Beginning, Previous Section, Section X

Jump to new as of August 31, 2003
Jump to new as of September 18, 2003
Jump to new as of October 22, 2003

Chapter 22 – Part 2

Posted on Thursday, 7 August 2003

My wife and I exchange glances and square our shoulders. The unlucky footman is immediately dispatched to collect the scattered couples… wherever they may be. In the meantime, I might as well be civil; there will be enough opportunities for incivility later on.

“How good to see you, sir,” I say, bowing to the Earl. “And Madams,” I add, bestowing courtesy on the fuming matron and her silent daughter. Though Lady Catherine merely sends a “hmph” my way, Miss Anne returns my address and keeps my eyes locked on hers. There is an intensity in her gaze that unsettles me and reminds me not a little of her cousin Darcy… but I can’t quite figure out the meaning in her look.

“Hurst, where is he?” the Earl snaps. “And is it true that you are the cause of his ruination?”

“I hardly know to what ruination you refer,” I say. “Now please, be seated. I believe we are all in for a long afternoon, and I for one will not be able to survive it on my feet.”

Though Lady Catherine surprisingly takes up my suggestion and settles herself with an air of pomp upon one of the sofas, Miss Anne remains standing. And what amazes me even more is that when her mother bids her to sit at her side, the young lady shakes her head and walks, not with a little agitation, to the window.

Bingley and Miss Jane are the first to enter, and after crying out, “Caroline, you’re here!” with more volume than real enthusiasm, my brother goes on in warmer tones, “And so many guests! I always do love guests, do you not, my dear?”

“Certainly,” Miss Jane replies, “especially if they look to be so pleasant.”

I glance at the four newcomers and wonder how Miss Bennet managed to conjure up ‘pleasant’. The Earl of Matlock, irate. Lady Catherine, put out. Caroline, cold. And Miss Anne… curious. She is looking at Bingley with an unnerving earnestness and, after a hesitant sniffle, inquires of him, “Are you the master of the house?”

“Indeed I am, madam,” he cheerfully replies. “And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

Lady Catherine interrupts. “You speak to my daughter, Anne De Bourgh, who has come to formalize her engagement to Fitzwilliam Darcy. Where is the boy?”

Bingley opens his mouth, closes it, and then frowns. He looks more confused than upset. “Why, madam, I believe… you’ve arrived a bit too late for that.”

“He has not yet wed, has he? Then he may extricate himself from his present predicament without further ado.”

“Oh, I don’t think he’s in any haste to do such a thing,” Bingley says, waggling his brows at the astonished lady.

“And you dare to speak for him?” she cries.

“In this case, it is not at all difficult to speak for him!” Bingley insists, succumbing to an impish grin. “I don’t presume to be the most insightful individual, but observing the two of them one would be hard-pressed to deny their mutual affection. Why just the other day I happened to go to the library and… well…”

The Earl and the Lady gawk at him, aghast.

“Oh, it wasn’t anything improper!” he cries. “Or… it was hardly improper. You see, Elizabeth gave him a much beloved book of hers – a history of Roman tyrants, I believe it was – that he had never read but had searched for all over London. And he merely expressed his gratitude by…” but here the hand of Miss Jane lands on his arm and gently silences him.

The Earl purses his lips. “She reads history, does she? Well today she shall learn a little more history.”

“Indeed,” Lady Catherine sneers, “she shall learn of our family’s illustrious history and how she can have no place in it!” That said, she rises to her feet, throws her arms up in the air, and asks of us all, “Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?”

No one can think of a quick enough answer except for Darcy himself, who has now just entered the room with Miss Elizabeth on his arm. Hmmm… do my eyes deceive me or does his cravat look a tad deranged? And wasn’t that ribbon situated differently in her hair during tea? I shake my head.

“Not polluted, Lady Catherine,” he retorts, “but refreshed. I am of a mind that Pemberley’s portrait gallery is in need of a lovely and lively face such as hers.”

“I agree,” Bingley adds. “Too many gloomy men and unsmiling women on those walls. Why one time, when I was visiting, I happened to walk through there past dark and felt the coldest prickle on the back of my–”

“Oh, do be silent, young man!” the Earl commands, though upon glancing at his niece I see that Miss Anne is gazing at Bingley with a look that is nothing short of hopeful. Curious, indeed.

Lady Catherine takes a few steps forward and displays her good breeding by disdainfully curling her lip and running her eyes up and down Miss Elizabeth’s figure. Unfortunately for the good lady, her object of scrutiny does not cower or bashfully study the carpet, but fixes her eyes steadily on the older woman’s face.

“So this is the fortune hunter,” Darcy’s aunt mutters at last.

Oh, she picked a good time to utter such a sentiment, because on most other occasions I believe the dark lad would have rumbled in his chest and hurled lightning bolts at her. But at present, his humor appears to have been tolerably fortified by whatever activity he engaged in before being summoned to meet his aunt, so that even the termination of said activity and the ungenerous comments produced by that ill-tempered old woman do not completely undo his equanimity.

“You are mistaken, aunt,” he replies, “for I am the sole fortune hunter here. I had been hunting far and wide for such a rare catch, and now that she is mine at last, I am indeed blessed with good fortune.”

Miss Elizabeth rewards his gallantry with a blush, a tender smile, and then a sidelong gaze that genuinely betrays the breadth of her feelings for him.

“Oh, good Lord,” the Earl sighs, clapping a palm to his forehead, “this is a complication I did not foresee. She is actually in love with him!”

“There is no complication,” Lady Catherine sniffs. “She has beguiled him, bewitched him, but he knows in his heart that his obligation to his family runs deeper than his infatuation with some shameless little upstart.”

All right, now the rumbling commences. “Aunt,” Darcy murmurs, his voice low and dangerous, “I would advise you to guard your tongue. You are addressing the future Mrs. Darcy.”

Suddenly agitated, Caroline produces her fan and attacks her face with it, her malignant glare never once leaving Miss Elizabeth’s face. Miss Anne moves farther away from her and comes to stand closer to Bingley and Miss Jane.

“So you are determined to betray your family?” Lady Catherine whispers.

“No, not betray it… enhance it. Greatly enhance it.”

“Brother, what have you to say of his alarming obstinacy?”

“I leave you to deal with his obstinacy,” the Earl huffs. “I choose now to save my breath for my son and the grasping girl who has wheedled her way into his own pocket!”

“Sir,” Miss Elizabeth says, keeping her tone respectful but firm. “I ask you not to speak in such a way of Miss Lucas. She is an admirable, upright, and sensible lady, and your son has made a fortunate choice in her.”

Upon hearing this decided little speech, the Earl is dumbstruck, and stares at her with far more amazement than disapproval. It is left for his sister then to step in.

“Take care, girl,” she nearly snarls, “you are speaking to an Earl!”

“And he is speaking of my friend,” is Miss Elizabeth’s reply, accompanied by a provoking lift of her brow.

Surely Lady Catherine is set to go off in fireworks at this point, but with impeccable timing, Henry and Miss Charlotte arrive and spare us the display of red and orange color. Though their presence does nothing to mitigate the Earl’s astonishment. He probably expected to find a forward little miss in his son’s betrothed, and though this image may have been tempered somewhat by Miss Elizabeth’s recent words, he is still quite shocked to see the sort of woman who accompanies the Viscount into the room. In place of someone very young and pretty and coy, a twittering hussy with an eye for gold, he is instead confronted with a fairly calm and sensible-looking lady, garbed without ostentation, straightforward in her manner of walking, unaffected in her expressions. He opens his mouth to… to shout, to rave, to rant… but all that comes out is a dismayed puff of air.

“Father,” Henry says, “allow me to introduce you to Miss Charlotte Lucas.”

“I am delighted to meet you, sir. I have heard so much about you,” the lady states with not the least bit of awkwardness.

Again, the Earl’s mouth flies open, and he takes on a curiously desperate demeanor. “Henry!” he cries at last.

“What, father?”

But there is no reply.

“Oh, sir,” Bingley murmurs, “you are not well. Is there nothing I can get for your present relief? A glass of wine perhaps or… truly, you look very ill!”

The Earl waves him off and turns back to Miss Charlotte. A saucebox, a chatterbox, he would have been able to deal with those… but not this. She regards him patiently, serenely, her countenance akin to that of a dutiful nursemaid facing a fractious child. Unlike Miss Elizabeth, her expression does not challenge or provoke… it merely tolerates.

The Earl tears his eyes away from her and, fixing upon his son again he whispers, “I shall disown you.”

Gasps are heard all around the room, but not from Henry of course, who chuckles and shakes his head. “And do what?” he asks. “Give the estate to my brother?”

Even the Earl nearly smiles at that one. “Well…” he mutters with a faint twitch of his lips, “you’ve got me there.”

“Father, I urge you not to be upset. Do you really believe I would not be cautious in my choice of bride? Have I not shown you enough discernment and good judgment over the years? I can say the same of Darcy, you know… he would never enter an alliance without judicious consideration; he in particular has a sharp eye and ear for falseness and flattery. So please, do be reasonable – and you as well, aunt – and reconsider your objections.”

For a long moment the Earl makes no movement, no reply, but then, with a displeased and barely dignified grunt, he strides over to Miss Lucas and peers straight down into her untroubled eyes. I can see Henry tense – in fact, the entire room is tense – and that crackling tension is dissolved only when Miss Charlotte petitions her future father-in-law with an innocent request.

“Sir, would you like to take a turn around the garden with me? It is such a beautiful day outside.”

The Earl’s eyes widen, and he opens his mouth again, lets it gape as if in preparation for some torrid, heated, irretrievable speech. But then it snaps shut, helplessly, and all he can do is numbly nod and stare at her with almost pleading eyes. As they begin to depart from the room Henry makes to join them, though a look exchanged between he and his bride slows his steps until all he does is stop at the drawing room door and see them off. Afterwards, he immediately walks over to the window, where he can hope to glimpse something of the outdoors where his beloved father and his beloved Miss Charlotte share their strange walk.

Lady Catherine finds her voice again. “My nephews have ruined themselves!” she cries. “Know this… unless both of you recant your promises to these ill-bred country wenches, I shall break off all connections with you and see that you are repudiated in the ton!”

Her proclamation does not have its intended effect. Henry remains at the window with his back to her, and Darcy merely tightens his jaw, moving only to squeeze Miss Elizabeth’s hand when she looks up at him to ascertain if he is composed. In fact, I believe Bingley is the most troubled by her speech, for he shakes his head and utters, “Come, come, now is not the time to fall into gloomy spirits. They are to be happy, all of us are to be happy, and it would do your soul good to partake of this happiness as well!”

Narrowing her eyes at him, she gathers her shawl more tightly about her and, turning to Caroline and Miss Anne, announces, “We shall wait in the carriage until the Earl returns.”

Caroline nods soberly, and I can’t help but be disgusted with her. She knows that Darcy is beyond her clutches now, but had most likely hoped to witness his reconsideration of his present choice – and Miss Bennet’s subsequent mortification and heartbreak. That aside, I understand full well that she remains with Lady Catherine not only because of her discord with Louisa but because she hopes that among the esteemed Lady’s connections will be another wealthy young man to ensnare.

The Lady marches to the door, Caroline at her heels, but – my eyes really must be tricking me this time – Miss Anne remains behind. “Anne,” Lady Catherine inquires, “why do you lag?”

“Because,” her daughter answers in a voice that grows stronger with each subsequent word, “I do not wish to go.”

Now this gets Henry to turn from the window. “Anne, what is the meaning of this?” her mother nearly hisses. “We must reach the inn before evening and allow you all the rest you need.”

“Indeed, Anne, tomorrow we rise early to complete our journey to town, and we would not wish you to be excessively fatigued,” Caroline puts in.

But Miss Anne merely shakes her head and, after a moment’s hesitation, folds her arms over her chest. Her eyes acquire the look they had when I bumped into her belly first once, those few years ago…

“I am not inclined to go to London,” she says. “I would much rather stay here.” Then, shrinking down a little, she looks at Bingley and says in more subdued tones, “If it… if it is not too much trouble for you?”

“Certainly not!” he cries. “I dearly love new faces in my home, particularly if they are friends of Darcy’s. I shall have a room prepared for you immediately.”

“Anne!” her mother whispers, stepping closer to her and compelling the young lady to take a step back. “Are you disregarding my wishes? Are you defying me before the world? I, the mother who cares for you, who dotes on you, who provides you with such esteemed companions?” This, with a brief glance at Caroline.

“Esteemed companions?” Miss Anne murmurs. “I do not wish to be subjected to her company any longer. I do not wish to… sit out my days in a dark drawing-room, layered with shawls, lost in your shadow… when we left for Hertfordshire, I… I saw a chance for freedom, I… I look at my cousins now and they are so happy, and so free…” Her voice begins to shake, and she puts a hand to her throat.

Her mother is incredulous. “Do you mean to spurn my company then? I can disown you if I so wished… unlike my brother, I may carry out my threat! I shall bequeath Rosings and my fortune to another and leave you with nothing. It is within my power to do that, Anne!”

“I disagree with you on one point,” Darcy interrupts. “Although you may withdraw your fortune from my cousin Anne, in no way shall she be reduced to penury. I shall begin to set aside a sum of money for her every year, so that when she comes to be a little older, she shall have herself a respectable dowry.”

“I pledge money to half that worthy cause,” Henry adds, “and shall keep an eye out for a few suitable gentlemen myself.”

Lady Catherine has turned an unseemly shade of purple and in this state she whirls upon her daughter again. “Even if you shall not lack for money, you shall be without a home.”

“Again, I disagree,” Darcy smoothly parries. “She is always welcome at Pemberley.”

“Indeed,” Miss Elizabeth smilingly declares, “she and Miss Darcy could find such delight in each other’s company.”

“Oh, but do not leave out Netherfield!” Bingley chimes in, his declaration buttressed by a few nods from Miss Jane. “Even now I’ve had a message sent to the housekeeper… your rooms shall be ready by evening, Miss De Bourgh.”

“And remember, Anne,” Henry says, “you may always seek shelter with your old cousin and his wife.”

Lady Catherine, looking uncharacteristically cornered, comes to stand alongside Caroline. Once more, she attempts to cow her daughter. “So now you choose to part from me, you ungrateful, ill-mannered girl. Unless you reconsider, I shall never acknowledge you again. No, you shall not even have your clothes or possessions sent to you!”

“Keep my possessions then,” Miss Anne whispers. “Perhaps they shall remind you of me and make you regret your uncharitable temper. Know that I will forgive you if you wish it.”

“You… forgive me? Why I’ve never heard such a–”

“There are excellent dressmakers in Meryton,” Miss Jane cuts in, “if you are in need of clothes at present.”

“We shall take you to them whenever you’d like,” adds Miss Elizabeth.

“They lie to you,” Lady Catherine snaps. “Do you think they have a moment to spare for you? No… they must perpetually work their arts and allurements over these foolish, deluded young men. You shall remain without a friend in this house, neglected and forgotten, without a single soul to sit with you.”

This is where my wife rises to her feet and speaks. “No, indeed, Miss De Bourgh, you shall never lack for company. For even when the other ladies pass the time alongside their gentlemen, my husband and I shall be present. You appear to be a sensible girl with not a little mettle… it would be a pleasure to take you into our company.”

Oh, how I love that woman. But now everyone is looking at me with no little expectation, for so far I am the only one present who has not made a promise of some sort. “Er, em…” I falter, looking the defiant young De Bourgh in the eye, “I promise that I shall not… run into you and knock you down anywhere within these walls. At least, I shall try very hard not to.”

She smiles at my disclosure, nearly laughs at it, so that even when her mother sweeps out of the room with Caroline, she does not wince or succumb to tears. Perhaps there will be enough time for sadness later… now, she stares at all of us – cousins, friends, and well-wishers – those who rushed to her support in her hour of gravest trial… and she smiles. Smiles and smiles and smiles…

She is still smiling when the Earl returns with Miss Lucas, but I can’t say for certain if he notices. He looks absolutely dazed, absolutely docile, toothless, and tame. As Henry and I see him off in the front hall, he vaguely mumbles, “Why does Anne not come?” and when we explain her resolution to him, he merely shrugs and shakes his head.

“I have much to think about,” he sighs. “I cannot absorb it all at once. It is too much, it is all too unexpected…” He turns to me. “I have not heard you speak enough today, Hurst. What say you of these women?”

“Your son and your nephew could not have chosen more wisely,” I reply.

He passes a hand before his eyes. “I walked with her in the garden,” he whispers. “And… I could not get at her in any way. Rather disconcerting, if you ask me. And I do not like to be disconcerted.”

“She esteems you, father,” Henry soothes. “She does not wish to unsettle you.”

“She is perfectly polite and perfectly unassuming and perfectly poised,” the Earl continues with some distress. “I simply did not know what to do!” He nearly stamps his foot. “I shall discuss this with you another time, my boy. Now I cannot stay here longer without going mad.” And so he leaves, with Henry and I staring out the door after him.

“Do you think he shall come to your wedding?” I ask.

“I believe so,” my friend says with a smirk and a fond shake of his head. “That dear old man… he would never have called me ‘my boy’ if he were truly upset. Give him more time to adjust to the circumstances and all shall be well. Now as for Anne…” here he trails off.

“You believe her mother is determined to…?” I whisper, not quite able to finish my question.

“I do not know. But in any case she shall never be alone. I am exceedingly pleased with what she did today.”

“It did come as a surprise,” I murmur.

“This afternoon has been one of endless surprise. Now all I want is Charlotte and a glass of port. I cannot bear continuous unpredictability.”

“It could have been worst,” I say, turning with him to go back to the others, “for after all… they might have been accompanied by Mr. Collins.”

Chapter 23

Posted on Friday, 29 August 2003

The morning after Lady Catherine’s ponderous tirade, er, cordial visit, I wake up refreshed with the thought that neither she nor Caroline will be setting foot in my vicinity any time in the near future. I rise, invigorated, ready to take a long ramble through the park before breakfast, but upon applying to Louisa for company, I am given a sleepy yet firm refusal. To her tiredness I give no further thought – yesterday’s events must have worn her out – and so, planting a kiss atop her tousled head, I venture out on my own, drinking in the stimulating air and exulting in my freedom from the undesirables.

When I return to my dressing room to freshen up before breakfast, I find Rupert in a solemn, reflective sort of mood, which is rather is unusual for him. I make a comment to that effect, and his reply is a peculiar smile, somewhat dreamy and devoid of all the rakishness that his grins ordinarily communicate.

“I have been to see Hill this morning, after some time of deprivation from her company… and she told me that Caroline’s brood has hatched.”

It takes me a moment to banish the image of my sister-in-law squatting over a nest, after sense creeps in and I realize that he is referring to Abaddon’s widow.

“Why, Rupert, that’s splendid! I’m certain they’re all healthy and violent. Has Hill begun to train them?”

But all he says is, “I saw them, Gil.” His fingers drop from where they were skillfully arranging hair over my bald spot. “So little, each of them. And Caroline barely paid me any notice, she was fussing over them so much.” He smiles again. “Hill has made up a little corner for them in the stillroom. It’s… I sat there watching them for a near quarter of an hour.”

He is close to tearing up. And I am very close to laughing. But, seeing as I do not hold his feelings in contempt, I stifle my hilarity and ask him why he was so discomposed at the sight of tiny chicks… though I can well anticipate his answer.

“It made me mindful of my own prospects,” he says, plunking down opposite me. “I cannot wait for my own egg to hatch.” And before I can embark on a lecture about mammalian reproduction, he adds, “So to speak.”

“Have you set a date then, Rupert?”

“For the baby’s birth?”

“No, no… I believe that’s quite beyond even your considerable powers. I speak of your wedding.”

He grins. “The last day of January. I talked to the housekeeper here, and she’ll throw a party for us in her parlor after the ceremony. You will come, I hope?”

“What makes you think I’d miss it? I even know exactly what I shall be giving you and your bride.”

Predictably enough, he launches a hundred questions at me, but all I say is that the gift is his if he remains faithful once in wedlock, which he promises one thousand times over, so long as I tell him what I’ve got up my sleeve. But it is a grand surprise, and I’m certain that if I inform him now not only will he begin to weep, but will perhaps do a few other uncharacteristic things, like smatter kisses all over my face before falling prostrate at my feet. And I’m not in the mood to accept such abject gratitude… at least not at present.

I leave him then very much annoyed with me, though if he knew my thoughts he would not be so piqued. As I step out into the hallway, putting his frown and empty threats behind me, I feel such immense joy for him; perhaps this whole business of witnessing a tender scene between hen and brood has begun to soften him into a domesticated creature himself. Let it be so, I think, for the sake of the new Mrs. Andrews, and the little Andrews, and myself too, because I do not wish to keep watch on his behavior, and for Louisa, who shall surely hear of everything from his wife…

A little ‘oof’ shocks me out of my reverie – an ‘oof’ and the sight of spinning colors, spinning skirts. Quick to react, I reach out and find myself grasping a small-boned wrist, pale, a touch cold, and belonging to none other than Miss Anne De Bourgh.

Mortified, I brave a glance at her face, meeting her exasperated expression with unmasked humility. “Your forgiveness,” I whisper, relinquishing her arm and giving the back of her palm a brief, appeasing pat.

She sighs, smoothes her attire, and says nothing.

“I managed to keep half my promise,” I stammer. “Though I did run into you just now, I did not knock you down. No, that I did not do.” Glimpsing the beginnings of a smile upon her thin lips, I inquire, “Are you on your way to breakfast?”

“That was my intention, sir.”

“And I thwarted you, so unforgivably.” I offer her my arm. “Shall I ever be able to worm my way into your good graces, do you think?”

With a quiet chuckle, and a bit of hesitation, she takes the proffered arm and replies, “Certainly not. You could never worm into anything. Barrel, or stampede perhaps, but never worm.”

I laugh, half in humorous appreciation and half in astonishment, for I never suspected hilarity to lurk behind that somber countenance. In fact, I never expected many things from Miss Anne, but now I am once again surprised and amazed. As we wend our way down the stairs, I steal a glance at her from the corner of my eye, noting that she did not appear to have a very restful night, and that the gown she is wearing belongs to Louisa and does not sit quite perfectly on her small and very slender frame. But my hearty response to her joke has brought a smile to her lips and a faint blush of pride to her cheeks, and I grow less concerned for her well-being – fragile she may seem, on borrowed clothes she may at the moment live, but I cannot allow myself to underestimate Miss Anne De Bourgh again!

When we arrive at the dining room, I am surprised that Louisa is not yet there; she is in fact the last person to enter the room, and only after the rest of us are halfway through the meal. Upon being seated, she takes less than she is wont, but I can detect no signs of illness; her complexion is as becoming as ever and she draws Miss Anne into conversation with not a little spirit. Thus, seeing that she appears to be well, I content myself with observing her ministrations on the younger lady. Under my wife’s attentions Miss Anne becomes livelier, her shy smiles and wry turns of humor emerging more often. By the end of the meal, when Darcy and Henry leave for what will be a jaunt in the countryside with their betrotheds – a picnic and a long walk, inspired by today’s unusually warmer weather – Louisa brings up the matter of dress to Miss Anne, urging her to go as soon as may be to Meryton.

“Jane and I are to go to Meryton today,” Bingley announces. “She comes here first to have the housekeeper show her the… to have a look at her future chambers, and then we plan to set out. I am certain she would know where Miss De Bourgh could find appropriate attire. So, what say you, Miss De Bourgh? Shall you join us?”

As Miss Anne assents, Louisa says to the young lady, “I shall go with you another time. Today I am of a mind to rest indoors.”

I frown. “But it is such a lovely day. You do not wish to take advantage of it?”

She pats my hand, almost reassuringly. “I shall sit by an open window. But you, Gilroy, must certainly go. While the ladies are occupied with their business, someone will need to keep poor Charles company.”

Very well, I think, and then, as we all rise to leave the room, Bingley draws up alongside me and grasps my arm. “It is good of you to join us, Hurst. I have a matter of some delicacy to speak of with you… while the ladies visit the shops, perhaps you and I might have ourselves a drink?”

“Certainly,” I mumble, wondering what the delicate matter pertains to and feeling somewhat wary when faced with the flush on Bingley’s cheeks. Fortunately my curiosity will not have to wait much longer to be appeased. Miss Jane’s tour of her chambers-to-be is quick and concludes with her sincere assertion that there is nothing she would wish to change in any room. That finished, I leave Louisa in the parlor with some embroidery, and join the trio in the carriage, taking a seat alongside Bingley, who – for the entire ride – pokes at Miss Jane with his foot with what he believes to be discretion, as Miss Anne turns her gaze out the window and I marshal every effort not to smirk and roll my eyes.

The carriage stops at the Goose and Gander, a respectable inn not far from all the dressmaking establishments, and as the ladies go off to make their purchases, whom do Bingley and I encounter but Colonel Foxtrot, emerging from the nearby bookshop with a parcel in hand. Shimmering brilliantly, he plods over to us and gives us his usual slow, solemn bow.

“Good day to you,” he intones. “Is everything well at Netherfield?”

“There is nothing I can think to complain of,” Bingley replies.

He nods. “I dined yesterday evening at Longbourn and heard of what transpired. I hope that the young lady, Miss De Bourgh, is in tolerable spirits today.”

“That she is,” I answer, “and I marvel at it. With such a harridan for a mother…”

“Now, Hurst,” Bingley gently cuts in, “Lady Catherine is not a harridan, exactly.” He forces a smile. “She was merely a bit… out of sorts.”

“Out of sorts?” I snort. “She had, and still has, a bat loose in her skull. And to threaten her daughter in that way, before the eyes of the world…”

“It can only be a sign that she cares deeply for Miss De Bourgh. No doubt her heart was wounded by her daughter’s refusal to accompany her back to London; she was not only angered but was most likely hurt as well. Though we all could have hoped for a more understanding response, I am not astonished at her reaction.”

“Bingley, you amaze me,” I say. “To defend her in this fashion.”

“I do not agree with her!” he cries. “But I think I comprehend her feelings. She is an old woman, Hurst. Her daughter is her only child; perhaps, even now, she is writing a letter to Miss De Bourgh expressing her wish to make amends. You cannot know it…”

No, I cannot, blast him. And though Lady Catherine has risen not one whit in my esteem, Bingley’s interpretation of the lady’s circumstances do burrow into my mind, causing me to derive less satisfaction with each ill-favored thought I have of her.

“And what of her attempted interference in regards to her nephews?”

He has to struggle a little harder with that one. A stupefied smile begins to creep up his face, and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Well…” he begins, after clearing his throat a few times, “I believe that she was convinced of her doing them good. Perhaps the execution of her good intentions was a bit, er, clumsy, but she did speak with a great deal of feeling. And that is something, is it not? It reveals to us the honesty of her opinions… and it is always refreshing to see a lady speak with forthrightness.” He chuckles. “So, Foxtrot, what have you got there in your hand?”

Foxtrot, who witnessed our exchange with perfect equanimity, informs us that it is a journal for Miss Mary. “I am encouraging her to pen each of her pearls of wisdom. One day they shall become immortalized, I am certain of it.”

“As in a published volume?” I murmur.

“Oh, yes. From the Mouth of Mary – that is what I would call it.”

“Do you think Jane would like such an item?” asks Bingley. He then looks at each of us, as if we would know his beloved’s tastes better than he. “I daresay she would,” he continues, “for she possesses a beautiful hand. Far more elegant than mine. Hurst, you would not mind if I purchase one for her… before we have our little talk?”

I am beginning to get a bit concerned about this “little talk,” but I let the lad go without betraying my puzzlement. As he trots briskly across the road I turn to Foxtrot and, with a shake of my head, say, “He’s not a stupid fellow. He’s not entirely devoid of perception. But I wonder, Foxtrot, how he can always dredge up such unlikely arguments in defense of those who would never put in a good word for others.”

“Some of his arguments may be likely… you do not know that they aren’t.”

“Yes, yes,” I mutter, “but he always comes to their rescue so earnestly. I remember the time I told him of Captain Denny, about how he nearly robbed my poor, infirm mother… and after frowning once or twice, he set off inquiring into any noble motives the fiend might have had in coveting her money, or whether it wasn’t one enormous misunderstanding. A misunderstanding! Can you believe it?” I sigh. “Sometimes I cannot comprehend his disposition… at times it seems to me that he is afflicted with a sort of blindness. Or maybe he is more foolish than I’ve always thought.”

Foxtrot is quiet for a moment, so very quiet that I am nearly convinced that I offended him with my unabashedly candid speech. Or perhaps I’ve merely surprised him; Lord knows I’m a bit taken aback myself, having never voiced my exasperation with Bingley’s naïve obstinacy so thoroughly. Nevertheless, regardless of what lies in those brief moments behind the Colonel’s grave, staring eyes and the craggy, hair-ridden contours of his face, it is he who shocks me.

“Hurst,” he says, “you know Abraham, do you not?”

I blink. “Abraham who?”

“Abraham, our Patriarch.”

“Ah… him. Well, not personally.”

He takes a deep breath and attains a distant, misty look that could convey either great wisdom or the fact that his mind has just evaporated into smoke. In any case, given the way his lips begin to move, I know that he is verging on some unforgettable utterance, and so I pay close heed.

“Abraham is known for many singular moments, Hurst, but perhaps his greatest was when he interceded for Sodom and Gomorrah. Even as a man of “ash and dust” he asked of the Lord whether the cities would be destroyed if there were fifty righteous men found within. No? Then what of forty-five? No? Then what of thirty? And onwards down to ten… Abraham took it upon himself to speak in the defense of a depraved population, hoping all the while that there would be a redeeming goodness in its midst… a handful of people who could deflect divine wrath from everyone.” He glances in the direction of Bingley’s light-footed departure. “To me, his attempts to see the good are not ridiculous. Mr. Bingley has got a spark of the patriarch in him.”

He says nothing more. He does not have to. And as for myself, I am struck dumb. There are certain moments in life where one cannot help but look like a landed fish, and this is one of them. How on earth can I do justice to the reflections that this speech inspires? There is a welter of impressions within my thick skull, a whorl of feelings – shame for one, fraught with the kind of trembling that courses through a man’s soul when he perceives the limits of his intellect, of his insight, of the sharp eye he was convinced could see everything… and as if that is not enough to render me immobile, I am paralyzed by the surprise of it all, that Foxtrot – with his orange shrubbery, his ridiculously grave mannerisms, his occasional preachy pettiness, his Round Table notions of romance and personal grievance – that he could produce such profundity… and that as a result I should look upon Bingley differently than before… Bingley, whose character was so fixed in my mind as the good-hearted, puppy-dog sort of soul… to be given this new perspective of him almost makes me swell up in awe. Well, it’s not as if I’m imagining him with a great white beard and a nomad’s robes, but I have to admit that I’ve usually been a bit dismissive of him, and perhaps not always with justice.

Hmmm… now I wonder if Foxtrot is waiting for me to say something in reply, but I suppose not, for the moment I gather up enough strength to meet his eye, he grabs the end of his glaring cloak, draws it across his broad body with dramatic flair, and after bestowing upon me a slow nod and a whispered farewell, directs his portentous tread down the road to Longbourn, while I stand, bemused, benumbed, watching those braids sway in time with his heavy step.

“Hurst? Hurst?” Bingley’s hand settles on my shoulder. “Is anything the matter? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!”

I blink, and realize that Foxtrot is gone from my vision, and that only the throngs of Meryton remain before me.

“No ghost, Abe,” I murmur, giving my head a brisk shake.

His brows knit in confusion. “Abe?”

“Never mind. What say we have our drink” – Lord knows I need one – “and have our talk as well.” As he reluctantly removes his hand from me and leads the way into the inn, I promise myself that – to make up for nearly convincing myself that he was a fool and voicing that thought to another – I shall earnestly listen to all that Bingley has to say, and rouse myself to speak at length in reply. It is nothing less than he deserves, after all.

We receive our drinks, and as I immediately dive into my own, I can see that what Bingley has on his mind is not an easy topic. He licks his lips for several long moments, and crosses and uncrosses his legs more times than I can count, and only when I’ve drained my glass does he lean forward and get to the matter at hand.

“Hurst?” he whispers. “I… how shall I begin… Hurst, I…”

“What is it?” I gently soothe, thinking of how generous I shall be with him now, how nobly I shall repay him for all his kindnesses to humanity.

“Hurst, what happens on one’s wedding night?”

A peculiar look must be stealing over my face, for Bingley immediately inquires, “Is your drink not agreeing with you?”

“It is, it is,” I choke, thankful that the very same beverage was not in my mouth when he posed his question; liquor would not look good dripping from Bingley’s face.

He sits back and appraises me worriedly. “It's my question, isn't it... If I am making you uncomfortable, please tell me…”

“No, no,” I protest, moved by the beginnings of dejection that I see in his face. “Not uncomfortable at all…” Discomposed, perhaps, and dissettled, troubled and terrified and downright awkward, but not uncomfortable. No, sir.

“Please do not misunderstand me,” he goes on. “I know of what is considered to be the, er, the essentials… I know of the basic configuration, but… that is not all there is to it, am I right?”

Configuration? I call for another drink.

“You see, I know of the very beginnings, and I know a thing or two about the concluding arrangement, but how to get from… how to get from one point to the other… and how to behave at all times… it seems a complicated business.”

Make that two drinks.

“So all I really need to know is how to ease the way, so to speak. I can guess at your thoughts, Hurst – you are wondering how a man of my age could not be, erhm, could not be acquainted with all of this…”

No, I was actually wondering how he would react if I shouted, “Quick, look behind you!” and then ran out of the room. But now that he mentions it, how indeed does a man of his age – a man of sense and education – not know more of such things? I look at him expectantly.

“I am an innocent,” he says. “I’ve never gone beyond a flirtation here, a caress there… and although I’ve heard talk of the subject in some of the company that I’ve kept – from which, as I’ve said, I’ve learnt a thing or two – I found a lot of it to be quite crude and vulgar.” He shakes his head. “Ah, Hurst, I know my own desires but…”

“I understand, I understand,” is my quick interruption. I look at him, head fairly hanging, arms crossed over his lap, one cherubic golden curl dangling down to his averted eyes, and I sigh. Poor Bingley… it’s not as if it’s a bad thing to arrive at his state on one’s wedding day; quite the contrary, it is the ideal – is it not? – that a man know none but the woman to be his wife, and vice versa. But if he has not known a woman before, then he’d better know about knowing women.

This I tell him. And he replies, “Oh, yes, I agree. Because it’s not for the lady to know, is it?”

“Unfortunately, that is the case.” I clear my throat. “Tell me, have you spoken to… to your betrothed on this subject?”

He blushes and scratches the back of his head in such a charmingly flustered manner, that I promise myself anew to help him in any way I can… even if the impulse to crawl beneath furniture continuously assails me as I speak.

“We’ve touched upon it,” he answers and then, realizing the implications of his words, blushes anew. “She told me that Mrs. Bennet spoke a few words on the subject.”

“Then you really have a Herculean task ahead of you.” I lean forward. “You must disabuse her of what she’s heard.”

“I could not agree with you more,” he says with no little feeling.

“Because although it is almost always a bit uncomfortable or unpleasant for a lady on her wedding night, you must remember that you are making a love match, Bingley, and that it in itself insures a kind of closeness and that mutual pleasure may still be found… or at least some forgiveness, afterwards. Look at it this way – you shall be stuck with each other for the rest of your lives, and so you will be forced to… to learn to derive enjoyment from one another, if not the first time then eventually.”

I wonder what I’ve said that is making him look at me as if my voice has suddenly soared a few octaves. “A bit unpleasant?” he echoes. “Why, Hurst… Mrs. Bennet said nothing of the sort. She said… that it was absolutely amazing.”

Now I must be looking at him the same way he was looking at me, because he quickly adds, “I’m not joking. And she spoke in earnest… Jane said she had a rather far-off look in her eyes. And although she did not go into any details, she did tell my angel that I would know how to do everything, and that I was to be trusted to… to behave as superbly as Mr. Bennet had and… and that it gets bad only as the years pass.”

My drinks have arrived, and for that I am thankful. One I immediately empty and the other… the other I save for further surprises down the road.

After wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I murmur, “Well, Bingley, it appears that Mr. Bennet was quite the strutting rooster… but are you certain she did not say such things only to put Miss Jane at ease?”

“Oh, no… she was in earnest. Jane told me that even her sisters remarked upon it, for you see, she had the same talk with Elizabeth and Mary.”

Hmmm, then it appears that Darcy and Foxtrot are going to have a lot to live up to as well. Dare I wonder if they are primed for such a supreme challenge?

“Bingley, again I shall not lie to you… though it appears that Mr. Bennet broke the mold, so to speak, it is as I described before… in most cases, that is.”

“You do speak from experience, after all…” he haltingly remarks, and then turns an even darker red.

Well, come to think of it, I muse, fighting down another impulse to bolt out the door, for Louisa it was more displeasure than discomfort. And for me it was more anxiousness than anything else. I reach for that second drink and take a fortifying sip.

“Indeed, I assume you approached me because I am a married man…” I reply, deciding that it would be best not to state the obvious and add that I am married to his sister.

“And what of the other part of Mrs. Bennet’s, er, comments? Does it really get worse as the years pass?”

Not for me it didn’t! “Mmmm… not necessarily,” I say as nonchalantly as possible. “In fact, it can be… quite the opposite.”

“Live and learn then?” he suggests, looking slightly relieved.

“Yes indeed – live and learn.”

He sinks back in his chair and stares up at the ceiling. “But what to do now…” he wonders aloud. “The expectations a lady will have of her gentleman… there is no way I could possibly be like Mr. Bennet.”

Oh, no, Hurst, don’t let your drink go down the wrong pipe! “I agree, I agree… expectations, Bingley. You know, it’s perfectly excusable for a lady to be nervous on her wedding night, but no one ever thinks of us.”

“They certainly do not!” he exclaims with surprising force. And then adds, with his usual gallantry, “But it is necessary, I suppose, to keep the ladies chaste and pure…”

“Bah! Chastity is one thing, ignorance another. It makes matters all the more difficult… I mean, think about it. Either they’re told of horrible unpleasantness or… or they’re fed ridiculous love stories their whole lives with none of the relevant details, but all of the false expectations. Real life isn’t like that! As if any of us – you, me, Darcy – could appear in a love story. It’s beyond imagining!”

He laughs. “A fine joke indeed.”

“And yet – as if we were parading across the pages of such a nauseating poem or novel – we are supposed to be magnificent at all times. Think of the pressure, Bingley!”

“We gentlemen are an oppressed lot,” he sighs.

But I’m only getting warmed up. “The ladies are kept ignorant, we are expected to know exactly what to do, and then when the time comes, we’re nervous! It’s perfectly natural to be nervous the way you are, Bingley, for although there are some awful boors out there who wouldn’t care a bit about the comfort of their brides, good-hearted lads like us… we tremble and quake at the thought of going into a wedding chamber and making everything right… and enlightening, and being enlightened all at once…”

“So what shall I do?” my companion implores.

Ah, so now we come to the crux of the matter. And – having arrived at this crux – I falter, for my brief speech has come to a close, and I am at a lack for ideas. Or good ideas, rather.

“Mmm… I suppose, Bingley, you must be a bit of a lady yourself on your wedding night – excessively solicitous, a bit more dainty in your movements, and not above shedding a few tears.”

Unfortunately my words fail to comfort, enlighten, or do anything else but make him look more confused. “Hurst, but as I said before, all I need is a means of… of getting from one point to another… what are some things I might do?” He continues quickly. “Perhaps give me an analogy, if it is too discomforting to speak directly.”

Analogy, eh? Oh, G-d, have mercy on me! “Well,” I plow on, “a woman, Bingley, is like a very fine sweet – a chocolate, if you will – nestled in a beautiful, er, wrapping. Gold and silver and lace and… and you can’t very well eat the chocolate with the wrapping; therefore, you must do away with it. However, the wrapping often sticks to the chocolate, so you must peel it away ever so slowly, even if it takes you damn near half the night… and yes, you can nibble on the chocolate here and there, but you can’t eat it until it’s unwrapped and then when it is… and then when it comes to the chocolate itself… if you pop it in your mouth all at once, true it shall feel quite good, but then there won’t be any chocolate left and there will still be some hours yet, and you’ll have nothing to do but… pat at your mouth with a handkerchief and wish for more… but, depending on certain circumstances, there may not be more. So you must eat the chocolate bit my bit, sliver by sliver, with all the patience at your disposal. Because you see…!” Here I clear my throat. “Because you see, there are many facets to a single piece of chocolate… the sides may be smooth while the top is… ridged. And as for the, um, well, what’s at the center…”

Mercifully he interrupts me. “I think I begin to understand you,” he says.

Oh, that’s likely. “Do you really?” I inquire.

“I… I begin to.” He rubs his chin. “Patience is not one of my stronger traits. Perhaps… as a lesson in patience… I shall take a piece of chocolate to my room and spend several hours eating it. How does that sound to you?”

“Um… good. And while eating it try, I don’t know, counting backwards in French from one hundred, reciting the names of all of England’s monarchs – and linger on the particularly ugly ones, like Henry VIII…”

He nods, and with a pleasant mien drinks in my floundering attempts at advice. His silence encourages the false hope that my role as bumbling mentor has concluded, but before I can settle back contentedly and enjoy my well-earned freedom he says, “What does it compare to… eating this sweet, this chocolate? What behavior does it translate to…?”

I quietly review my analogy and realize that I’m not quite clear about it myself… at least not on all points.

“Well, Hurst, can you tell me?”

I sigh. At this rate he really shall be like Abraham, and sire his first child when he’s one hundred. “You know what?” I reply, settling on the best possible arrangement for the both of us. “Ask Darcy.”

Bingley frowns. “But Darcy isn’t… he has never wed.”

No, I think, but even if he does not possess the practical knowledge, I am certain he has read every book on the subject, taken notes, mapped diagrams, reviewed all strategic maneuvers and tactical deployments… “It matters not… he shall have further wisdom to add to the subject.”

“Do you think he’d mind if I asked?”

“Why would he mind?” I reply, attempting to appear innocent. “I think it best” – for both our sakes – “that you ask more of him…”

That agreed upon, Bingley and I shake hands and – after he thanks me profusely for the services he imagines me to have rendered – leave the inn and meet with the ladies to return to Netherfield. Unsurprisingly, Miss Anne looks to be in even better spirits than before, and Bingley cannot glance at Miss Jane without blushing, especially after she brandishes a small package of sweets that she purchased for their enjoyment during tea.

While the three of them go off to the drawing room upon our arrival, I search through the other rooms for my wife, but fail to immediately find her. This frustrates me exceedingly for in my estimation I’ve had a day that could set one’s head spinning. Revelation upon revelation… everyone acting as I’d never imagined them to be capable of acting! Rupert and his sentimentality, Miss Anne and her dry wit, Foxtrot and his Biblical wisdom, and then Bingley… well, that surprised me less, though the conversation was still traumatic. Louisa, I think, Louisa alone will remain as she was yesterday… indeed, the moment I find her I know exactly what shall transpire – I’ll tell her all about my morning… with a few details left unspoken of course… and she’ll titter at my expense, and of course she’ll probably kiss me and then I’ll be at ease once more.

I come across the housekeeper in the dining room and ask her if she has seen my wife, to which she replies that Mrs. Hurst has repaired to our bedchamber. Seized by some vague premonition – for it could only be illness that confines her so, could it not? – I haul myself upstairs and encounter Meryton’s Dr. Leach in the hallway. When he spots me, a half-smile hitches up the corner of his mouth, and he extends his hand.

As I numbly take it, feeling not a little blood drain from my limbs, he says, “I hope it shall be a fine child, Mr. Hurst.”

For one absurd moment, I am convinced that he is speaking of Louisa’s maid – Rupert’s future wife – and her condition. But then the good doctor takes it upon himself to guide me into the room, where Louisa is reclining by the fire with a very satisfied expression on her face.

Now, if you were the proud father-to-be, presented with such joyous prospects, faced with the fruit of your longing, what would you do? Stifle tears, I suppose. Rush over to your wife and engulf her in a well-deserved embrace. Utter a prayer of gratitude. Indeed, those are all exemplary behaviors, and how a proper future father should conduct himself. And believe me – please believe me – I would have done all those things, had I not pitched forward in a dead faint.

Chapter 24

Posted on Tuesday, 16 September 2003, at

My bedchamber is quite dark when I open my eyes at last, and for a few blank moments I find myself uncertain of my whereabouts. I am lying on the bed, a wet cloth on my forehead, and a peculiar throbbing above my left eye. Gingerly I poke the sensitive spot and wince.

Hmmm… how did I get this bruise? And then it occurs to me: I fainted. Aha! But why did I faint? I look around me, as if the answer lies somewhere in the otherwise empty room, and yet the reason for my shameful tumble eludes me. I peer left, I peer right, and then I peer straight over my great big heaving belly…

Oh, that’s right. Louisa’s pregnant!

I struggle to my feet. The room momentarily spins and enlightenment dawns within my knocked up skull. Oh Lord, how shall I ever show my face to her again? For it becomes all too clear… the moment I learned of her condition, I rushed face-first to the floor… and in full view of Dr. Leach, as well. As if it isn’t bad enough that I unmanned myself before my wife, the doctor too had to witness it! He’s probably sitting down to dinner even now, regaling his family with amusing tales about the lady-like Gilroy Hurst and his delicate sensibilities…

Dinner. That’s where Louisa must be. Dare I grovel before all who are assembled? “My dear wife, believe me I am truly happy to have heard the news of your most blessed condition, but I suddenly found myself fascinated with the intricate designs upon the carpet and so sought to have a closer look…”

I touch my bruise again and flinch. As I thought – there is no way I could have landed on a carpet or anything soft. Must think of a better excuse (and must endeavor to sound less like Mr. Collins).

I think all the way down the stairwell, and all the way to the dining room, and still by the time I join the diners, I can think of nothing to say or do but lower myself humbly in the seat alongside my wife and give her my best beseeching look.

“Hurst, how does your head feel?” Bingley inquires, laying down his fork.

“As long as I keep my fingers off it, quite all right, thank you.”

“Good,” says Henry, “you had us worried. Your wife was sitting with you until a quarter of an hour ago; it took us quite some effort to persuade her to leave your clumsy self and eat. You really should take care not to trip over furniture like that.”

Trip over furniture? Louisa’s hand clamps down on my knee, and I then understand that she did not yet break the joyous news to everyone (or reveal to them the paltry extent of my strength). “What furniture did I trip over, my dear?” I murmur, peeling her hand off my leg and raising it to my lips. “I don’t quite remember.”

“A chair with a very soft cushion…” she replies, attempting to appear unmoved by my gallantry. My eyes flicker to her midsection. Oh, the marvel of it all! “Forgive me,” I whisper, bending closer to her ear. “My reaction in no way reflected–”

“I know,” she interrupts, and not without a slight softening of her features. “Now would you please stop staring at my stomach?”

Abruptly I relinquish her hand and turn to my food, noting with some gratefulness that Henry, Darcy, and Miss Anne have pointedly ignored this intimate exchange between man and wife, though Bingley has watched us both quite raptly. It appears that we have reminded him of something, for almost immediately after Louisa utters her absolution and remonstrance, he says, “Darcy… do you mind if…?”

Darcy stares at him expectantly.

“Do you mind if we have a little talk after dinner? There’s a matter of… some delicacy that I wish to discuss with you… in private.”

I cough on the piece of poultry currently in my mouth, prompting the dark lad to send a suspicious glance my way. “Very well,” he replies at last.

“Marvelous!” Bingley exclaims and then – oh, blast him, does he really have to do this? – winks at me across the table! Needless to say, Darcy espies this giddy signal, and his face further hardens with wariness. But alas it is too late… he has committed himself to this talk, and all I can hope is that he handles it better than I did earlier.

So it is that Henry and I forgo our smoke with the other two gentlemen, and make our way to the drawing room instead, where he speaks to his cousin of a new play in town while Louisa and I seek out privacy on one of the sofas.

“Again forgive me,” I begin. “I am so… I am overcome by this, my love.”

She is not a little overcome as well, but unlike in myself, I detect no signs of imminent fainting. “Oh, Gilroy, my dear. To think, it has come at last.” She sighs, turns away, and then lightly smacks my arm. “Did you know that not even smelling salts could rouse you?”

“Really?”

“Yes! And to think, I had to worry for you, and dote on you, and tend to that bump on your head, when I should have been the coddled one!”

“I promise to commence coddling tomorrow.”

“You had better.” She frowns. “Not even smelling salts. You obstinate, peculiar man! Oh, I know… I should have held some food under your nose – THAT would have gotten you to your feet.”

“Cease complaining, woman. Do you think it can’t hear you in there?” I point to her belly. “If you keep going on like this, it will never want to come out and face you.”

“Of course it won’t! It would be too afraid of you falling on it.”

We roll our eyes then, she and I, and – resolving to be the more mature one, at least at present – I ask her when she would like to make the announcement. With a burgeoning smile she replies, “When my brother and Mr. Darcy join us.”

I wish to tell her that in that case we might have to wait for hours, but I think better of it and remain silent. Such a statement would only serve to arouse her curiosity, and she would persist questioning/cajoling/threatening me until I caved in, and then she would never be able to look at her brother the same way again. No, no, best to wait quietly and leave her ignorant of this trifling point.

Fortunately, it is not as long a duration as I expected (didn’t I always tell you that Darcy was an effective speaker?) Bingley stumbles into the room first, a strange smile on his lips, an unholy light in his eyes, as if his heretofore innocent mind is now swiftly stoking fiery scenarios… and then there’s Darcy, his face mortified and dark, footfalls heavy and deliberate, directing him straight to the drinks, but not before he sends a baleful glance my way, a penetrating glare that seems to say, “Midnight. At the front lawn. Bring a pistol.”

Oh, how I shiver under that black stare but – and here I must cackle in triumph! – I know the perfect way to deflect his roiling anger.

“I have some wonderful news to announce!” I proclaim, and find myself met with what seems to be a number of unspoken reactions. Henry: Hmmm… relieved he didn’t rise to his feet and trip over himself. Miss Anne: Poor man – if he had more hair he could have concealed that bruise. Bingley: (thoughts currently unprintable). Darcy: Go on, announce your news, you perfidious clod! I shall bide my time…

“Mrs. Hurst and I are expecting a child in… in…” Splendid, Hurst. The one question you forgot to ask.

“Late summer, perhaps August,” Louisa sighs, but then flashes her satisfied grin again as Henry plants a kiss on her cheek, and Miss Anne presses her hand, and Bingley comes out with, “Babies, eh? Marvelous… heh, heh… such a joy to bring into the world!” and Darcy, setting aside his drink, congratulating my wife and then – after Henry has slapped my back out of place – turning to me and uttering, “My felicitations, Hurst.” His lips purse, ever so slightly. “Allow me to also add that I am honored by your faith in the breadth of my knowledge.”

“Indeed,” I reply, risking my luck, “yours is the sort of intellect that is always probing, always plunging into the unknown. I could not help but recommend that the ignorant among us consult it.”

Oh my. The midnight-dueling glare is back, cold and deadly, but thankfully – after a glance at my glowing wife – it soon relents and is replaced by more of a tarring-and-feathering-shall-suffice sort of stare. Contrite, I stick out my hand (which he shakes with an undue amount of force), and we are friends once more.

Now, speaking of friendship – as if we weren’t close enough already! – the common experience of being expectant fathers has bonded Rupert and myself to an even greater degree. Not that I’m always proud of our behavior… it seems that the two of us have the tendency of taking our wives’ unique sensibilities and incorporating them into ourselves. For instance, Louisa is a bit more tired and prone to falling asleep than she was before conceiving, and as a result I find that I too am suffering through the same sort of sluggishness, which I don’t believe ever afflicted me before…

All right, perhaps Rupert shall serve as a better example. His future bride is a few months further along than my wife and is showing her condition more pronouncedly. And – wouldn’t you know it? – Rupert too has acquired a rounded belly and a healthier appetite. Not that he’s reached Hurstian proportions (believe me, he would have a long ways to go before he even came close), but he is no longer the perfectly scrawny scamp he always was. Thankfully his changes in mass don’t seem to perturb him all too much because, as it is, I hear enough about ballooning, bloating, and bulging from Louisa. Even though she is still at her usual size, daily she muses, “What if I grow to be extremely fat?” To which I reply, with all the husbandly wisdom at my disposal: “If that were the case, my love, we’d be even more well-matched!” Unfortunately (and perhaps unsurprisingly), my remark always fails to produce its intended reaction (a response that involves 1) a declaration of my being the greatest husband that ever walked the face of the Earth and 2) a severely deranged bed). Granted, Louisa doesn’t sob hysterically or descend upon me with flailing fists, but she does fold her arms over her chest and jut her lip out approximately three miles from her face. The Pregnant Pout, I (secretly) call it, even more exaggerated than her usual moue. And when confronted with it, what else can I do but nibble on that sumptuous lip until it’s down to size?

But sweet dalliances aside, one trend that exceedingly alarms me is that Rupert and I are undeniably more womanish than before. My conversations are increasingly peppered with references to baby blankets and nursery décor, and when I speak of these subjects a giddy, twitchy sort of feeling seizes hold of my heart and prompts me to tap my toes (not quietly either) on the floor, even when others are present. Rupert seems to be experiencing similarly odd symptoms – for instance, every other day he babbles on about the chicks in Hill’s stillroom, and pats his stomach absent-mindedly while doing so. I’ve pointed out this frequent stomach-patting (which often evolves into downright rubbing) to him whenever I catch him at it, but he cannot seem to stop. He’ll drop his arm to the side, certainly, but within minutes it will be back on his belly again.

The one night where he is once again seized by rakish impulses happens to be the eve of his wedding. As he assists in readying me for bed, he nonchalantly mentions his inclination to go out to Meryton and have himself some fun, seeing as tomorrow he will finally have to settle down and begin to grow into an old, married bore with hair exploding out of his nose and ears. However, knowing his ideas of entertainment, I order him to remain at Netherfield and, as a means of placation, ply him with drink until he is properly pickled. Though he does awaken the next morning with an awful ache in his head, at least he arrives at his nuptials on time, which would have not been the case had he pursued his original agenda.

Bingley’s housekeeper throws Rupert and his bride a lovely party after the ceremony, and my valet looks to be a bit more comfortable now that he has settled into his fate as an officially shackled man. He laughs with his wife, kisses her soundly in front of all and, on occasion, ruefully ogles a few of the guests. Oh, well… as long as his eyes roam, and nothing else. Any lingering regrets he may have are done away with when I present him with my gift – a promise to have his future child educated and well-employed; if it be a boy I shall see that he is trained in religion or law, and if it be a girl I will insure that she is nothing less than a governess or (employing my extraordinary match-making skills) that she is settled comfortably, respectably, and lovingly in marriage. Suffice it to say that, after I pronounce my pledge, Rupert is so touched that tears spring to his eyes. When he returns from the week’s leave I give him, looking refreshed and replete, he even conducts himself with utmost respect towards me for three whole days – three days, can you believe it? – before lapsing once more into his usual impertinence. And now that he’s married, not a day goes by when he doesn’t speculate about the upcoming quadruple wedding and the kinds of marriages it shall bring forth.

Guests begin to flow in on the Ides of February. The first to arrive are The Colonel and Miss Darcy – she, sweet as always, good-tempered, an immediate favorite among the Bennet girls, an instant friend of Miss Anne… and he, I have to admit, less mad than before. Last we left Funny Fitz, Henry had lectured him most seriously about his conduct as a man craving constant military action, which made The Colonel decide to channel his crackling energy towards writing a book. This he tells me of one morning after breakfast, when he accosts me during a solitary walk through the garden.

“It is almost finished,” he whispers in conspiratorial tones. Briefly I meet his eyes, note that they are bright, but not in a particularly cracked sort of way, and bestow upon him an encouraging nod. Rubbing his hands together he continues, “I have of late found three publishers who are interested. Is that not wonderful?”

Indeed, I congratulate him, and then inquire into the content of his work.

“It is a novel, but written with the lofty tone of an epic. I have some poetry in there too – no endeavor can be truly noble without poetry – but in any case, how shall I tell you of it, it’s really quite complex… there’s a man – fair-haired, sparkling-eyed, cuts a fine figure and is a favorite among any woman not blind or decrepit with age – well, come to think of it, a favorite among those as well – but one day his brain becomes possessed by demons…”

“Demons?”

“Yes, awful things. They assume the form of flying sheep with red eyes and flaming wool. And, by G-d, their teeth… but as I was saying, so plagued is this dashing man by these demons that the leaves England, and for pages he wanders about Europe… it’s so fashionable for novels these days to have glimpses of life on the Continent… and he winds up in Egypt.”

“Egypt?”

“Yes… which, as you know, is not in Europe. But that is exactly the point! He’s on entirely exotic soil… and it is here we see that the demons in his brain were spawned by the Egyptian sheep goddess!”

“Egypt has a sheep goddess?”

“It does now. I’ve called her Ovinia Divinia! And she has tormented this poor man in England because she wishes to engage him in a challenge. A challenge to discover the source of the Nile!” He licks his lips. “You see she knows that he is the bravest, boldest, most beautiful Englishman in the world, and so naturally if anyone could surmount her challenges, it would be him.”

“Erhm, Colonel, I believe my wife is expecting me now…”

“But a moment more, a moment more… in any case, this near-god of a man – though flattered that the goddess would select him as a worthy opponent – is also rather humble, and he knows that he shall not be able to brave the wilds that await him without assistance. Any conjectures as to the source of his aid?”

“A giant shepherdess?”

“No, no… another goddess… a half woman, half bird.”

“You mean, a harpy?”

“No, no… her name is Caralhina! Half-woman, half-hen… now, which is her better half, I’d be hard-pressed to say, but…”

So he hadn’t forgotten that bird after all. Abaddon’s widow, who would have made him less of a man had there never been a cage between them. Touched by his bizarre devotion, I take the opportunity to inform him that he can visit that beloved bird at Longbourn and get a good look not only at her beautiful self, but at her brood as well. So exceedingly pleased is he by this felicitous news that he ceases his merciless narration and exclaims on the miracles of nature, while wondering aloud if motherhood has altered the sheen of his darling’s feathers and softened her heart. Then, in what he thinks to be a sly manner, he drops a particularly disturbing question: “Is it true that Bingley has a sister by the name of Caroline?”

“Er… yes, but… she’s not nearly as pleasant as the bird.”

At present he appears to absorb my cautionary words, but their import flies out of his head the moment he lays eyes on the woman herself. For you see, Caroline – apparently eager not to break off ties altogether with her brother – is the next guest to arrive at Netherfield. With false charm for her brother, coolness and reticence for her sister, and general insincerity for the rest of us, she does not particularly endear herself to anyone… with the exception of The Colonel of course, who – upon taking one look at her befeathered elegance – utters an appreciative “cockadoodle doo” under his breath and attaches himself to her for the evening. Imagine his dismay then – and our collective surprise – when she announces that she is already engaged! Apparently, Lady Catherine found her quite the envious match in the form of Lord Brittleburn, a young peer of good connections, sizeable fortune, and extensive property… all in Scotland. A pity – with Caroline all the way up north, does this mean we shall be seeing less of her? The tears, how they threaten to overflow! Fortunately, Scotland is not the only facet of Lord Brittleburn’s life that recommends the lad. He is seven years younger than his future bride and, from spotting him once or twice in London, I can tell you with certainty that he’s a skinny, sallow, jaundiced sort of thing, whose favorite activity involves lying on a sofa and stifling yawns. An utterly lazy fellow, prone to inertia, immoveable in body and spirit… reminds me of myself when I was younger, only thinner and stupider.

Although it appears that Caralhina’s, er, Caroline’s tidings have prompted one member of our party to visit Longbourn forthwith and sulk in the company of Hill’s hen, her arrival brings a bit of happy surprise to Miss Anne. Do not mistake me – Anne is certainly not overjoyed to see the sneering creature – but instead is encouraged by the correspondence that the creature passes on from Lady Catherine. Yes, you read correctly… Lady Catherine has written a letter to her daughter, and as soon as it falls into Miss Anne’s hands, she calls my wife into private conference, and for a good hour the two sit poring over its contents. Unable to contain my curiosity, I pounce on Louisa almost as soon as she emerges from the young lady’s bedchamber.

“She mentioned nothing of the argument, and wrote nothing of her daughter being missed at home. But, what pleases the both of us most exceedingly,” says Louisa, “is that the tone of the letter is polite and solicitous throughout. Her mother inquires after her health and the manner in which she passes her time… it’s as if nothing is amiss between them.”

Apparently Bingley did have insight into the old bat’s character. She is too proud to beg her daughter to return home, yet she possesses too much of a mother’s feelings to entirely spurn her. “How is Miss Anne to respond?” I ask.

“We discussed this at length and determined that she should reply in kind. A polite letter, inquiring after her mother, relating to her the inconsequential goings about in Netherfield, perhaps mentioning the upcoming nuptials once or twice… though I doubt Lady Catherine would wish to attend.”

And so a correspondence starts between a stubborn mother and an equally stubborn daughter, each not giving in to the silent wish of the other… a correspondence that, according to Louisa, is full of temperateness and courteousness and equanimity. Indeed, Lady C of the implacable fury does not appear at the church on February 24th, does not set foot outside of Rosings Park, but she does manage to pen advice to her dear daughter about what dresses to purchase for day-to-day wear, what food she should eat in order to fortify herself, and what books she should be reading in order to learn ladylike docility and obedience. Fortunately, Miss Anne is sensible enough to separate the wheat from the chaff – for fashion she supplements her mother’s well-meaning words with guidance from my wife, Miss Georgiana, the Miss Bennets, and Miss Lucas (note that I left out a certain squawker from the list), and as for books, she solicits the ladies’ opinions as well, in addition to the counsel of Darcy, Henry and myself.

The pangs produced by Lady Catherine’s absence are somewhat alleviated by the arrival of Henry’s parents, the Earl and his amiable wife. Lady Fitzwilliam, fond of laughter and quite a stranger to misery and vexation, takes an immediate liking to her future niece and is also quick to express her approval of her daughter-to-be, especially when she witnesses Miss Lucas’s effect on the Earl’s ordinarily confident, high-handed conduct. To spare himself from embarrassment, the proud old man seeks increasing refuge in my company and also finds a ready friend in the form of Mr. Bennet. The two take to playing chess for hours on end while debating the merits of the various liquors to be found in the younger man's ample collection.

Now, what of the wedding day itself? The cast is assembled, the scene is set, and the ceremony unfolds without further ado. It is a crowded altar, I’ll tell you that, and at several points during the ceremony the elderly reverend blinks and peers almost uncomprehendingly at the brides and grooms, as if thinking to himself, “Why in the world are these people closing in on me?” I’m certain though that Miss Jane’s smiles soothe his perturbed soul; indeed, of the four ladies to be wedded, she looks to be the most tranquil, as if the many pairs of eyes upon her can do nothing to rattle her nerves. At one point, she bestows a sidelong glance upon her groom that is so loving, so tender, it would melt a heart of stone (but unfortunately not Caroline’s, which happens to be made of coal). I wish some of her self-possession would have made its way over to Bingley, whose face is a constant paroxysm of warring sentiments. At one moment his mouth cracks into a wide grin, only to close shut and shrink again as he fights to remain solemn, but no, Bingley can repress a smile about as well as I can restrain myself around food… and the grin is back again, spreading his cheeks, swallowing his eyes, probably frightening the poor clergyman halfway to the grave.

Darcy has no such problem. In fact, given the inflexibility of his posture and the way his arms are jammed at his sides, one would think that he is about to walk the plank or face a firing squad. If I didn’t know any better, I would assume that he had compromised Miss Elizabeth in some way and that Mr. Bennet is at present aiming a pistol at the back of his head. Or perhaps he is merely struggling for control… I glimpsed the manner of his gaze as his bride made her way down the aisle, and I suspect he wants the ceremony to be done with as soon as may be. Miss Elizabeth certainly evinces something that seems like impatience… she occasionally shifts from one foot to the other and sends a wry smile at her humorless groom, who shall probably require her to rub feeling back into his immobile face (later on, of course).

Then there’s Miss Mary, dwarfed by her hairy husband-in-the-making, looking prettier than I’ve ever seen her, though her expression (or what I can see of it, from my vantage point) does grow a tad severe when the clergyman makes a remark regarding wantonness and frivolity. Odd, but those same words inspire the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of Foxtrot’s mouth and prompt him to start stroking his moustache repeatedly.

Brain suddenly bombarded by alarming thoughts, I shift my gaze to the most normal couple, Henry and Miss Charlotte. I can see nothing of their faces, but I’m certain of their happiness and think they look exceedingly well-matched, even from behind, with their dark heads and upright forms and unostentatious clothes. Henry’s mother makes a remark to that effect – “how splendid they look,” she whispers to her husband, and he replies with a grudging nod and the silence of a man who would rather eat glass than admit that he was ever wrong.

As for Mrs. Bennet, she is a continuous stream of tears and little sighs, while Mr. Bennet’s features alternate from expressing amusement to conveying not a little wistfulness, especially when his sharp eyes turn to his second eldest. Miss Kitty, Miss Georgiana, and Miss Anne watch the proceedings with the wide eyes of young ladies who are imagining what standing at the altar must be like and wondering what sorts of secrets marriage keeps hidden behind its respectable façade. And then there are the Gardiners, whose superb company I happened to enjoy quite regularly these past few days. They are both attentive, eyes fixed on the ceremony, heads staring straight ahead… but if they think, for once, that they can conceal their interlocked hands within the folds of Mrs. Gardiner’s shawl, they are gravely mistaken. I shake my head. How shameless of them, really, holding hands in church. What couple their age does that?

Louisa squeezes my hand where it rests within her own, lost in the folds of a shawl whose powers of concealment I am convinced exceed those of Mrs. Gardiner’s apparel. “Stop watching everyone,” she whispers, smiling up at me. Silly woman… her comment has the opposite effect than the one she intends, for rather than receiving it as censure, I construe it as a compliment… obviously, if she noted that I was not paying attention to the proceedings, it means that her eyes were on me and not on the altar. I am simply irresistible, I think, and my chest puffs up with pride, though it doesn’t quite manage to extend farther from my body than what balloons below it. With a sigh I rest my hand upon my belly, a gesture that Louisa happens to mirror at that precise moment. Our eyes catch again, and hold, and all sorts of soppy feelings make a sweet paste of my heart.

“Do you remember our own wedding?” she murmurs.

Oh yes… that I do… but I’m afraid it did not reflect well on either of us. When Louisa stood beside me at the altar those several years ago, she hardly condescended to fling a glance my way, and I could not put a stop to the flood of sweat breaking loose from every pore on my hands and head. And for years, what were we to one another? That is, until a stay at Hertfordshire, with my brief interest in Miss Lucas and her short-lived glee at Foxtrot’s arrival, and then… and then, an awakening.

My thoughts are momentarily interrupted by the reverend, who appears to be stumbling over his words. “This man and this woman… and this man and this woman… and this…” he stares at Foxtrot, clears his throat, and begins anew. “This man and this woman… and this man and this woman… and this man and this woman… and…” pausing for breath…

“We married for all the wrong reasons, Gilroy,” Louisa remarks, stroking her thumb across my palm.

“… this man and this woman…”

“As true as that may be,” I reply, lifting her hand to my lips, kissing it before the eyes of G-d and man, “at least we fell in love for the right ones.”

Epilogue

Posted on Wednesday, 22 October 2003

“Push! Push!” the midwife cries.

A struggle ensues – the clenching of muscles, the squinching of eyes, the baring of teeth… but to no avail. The stubborn thing does not move.

“Harder! Try harder!”

More panting, grunting, perspiration. “If we had a bayonet it’d be easier,” says one of the footmen who had been called up to assist.

“Agreed,” gasps the other. “We could prod him in the –”

“Silence!” the midwife bids. “Save your breath.”

One of them wraps his arms around my waist and, digging his heels into the floor, heaves up against me. The other buries his elbow into my ribs and leans in. Bearing the pain as valiantly as possible, I hug myself tighter to the bedpost, thinking only that if they force me out now, I shall be confined to a state of blind suspense for several long hours, forced to listen to faint screams as I wear out the carpet in another room.

The footmen stagger away. The housekeeper throws her arms up in the air and stalks off, no doubt to speak with Jane. The midwife places her arms upon her hips and informs me, using somewhat cruder terms, that I am a burden to them all. Shocked that she would address a gentleman in such a manner – even if he is a gentleman clinging to furniture – I order her to watch her tone and language.

Ignoring me though, she turns to Elizabeth, who is at present laying a compress on Louisa’s forehead. “Mrs. Darcy, please tell him that he must leave.”

The good lady purses her lips. “I’ve advised him to already, and short of joining the footmen in their endeavors, there is not much else that I can do.” She shakes her head. “I am certain Mr. Darcy shall experience similar feelings come the winter, though it is difficult to imagine him acting upon them in so bizarre a manner…”

Well, of course! No one would gainsay him. Elizabeth shall deliver at Pemberley, and none of the servants there would dare manhandle their master, let alone heap insults upon him. Louisa and myself, however, are not in our London home (the town being a dreadfully unhealthy place in the summer) and are instead at the Bingleys’ new estate – Cheeriton Park, thirty miles from Pemberley – and at the mercy of their uncivilized pack of servants. If it were within my powers, I would have them all shackled to the stocks.

Louisa’s eyes flutter and her gaze falls upon me. “Why are you still here?” she whispers.

Oh great, now I shall have to receive a scolding from her as well! “I told you, my dear, that I am not leaving. My presence is required.”

As the footmen set into their task again, forcing the air out of my lungs, my wife snaps, “There is nothing you can do, Gilroy, which you have not done already!”

Far from feeling wounded though, I smile at her in perfect understanding, knowing full well that her acerbic remarks have their source only in the pain of the moment.

“What we need,” one footman mutters to the other, “is a club of some sort. One blow to the head and we could drag him out...”

The midwife strides over to me, her nose nearly touching my own. “Soon we are to move her from the bed. The doctor is to arrive at any moment. I ask you again, sir, to depart at once!”

To which I reply, “Can a man not lend support to his wife in her hour of need?”

I glance at Louisa again… pale already, damp at her brows and temples, her mouth set in a grim line… only her eyes crackle with their usual fire, and that flame is now directed at me. “You shall faint,” she insists.

“Nay!” I protest, shaking my head. “I promise not to.”

Incredulous silence.

“I promise to try not to.”

At that moment Jane steps into the room. Instantly the midwife backs away from me and beseeches her with a pitiful, “Mrs. Bingley, we cannot make him move.”

Taking a deep breath, my sister kindly asks the footmen to remove their shoulders, elbows, knees and toes from my body. That done, she approaches me with a gentle smile and an air of restraint, looking very much like a doctor who is about to pacify a lunatic.

But I am not mad. Not at all! I hug the bedpost tighter.

“My dear brother,” she begins, “I understand that this is a trying time for you and that you are experiencing a… a strength of feeling that is natural among men in your circumstances, but I do ask of you to –”

“Spare yourself the effort, Jane,” Louisa interrupts. “Gilroy, I have had enough. Come here.”

I shake my head. “Do not think that I fail to see through your ploy. The moment I let go, those two shall pounce on me,” I say, nodding towards the brutal footmen.

Louisa lays a hand on her forehead. “If you do not do as I say, right this minute…”

Our eyes lock in a long silent battle of wills, which, being Louisa, she naturally wins, compelling me to ever so reluctantly relinquish my grip on the post. Barely restraining her mirth, Elizabeth rises from the bedside, making room for me to sit next to my wife and bow my ear to her chastening mouth.

“Gilroy,” she whispers, “you are well aware that I love you to an excessive degree…”

“And it is reciprocated, you know.”

She nods and pats my hand. “As I can see, all too well. However,” she continues, “you have gone quite out of your mind.”

“But – ”

“No buts,” she hisses, wincing at a sudden spasm of pain, yet batting away my soothing hand. “What I suggest is that you go downstairs and avail yourself of my brother’s many fine wines. By the time you return to your senses, I and our child shall await you.”

“But – ”

“Oh, that’s it!” She snaps her fingers and immediately the footmen are upon me. I let out a holler, but my protests fall on uncaring ears. Latched to my elbows, the bewigged monsters drag me from the room, deposit me in the hall, and slam the door behind them.

It is then that the doctor arrives, conducted by Bingley down the corridor. As the footmen admit the elderly man into the chamber, Bingley places an arm around my slumped shoulders and murmurs, “I know of a good place for an exiled husband. Follow me.”

I have no choice but to follow him, because by means of the gentle, yet undeniably firm pressure he exerts on my upper body, he manages to steer me down the stairs and to his study, where Darcy has already poured three glasses of wine.

For a few long moments we observe each other in silence, before taking up our glasses with unsteady fingers. The tension in the air is palpable, so thick I can chew into it like a side of pork. Know this, dear reader, when men congregate at a lying-in, they are little more than fearful fools. Banished to the periphery of the house while their wives play the part of warriors, they know only that the clock ticks far too slowly, and that the scream beyond the wall might be a cry of death. And though it is now Louisa who is braving pain and peril and torment, both Darcy and Bingley are no doubt meditating on what awaits their own wives in several months, placing particular emphasis on the dangers, rather than the joys, associated with the event. Indeed, it is very difficult to dwell on happiness when you are entertaining a husband whose mind has come undone with dread.

“Let us toast,” says Darcy, “to Hurst’s offspring.”

“To the offspring!” we all mumble, raising our glasses, spilling a few drops on the floor, and draining the remaining liquid to the lees.

“Another?” Bingley offers, pouring a second round before we can reply. “To Louisa’s health!” he cries, and again we mumble a heartfelt repetition. My voice, clotted with emotion, is hardly intelligible.

There is no further speech. My companions glance at me several times, forcing smiles or bestowing an encouraging nod or two, but they say nothing. I set down my glass and walk to the window, determined not to stumble down the crooked, grapevine path. If something should go wrong – and G-d help me if it does – I would have to maintain at least the semblance of a stable mind.

Following Darcy’s lead, Bingley takes a seat and crosses his legs. “Well,” he begins, “it is an exciting day, is it not?”

Though his question is a polite exercise in passing time, it is replied to quite seriously by the first muffled cry of the evening. Immediately he and Darcy stiffen, while I drop into the nearest chair and press my face into my palms.

“Well…” whispers Bingley, when the scream is spent and there is no other sound save the rush of held breaths escaping into the world. “Well.”

Darcy, no doubt convinced that his friend’s mouth would be better occupied imbibing drink, pours him another glass. And as Bingley makes short work of it, peering at me over the rim, the dark lad takes to pacing around the room, his arms behind his back. Several times I notice that his fingers stray to his pinky ring, only to pull back at the last moment, as if they are always about to succumb to the temptation of twirling, and yet are ultimately strong enough to resist. Who, I wonder, broke Darcy’s habit of ring-spinning? His wife? Alas, these matters must remain mysteries, for there would be a greater chance of my discovering a lost continent than of Darcy ever admitting to such a thing. In any case, I do not even have the heart to tease him – not about the ring, and certainly not about his newly browned complexion. You see, he and Elizabeth recently returned from a tour of The Lakes, where the sun, it seems, was a tad overzealous in its cookery. Why the light and heat affected his face far more than Elizabeth’s is anybody’s guess – it may very well be that he walked with his nose inclined at a steeper angle than usual – but as it is… and I never thought that I would be thinking this of him… he actually takes after a potato. His face, I mean, for the rest of him is no more a potato than I am a prizefighter.

Unfortunately, these trivial thoughts cannot fully divert me from my anxiety, and I am jarred to the realities of the present by a fresh cry. Bingley, who seemed to have been silently anticipating the next howl all along, immediately leaps into action, scraping his chair against the floor so as to drown it out. After fifteen seconds of such infinitely irritating squeaks, he slows to a halt, cocks his ear and then, settling deeper into his seat says, “There… now I am comfortable.”

When the third scream follows close upon the second, he changes tactics. This time, rather than scratching up his floor, he coughs. And coughs. And coughs. Just to make certain that every bit of distant pain is intercepted before it can reach our ears and addle our minds. When finished, he pats his chest a few times. “Excuse me. A bit of wine must have… gotten stuck in my throat.”

“Let us repair to another room,” Darcy demands, striding to the door. “It should be quite clear by now that the birth is transpiring directly above our current location, and I for one do not wish to discover the extent of Bingley’s ingenuity.”

Acceding to the dark lad’s sound reasoning, Bingley and I follow him from the room and to a small parlor at the opposite end of the house. There we sit in palpable quiet again – staring into the fireplace, glancing out the window, studying our laps, staring into the fireplace – until the one among us who can handle silence least well speaks.

“Hurst,” Bingley inquires, “have you and Louisa decided on the child’s name?”

Ah, my clever brother… at last he has hit upon a distractive ploy that just might work. “Indeed we have. If it is a boy he shall be known as Isaac Meriwether Hurst, and if it be a girl then Margaret Chrysanta Hurst.”

“Lovely!” my brother exclaims. “Though,” he adds, “I do wonder how you persuaded Louisa to accept Meriwether… or Isaac, come to think of it. Not that there is anything wrong with either of them, I merely thought that… I heard her say once that she would want the names of monarchs for her children.”

“She still does. But I do not; or at least none of the popular ones that she prefers. There are too many Charles’s and Williams about,” I say, smirking at them. “And yes, we did argue about it, but rather than capitulating as I usually do, I offered her a compromise – if it is a son, I shall name him, and if it is a daughter, then Louisa shall name her.”

Darcy nods. “That explains Chrysanta.”

“Yes, of course… my wife’s love of flowers.”

“But did you not think to name your children after family?” Bingley asks.

I shake my head. “That is one point that Louisa and I both agreed upon. The Bingley side we shall leave to you…”

“The entire Bingley side?” He blushes. “Jane and I have our work laid out for us then.”

“…and as for the Hurst line, I do not believe that Hursts have ever named each other after any relatives, either living or deceased.”

“So there was no great-grandfather Gilroy,” says Darcy with a glint in his eye.

“Gilroy is a grand name, Fitzwilliam, and I ask you not to mock it. Besides, what would you choose for your own son? Something Roman no doubt – Tiberias or Augustus or Vespasian.”

“Darcy always was at the head of his class in Latin,” Bingley adds.

“As in everything else,” the dark lad states. “And as for names, Hurst, that shall be my wife’s province alone.”

I do not attempt to conceal my surprise. “You shall not have a say in it at all?”

He drops his gaze to his knee. “Perhaps if she names them,” he says, a faint smile playing about his lips, “they shall all take after her.”

“Do you think that a name can change one’s character?” Bingley muses. “I find it difficult to believe, though you do have me wondering what our children might be like.”

Yes, I think, especially our sons. Would they resemble their fathers? Little Hurst, raiding the pantry and taking long naps, and Little Darcy, reciting the alphabet back and forth by the time he is two, and Little Bingley, laughing and clapping and falling on his head.

Perhaps it would be best if they took after our wives. I imagine a lad with Louisa’s authoritative nature, and a girl with her uncompromising spirit. Dear Louisa. What events are unfolding up there, I wonder… is she in much pain? Has the child begun to emerge? I glance at the clock and groan. Only one hour has passed. One hour.

“We men are great cowards,” Bingley suddenly proclaims. “I cannot imagine how Jane can witness firsthand the birth, knowing that in months she shall be undergoing the same trial, and that I, untouched by such physical distress, am beside myself at the thought of–”

“Bingley.” Darcy nods towards me. “Let us speak of something else.”

Bingley mouths an “oh” and, briefly biting his lower lip, casts about for another topic. His eyes alight on a crooked pile of books tottering upon a nearby table.

“My latest acquisitions,” he says with a proud grin. “And among them,” he adds, winking slyly, “is an author familiar to you both.”

Oh, no. Let it not be that book. Let it not be that book. Anything but that book…

Darcy’s lips crease. “Are you speaking of my cousin’s novel?”

“The very one!” Bingley cries and begins to ease it out of the pile.

As I feared, it is indeed The Amazing Adventures of the Sheep-Slaying Englishman, the timeless tale of a brave British hero who not only discovers the source of the Nile, but also makes stewed mutton of the Egyptian sheep goddess and her ovine hordes. No doubt the mad author considers the tale to be at least partly autobiographical, but that is of little import; what does matter is that The Colonel’s novel has already sold thousands of copies in London and is at present spreading like a plague through the countryside. Most critics have hailed it as a masterpiece – among those, some have found it “compelling in its lunacy, highly provocative and stylistically daring”, and others have deemed him “the heir to Cervantes”. Even the novel’s detractors have found some depth in it, calling the work “a commentary on empire and civil discontent”. And now that The Colonel is a successful wordsmith and an apparent expert on Egypt, he travels the highest literary circles and was recently seen gallivanting about London with Byron.

“Am I to believe that you enjoyed the book?” Darcy inquires.

Bingley falters. “I have not… had occasion to read it yet, but I have heard that it is a work of genius. Perhaps if I read it aloud now, it shall serve to pass the time.”

“Bingley…”

“Oh, would you look at that… there is someone named Caralhina in here! That sounds a great deal like–”

Darcy leans over and plucks the volume from his hands. “It being a work of genius,” he explains, his mouth twitching, “it must be read in private, away from all distractions.”

No sooner does the word ‘distractions’ leave his lips than a commotion comes from beyond the door, urgent voices and quickly padding feet. Rising, we open the parlor door to see a housemaid rushing by, her arms bearing bundles of cloth. Mutely we follow to the foot of the stairs, marking her progress up the steps, her patter down the hall, the creak and slam of a door and then, another scream. My knuckles are white from gripping the banister.

“I need to lie down,” I whisper. After instructing Bingley to ring for my valet, Darcy leads me back to the parlor, helps me onto a sofa, and waits with me in silence until Rupert appears, carrying a few wet cloths and two neatly folded letters.

“What I suggest,” he says, the moment Darcy quits the room, “is that you drink yourself blind. It’s not too late to do that, Gil.”

“That is just what Louisa recommended,” I inform him, shivering as he lays a cloth on my head. Come to think of it, that is not his only similarity to my wife. When Rupert’s son was born a few months ago, he had him named Edward Richard Stephen William, a monarch-laden appellation that Louisa would be proud of.

“Your wife does have sense,” he replies, “so what say you? Do you wish to dance a Scottish reel, or shall it be a voyage to La France? Bingley, I’ve heard, has a few excellent wines from across the Channel.”

“Rupert, no.” I take a deep breath. “What letters are those?”

“Ah, though you have read them both already, a repetition might still prove diverting.” He holds up one that bears Foxtrot’s sturdy print. “Do you fancy a bit of comedy,” he asks, “or maybe” – holding up the second missive, from Henry – “some fine adventure?”

“Thank you, Rupert, but I am not in the mood for either now.”

“Nonsense. Let us start with Foxtrot – I could read you that part about how he rises early every morning to feed his chickens… here it is: My servants, I find, are clumsy, and often stir up nervousness in the henhouse with their heavy tread…”

“Rupert.”

“… but I… heh heh… I am light on my feet and step gently about them while checking for eggs.” He frowns. “Wait, wait, this isn’t the part about the feeding, forgive me…”

I, however, have no inclination to listen to another word of it… not even the conclusion, in which he tells us that his wife is currently penning a book to be called From the Mouth of Mary (which – given the mad state of the world – shall probably go the path of The Amazing Adventures and sell in large quantities). “Rupert, please put it away.”

“Just a moment, just a moment.” He reads to himself for a short while, mouthing the words and breaking into peals of laughter. “All right,” he says at last, noting what must be the very troubled expression on my face, “let us turn to Henry and Charlotte’s last letter from the Continent… shall we read again about how they were almost robbed by bandits on the road to Salzburg?”

I shake my head. “To think that I was searching for distractions before. I cannot think of anything but what could possibly go wrong during the birth. What if something does go wrong, Rupert? Where am I left? What shall I do? Shall I be a fat and lonely apparition, forever haunting Bingley’s home? I cannot recall ever feeling so unsteady or so afraid… this is entirely new to me, my friend, and it is nearly overwhelming…”

On I speak, noticing that he has risen from his chair only when he returns with a drink in hand. “Here,” he says, lifting my head up with one hand. “Have yourself a sip.”

“Only one drink though, Rupert, no more.”

“Certainly, certainly. I promise you, only one drink.”

I swallow obediently, and am already halfway into the glass when I experience a slightly bitter taste in my mouth. “Rupert?”

He holds my hand. “Do not be uneasy, Gil. If the need arises for it, smelling salts shall rouse you. Otherwise… sleep.”

“Sleep?” I croak, and a muzzy gray darkness descends upon my vision.

When I awake, there is still light outside, though after a few disoriented moments I note that it is the light of early morning. I sit up, rub the back of my head, and bite my lip. Why on Earth am I in the parlor? Oh no… I did not sleep through it, did I?… Louisa!

I scramble to my feet and as I make my way to the door, it opens to reveal Bingley. I come to a halt, searching out his face for news, and what I see when he looks at me is a mixture of bewilderment and awe. “Bingley?” I whisper.

He opens his mouth but the words are not forthcoming. All he does is point in the direction of the staircase and dodge aside when I barrel past him. On the stairwell I encounter a descending Darcy, who fixes a penetrating stare at me for a few long moments before I nearly holler at him to move out of my way. He does so begrudgingly and appears ready to say something, but I do not particularly care to hear it and so plow on, until I am in the hallway outside of Louisa’s chamber. The door opens and out come Jane and Elizabeth, both looking a bit dazed, their expressions of wonderment intensifying when they behold me before them. Wordlessly they part and admit me to the chamber, where the doctor immediately pops up in front of me with an excited, “Mr. Hurst, your timing is impeccable. We have just finished cleaning up and–”

Is all of Cheeriton Park to stand in my path? I maneuver around the well-meaning old man and at last find myself before Louisa, who appears absolutely bloodless and limp. She squeezes my hand too faintly for comfort when it enfolds her own but, seeing plainly that I am about to descend to the depths of terror, she offers me a slight smile, and with a passing sparkle in her eyes, gestures to the nursery room door. When I remain fixed at her side, she manages to roll her eyes halfway around before mouthing, “Go look. Now.”

It is not so much her words that comfort me, as it is the presence of her usual authoritative manner. After planting a kiss upon her brow, I do as she bids and make my way over to the nursery, feeling more light-headed with every step. When I enter I encounter Rupert’s wife, who is no longer Louisa’s abigail, but shall now serve as the nursemaid. When she sees me her mouth cracks into a wide, disbelieving grin, and she ushers me over to the hearth.

At first I think I see six babies, swaddled and laid out in six bassinets, but then I realize that, what with the suspense and my light-headedness, I must be experiencing a sudden case of double vision, and indeed it is so, my vision is double, so that when I’ve fallen hard into a chair and cleared it up a little by rubbing my eyes, I see three babies in three bassinets, and that – that! – is the true number.

“Oh, congratulations, Mr. Hurst. Three – alongside my own little Edward – shall be a lot to handle, but what a sight to see! Never have I laid eyes on three babes born at once. It is fortunate that the housekeeper was able to find two other bassinets for them in the attic. We'll have to replace them though, they do look a little worn, but for now they’ll do.”

I nod numbly and hardly hear a word. Good heavens, I am thinking, leaning over the tiny trio, good G-d… where did they come from? Granted, Louisa’s middle had grown quite large during her confinement, but…

“Where did you come from?” I whisper at them, my voice nearly breaking.

“What a nonsensical question, Mr. Hurst,” says the doctor, stepping into the room. Though he looks as if sleep has eluded him for days, a smile still plays about his mouth. “Amazing, is it not? I have never had the privilege of delivering three at once!”

“They are so small.”

“A bit smaller than what I normally see, yes, but quite sound.” He clears his throat. “One thing I must tell you though is…” He sighs.

I stand up. “Is it about Louisa?”

“Well yes… it has to do with the possibility of future children. I rather doubt her ability to bear any more after this.”

I touch my fingers to my temples. “Let us not speak of the presence or absence of future children. I have not yet convinced myself that these three are real.”

He chuckles. “And I doubt your wife shall suffer overmuch from my conjecture. She had quite a travail, if you can imagine.”

“No,” I whisper, “I cannot.”

He shakes his head. “At one point… there was one point, after the first child, where it got quite difficult. Very difficult in fact. We almost called you, Mr. Hurst.” A shadow mars his brow, and I can scarcely draw breath. “But with myself and the midwife there, and Mrs. Bingley and Mrs. Darcy taking turns at her side, and the maids bringing fresh water and cloth continuously… it was overcome, and the final two emerged in a comparatively smoother manner.” He smiles. “If you do not mind my saying so, sir, your wife is rather fierce. A truly formidable lady.”

“Oh, I know it. And I thank you for what you have done.”

“You are welcome, sir. After I go and rest myself, I shall be in to check on your wife again. Two of the maids are now attending to her.” He raises his brows. “Well?”

“Well?” I echo, confused.

“Are you not going to ask the one question that everyone asks after a birth?”

Feeling a bit foolish, I fold my arms over my belly and shift from foot to foot. “And what question would that be?”

He laughs. “Two boys, sir, and one girl.”

The rest of the day is a daze for me. I am heaped with felicitations, beheld with amazement, and treated like a king by the servants (whom I no longer deem deserving of the stocks). Miss Darcy and Miss De Bourgh arrive from Pemberley to congratulate me, the latter looking happier than I have ever seen her. After a brief, conciliatory visit to her mother in Easter, she resumed her stay at Pemberley as her cousin’s close friend, and became quite proficient at the harp. The two, in fact, perform a duet in honor of the triplets and their parents, though I am the only member of the Hurst family cognizant of it. From what I see during my regular visits to the bedchamber and nursery, both Louisa and the infants spend almost the entire day sleeping.

After dinner though, Rupert personally arrives at the drawing-room to inform me that my wife has sent her summons, whereupon I follow him up the stairs. Once in the hallway, he half-jokingly asks me, for the seventh time that day, about the secret of my fruitfulness. “What did you do, really, for three to be made at once?”

And for the seventh time that day, I merely smile at him, not having the least notion myself, and evade his next comment – “what kind of an answer is a smile, Gil?” – by slipping into the shadows of the room. The door softly clicks behind me, and for a moment I cannot bring myself to do anything more than regard the woman in bed, propped up on a few pillows, hair untidy and mouth set in a weary, yet satisfied smile. It is very difficult not to have certain… certain fruitful thoughts, as Rupert would put it. Very difficult, even now, when she is clearly in a near-exhausted state.

“Do not keep at such a distance,” she reproves. “Am I really so much a fright, that you hover back like that?”

I immediately take my seat at the bedside. “Quite the contrary, Mrs. Hurst. You remain your usual alluring self.”

She nearly snorts. “And you have become a flatterer. Believe me, I shall not look so appealing as the days wear on. Three mouths to feed.” She chuckles. “It appears that our nursemaid shall have to assist with the nursing as well.”

Hmmm… Rupert shall be exceedingly happy to know that. He very much wants my children to be as siblings to his own beloved boy.

“Have you held them yet?” Louisa asks.

“A little. A very little. As they slept.” I scratch the back of my head. “It was marvelous, but I felt a little unnerved as well.”

“Surely not as unnerved as I was, thinking that I had delivered one child only to discover that there was another, and after that, yet another! I can still hardly move my limbs about… it took every bit of strength, Gilroy, every bit.”

I take up her hand, thinking again of the miracle that is a triplet birth, free of tragedy. She sinks further into the pillows and strokes her thumb against my wrist in a meditative fashion. “Now we must make a final decision about the names,” she murmurs.

“The girl shall be Margaret Chrysanta,” I say.

“She is the middle child,” Louisa informs me. “And I suppose you want the older son to be called Isaac Meri… hmph, Isaac Meriwether.”

I pat her hand sympathetically. “Let us call the younger son Isaac Meriwether. The older son, the heir to our… for lack of a better word, fortune… let us name him together.”

“Splendid.” She smiles. “I decide on the first name, though.”

“As you wish, your majesty.”

“Hmph. Here… I have it. A monarch’s name that you would like best of all – Henry. Does that suit you, to have him share a name with the Viscount?”

“It does, actually. Quite good… I do hope he possesses something of the Viscount’s character.” I tap at my chin and after a few minutes am struck with inspiration. “I have a middle name,” I announce.

“That smile of yours, Gilroy, is not to be trusted.”

“No, no, it is nothing so horrid. Andrew. I wish for Andrew to be the middle name.”

She pauses for a moment, considering, and then slowly nods. “That should suit. Good, it is settled then.”

Poor Louisa. Perhaps it shall dawn on her, one of these days, that the name Andrew was inspired by none other than my valet; but when and if she does comprehend the source of her oldest son’s middle name, it shall most likely be after the christening, so that the sole consequence would involve my being banished to a purgatory of frosty stares and overly tidy beds for an indeterminate length of time. But I shall bear it as best I can, for Andrew is not a frivolous choice. There is something to be said for packing the names of two close friends together, and having the loftiness of a name like Henry subverted somewhat by the presence of Andrew and its impish associations. And even better – something I did not think of until now – there are Henry Andrew Hurst's initials, H.A.H., or as I see it, HAH! A mighty laugh, flung out at the world from the heart of the Hurst family – not the richest bunch, I grant you, nor the most famous or well-mannered or beautiful... but having the potential to boast some of the strangest, most unusual characters in England. That distinction alone, however dubious, warms my soul.

THE END