Darcy & Elizabeth (21 page)

To attend her circle, if one was unencumbered by wealth, the alternate currency was an abundance of charm or copious celebrity. For those young gentlemen who had nothing but charm to promote themselves to her, there was always the possibility that Césarine might be engaged in a passing flirtation. Because she was a woman of voluptuous tastes, having a young lover to satisfy her more passionate needs, and a rich one to sate the most fundamental, was the best of all possible worlds.

Moreover, if the young lover's allurement lasted no longer than the bloom of a rose, it was all the more efficient. It allowed more time to pit marquis against duke, racheting up the value of their gifts with a seemingly ambivalent Césarine benefiting from the cachet of duelling paramours. The diamond-studded, ruby-encrusted choker from the count was a particularly favourite gratuity. It looked to have first been seen adorning the neck of a courtier of Louis XIV, therefore when it graced hers, it was an excellent ambassador to entice lovers to vie for the uppermost position on her dance card. (It was some time before it was missed by the de Nuncio family, and even longer before it dawned upon them where to look.)

***

By the year '15, Césarine had amassed, and then frittered away, several fortunes. As was her fate, she had not saved a franc. The summer of Napoleon's ultimate defeat, she was peeking into the abyss that represented her fourth decade. Some courtesans kept their looks and their lovers (if price and discretion were adjusted ever so subtly). But those who managed that were women of superior learning and wit. Time had not mellowed Césarine's nature and nothing compromised a lover's esteem more than an aging ingénue with an ill temper and a persistent cough.

Indeed, dear Césarine had not only done the unthinkable of outliving her funds, she had contracted the courtesan's cliché—a galloping case of consumption. (It was an undeniable scientific truth of the times that the resultant breathiness of a surfeit of erotic spasms resulted in a weakened chest.) Yet even with compleat calamity perched on her doorstep, she did not retrench. So disposed was she to live life, she little knew how to brook impending death.

The particulars of her case were unknown to George Wickham when, with freshly arranged hair and ill-gotten suit, bearing a pinched invitation, he sidled into one of her soirées.

Love Has Its Fashion

“It is a fine day, Darcy,” Elizabeth announced pertly.

“Hmmm,” was his noncommittal reply.

They had long since finished their breakfast and were enjoying a leisurely cup of coffee. History had taught him that a seemingly innocuous statement by his wife could betimes betray an ulterior motive. Hence, with his brief utterance, his cup had stopt short of his lips, temporarily suspended. Ever collected, he had the presence of mind to blow in its direction as if it were still a tad too hot.

Noting from him a distinct lack of enthusiasm for the weather, she furthered the subject, asking, “Excellent weather to take a turn with the horses, do you not agree?”

With exaggerated care, he returned his cup to its saucer and turned to her. Then cautiously he agreed that, indeed, it was a fine day. He had, however, no comment as to the appropriateness of the weather for her suggested activity. Time had allowed them a return to easy familiarity that had always attended their private moments. This day they had no guests with whom to contend and hence no propriety to protect. Yet clearly her last horseback episode was much on his mind. Understanding that probability, Elizabeth sat looking in his direction, waiting for him to oppose her suggestion. She was fully prepared to rebut. They both knew that it had been proven unconditionally that of late there was little that she could not stay astride—and no limit to her endurance. Therefore, he drummed the fingers of his right hand in frustration.

Knowing her husband as she did, she understood his rapping fingers made his point on his behalf. She was not to be so easily deterred.

She said, “You have insisted that I take fresh air. I propose that is done to best advantage from a saddle. The exercise is invigorating. My proficiency
is
wanting. We are of the same mind that one must take the time to practice.”

Darcy looked as if he might have liked to present an opposing argument, but his attention was arrested by a red indention that adorned his drumming forefinger. It was not pronounced, but quite visible just below the knuckle.

He stopt drumming and hastily removed his hand from sight.

As it happened, that small injury was a visible reminder of the previous night's amatory exercise. It came about in a manner of utmost privacy and gazing upon the evidence in the very bright morning light was a bit mortifying. The injury had occurred at the crescendo of a very unbridled event. Elizabeth's mention of riding only intensified the recollection of her straddling him the night before. She had—or possibly, he had (the exact perpetrator under such circumstances is not always identifiable) wedged his forefinger deep in her mouth. The impetus was not in question, for it was a manoeuvre that had often been employed at the very height of their passion. It sated his pleasure and silenced hers (the sheer intensity of her achievement could betimes expose itself through auditory overexuberance). But lost in the throes of delight, she had inadvertently bitten him. At the time, it had not hurt whatsoever; it had only enhanced his gratification.

He had been uncertain if she was aware that he still bore the memento of that exquisite moment—until he glanced in her direction. Her expression was unambiguous. Had it not been, she then raised one eyebrow, a device which could have been construed as over-egging the pudding insofar as his composure was concerned.

Indeed this disturbance was irrefutably identified by the bright red splotches just then blossoming high on both his cheeks. Bent on concealing this disconcertion, he first frowned and then coughed, finding great occupation in stirring his coffee. He quickly realised this activity exhibited his rapturously bitten digit and became even more unsettled. His neckcloth had suddenly become constricting and he first tugged a bit at it, then ran said forefinger round just under the edge. He then rose and gave his wife a slight bow as if disposed to take his leave.

She replaced her cup in its saucer and brushed the crumbs from her lap, ready even then to don the riding habit that hung in wait for her in her dressing-room. She had taken the precaution of trying it on and was happy to learn that, with the hooks loosened a bit, she could manage to wear it. But it was not that small triumph that tugged the corners of her mouth into a smug smile. It was the undeniable success of her tease. It was one of her sweetest conceits to be able still to discompose him so compleatly.

By the time she stood from the table, she was humming with self-satisfaction.

Therefore, her husband standing directly behind her took her quite unawares. As he bent low and whispered to her, she could feel the warmth of his breath against her ear.

“Lizzy dearest, if practice you must, I would much rather you perform to
my
delectation.”

“Oh,” she whispered.

She sank back in her chair, a small whimper escaping from her throat. He turned as if to quit the room, but then stopt and looked back upon her, clearly appraising the level of mischief he had wrought upon
her
composure. Satisfied, he strode from the room. She recognised the direction his footfalls took to be heading towards the staircase.

Sitting yet in her chair, Elizabeth had not moved. Nothing changed in her attitude save the crimson that then flamed in her cheeks, crept down her throat, and settled into her décolletage.

“Well,” she thought to herself, “the weather will be as fine at eleven o'clock as it is at half-past nine.”

As she then scurried after her husband, she also reminded herself that complacency over any part of his inclinations would always be a grievous error.

Had Elizabeth not been so single-mindedly disposed that morning, another observation might have interested her thoughts. It was the first morning since Jane had returned to Kirkland Hall that Elizabeth had not longed to see her face across from her at their breakfast table.

Never would the Darcys have engaged in such suggestive banter in anyone else's presence, much less Jane's. In reality, had Jane been there to hear them, it is unlikely that she would have been embarrassed. This was not because her sensibilities were not easily ruffled, but because in all probability she would have been compleatly unwitting of their inference. Circumstances had not altered all that much with Jane and Bingley. Even Elizabeth knew that Jane may have at last found erotic satisfaction, but odds were she found it in the
figura veneris primi
position.

***

The kindness of Charles Bingley's heart rivalled that of Jane's. Open and artless, Charles Bingley was not of illustrious birth, but the son of a wealthy merchant. Neither his birthright nor his pocket mattered to Jane. His single drawback was that included in the baggage which he carried with him to Hertfordshire were his two older sisters. Louisa was married to a Mr. Hurst, an indolent man more of fashion than fortune. Miss Caroline Bingley had an elegant figure and an air of decided fashion, one that she kept aloft through a habit of spending more than she ought of her own fortune of twenty thousand pounds. Both sisters treated those they supposed beneath them with an air of superciliousness and were inclined to think well of themselves and meanly of everyone else.

Despite his sisters' opposition, it had been love at first sight for both Bingley and Jane. And although the path to wedded bliss had not been without its occasional rut, they had been happy beyond telling. Indeed, they were well matched in temperament and understanding. When they came to their nuptial bed, Bingley was no more experienced than his wife.

Although Bingley had been infatuated many times, however fevered his blood, he had never had the courage to take liberties with a young lady. When he and Jane became engaged, he was still quite young and inexperienced. Hence he was as much an innocent as his virginal bride upon their wedding night. What his connubial technique lacked in proficiency, however, he hoped to remedy with enthusiasm. It took several nights of concentrated effort and random prodding to accomplish the act of generation, but Jane remained unvexed. To her mind, the primary obstacle had been merely locating the correct orifice. Once that was remedied, further proceedings would go more smoothly.

And in practice they had. (Although Bingley had whimpered a great deal, Jane's primary response had been one of puzzlement.) As she was not afforded the pleasure singular to this act, each successive encounter had become nothing more than a means to an end. And that end was to bear her husband's children. Because Jane fell with child with remarkable regularity, all seemed well. But because Bingley had been relegated to the office of breeding stock, any pride in that fact never quite flourished. As it happened, he was allowed into Jane's bed so seldom that he never really mastered the peripherals. Hence, despite the pleasure Jane took in his kisses, the nights he came to her bed were for her less an indulgence than a duty.

Mrs. Bennet was happy to direct Jane in the manner that she received her husband's attention. Through her instruction, Bingley was banned to his own bed except when Jane was actively seeking impregnation. That excluded those times of menstruation, parturiency, nursing, fatigue, and Sundays. Therefore, it was no small miracle that she had birthed four children in five years. Initially, Jane had thought herself altogether happy. What she had not been witting, she could not desire. She had learnt, however, that Elizabeth's marriage bed witnessed acts of lovemaking that resulted in exultations of a most passionate nature. That was somewhat troubling to Jane, but as she did not think herself dissatisfied, she was inclined to let sleeping dogs lie—as it were.

Those who knew how very dearly Bingley loved Jane would have been quite astonished to learn that he had strayed to the arms of another woman. To those of a more cynical persuasion, however, it was not altogether unfathomable that deprivation drove him to seek that relief. But the reasons men wander from their wives are as diverse as the arms they betray—whether it be in search of love, money, self-aggrandizement, or simply because they can. Bingley did for none of these reasons. His rationale was far too immediate. He was not lustful. He simply sought to relieve a palpable pain in his nether-regions. His may have been more understandable than the average adultery, yet it was no less unforgivable. And that it was unforgivable meant that it had been altogether unknown by even his closest acquaintances.

Although they were quite good friends, Darcy was older than Bingley by nearly a half-dozen years. Darcy was the oldest sibling in his family, Bingley the youngest. Their friendship replicated that element. Darcy conducted their friendship as if Bingley were a younger, more naïve brother, one in need of his counsel and guidance. Having suffered the loss of his father as a very young man and been compleatly in the company of his two sisters, Bingley was in desperate need of instruction in the manly arts. Darcy provided what education he could, but Bingley had not Darcy's inherent mistrust of human-kind. His affability and open manner led him to form friendships that were not always in his best interest. Employing considerable tact, Darcy had pointed out this failing to him, but while he may have listened with polite attention, he did not heed those warnings. Those few privy to his fall from grace believed that a lack of discrimination in those he chose to befriend may not have been the chief evil that led him into doing a grave injustice to his marriage vows, but it played a part.

Even Bingley was astonished with himself. He loved Jane without measure. How he had come to betray her as he had, he could but shake his head in wonder. As for Jane, she knew her husband well, and if he had been unfaithful, she knew that it had not been by design. She did not ask of, nor did he offer, the particulars. It was over. He vowed, and she believed, that he would never again breach her trust. Total unification, however, was not quite so expeditious.

With time, the proverbial silver lining displayed itself in a most unusual manner. For as keenly ashamed and remorseful as Bingley had been for his adulterous disportment, it had not been without its enlightenments. And there
was
considerable room for enlightenment.

He had never set out to know any other woman in the biblical sense. Indeed, he could not recall just how it all came to pass. What he did remember of the young woman with whom he became entangled was, while she was by no means a trollop, she most definitely was not a virgin—even as unschooled as he was he knew that. Indeed, when it came to coition, she knew more about what went where than he had ever imagined. That may have been the single reason he saw her after that first grave transgression. Instruction was not a defence he would ever be foolish enough to proffer, but that was what had lured him back. The entire affair had been altogether illuminating.