akin to having a gaudy bird of plumage land on my windowsill and shriek into my face for a while; granted, it is irritating but certainly not wounding. I am more concerned with my wife’s feelings on the matter, for she has always been far closer to her sister. “Louisa, I hope you did not take her words too much to heart, because–”

“Take them to heart?” she interrupts. “Of course not! That painted goose… of course I did not take her words to heart. Certainly not. I merely told the witch that I would rather not lay eyes on her face and that every day I would invite a different Bennet girl to Netherfield and that if she knew what was good for her life and her limbs, she would leave the house forthwith!”

A thick silence ensues, wherein I stare at her in amazement, absorbing the implication of her bold words and her seemingly implacable fury. That is, until her fiery façade crumbles a little, and a single tear slips down her cheek. She tries to pretend it is not there, batting my hand away when I move to dash it off with my thumb, but then another one follows and another one, until the tears turn torrential.

Louisa does not like to cry. This I know. So rather than murmur to her as if she were a child and thus make her feel even more helpless, I remain silent, merely biting my tongue and keeping a steadying hand on her shoulder. At last, when she quiets a little and begins to dab at her eyes with my sleeve, I tell her, in what I hope is a soothingly reasonable voice, that it is perfectly all right for her to lament a break with her sister, and that very likely it shall not be irreversible, and that Caroline might be remorseful, and –

“But I am not upset only about her,” Louisa says. “I… I do not think I can restore relations with her unless she changes in some way. No, Gilroy, I am just as upset with myself. Because until not too long ago I… I would have shared some of her opinions about you.” She quiets, lifts her chin a bit, and whispers, “I have not always been the best of wives.”

I sigh in an exaggerated fashion. “And I have not always been the best of husbands. Do you not see how suited we are for one another?”

I manage to provoke a faltering laugh from her, which was my intent; her admission is both moving and painful to me, and I cannot bear to see her so out of spirits. Unfortunately, her brief bout of humor subsides to barely suppressed distress all too soon. “But Gilroy,” she whispers, “my sister is not even the first person, once so close to me, to comment on my failures.” She pauses. “Lady Brainbrack made sport of my shortcomings as well.” I make no reply, but grow serious and still, prepared to listen. After venturing a quick glance into my eyes, Louisa drops her gaze to the bedcovers. “She said… that the reason I was” – here her fists clench – “the reason I am without child, as she is… is because I must be devoid of any sort of… passion.”

Upon hearing this disclosure, the silence that I was keeping breaks into peals of laughter. Which, quite frankly, is very stupid of me, because Louisa immediately interprets it the wrong way.

“Wait!” I cry, lunging forward and encircling her waist.

“Unhand me, you buffoon,” she seethes.

“You misunderstand,” I insist, freeing one of my hands so as to dash the merriment from my eyes. “I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing at her! The stupid cow! Calling you – you, Louisa Hurst – a woman lacking in passion? That’s like saying that… that Mount Vesuvius never erupted and killed hundreds of people! It’s ridiculous!”

She relaxes, briefly closes her eyes, and then allows a crooked smile to steal over her face. “Are you comparing me to a murderous volcano, Gilroy?” she inquires.

“All right, all right,” I groan, “so I’m not well-versed in the imagery of love. Shall I make another attempt? Louisa Hurst, you are the reddest rose, the brightest sun, the chirpiest nightingale, the–”

“Enough!” she cries, laughing. “Enough, I beg you.”

I release her from my grip and settle back down with a sigh. “And if you were not always volcanic, my dear, I think it… it has more to do with me than with you.”

“With you?” she asks.

It is now my turn to be embarrassed. “Why yes… I am well aware of the fact that I am not… amorously inspiring.”

“Do you mean… not handsome?”

“Yes, Louisa, not handsome!”

She giggles. “Why of course you’re not. But you’re adorable nonetheless. Certainly not a breathtaking sight, but a very dear good sight, refreshing to my eyes. I think that if you resembled a dashing young god I should be quite intimidated… no, I’m well pleased with you as is… you promise warmth and relief and you are, from top to toe, exceedingly loveable.”

Though I too do not like to cry, a few (nay several) tears cannot help but spill down my cheeks at her disclosure. Taking up the sleeve of Louisa’s nightgown, I dab at my traitorous eyes as she looks on in mute understanding.

“As for children,” I whisper at last, struggling to steer the topic from my surprisingly loveable physique. “I believe we are doing our part admirably well, and it remains for us only to be patient… and accepting of whatever may be.”

She nods slowly, leaning over to plant a kiss on my cheek. And thus we begin our day perfectly unburdened and perfectly in love.

That afternoon, Miss Jane, Miss Elizabeth, and Miss Charlotte arrive on eager invitation from Bingley. Given the coldness of the outdoors and the not infrequent severity of the weather, long walks are often out of the question and remaining cooped up in Longbourn or Lucas Lodge can prove to be a trial. So the couples – occasionally including Miss Mary and Colonel Foxtrot – enjoy seeking refuge at Netherfield. And after taking tea as a group, they also prefer to break off into pairs and roam about wherever they like… leaving Louisa and myself no choice but to act as chaperones.

However, today I must perform my duties alone, for Louisa has an engagement with Colonel Forster and his wife. And so it is that in between reading and walking and ringing for food, I periodically amble through the rooms and around the garden, on the lookout for any excessively compromising behavior.

Henry and Miss Charlotte I discover in the conservatory, speaking in low voices over an array of chrysanthemums. About them I have little concern – she is the oldest lady of the three and he is the oldest gentleman, and their temperaments I believe would not lead them to stray far from earnest conversation. This is not to say that I’ve never seen him kiss the inside of her wrist, or murmur something that sounds suspiciously like ‘naughty Lottie,’ but I dare not spy on them too long… Henry informed me at the onset of his engagement that if I ever presume to chaperone him, a man four years his senior, he would box my ears. Of course, he speaks in jest (I think), but I agree with him that it would be awkward to check up on a man of his character, age, and station… So I always leave them be, unless they spot me first and ask me to join them, which occurs more often than you think. To my good fortune, they both esteem me not only as a true friend but as the man who united them, and so as long as I do not comment on their courtship behavior like some priggish old priest, they greatly enjoy my company and I theirs.

Bingley and Miss Jane also seldom inspire any worry. Today for instance I espy them near the groves, sitting on a bench under the elms. At first I am puzzled by their actions; they are perched at opposite ends of the seat and keep glancing sidelong at one another with an almost compulsive repetition. But I am not left to wonder long… after several moments of these quick, mutual appraisals, they suddenly come together in a clumsy flurry and smatter each other with nervous little pecks that resemble feeding behavior more than kissing. Then, twittering like songbirds, they break apart and sidle over to either end of the bench again. Innocents, I think, strolling away with a smirk.

Now, Darcy and Miss Elizabeth… those two are quite another matter. Very dangerous, if you ask me. And largely because I have no proof of impropriety, but only my suspicions… for you see, it always happens that I’ll be walking down a quiet corridor, to Bingley’s study for example, and the door to the study will be shut. And I will walk up to this very door, and hear no sound from within, and then – without knocking – I’ll throw it open. And what will I see? What do I always see? Miss Elizabeth and Darcy of course… behaving in a perfectly circumspect manner. They will be sitting side-by-side in two chairs, placed at the correct distance from one another, as if they are chatting in full view of company… but there is always something to arouse my suspicions. The high color in Miss Elizabeth’s cheeks, for instance, and the merry little smile she cannot for the life of her peel off her face, and the way her eyes roam about the room, quite unable to meet my own and quite unable to resist landing repeatedly on Darcy’s lips. And then there’s Darcy himself, sitting all proper and stiff, often with one leg crossed over the other, but again… not a small amount of color in his cheeks, his hair a bit more ruffled than usual, his cravat slightly skewed… though unlike Miss Elizabeth he meets my gaze with astonishing directness, as if daring me to question his propriety, as if saying to me, “Ha! You cannot catch me at a thing!” At times I am so intimidated by the imperious challenge in his stare that I almost whisper, “Carry on, sir,” and back out of the room… but at other times, just to irritate him, I strike up a conversation with his betrothed, who answers me as coherently as she can, all while he reduces me to ashes with his glare.

But, although they always seem to anticipate my interruptions and rearrange their seating accordingly, they fail to predict the arrival of a certain group of people – conscientious objectors, we shall call them for politeness sake – who descend upon Hertfordshire less than a week into January. Shall I let you guess at their identities? Here are a few hints… though they are now all traveling from London as a pack, one originally hails from Matlock, two normally dwell in Rosings Park, and the fourth has flown up from the ninth circle of hell, though somehow she claims relation to my wife.

It is right after tea on yet another day when Bingley has turned Netherfield park into a lovers’ retreat, and my wife and I are the sole occupants of the drawing room, nibbling at the last of our treats as a footman unobtrusively collects the cups. With what can only be described as wide-eyed alarm, the butler suddenly materializes at the door, but before he can announce our kind-hearted callers, they stampede past him into the room.

“Where is my nephew?” Lady Catherine De Bourgh cries, her wattles jiggling indignantly.

“Where is my son?” barks the Earl of Matlock, his bald head turning one shade too red.

“Where is my handkerchief?” Miss Anne De Bourgh whispers, holding a finger to her nose as she searches through her attire.

“Where is my brother?” Caroline coldly sniffs, hardly looking at Louisa and myself.

And so it begins…

Continued In Next Section