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Category: Bonus Scene

  • Hearsay & Heartache

    Hearsay & Heartache

    A cut scene from Mistaken

    Tuesday 12th May 1812 – Hertfordshire 

    Bingley roamed the halls. He sat at the pianoforte and poked the keys discordantly for a while. He prodded the fire; it went out. He looked out of the window. There were some trees; there was some grass. Look, there was the sky! (Still.) He picked up a book. Poetry. Ugh. He put it down. He went to his study and looked at the pile of papers on his desk. Ugh. He left again, closing the door firmly behind him. He roamed the halls.

    Bingley was about as dull as he could ever recall being. 

    Though appreciative of the chance to recommence his pursuit of Miss Bennet and pleased for the time spent renewing his acquaintances in the area, he had been forced to spend hours alone at Netherfield each day. Bingley loathed being alone – because it was dull.

    To his infinite relief, his butler arrived at that moment with the day’s paper. He settled himself on the sofa to read of the many balls and soirees he was missing in town. Not a moment later, he was on his feet once more.

    “Good God!” 

    The news that the Prime Minister had been assassinated proved a rather successful antidote to his boredom. Overlooking the obvious source of information held in his hands, he summoned Peabody back for a full account of happenings in London. The perpetrator had been captured, the country was not in revolt, Government had not collapsed into anarchy; nevertheless, things were disagreeably unsettled. 

    Bingley was glad the Hursts were leaving town. He determined to summon Caroline back also, for her safety. He would also reissue his invitation to Darcy, though he would no doubt return to Pemberley with his sister should he wish to escape London. Bingley wished he would come to Hertfordshire, though, for he should like some of his inimitable wisdom on this shocking event.

    “I shall write to him and ask!” 

    Thus, armed with quill and ink, Bingley scribbled a note to his friend, enquiring about Perceval and inviting him once again to Netherfield. Having safely discharged all his concerns, he progressed to sharing some of his news, dashing off a few lines about Louisa’s increase, a few details regarding the estate, and a full description of his success, to date, securing a wife, which was vexingly little.

    As he heated the sealing wax, he recalled Miss Elizabeth’s plea to send her apologies to Darcy. He did not believe it was necessary; he could not imagine Miss Elizabeth offending anyone, and Darcy had given no indication he was affronted by their exchange. He had given his word, however, and so he reopened the letter and scribbled her message at the end.

    Once the letter was sealed and set on the salver to be sent, Bingley was once more devoid of distraction. A few moments more found him once again roaming the halls.

    “‘Go back to Netherfield,’ he said! ‘All the usual country pursuits,’ he said!” Reaching the stairs, he kicked at the bottom tread and turned to pace back in the other direction, still muttering. “Well there is nobody to ride with, nobody to fence with, nobody to shoot with… and tell me, what can I hunt in the middle of May in any case?”

    “Fish.”

    He spun around. “What?”

    Peabody, just entering the hall from the servants’ entrance, glided over to collect the letter from the salver. “You can hunt fish in May, sir. I am told the lake on the western side of the property is best at this time of year.”

    “Fish! Brilliant! Peabody, I shall have a fishing party for the gentlemen of the neighbourhood. This Saturday. See to the necessaries would you? There’s a chap!”

    Not waiting for his butler’s response, Bingley wandered happily away, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “A fishing party! And with Hurst arriving this Friday, too. He will butter his breeches when he learns of this.” 

    So it was that Bingley was agreeably diverted from his ennui. 

    ***

    Tuesday 12th May 1812 – London

    The day after the Prime Minister was assassinated, London’s beau monde picked up its metaphorical petticoats, stepped over the figurative pool of blood, and high tailed it directly to Lady Armitage’s ball. That is not to say the ton was untroubled, but where better to ascertain particulars, gauge reaction, and allay fears than at a dance?

    Darcy had received an accurate account of the incident from his cousin, whose regiment assisted with the patrol of Parliament the previous evening. The full political ramifications would be borne out in the fullness of time, but his uncle had apprised him of all available information from the House of Lords. Darcy cared not for tittle-tattle, but he was happy to enlighten his acquaintances–many of whom shared the same concerns about unrest as he–with what knowledge he had. Thus, even had he not been obliged to attend the ball, he would have come.

    Yet obliged he had been, by his promise to Fitzwilliam to protect him from his grandmother’s machinations. With naught else to occupy her since her return to London, Mrs Sinclair had taken it upon herself to ‘resolve the issue of her grandson’s misogamy.’ Darcy’s presence had always tended to distract ladies from the third son of an Earl, and his cousin was determined this should continue for as long as Mrs Sinclair harangued him. He was not overly enamoured by the idea of being his cousin’s decoy, but beyond such manoeuvrings, Darcy typically enjoyed the society of his set. In this sphere, the dancing was refined, the gentlemen well-informed, and the ladies highly accomplished and often handsome.

    At least, that had previously been the case.

    This evening, Darcy could find no pleasure in the company. It seemed he could no find real pleasure in very much at all at present, for everything was overshadowed by Elizabeth’s conspicuous absence. He had hoped that an evening of rational conversation with esteemed acquaintances might afford him some respite from missing her, but such was not to be. It seemed the events of the previous day had brought out the worst in polite society.

    Gentlemen with no possible access to it claimed certain and preposterous knowledge of salient parliamentary decisions. Peers who ought to have known better, disregarded their genuine knowledge of Parliament’s reaction, and instead took the opportunity to lay spurious charges at the doors of any number of their acquaintances. Even allowing for the shock of such a sudden and violent event, Darcy had thought his contemporaries in possession of enough decorum to avoid descending into speculation and slander.

    The ladies were infinitely worse. Darcy had early on danced with Miss Martin, the sister of one of his Cambridge friends, with whom he had been acquainted for many years and had always considered a woman of good sense. His surprise was perhaps not to be wondered at, therefore, when she responded to his mention of Fitzwilliam’s stint on duty the previous day, with a shriek and an animated request for details of the incident. 

    “Oh! You must share with me what you know, we are all simply desperate for the particulars! Tell me, did the Prime Minister bleed very much?”

    It had been a struggle to keep the incredulity from his countenance. He had met Perceval on several occasions. He had also met his wife and some of their twelve children. Wondering how he had ever found a woman who could make such a crass enquiry engaging, he had answered as civilly as he was able.

    “Sufficiently, it would seem.”

    All his subsequent dances had gone the same, murder and intrigue the extent of all ladies’ interest this evening. It seemed one shocking event was all it took to break the ton’s usual reserve, rendering them no better than the tattling matrons of Meryton. It was an uncomfortable realisation that, despite what he had always presumed, excellent birth obviously did not guarantee sense, only a better talent for disguise. How mistaken his perceptions! 

    As he stood in a quiet corner, observing the inanity before him, Darcy wondered wistfully how a conversation about Perceval’s assassination might have gone with Elizabeth. She was well-read, and arguably more knowledgeable about current affairs than a young woman ought to be – yes, he thought she would have some very valuable observations to make on the subject. And of one thing he was certain: she would not have been so unmoved by a man’s death. 

    He bit the insides of his cheeks, inhaled deeply, and closed his eyes in a long blink. 

    Elizabeth.

    The thought was never far away. Darcy was becoming familiar with the ache of loneliness but tonight in particular, unnerved by events and disillusioned by all he had heretofore valued, what he would not give to see her again. Would that she were here, that he might have his ideas challenged, rather than his patience.   

    His reflections were interrupted by the arrival of his cousin who, after handing him a glass of wine, sidled between him and the wall. He rolled his eyes.

    “If your wish was to remain inconspicuous, you might have avoided your ceremonials.”

    Fitzwilliam eyed his scarlet coat dubiously and laughed. “True enough. Where have you been?” 

    “I was cornered by Lord Valery for a good half of an hour. Then I had the unparalleled honour of dancing with his wife.” 

    “Only a half hour? I was required to entertain him for an entire evening when he dined with Father last week. I begrudge you not the dance, mind you.”

    “How went your dance with Miss Connelly?”

    “It could have been much worse,” came the grinning response, “But then I had Miss Appleyard forced upon me. God but the woman is vacuous! And you were no-where to be seen! You were supposed to be helping me!” 

    “No, Thirson, that is what I am attempting to do. Though I begin to think you are beyond all help.”

    Darcy peered around his cousin to where Mrs Sinclair had appeared.

    “I am, Grandmother, I am! There is no hope for me,” Fitzwilliam exclaimed. “You may as well admit defeat now. Not one of these ladies will have me!” 

    “I care not for who will have you,” she pronounced, looking into the crowds. “I am concerned with making them want you. A few dances with the right girls, a few unextended invitations, and soon enough, you will be the only one they all wish to dance with.”

    Fitzwilliam chuckled and turned his head slightly in Darcy’s direction. “Ballroom etiquette for beginners, Darcy,” he muttered.

    “It seems a precise science,” he replied.

    “As precise as any business negotiation, Mr Darcy,” Mrs Sinclair said tartly. “A want of wealth or an excess of it – both circumstances demand a good marriage. It is a woman’s business to arrange good matches for her family.”

    Her tone gave Darcy pause. God knew he was painfully aware of the importance placed on prudent alliances, but he had never considered it a woman’s ‘business.’ Then again, there were very few women in his family. Matlock had arranged Ashby’s recent betrothal – and the wisdom of that union was certainly debatable. Perhaps they would all benefit from a woman’s influence. 

    “Aunt Catherine would certainly agree with you, Grandmother,” Fitzwilliam said, directing a pointed look at Darcy. 

    Lady Catherine had always maintained that he should wed Anne, though it was well known in the family he would not. If he were to marry for duty – as he had always assumed he would – the de Bourgh family would not be a consideration. Rosings diminished annually as assets were sold to subsidise the estate after years of poor yields and to fund the extensive repairs required to maintain the decaying manor house. Even with Anne’s inheritance, the losses to the Pemberley estate would be insupportable. 

    Nonetheless, Darcy had always attributed Lady Catherine’s insistence on the alliance to family loyalty. Had he expended a little more thought on the matter, it might have occurred to him sooner that she saw it in a much more commercial light.  

    Mrs Sinclair sneered, and Darcy did not miss it. “Your aunt has an indolent approach to match making and it will be her daughter’s undoing.”

    “You are inclined to think her behaviour irresponsible?” Fitzwilliam asked.

    “Certainly! She ought to be actively seeking a suitable – and…” she looked appraisingly at Darcy, “…plausible match. Before her coffers and her heir wither away entirely.” 

    This was a damning assessment indeed! But an interesting one, which brought to mind another woman whose behaviour Darcy had recently censured. Mrs Sinclair had labelled Lady Catherine irresponsible for her complacency regarding Anne’s future. By this standard, Mrs Bennet could be deemed a far more conscientious parent. Though her methods lacked any refinement, she clearly thought it her business to make good matches for her daughters. And, Darcy supposed, it would have been irresponsible of her not to, for he knew the Longbourn estate to be entailed away to Collins and thus all their futures were uncertain. 

    This was a humbling revelation. He had never known paucity but recognised how daunting a prospect it must be. He had disparaged Elizabeth’s mother for her unashamed rapacity, but perhaps, if one adopted Mrs Sinclair’s view, Mrs Bennet could be viewed as merely an extraordinarily inept businesswoman – and a devoted mother. His opinion of her softened very slightly.

    Thinking about Mrs Bennet’s matrimonial aspirations for her daughters could only lead Darcy’s reflections in one direction: Elizabeth getting married. It was inevitable. When someone worthy offered for her, she would wed, and he hated that man already, as he had never hated another soul. 

    “What is it?” his cousin asked, frowning at him.

    “I have run out of wine. Want another?”

    He left in the direction of the refreshment table before Fitzwilliam could answer. Yet again he had been thrown back into the maelstrom of his agony. No matter what he did he could not escape it; Elizabeth was at once everywhere with him, and lost to him, and by God that hurt!

    The remainder of the evening passed uneventfully, though Darcy paid little heed to any of it. Sick of hearsay, sick of speciousness, and sick unto death of his heartache, the evening could not end soon enough. He avoided dancing again, and loitered deliberately at the fringes of the room. By the end of the evening, however, a wry smile had found his face. There was some amusement to be had, after all, in his preference this evening for the Assembly Rooms in Meryton.

  • Lydia Lies for a Licence

    Lydia Lies for a Licence

    In Pride and Prejudice, Lydia is only fifteen when she marries Mr Wickham. With the Bennet family wanting to avoid drawing attention to the scandalous elopement by having the banns read in church (and not enough time elapsing in the story for that to have happened anyway), we can assume they married by common licence.

    Applying for a licence required certain steps to be fulfilled. Whoever applied for the licence was required to put forward a bond (a promise of payment) and an allegation (a sworn testimony), which were both held on file at the registry. The allegation confirmed the places of residence, ages, and marital status of the couple and attested to the absence of any impediment to the marriage, including an illegal familial relationship between the parties or a previous marriage or engagement. Where either the bride or groom was younger than the age of consent, which was at the time 21, it would also need the signed consent of the person’s legal guardian. The bond was a pledge to forfeit an agreed amount of money if any part of the allegation was proved to have been falsified. The sum was large–as much as £200, which few people would have been able to afford–in an attempt to deter fraudulent activity.

    In Pride and Prejudice, Mr Bennet is absent from Lydia’s nuptials, so we must assume his brother-in-law, Mr Gardiner, provided that written consent on his behalf, no doubt with Mr Bennet’s blessing. He may also have pledged the bond money, although Mr Darcy probably covered that. He covered most of the costs for everything else, after all!

    In Unfounded, the course of these events runs slightly differently. In this scene, which did not make the final cut into the finished book, we get some hints–though by no means all the answers–as to how Lydia and Wickham got their hands on a marriage licence.

    NOBODY EXPECTED LYDIA TO RETURN HOME OF HER OWN VOLITION, quite unaided by her father or uncle, and with her new husband in tow, but that was precisely what she did. On an otherwise innocuous Tuesday afternoon in late August, a hack-chaise rattled up Longbourn’s drive and deposited Mr and Mrs Wickham on the front step. 

    Kitty was the first to spot them. She ran through the house to the front door, shouting excitedly for everyone to come, and threw herself into her favourite sister’s arms. Elizabeth came next, her heart in her mouth as she hastened to discover at what fate Lydia—and she—had arrived. Mrs Gardiner and Mary soon followed, and Mrs Bennet, aided by Jane, fumbled her way downstairs in her undress.

    “How silly you all look, staring at me as though you had never seen a married woman before!” Lydia snatched up Wickham’s arm. “I bet none of you thought I should be married before you, did you? You must call me Mrs Wickham now!”

    Wickham, who like his wife looked undeservedly pleased with himself, bowed his head. “Good day, sisters. Aunt. It is a pleasure to see you all.”

    There was a stunned silence.

    They were calling themselves husband and wife, then. It was impossible, for Lydia was only fifteen, but that they were claiming it, as bold as brass, meant they very likely were wedded, in all the ways that mattered to a woman’s virtue. They were married, they were unrepentant, and they were grotesque. Elizabeth felt sick. She fought to constrain her anger and despair sufficiently to permit speech, but neither she nor anyone else had the chance to say a word before Mrs Bennet burst over the threshold, her arms outstretched, and pulled her youngest daughter into her embrace.

    “I thought I should never see you again! We thought you lost!”

    Mrs Gardiner’s eyes flew wide, and she looked urgently at Jane and Elizabeth, then at the several servants who had gathered. Jane immediately began encouraging the couple indoors. Elizabeth sent the servants away to fetch refreshments. Lydia allowed herself to be swept through the hall, giggling and smiling at all the attention, pausing only long enough to issue a careless request for somebody to pay the postillion, claiming she and Wickham could not afford the fare from London. 

    Elizabeth was eternally thankful for her aunt’s presence in the hour that followed. Kitty added only nonsense to proceedings, and Mary only moralising. Mrs Bennet had not the sense to be anxious for her daughter’s predicament and said nothing that was not overexcited or overoptimistic. Jane was too kind to speak against either bride or groom, and Elizabeth almost too cross to speak at all, thus Mrs Gardiner’s was the only useful voice among them. With delicate questioning and a civility towards Wickham that Elizabeth was wholly unequal to pretending, her aunt extracted the salient details of the supposed nuptials.

    Wickham had resigned his commission in Colonel Forster’s regiment. Lydia joyfully owned to being the orchestrator of their furtive departure from Brighton, claiming the prospect of adventure had been ‘too delicious to refuse,’ and Wickham seemed happy to let her assume the blame for it. They had been married only a matter of hours, having come directly from the church, and seemed unable to account for the period between their elopement and its conclusion other than to say they had not felt any urgency and might have waited longer had they not run out of money. The ceremony was witnessed by two of Wickham’s acquaintance. Permission for the marriage had been granted, Lydia gleefully informed them, by Mr Bennet himself. 

    “Does Papa know you are married, then?” Kitty asked, her nose screwed up in perplexity. 

    A little noise of incredulity bubbled up in Elizabeth’s throat. She disliked it when her father accused her youngest two sisters of being silly and ignorant, which he did often, but he was right: they had not two grains of sense between them. “Of course he does not know, else he would have come home with them! They have done this in secret—I cannot imagine what deceits they must have fabricated to make it possible.”

    “That is the best part!” said Lydia. She was still laughing and had not seemed to notice that even her mother had stopped smiling. “You do not have to provide any proof—you only need to write a letter saying you have permission. What a joke! I could have been marrying a donkey and I do not think anyone would have taken notice.”

    Elizabeth refrained from asking whether she was sure she had not.

    Mrs Gardiner shook her head. “A marriage allegation is more than a letter, Lydia. It is a formal statement kept on file at the registry. Pray, who witnessed it?”

    “Oh, I do not know. Some friend of Wickham’s.”

    “It was my cousin, madam,” Wickham said collectedly.

    “There we are then. That sounds very official, very proper,” said Mrs Bennet, though she did not look as though she had convinced herself. 

    “And does your cousin know my father, that he felt comfortable giving his sanction to this union without his knowledge?” Elizabeth enquired, incensed.

    “I do not believe they are acquainted, Sister, no. But when I explained how violently I was in love with Lydia, he agreed with me that Mr Bennet was unlikely to object.”

    At an expressive look from her aunt, Elizabeth said no more, but she shivered at the remembrance of how agreeable she had once believed Wickham to be. 

    “Was your cousin obliged to pledge a bond, sir?” Mrs Gardiner enquired. 

    “A bond? What does that mean, a bond?” Mrs Bennet asked, all alarm. Jane took her hand and assured her it was of no matter.

    “He was,” Wickham answered, “but he was happy to, for it secured my lasting happiness.”

    Mrs Gardiner gave him a small, cold smile. “I hope it was not a very large sum. You must know your cousin will forfeit it if Mr Bennet decides to have the marriage set aside.”

    “Why would he do that?” Lydia cried indignantly. “Mama is forever saying how important it is that we are all married. Well, now I am! Papa will be delighted! Where is he?”

    “In London,” Mary replied coldly. “Looking for you.”

    “A shame, for I had hoped to speak to him,” Wickham said.

    “And I am sure he will wish to speak to you, sir,” said Mrs Gardiner. “We shall send word to him directly. For now, may I suggest we all repair to rest before dinner?”

    Jane extracted her hand from her mother’s grip and came to her feet. “I shall have a room made up for you, Mr Wickham.”

    “For us both you mean, Jane,” Lydia said. “The blue room will do very nicely.”

    Jane blanched and looked uncertainly at Elizabeth. 

    Lydia snorted loudly. “You did not think I would be sleeping with Kitty still, did you?”

    Elizabeth walked to Jane to whisper quietly. “The servants all heard them say they are married. We shall have to go along with it.”

    With a slow nod and a sorrowful look at Lydia, Jane left to make the arrangements. Lydia followed, telling everybody loudly that she wished to ensure everything was done to suit her husband’s preferences. Mrs Gardiner escorted Mrs Bennet back to her room and Mary took Kitty to check on their young cousins, leaving Elizabeth alone with Wickham.

    “It really is wonderful to see you,” he began with perfect indifference. “When I went away, I seem to recall you had an intention of travelling with Mr and Mrs Gardiner. Did you enjoy yourselves?”

    Every part of Elizabeth revolted against answering him. That he should think it acceptable to make trifling conversation in the face of such egregious perfidy was insult enough–that it should be he who raised the ugly spectre of everything his recklessness and impudence had cost her was simply too much. 

    “I cannot stay and talk, sir. I must send an express to my father. Excuse me.”

    ***

    Elizabeth had never, in all her life, seen her father as angry as upon his return the next day. He was not a large man and was more wont to use irony than volume in an argument, but he charged into Longbourn like a bull in the ring; enraged, tearing savagely into anything foolish enough to enter his path, and bellowing for Wickham to attend him. 

    The insouciance with which Wickham sauntered down the stairs and bowed turned Mr Bennet’s face purple and made Elizabeth want to scream. The two men disappeared into the library. Her father slammed the door, and within moments, his raised voice could be heard, questioning Wickham’s motives, his intentions, his honour. Whatever was said in response was spoken too quietly to hear, but her father’s mounting vexation gave Elizabeth to understand it was not constructive.

    “I should go in,” Mrs Bennet said, though she did not look particularly eager. “Your father will murder him if this is allowed to carry on.”

    Elizabeth, Jane, and Mrs Gardiner all exchanged glances. “I think we ought to let them resolve matters on their own,” Mrs Gardiner said. “Will you not come with me and say goodbye to the children before I take them home later?”

    Mrs Bennet capitulated instantly, looking vastly relieved. Elizabeth and Jane remained. They listened with increasing dismay to the one-sided argument, attempting to judge when it might become necessary to enter the ring themselves. 

    “What sort of monster concerns himself with a child of fifteen?” Mr Bennet roared.

    A calm murmur could be heard in response.

    Evidently not the answer for which Mr Bennet hoped, for he bellowed his reply. “Have you no shame, sir?”

    Wickham replied in the same, dispassionate tone–a clear indication that no, he had none. 

    “Yes, you married her—eventually. Let neither of us pretend that you would not have abandoned her in an instant if a more lucrative option had presented itself before then.”

    Elizabeth glanced at Jane, who was still attempting to find a way to colour the elopement in more romantic shades, but she was staring down at her clasped hands and would not look up. 

    Wickham could be heard saying something else.

    “Because men with honest intentions do not abscond in the dead of night!” Mr Bennet answered, enraged.

    Wickham was becoming more animated now, and Elizabeth caught snatches of his reply. Something to do with Lydia throwing herself into his carriage—to which her sister had already confessed, but it hardly excused Wickham’s actions. Her father evidently agreed. 

    “And are you so fainthearted that you could not refuse a young girl?”

    “She is not so childlike as you wish to believe,” Wickham replied, every angry word now crisply audible. “She was firm to her purpose, I am nothing if not a red-blooded man. You ought to be grateful I did not hand her back the same night in ruins.”

    Jane gasped. Elizabeth clenched her fists, despising that this last was true.

    “And why did you not?” Mr Bennet demanded. “Do not dare try and tell me it was because of your affection for her.”

    “Believe it or not, sir, I am not indifferent. I admire Lydia’s spirit. We have had fun these past weeks, and I daresay we shall continue to do so in the future. But you must give me something, that I might keep her in the comfort to which she is accustomed. And I entreat you not to deny us what she assures me is owed to her upon your death and her mother’s.”

    Elizabeth grabbed Jane’s wrist and slapped her other hand over her mouth to stop herself from protesting in outrage. Jane closed her eyes and shook her head forlornly. 

    There was a pause that suggested Mr Bennet was equally incredulous before he said, “You will not get a farthing from me.”

    Wickham’s voice dropped again, but he obviously argued, for his words drew a furious response. 

    “I am under no such obligation, because by that same law, you are not married! I did not and never will give my consent to this union. Consider your marriage annulled!”

    Elizabeth winced and looked at her sister. She waited for Jane to nod and then knocked on the door. Her father barked an instruction to be left alone, which she ignored and edged her way into the library. 

    Mr Bennet whipped around to look at them. “Not now.”

    Elizabeth was shocked by his appearance. He seemed to have aged a decade in the last ten minutes, his countenance haggard, his hair wild, and his eyes brimming with hurt. Her heart broke for what she must say, and what she knew it would do to him to hear it. 

    “Papa, you cannot annul the marriage. They have been living as man and wife for over two weeks. Lydia might already be with child. The servants know they have exchanged vows. Lydia said she stopped to tell everyone they passed on the way through Meryton yesterday. She showed William Goulding her ring. If you annul the marriage, she will be ruined. We all will.” 

    She could not look at Wickham but she imagined he must be delighted to have her support. She wished she did not have to look at her father, for he looked utterly stricken. 

    “You would have me accept this worthless maggot as my son?”

    “I am not completely worthless,” Wickham said insolently. “Penniless, I grant you, but I should not like to think with some merit.”

    “Please stop it, Mr Wickham,” Jane said with uncommon asperity. “You have got what you wanted. There is no need to be brutish about it.” 

    Wickham shrugged. “I wish only to provide for Lyd—”

    “No, sir, you wish me to provide for her,” Mr Bennet interrupted.

    “She must have something to live on.”

    “You would have had something to live on, had you stayed in Colonel Forster’s regiment.”

    “I could not remain there. There were several pressing matters that would have made it very awkward.”

    “You mean you had debts there, too.”

    Wickham did not answer. Elizabeth ground her teeth, recalling with abhorrence her attempt to defend his character to Darcy—and at such a moment, as he laid bare his most intimate feelings! How he had found the heart to forgive her for it, she would never know.

    Mr Bennet stood for a good while, saying nothing. At length, he said, “You are right, of course, Lizzy, though Lord knows I wish you were not.” 

    He turned his eyes to Wickham, his countenance slack, as though he had run out of ire entirely. “You will have fifty pounds a year during my lifetime. Lydia will have a share of her mother’s portion when the time comes, but I make no promises as to the proportion of it.”

    “Sir, I cannot possibly live on so little.”

    “Then I suggest you secure a position.”

    “Doing what?” Wickham said with a scathing laugh.

    “If only you had studied the law as you once claimed was your intention,” Elizabeth said resentfully. When Wickham glanced anxiously in her direction, it dawned on her that he must have guessed whence the information came. She felt a bittersweet thrill to see him baulk at the slightest reference to Darcy. If that was what it took to bridle the odious man, she was quite content to let him think the acquaintance a strong one, no matter that she would never be able to claim the slightest connection to Darcy again. She held Wickham’s gaze until he turned back to Mr Bennet.

    “Sir, it is not unreasonable that I should ask for—”

    “You can ask until you are blue in the face, it will not change a thing. I have four other daughters to feed, and no more money to my name.” Mr Bennet bit off his next words and grimaced as though in genuine pain before reluctantly saying, “One hundred pounds a year. That is all I can give you. You must find a way to make it enough.” He abruptly slumped forward, landing heavily with both hands on his desk, his head hung low. 

    “Papa!” Elizabeth rushed forwards, as did Jane. 

    “Yes, yes, thank you, girls. I am only tired. I shall go to my room now.” He stopped at the door and said, without looking at him, “Mr Wickham, for my wife’s sake, and Lydia’s, I shall allow you to remain in this house for another night. Come tomorrow morning, you will find our hospitality is entirely depleted.”

    Without another glance at Wickham, Elizabeth left also, going directly to use the writing desk in the front parlour. A rising sense of panic had been growing stronger in her the longer the interview had gone on. Wickham was here to stay, and all possibility of being reunited with Darcy was fading fast. She would write to her aunt Wallis, who was far enough away from all these harrowing goings on that she might be able to offer some perspective, some hope, that had not yet occurred to Elizabeth.

    She wrote first of her concern for her father, whose queer turn seemed more than mere fatigue. Then she wrote at length of Lydia’s pitiful situation, that her sister’s husband had shown himself to be vicious and unprincipled, and that no matter which way she looked at it, her sister’s life was ruined—and her own along with it.

    And there she stopped. She could not write any more because her tears prevented her from seeing the page clearly. 

    “Lizzy?” she heard Jane say. 

    She wiped her eyes before her sister reached her, but Jane was not fooled. 

    “What is the matter?”

    “I shall never see him again, shall I? Not now.”

    If Jane had demurred, Elizabeth might have tried to believe her. As it was, her sister’s pitying silence made her heart contract painfully. She nodded with resignation, and when Jane squeezed her hand, she squeezed it back tightly and did not let go for a long time.

    She did not finish her letter. Consigning the hopelessness of her love for Darcy to written words would only make it seem more final, and she was not brave enough for it. Instead, she signed off where she had stopped and sealed it for posting in the morning, then went to bed, trying not to listen to Lydia and Wickham’s raucous laughter as she passed the drawing room door.

  • Charlotte Collins Has a Theory (or Two)

    Charlotte Collins Has a Theory (or Two)

    Fallen is told exclusively from Elizabeth Bennet’s point of view, but personally, when I read a book, especially Pride and Prejudice, I love to imagine what the other characters are thinking, and to try to imagine their motivations. With that in mind, I’ve written this extra scene, told from Charlotte Collins’ point of view at around the mid-point of the story, where we see her begin to formulate some of her match-making ideas. Whether she’s read the situation quite right or not, I’ll leave for you to decide! 

    Charlotte Collins poured herself another cup of tea and sat back, waiting for her guest to resume the conversation. Thus far, he had seemed more than commonly eager to ask her about her connexions in Meryton, but she had a burning suspicion that it was neither her family nor her home in which he was truly interested. 

    “And so tell me,” he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs, “do you find the society in Hunsford to your liking? Are your neighbours as friendly as they were in Hertfordshire?” 

    “Well, I did not keep quite the same company there as my husband and I enjoy here, but my family had a good many friends nearby.” He regarded her expectantly, and she could not resist withholding just a little, to see how he would act. “The Gouldings, for instance. They were always exceedingly sociable. And the Longs.”

    He was not to be put off. “I thought I understood that you were a particular friend of Miss Bennet’s?”

    Charlotte grinned to herself. There! “Oh yes, Eliza and I have always been very close. Indeed, we still are.”

    He nodded solemnly. “She seems a very sensible young woman.”

    Certainly sensible enough for the son of an earl, she thought with glee. “She is, Colonel, eminently so. Perhaps not quite as perfectly indifferent to romantic notions as I, but she has nevertheless always been sensible of her situation in life and therefore her prospects. Though, I am sure some would agree she has talents that more than compensate for any want of consequence.”

    Her companion nodded again, his countenance pensive. “She has three younger sisters, I collect.”

    “And one older.”

    “Pray, what are their names?”

    It was a strange question, and Charlotte hoped her confusion was not obvious as she answered. “Mary, Kitty—Catherine, I should say—and Lydia.” Had he heard something unfavourable about them? “They are very good girls,” she added, just in case.

    “Are they much younger than Miss Elizabeth?”

    Perhaps Mr Darcy had warned him of Lydia or Kitty’s wild behaviour. Poor Elizabeth, to be judged on the conduct of two such silly girls! “The youngest is not yet sixteen.”

    “Ah. Not terribly young, then. But is Miss Bennet much in the company of other children, do you know? I have heard young ladies enjoy such society.”

    Again, Charlotte schooled her expression as she attempted to guess, and guess again, at the colonel’s purpose. An enquiry about a woman’s fondness for children was an altogether more intimate sort of inquisition than one about her connexions. “I know she is exceedingly fond of her cousins, who are aged between four and ten. And she was wonderfully patient with my own siblings when they were younger. Are you fond of children yourself, sir?”

    “Me? Not particularly. With a very few exceptions, I find them noisy, tiresome creatures. But my cousin is more disposed to like them.”

    “Miss de Bourgh?”

    “Darcy. Miss Bennet’s cousins, do they live in Hertfordshire?”

    Charlotte took a moment to respond, her mind engaged in hastily recalculating all her assumptions. “No, in London. Mr Darcy has an obligation to be interested in children, I suppose.”

    Colonel Fitzwilliam’s gaze sharpened, and he shifted in his seat. “Have you any reason to suppose that?”

    “Will not he one day require an heir?”

    “Oh. Yes, quite.”  

    And for that, he will require a wife… “I imagine, if he enjoys the company of children, he would prefer a sportive wife, for they would both afford him a measure of liveliness, if that is what pleases him.” 

    Colonel Fitzwilliam’s countenance drew into a look of intense deliberation, though his answer made it apparent he had not been concentrating on what Charlotte had said. “Has Miss Bennet mentioned that there were any newcomers to the neighbourhood? Before she came here, that is.”

    “There were a plethora of newcomers last autumn, sir—your cousin among them.”

    “Yes, yes, of course. But I mean apart from Darcy and Bingley. A neighbourhood such as you have described can have but few people coming and going in the usual course of things. New ones must be noticeable. Did Miss Bennet ever mention making any new acquaintances outside of my cousin’s party?”

    Being already resolved to discover some proof of regard for her friend from one gentleman or the other, Charlotte leapt to construe the rationale for this query before the good colonel had even finished voicing it. And her conclusion was that Elizabeth would have to eat her words, for despite her every protest to the contrary, Mr Darcy evidently was in love with her, if he had sent his cousin to discover whether she had any other suitors before he made his addresses. “She has never mentioned anybody to me specifically,” she replied. Then, recalling that Mr Darcy had once refused to dance with Elizabeth on account of her having been slighted by other men, she added, “But she has ever been well-liked and is exceedingly sociable. If somebody new had come into the neighbourhood, it would not surprise me at all if she had befriended them.”

    “Yet you say she made no mention of any specific person?” 

    He seemed so sincere that Charlotte wondered whether he had somebody particular in mind. Yet much had happened in her life over the past six months; she would be hard pushed to recall every new acquaintance of her own, let alone every one of her friend’s. “None that I can recall. Well, there was the militia, of course, but—” She stopped speaking abruptly upon recalling that amongst the officers had been one very particular gentleman, whose mention was not likely to be well received by the colonel: Lieutenant Wickham, who, if her suspicions were correct, had a most unwelcome connexion to Mr Darcy. She wished she had not mentioned it, for it would scarcely recommend Elizabeth if it appeared there was any partiality on her side for a man whom Mr Darcy had such good cause to despise. “But they are gone from Meryton now, and I do not think they will be missed by anybody.”

    “I am certain you are right, madam,” the colonel replied coldly. “But it was not the likes of Colonel Fortser’s men to whom I was referring.”

    Then I am quite sure I have no idea to whom you are referring, thought Charlotte in exasperation. “In that case, I am afraid I cannot offer any further enlightenment, sir. Might I enquire whether Mr Darcy plans to return to Netherfield at all?” she enquired, of the mind that if that gentleman wished to know with whom Elizabeth kept company, he ought to return himself and find out first-hand.

    “Almost certainly not,” replied the colonel, apparently somewhat disgusted by the notion if his expression were any indication. 

    “I see,” she replied innocently. “Whatever can his interest in my friend’s neighbours be then?”

    He lifted his eyes to hers in alarm. “He is not—I am—this is not—” Observably collecting himself, he began again. “I am not privy to my cousin’s plans, Mrs Collins. I was interested in Meryton because you made it sound such an appealing place. I thank you for sharing your stories with me. Perhaps, on my next call, I shall regale you with tales of Matlock, where I grew up.” 

    Charlotte agreed that she should like that very well, and her visitor departed with uncharacteristic awkwardness. Afterwards, she pulled the bell and for Jenny to come and take away the tea things and then sat on the settee, smiling to herself. She would say nothing to Elizabeth. If her obstinate friend were aware of Mr Darcy’s vicarious investigations, she would almost certainly evade the alliance simply to avoid being proved wrong. Oh, how Charlotte hoped it would come to something, though! And that Elizabeth would not be such a fool as to refuse this offer as she had the last, for as Mr Collins often said, it was by no means certain that she would ever receive another.  

    ***

    Colonel Fitzwilliam walked away from the parsonage deep in thought. He had discovered nothing more about Miss Bennet’s connexion to Anna, though he had pursued every line of questioning conceivable barring a direct demand for answers. Even if Darcy’s suspicions were correct, Miss Bennet certainly did not appear to have confided anything about it to Mrs Collins, and he remained no better informed than he had been before the tortuous interview. If he was to fulfil his promise to Darcy to uncover the truth, he must talk to Miss Elizabeth Bennet directly, to see what he could glean from her on the matter. 

  • Fallen from the Cutting Room Floor

    Fallen from the Cutting Room Floor

    This scene of the Bennet girls calling on the Bingley sisters for tea didn’t make the final cut into Fallen. I wrote it to demonstrate how the relationship between Darcy and the Bingleys is ‘the-same-but-not-quite-the-same’ as we’re used to seeing in Pride and Prejudice. Their ‘closed ranks’ superiority is heightened, whilst at the same time, the tension between them all is more pronounced, and it is this which intrigues the observant Elizabeth Bennet from the start as she attempts to put her finger on what is going on behind the scenes at Netherfield Park.

    “Move over, Mary, you are taking up half the seat.” This demand was accompanied by a determined shove as Lydia shouldered her sister into the corner of the carriage. 

    “I am taking up no more room than you!”  

    “For heaven’s sake, put your book down.” Mrs Bennet gave Mary no time to object—only snatched the offending article from her grip, snapped it closed and thrust it back towards her. “There is not enough room for you to sit with your elbows sticking out every which way.”

    Lydia sent Mary a look of triumph; Elizabeth sent Lydia one of disapproval that was returned with a loud sigh and theatrical eyeroll. She turned away to look out of the window, wishing she had insisted upon walking, for so many Bennet women in such a confined space was making even the short drive to Netherfield arduous.  

    Several coos arose when the house came into view. Elizabeth had glimpsed it many times over the last few years, but as neither her mother nor any of her sisters shared her love for walking, this was their first sight of it since the Connellys gave up the place. Nobody had been inside since then, and Elizabeth could not help but be impressed by what she saw as they were shown through to the saloon, for she had forgotten quite how grand the house was. Her interest in the proportions of the rooms was not equal to her curiosity about the people occupying them, however, and while Mrs Bennet craned her neck to admire the gilt cornices, Elizabeth watched closely to see how they were received by the ladies of the house.

    With dismay bordering on alarm was how, if she did not mistake the fleeting look Miss Bingley sent her sister, Mrs Hurst, and the disdainful twitch that pulled at her top lip until it stretched into a tight smile. “How good of you to call, Mrs Bennet,” she lady said. “And so soon after we saw you at the assembly.” 

    Mrs Bennet—from whom Jane had inherited her propensity to always see the good in people, and Elizabeth her propensity to always assume people would see the good in her—smiled unquestioningly. “That is precisely as we thought, Miss Bingley, for though we were enchanted to make your acquaintance on Saturday, there is never much opportunity to talk at a dance,”—Elizabeth dipped her head to hide a smile, fancying her mother had never suffered any such impediment—“and we wished to make certain you knew how welcome you are to the neighbourhood.” As though to ensure they never left it, Mrs Bennet anchored herself, without being invited to, on the nearest sofa. Her youngest three daughters followed suit, dropping onto various pieces of furniture around the room until only Jane and Elizabeth remained standing. 

    Miss Bingley’s chest swelled with indignation. 

    “Are you finding the country to your liking?” Elizabeth enquired to distract her from her pique.

    “We are not yet much acquainted with the area, so it is difficult to say. Will you not sit down, Miss Elizabeth? Miss Bennet? You may as well now.”

    Elizabeth inclined her head and lowered herself into the nearest seat, as did Jane and then Mrs Hurst. Miss Bingley remained standing. 

    With seamless grace and a little assistance from Elizabeth, Jane turned the indelicate beginning into a genteel discussion of Hertfordshire’s merits. Mrs Bennet only occasionally contributed; Mary, Kitty and Lydia not at all; thus, the conversation had begun to show real promise of becoming agreeable to all when the door burst open and Mr Bingley strode into the room, looking for all the world as though he had thought it was on fire and he was the man to put it out. 

    “Ah! Caroline! I heard we had guests, and…well, I…I thought you might need me to…that is, I was worried you would, ah…Good day, Miss Bennet. And Mrs Bennet. And Miss…Good day to you all.”

    Elizabeth could not be happier for Jane, whose presence had almost certainly induced this hasty and tongue-tied arrival. Why Mr Darcy had thought it necessary to come was less clear. He walked into the room more sedately than his friend, glowering at everybody present, less as though he meant to extinguish a blaze and more as though to determine who started it. She was still delighting in his supercilious nonsense when his sweeping gaze reached her, and she took some pleasure in his obvious surprise at having been observed in his scrutiny of the room. She made no attempt to disguise the fact that she was diverted and instead raised an eyebrow by the smallest increment—I know what you are about, sir!—then turned to join the conversation that had sprung up amongst the others. 

    “Aye, there is a dance every month at the assembly rooms,” Jane was telling Mr Bingley.

    “Though, you must not concern yourself that you will have to wait that long to dance again with Jane,” Mrs Bennet informed him. “There are forever impromptu little reels being danced at the sorts of parties we attend.”

    Elizabeth cringed inwardly, which turned out to be an unnecessary precaution, for Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst both did so outwardly. 

    Mr Bingley either did not share his sisters’ disdain for ungarnished country amusements or was too gallant to show it. “How merry and uncontrived all your gatherings must be. I am impatient to experience one for myself.” 

    “Then I hope you will agree to dine with us on Tuesday, sir. We shall send a card, of course. I hope you will come, for if it is lively and informal that pleases you, then I think you will like Longbourn very well indeed.” 

    Elizabeth’s increasingly good opinion of Mr Bingley was bettered further still when he gave no indication of being put off by this and accepted on behalf of his entire party. She glanced at Mr Darcy to determine how deeply the prospect appalled him and caught sight of Miss Bingley sending a most expressive look in the same direction—one that seemed to beg him to extricate them from the engagement. Elizabeth did not think he could have missed it, for Miss Bingley was directly in his line of sight, yet rather than acknowledging her, Mr Darcy turned away to look out of the window. It was an exchange by which Elizabeth was uncharitably diverted. Jane had reported to them all a remark Miss Bingley had made that while Mr Darcy rarely spoke among strangers, he was remarkably agreeable among his intimate acquaintance. Not so very agreeable, it seems, she thought. Or so very intimate. Poor Miss Bingley! 

    “Have you had the opportunity for much sport since you arrived?” enquired Mrs Bennet, never one to let a conversation lapse long enough for anybody to grow complacent.

    “Not as much as my brother would like,” Mr Bingley replied amiably. 

    “We thought you might be shooting today,” Jane said with a smile that Elizabeth fancied must signal to everybody her pleasure that he was not. 

    “We would have been, had we known the weather would be so clement. Alas, we went out yesterday—in the rain—and we have to constrain ourselves to one shoot a week else Darcy will kill every bird on the estate before Michaelmas.” He leant forwards and whispered theatrically, “There is such a thing as being too good an aim.”

    “How good of you to be the one to make the sacrifice,” Elizabeth remarked. “I might be more inclined to enjoy the sport whenever I chose and ask my friend to curb his efficiency.” 

    “We could hardly expect Mr Darcy to shoot fewer birds simply because Charles does not aim as well,” Miss Bingley interjected. “We should as soon ask Mr Hurst to win fewer hands at cards because none of us play as well as he.”

    “Or you to buy fewer dresses, though you do look better than I in all of them,” Mr Bingley said to her over his shoulder.

    Try as she might, Elizabeth could not fully repress a laugh; it bubbled up and caught in her throat just loudly enough to draw notice.  She made a more concerted effort to conceal her amusement when Jane cast her a beseeching look, though she did not truly believe she had done much damage until she noticed Mr Darcy was glowering at her again. She bit her lips together to banish her smile and resolved to be sensible for the remainder of the visit. 

    “Well, that went well, did it not, girls?” Mrs Bennet said as their carriage pulled away. Then her expression soured. “Though Lizzy must learn not run on at people the way she does.” 

    “She was only being polite, Mama,” Jane protested.

    “No, no she was not!” Mrs Bennet tossed a vexed glanced at Elizabeth. “She was being clever, as she always has to be. Well I beg you would stop being clever, Miss Lizzy, until your sister is engaged. Then you may run on at everybody to your heart’s content.”

    “Why, thank you, Mama. I am not sure there is any logic to your hope that my being stupid will increase Jane’s chances of falling in love, but if you are convinced it will help then you may count on my obedience.”

    This answer pleased her mother not at all, but Jane laughed more easily than she usually would have, convincing Elizabeth that the visit truly had gone well, and delighting her enough that she did not object once to Mary’s elbowing her in the ribs all the way home.

  • Befriending Anne

    Befriending Anne

    When I republished Mistaken under my own steam, I edited out some scenes to make way for a new epilogue. Here’s one, from later in the story, that shows Elizabeth’s stalwart attempt to befriend Anne de Bourgh. Enjoy!

    A happy sight greeted them upon reaching the lawn. Mr Montgomery and a small boy, whom Elizabeth presumed must be his son, were playing a game of cat and mouse. Too busy watching his father over his shoulder to pay heed to where he ran, the boy promptly careened headlong into Darcy’s legs, which had rather the same effect as a blancmange being hurled at a boulder—one moved not at all, and the other crumpled in a messy heap on the ground. Elizabeth crouched to help the boy to his feet, brushing his breeches clean.

    “Jonathan, do be careful!” Mr Montgomery called as he made his way towards them.

    “It is very nice to meet you, Master Jonathan,” Elizabeth said. “I am Mrs Darcy. And this is my husband, Mr Darcy.”

    “You have introduced yourselves, I see,” Mr Montgomery puffed, arriving at the scene rather short of breath. To his son he said, “Mr Darcy is Miss de Bourgh’s cousin.”

    Much to Elizabeth’s delight, the boy gave them a dear little bow and then craned his neck to look up at Darcy.

    “You are too big to be a mouse,” he declared. “I shall be the mouse. You be the cat.” Then he turned and toddled away across the lawn, leaving the three adults regarding each other—one apologetically, one sceptically, and the other vastly diverted.

    Elizabeth raised an expectant eyebrow at her husband. With a sigh and a perfectly solemn countenance, he removed his hat and greatcoat and handed them to her, then exploded into a run across the lawn. Jonathan squealed and tripped over his own feet attempting to escape. Mr Montgomery soon joined them, and Elizabeth watched with melting heart as two of the most serious and dignified men of her acquaintance darted about the lawn, drawing shrieks of happy laughter from the little boy. She could not help but suppose Darcy’s anticipation of fatherhood contributed to his rare eschewal of decorum, and her stomach did another of its little pirouettes as she fell a little further in love with him.

    Only as she looked about for a seat did she notice the solitary figure occupying a bench on the far side of the lawn. She presented a lonely picture, and Elizabeth set out at once to speak to her. “Good morning, Miss de Bourgh. May I join you?”

    “Mrs Darcy,” she replied, nodding at the space next to her by way of permission but not moving to make it any larger.

    Not overly surprised and certainly not deterred, Elizabeth lowered herself onto the bench, balancing Darcy’s hat and coat on her lap. Having imposed this far, she felt obliged to begin the conversation, but not knowing the least bit about her, was unsure which subjects were safe. She settled on enquiring after her health.

    “I am as well as I ever am. Which is not very,” answered Miss de Bourgh.

    “I beg your pardon, I was not aware you were unwell.”

    “I am not unwell. I am simply not well.”

    “I see.” Such a contrary creature! “You must be greatly anticipating your wedding tomorrow.”

    “Must I?”

    “I hope for your sake that you are. Mr Montgomery is a very kind, unassuming gentleman. I hope you will be very happy together. From what I hear, it sounds as though he has grown very fond of you.”

    This remark brought Miss de Bourgh’s head whipping around and the first splash of colour to her cheeks Elizabeth had ever observed. “He has?”

    “Why, yes. Darcy tells me he speaks very highly of you indeed. I understand he values your calmness of temper in particular.” This evidently flustered her, leading Elizabeth to wonder whether she had ever received a compliment on aught, other than the things her mother believed she might have accomplished had her health allowed it. “Master Jonathan seems a lovely, lively little boy.”

    “He is certainly the latter.”

    Elizabeth smiled. “Most three-year-olds are, I think.”

    “Are you much in the company of young children?”

    “I have been, at various times. I have three younger sisters and four very young cousins.”

    Miss de Bourgh picked at a fleck of dust on her pelisse then looked into the distance with a sniff. “I never thought I would have children. I know not what one is expected to do with them.”

    A small laugh escaped Elizabeth’s lips before she could prevent it. Such a curious mix of uncertainty and arrogance she had never seen. “Does Master Jonathan have a nanny or a governess?”

    “Both.”

    “Then all there is for you to do is love him.”

    Her companion’s only response was to look moderately terrified.

    “Miss de Bourgh,” Elizabeth said cautiously, “our husbands are good friends. It is probable you and I shall be thrown together quite often as a result. I cannot but think it would be tedious to be always in each other’s company and never at liberty to enjoy it. Do you not agree?”

    “Come to the point, Mrs. Darcy. I do not care for clever tongues.”

    There really was no further proof required that she would never have truly appreciated Darcy had she married him. “Very well. I should like it if you and I could be friends.”

    Elizabeth had rather expected her to be offended by this proposal, and she was surprised when spots of colour once more pinked her cheeks, for she looked more abashed. It occurred to her that perhaps Miss de Bourgh did not have many acquaintances she could call ‘friend.’ “Mayhap, in time,” she pressed gently, “we might learn to be mothers together.” She received no answer but counted it as a great victory that neither did she receive a rebuff. “Shall we begin now?” she enquired, gesturing with a nod towards Jonathan.

    Miss de Bourgh gave the smallest of nods. As they walked onto the lawn, a slight movement behind her caught Elizabeth’s eye. She looked up at the house and observed Lady Catherine peering from an upstairs window. She smiled up at her and inclined her head. Her ladyship’s eyes narrowed furiously, the curtain dropped back down, and she disappeared from view. Elizabeth sighed, then just as quickly smiled and turned to forge ahead with Miss de Bourgh, counselling herself that the walls of Badajoz were not brought down in a day.

  • Tabitha Goes in Search of a Tipple

    Tabitha Goes in Search of a Tipple

    A wee bonus scene for fans of Mistaken (and Tabitha Sinclair) to enjoy…

    Saturday, 11 July 1812: Hertfordshire

    Peabody spilled the liquor he was in the midst of pouring when the door to his pantry swung wide open without so much as a knock or a cough by way of announcement. He pushed himself to his feet, mouth open to deliver the sternest of admonishments but was stunned into silence when Colonel Fitzwilliam’s ancient grandmother stepped through the aperture.

    Mrs Sinclair had been at Netherfield but a few days; that she might lose her way in its halls was not beyond the realms of possibility. That she had found her way below stairs, past the kitchens, through the servants’ hall, and into his private pantry was harder to account for.

    “There you are, Teabody,” she said, looking everywhere around his room but at him. “I am looking for the gin.”

    She had clearly lost her wits as well as her way.

    “It is Peabody, Mrs. Sinclair, and this is the basement. I am afraid you cannot be down here.”

    She snapped her gaze to his and glared at him as though he were the addle-pate. “That is clearly not the case, for here I am.”

    “Pardon me, I meant you ought not to be.”

    “Do not presume to tell me where I ought and ought not to be, Peabrain. If I had lived my life doing what I ought to, I would have died of ennui a long time ago—or thirst. Now pray, direct me to the good stuff.”

    Peabody pursed his lips and came out from behind his desk to hold the door open for her. “Allow me to escort you back above stairs, ma’am. There is gin in the drawing room.”

    “Not any more.”

    He stood straight and clasped his hands behind his back. “Then there is no gin left in the house, ma’am. That was the last of it.”

    She looked thoroughly baffled by this, as though she had mistaken the house for a dram shop and could not fathom why it should not be better stocked. She peered around him to the abandoned bottle and glass on his desk. “What are you drinking?”

    “Port.” He sensed no advantage in equivocating to one so determined to sniff out a drink.

    “Whose?”

    “Mine,” he lied, only saved from blushing by dint of his being blessed with the inability to do so.

    “Balderdash.” She shooed him out of the way and tottered past him to arrange herself somewhat precariously on the wooden bench against the wall.

    Peabody raised an eyebrow.

    “Well, come along then, share it out,” she said. “If it is good enough for you to pilfer, it is certainly good enough for me to gargle.”

    Peabody sighed just loudly enough to be certain she heard him as he poured another glass and handed it to her.

    She took it, sipped it, looked about the room, sipped some more, then fixed her gaze on him and frowned. “Sit down, Peaman. I cannot abide it when people loom.”

    “I was waiting to accompany you back above stairs, ma’am.”

    “I am not ready to go back. The house is awash with fools.”

    That almost succeeded in making Peabody smirk. It could not be denied there was a veritable deluge of folly in the saloon this afternoon, for Mrs Bennet had called with all her daughters. “I am sorry to hear that, ma’am.”

    She eyed him dubiously. “I imagine you are as sorry to hear that as I am to have drunk the house dry of gin—which I had to do, for I dared not touch the wine. I think it must be off.”

    “The wine in my cellar is not off,” he replied stiffly.

    “No? It must be the tea, then. Something has rendered everybody in the house stupid.”

    “Mrs Bennet always adds a certain quality to proceedings.”

    “I do not doubt it. The woman is as mad as a box of frogs, but she at least is consistent. ’Tis all the others puzzling me.”

    She wished him to enquire whom she meant, of course—and of course, he refused to oblige her. It did not put her off.

    “Mr Bingley is moping around like a wet rag. I have been used to thinking the sort of attributes Miss Bennet has on offer would please a young man, but he seems wholly uninterested, staring forlornly out of windows, and constantly sighing like a set of depressed bellows. What is wrong with the man?”

    Peabody smiled despite himself at her truthful description of the master. “I understand he has much on his mind, ma’am.”

    “No, he does not. He is rich. The only things demanding his attention are how he ought to spend his money, and how he ought to please his sweetheart.” She pointed at the port on Peabody’s desk. “You appear to be doing one of those for him, so he has no excuse for failing so completely at the other.”

    “Indeed. But then, some women are difficult to please.”

    Much to his surprise, she cackled gleefully at this and raised her glass in a merry salute. “Quite so, Treebody. But I heard that Mr Darcy described this woman as pleased with everything. I heard that he said she smiles too much, but she never smiles at all, that I have seen. What has happened to make her so dull?”

    “I am not in Miss Bennet’s confidence, ma’am.”

    “And neither did I suppose you were. Do not pretend ignorance with me. I am not as senile as I am decrepit-looking. I know you see and hear things in your position. So tell me, what is it that has Miss Bennet giving Mr Bingley the evil eye? Have they argued?”

    “I am not paid to know such things.”

    “I doubt very much you are paid enough not to know them.”

    Peabody was not particularly loyal by nature, but his position at Netherfield was a singularly comfortable one, and he was not about to give it up to satisfy the whims of this stewed and gossipy old bat. He moved to his desk and topped up his glass, then met and held her eye. “The job has its perquisites.” He sipped his drink. “Enough to ensure that I do not cast aspersions about my employers or their guests.”

    “I am not asking you to cast aspersions! I am quite content to do that myself. I only want you to answer a few discreet questions. Heavens, I really thought you had a little more nous about you, Fleabody.”

    Quite apart from how little Peabody liked Mrs Sinclair calling his understanding into question, he did not think she would go away until she was satisfied. “I do not believe they have argued, ma’am,” he capitulated. “Mr. Bingley is pathologically averse to disputes of any sort.”

    She nodded curtly. “So, something else has annoyed Miss Bennet—mayhap her sister, for I have seen her glower at Lizzy sometimes when she is with Mr Darcy. That must be it. She is jealous that Lizzy has won the esteem of a richer, handsomer, cleverer man than she!”

    “Miss Elizabeth has the esteem of a number of gentlemen, as I understand it, ma’am.”

    “That is true.” She slurped her port thoughtfully. “There was that nincompoop, Mr Greyson. And her cousin. Well, that explains it—Miss Bennet is jealous that she has fewer admirers than her younger, more impudent sister. It is a fair complaint. I should be furious if Lizzy had done it to me. Fortunately, we are several generations removed and unrelated, which leaves me at liberty not to hold it against her.” She took another gulp of port. Peabody did likewise, resigned to listening to the aged crone’s blathering.

    “Is this why Mr Bingley is so miserable?” she asked him. “Because the woman upon whom he has decided has given over smiling for sulking?”

    Peabody did not think Miss Bennet could justly be described as the woman upon whom Mr Bingley had decided. “Some men make decisions,” he said cryptically. “Some have decisions thrust upon them.”

    Mrs Sinclair turned up her nose. “Wishy-washy sort, is he? How horribly disappointing. Still, if he has not the wherewithal to direct his own destiny, then I daresay he deserves whatever fate throws his way. How has he survived this long without disaster?”

    “He places great sway in his sisters’ advice, I believe. And Mr Darcy’s, though I did hear they had a misunderstanding of some sort recently and that gentleman has refused to give him any further direction.”

    “Well, that is no great loss. Mr Darcy could not direct a man to the gate at the end of the drive at the present moment. He is a lovesick fool. He sees nothing and hears no one but his ladylove. He is as oblivious to Mr Bingley’s moping as he is to his tea going cold on the table next to him.”

    “A man such as Mr Darcy may choose to see and hear whomever and whatever he pleases.”

    “True. But that will not exempt him from the consequences of his oblivion. He ought to pay more attention to what Mr Bingley is doing.”

    “May I enquire as to your meaning, ma’am?” he asked warily.

    “Keep up, Fleabag. They will be brothers. If Mr Bingley is as useless as you say, Mr Darcy will needs must keep him in check.”

    “I see.” He took another draught of port, rolling it around his mouth before adding, “His sisters try, I think.”

    “Oh yes, his sisters. They are a strange, spiky pair of creatures, are they not? Miss Bingley in particular seems displeased with everything here. I wonder that she condescended to come.”

    “It was done under duress, I assure you,” Peabody said, warming to the topic as the port warmed his gullet. “Her sister summoned her to help advise the master in his marital prospects.”

    Mrs Sinclair pulled a face. “Is she not the one in need of advice, being the only sibling not allied to somebody?”

    “I believe she wished to secure Mr Darcy’s affections.”

    Mrs Sinclair’s mouth twisted with disdain. “Yes, well, I want eternal youth and gin on tap. We must be realistic.” She abruptly upended her glass to swallow the last of her port, put her empty glass down on his desk, and levered herself to her feet with her cane. “This has been most diverting, Peabody, but I shall leave now. I would not want to get anybody’s hopes up that I have passed away peacefully during my afternoon nap.”

    “You are not going to ask me about Miss Elizabeth?”

    She paused to look askance at him. “Why would I?”

    “You have asked me about all the others.”

    “Precisely. I cannot take issue with Lizzy as well. People will begin to think I am disagreeable.”

    Peabody had not formulated a response to that before there came a knock at the door, and one of the chambermaids entered the room.

    “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr Peabody, sir,” she said, curtseying even as she backed out of the door. “I didn’t know you ’ad company.” She was gone before he could enquire what she wanted.

    “Who was that?” asked Mrs Sinclair with an impish grin and a disturbing glint in her eye. “She looked the picture of Lizzy.”

    “You would be surprised how many around these parts do, ma’am.”

    “Is that so?”

    Peabody inclined his head and gestured for her to leave his pantry. “But you will have to ask Longbourn’s staff for more information on that.”

    “I might,” she said with a sniff. “Or I might not. It depends.”

    “On what?”

    “On whether or not they have any gin.”