Pride and Punishment: An Erotic Retelling of Jane Austen's Beloved Classic Page 8

  “With all my heart,” he says. “I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it.”

  Miss Elizabeth picks up the book on British wildflowers but does not open it.

  “I speak of possibilities, Charles!” Caroline chastises him.

  “Really? Upon my word, it is no more possible to build another Pemberley than it is to purchase it.”

  Miss Elizabeth sets down her book, unread, and drifts to the card table to observe the game.

  “Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?” Caroline asks. “I swear, she promises to be as tall as I am!”

  I shake my head, in no mood to discuss my sister. Thoughts of her are now intertwined with Hugh, the vision of them burned into my brain, searing memories, never to be soon forgotten, if ever.

  “I think she will,” I allow. “She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s height, or rather taller.”

  Made aware of my regard, the lady in question stops breathing for a moment. Interesting.

  “How I long to see her again!” Caroline coos, oblivious to what just happened—I, making my awareness of Miss Elizabeth known to her, and she, responding to it. “I have never met anyone who delighted me so much. Such a pretty girl, both in countenance and manners, and so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.”

  “Yes,” I agree, “but then so is your sister Clarissa’s. It is a shame that she does not play more.”

  Caroline flinches. Touché.

  Charles is too focused on card play to notice. “It is amazing to me how young ladies can have the patience to be so very accomplished as they all are.”

  Caroline takes exception to this, of course. “All young ladies? My dear Charles, whatever can you mean?”

  “Yes, all of them,” he says. “They all paint tables. Cover screens. Net purses. I scarcely know anyone who cannot do all this. I am certain that I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished.”

  “What you say has much truth,” I agree. “The word is applied far too liberally. Many a woman has netted a purse or covered a screen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half-a-dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished.”

  “Nor I, I am sure,” says Caroline.

  Elizabeth’s gaze caroms between Miss Bingley and me. “You must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman.”

  “Yes,” I admit smoothly, “I do comprehend a great deal in it.”

  Miss Elizabeth’s stubborn chin lifts a hair’s breadth but she wisely holds her tongue.

  Not Caroline. “Oh! certainly,” she cries. “No one can be really esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word. Beside all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half-deserved.”

  Caroline believes herself worthy of such a list, but there is another quality that I value even more. “All this she must possess.” I glance meaningfully at the book table that Caroline never approaches and Miss Bennett has abandoned. “And to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.”

  Miss Elizabeth does not realise that, if score were being kept, Caroline has just lost a point, and that any loss of Miss Bingley’s is her gain. Instead, Miss Bennet absorbs the perceived sting and comes to the defence of her gender, engaging me, dark eyes flashing as she parries with her words. “I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing any.”

  I arch a satirical brow. “Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility of all this?”

  “I never saw such a woman,” she rebuffs. “I have never seen such capacity, and taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe united.”

  “Of all the…” “Really!” Louisa and Caroline cry foul, that she dares to doubt me. Why, they know many women who answer my description, and start to name them all.

  “Enough!” George barks. “Louisa, it is your turn! Really, both of you need to start paying attention rather than drag things out. We should be done with this hand and on to the next one. Come now!”

  Charles’s sisters turn their attention back to the card table. I watch Miss Elizabeth, whose eyes are drawn back to the book table yet she refuses to go to it. She does not wish to appear to curry my favour, nor give offense to Louisa and Caroline by choosing a book over them. In the end, she watches the game until the round is finished, then excuses herself and returns to the sickroom.

  Caroline sighs dramatically. “Elizabeth Bennet is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other sex by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art.”

  She has to be joking. She undervalues other females at every opportunity, and would accuse Miss Bennet of the same? I do not think so.

  “Undoubtedly,” I say. “There is a meanness in all the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable.”

  That shuts her up quickly enough.

  It is not long before Miss Elizabeth comes down again. Her face is strained, her dark eyes troubled.

  Her sister Jane is worse.

  Chapter Nine

  Miss Elizabeth is struggling to keep herself together. When she speaks, her voice seems choked with unshed tears. “I must go back. I cannot leave her.”

  Charles is panicked by Miss Elizabeth’s news. “I shall send at once for Mr. Jones.”

  “Nonsense,” Caroline snaps. “He is an apothecary, Charles. If she is indeed worse, she does not need more country advice. She needs a physician. A good one, like those who are found in town. You can send an express. I am certain there are eminent doctors who would be willing to come to Hertfordshire.”

  “That all takes time, when time may be of the essence,” he says. “No. If Miss Bennet is not decidedly better by morning, I shall send for Mr. Jones first thing.”

  Miss Elizabeth returns to her sister, Louisa and Caroline to their whining. After supper, Charles’s sisters leave off long enough to perform some duets, Louisa’s voice and Caroline on the pianoforte. Patrice Hurst’s late return breaks the monotony.

  Whilst Miss Hurst introduces Miss Minerva Iles, her “friend” (and Caroline’s, unless I misjudge), Charles’s gaze is fixed on the door, his attention upstairs where the object of his adoration lies in an invalid’s bed, cared for by her well-meaning but untrained sister. Waiting proves too hard for him. Without permission to send for the local apothecary, unable to dispatch an express to London, he summons his housekeeper, informs her that Miss Elizabeth is also staying the night, and instructs that every attention be paid to the sick lady and her sister.

  I pour Charles a drink, hoping that it will help him relax enough to sleep. Several glasses later, I manage to haul him upstairs to the master’s chamber and help him undress enough to roll into bed. Leaving him to his bittersweet dreams, I close the door and head for my own bed, ignoring the urge to pause at one particular door and listen to the quiet conversation from the other side. There is no mistaking Miss Elizabeth’s honeyed voice, nor the wracking cough that follows. Poor girl. As much as I would distance Miss Jane from Charles, as strongly as I wish that she were not here, she is fortunate to have such a devoted sister. The realization that Miss Elizabeth would willingly sacrifice herself to see her sister healthy again only adds to my conflicted feelings towards her. Such selfless service is a hallmark of a good submissive. I find myself in danger of being drawn deeper, wishing for what can never be.

  In the morning, well before breakfast, Charles’
s housekeeper seeks him out to see what needs sent up on trays. Miss Iles, having arrived late, has not had the privilege of meeting the Bennet sisters and insists that Patrice take her up and perform introductions. They excuse themselves early and go up with the housekeeper when she takes food for the sisters, one well and one ill.

  The housekeeper returns with a report for Charles, and a request from Miss Elizabeth, that a note be sent to their mother asking her to come, to see Miss Jane for herself and judge whether or not she may safely be moved. The consensus is that she will rest more soundly and recover more quickly in her own bed, in familiar surroundings, than as a guest here—although I suspect it is as much for Miss Elizabeth’s well-being as Miss Jane’s. Caroline belittles her at every opportunity, and I am certain that Miss Elizabeth is weary of it. Not content to depend upon a doting mother’s wishes, Charles sends for the apothecary as well, for a more expert opinion.

  The apothecary arrives just behind Mrs. Bennet, who comes shortly after breakfast with two girls in tow, the youngest ones so fond of officers. Whilst the two youngest Bennets and the three youngest Bingleys become acquainted, Mr. Jones and Mrs. Bennet go up together to assess the health of her first-born daughter.

  Desperately seeking to control the situation, Caroline sends word upstairs, inviting Mrs. Bennet and her other daughters to join her when they are done. The morning meal is finished, but the promise of hot chocolate on a cold day is enough to tempt any woman, so it seems.

  When Mrs. Bennet is satisfied with her visit to Miss Jane, she collects her other three daughters and finds Caroline in the breakfast-parlour. Charles, nursing a hellish hangover, is on pins and needles waiting for word. He insists on joining them.

  And so we invade his sister’s space. Caroline gives us a dark look, promising retribution, then beams a smile back at Mrs. Bennet.

  Charles asks Mrs. Bennet how she found her daughter. “I hope she was not worse that you expected.”

  “Indeed she was, sir.”

  Caroline bites her tongue but says nothing, clearly chafing to command the chocolate pot instead of the conversation. Mrs. Bennet has the floor and uses it to render a detailed report to Charles. She has advised Jane to sit, rather than lie, in bed and see if her cough is quieter when she is upright. The apothecary left a different tea that they hope will help. Still, Mrs. Bennet worries that it is too soon to move her, less it cause a relapse or makes her catch something worse.

  The apothecary agrees.

  “She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness.”

  The thought of having Miss Jane here longer is music to Charles’s ears. “Removed! It must not be thought of. My sister, I am sure, will not hear of her removal.”

  Caroline responds with cold civility. “You may depend upon it, Madam, that Miss Bennet will receive every possible attention while she remains with us.”

  “I am certain that she will. Elizabeth insists that you have been nothing but kind, that my Jane’s every need has been met, that you even offered to send to London for a physician to attend her. I am certain that we are in your debt, for all that you have done to see our darling daughter’s health restored and hasten her return to us. I am sure, if it was not for such good friends, I do not know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest temper I have ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to her.”

  Mortification colours Miss Elizabeth’s fair cheeks, tingeing them pink, to hear her mother speak so. Nothing? Her other children are nothing compared to the one?

  Charles may welcome hearing that Miss Jane is held in such high esteem, but I am appalled, for her siblings’ sake. I cannot speak to the youngest Miss Bennets, having not yet reached maturity, but I would place Miss Elizabeth equal to or above her sister, in musicality, in dancing, and in the edification of the mind by extensive reading. Miss Jane may be perpetually pleasant, but there is an earnestness, an honesty about Miss Elizabeth that fairly shines from those fine, dark eyes of hers.

  “You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley,” Mrs. Bennet observes, “and a charming prospect over the gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry, I hope, though you have but a short lease.”

  Caroline catches my gaze. That is exactly what each of us is hoping for, quitting this place and leaving the Bennets, the militia, and the rest of Hertfordshire behind us.

  “Whatever I do is done in a hurry,” Charles tells her. “If I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here.”

  Miss Elizabeth tilts her head, silently assessing, before she claims to have known this, and says that she understands him perfectly.

  Charles, of course, is chagrined. It is no compliment, to be so easily seen through.

  Her mother is appalled. “Lizzy, remember where you are and do not fun on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.”

  Wild manner? Whatever can she mean? I stop my thoughts right there. If I do not, my fantasies will surely take flight here, in front of company, with nowhere to hide from a self-confessed student of characters.

  I wonder what she thinks of me?

  In answer to Bingley’s latest comment, it seems that Miss Elizabeth finds intricate characters the most amusing. She studiously avoids looking at me when she tells him this, and I determine to draw her out.

  “The country can in general supply but a few subjects for such a study,” I say. “In a country neighborhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society.”

  She is not the only student of character. As I predicted, she comes to the defence of her fellows. “But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be observed in them forever.”

  Mrs. Bennet must have taken offense. She jumps feet first into my conversation with her daughter. “Yes, indeed! I assure you there is quite as much of that going on in the country as in town.”

  Her rudeness shocks everyone. Rather than correct her and embarrass her daughters, I turn silently away.

  She does not stop, and only compounds her transgression. “I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country, for my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is it not, Mr. Bingley?”

  It is Charles’s nature to submit. To please. True to form, he agrees with Mrs. Bennet. Somewhat. “When I am in the country, I never wish to leave it; and when I am in town, it is pretty much the same. They each have their advantages, and I can be equally happy in either.”

  Unlike me. If it were not for the private clubs, London holds little appeal compared to the expansive beauty, the inherent grace, the intimate privacy of Pemberley.

  “Aye—that is because you have the right disposition. But that gentleman,” she says, looking at me, “seems to think the country is nothing at all.”

  Not the country. Just this part of it.

  Poor Miss Elizabeth is mortified. “Mamma, you are mistaken. You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there was not such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in the town, which you must acknowledge to be true.”

  “Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four-and-twenty-families.”

  Charles says nothing. Caroline rolls her eyes at me and smirks, as if to say I told you so. Miss Elizabeth picks up on the odd energy and turns the conversation toward her friend Miss Lucas.

  “Has Charlotte come while I’ve been gone?”

  “Yes,” her mother says. “She called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir William is, Mr. Bingley, is he not? So much the m
an of fashion! So genteel and easy! He always has something to say to everybody. That is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very important, and never open their mouths, quite mistake the matter.”

  It is a slight clearly aimed at myself. I choose to ignore it. Miss Elizabeth again steps in to deflect attention away from me.

  “Did Charlotte dine with you?” she asks.

  “No, she had to go home. I fancy that she was wanted about the mince-pies. For my part, Mr. Bingley, I always keep servants who can do their own work; my daughters are brought up very differently. But everybody is to judge for themselves, and the Lucases are a very good sort of girls, I assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that I think Charlotte so very plain—but then she is our particular friend.”

  “She seems a very pleasant young woman.”

  “Oh, dear, yes. But you must own that she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself has often said so, and envied me Jane’s beauty. I do not like to boast of my own child, but to be sure, Jane—one does not often see anybody better looking. It is what everybody says. I do not trust my own partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a man at my brother Gardiner’s in town so much in love with her that my sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came away. But, however, he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were.”

  “And so ended his affection,” Miss Elizabeth says, not bothering to hide her impatience with her mother. “There has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!”

  The idea is a novel one. I meet its author’s dark eyes and wonder if anyone has ever written a sonnet to them, or to her. “I have been used to consider poetry as the food of love.”

  Her answer seems bittersweet. “Of a fine, stout, healthy love, perhaps. Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it away entirely.”