Chapter 13
Jane and Cassie fussed around after me like a couple of mother hens. Soon, I was in dry clothing, lying on their sofa with my injured ankle propped on a cushion, along with a cup of tea in my hand and a nourishing plate of tidbits at my elbow should I feel hungry. I felt like a princess. As the weather worsened outside, again, I congratulated myself on coming here rather than returning home.
‘I have sent word to Harriet via our stable boy that you have hurt your ankle and are staying here for the night to rest it,’ said Jane, indicating that I should lean forward so she could place another cushion behind my shoulders. ‘You should keep off it as much as possible in the coming days too.’
‘I agree,’ said Cassie, turning to look at me from where she was kneeling by the grate and attempting to coax a fire to life with a pair of bellows. ‘I twisted my ankle very badly once, but I was impatient and insisted on walking on it. It took much longer to heal. Father fetched the doctor, and he said I was not to walk on it for another two weeks! I was bored out of my mind. ’
‘She was,’ commented Jane. ‘And she made a terrible patient.’
Cassie grinned. The log in the grate caught, and as the flames started to crackle, I noted in the firelight that she was looking refreshed and rested after her stay in Kent. Her face bloomed with health, and she’d caught a slight tan on her arms.
I sipped my tea and enquired, ‘How do you like being back, Cassie?’
She perched on a nearby chair and considered the question. Three years older than Jane, Cassandra was her constant companion and touchstone; the two were very close—closer than even Harriet and I. A fresh wave of pain arose in me, thinking about Harriet and her siding with Papa, so I tried not to.
‘I missed everyone, of course, but Jane kept up a steady supply of correspondence and painted me a vivid picture of the goings-on. I especially enjoyed the supper at Ashbury Manor, a delightful scene. Your cousin sounds like a most entertaining fellow.’ She gave a little laugh.
I looked at Jane, wondering exactly what she had said about Mr Humbleton and in what context. But I trusted Cassie, and I knew she wouldn’t spread gossip. Otherwise, Jane would not be so free with her opinions and descriptions; she was highly creative after all, and Mr Humbleton had been entertaining, even if now he was causing me chronic consternation.
I had still not given Jane a reply as to why I had turned up wet and distressed on her doorstep, and I knew she must be burning with curiosity. Heaving a sigh, I stared intently at my empty teacup; it was probably best that I said it directly without any embellishment.
‘Speaking of my cousin, he has asked me to marry him. The proposal was made at breakfast this morning.’
There was a shocked silence.
‘Oh, my dear,’ murmured Jane, knowing that this was the last thing I wanted to occur. ‘What did you say?’
‘I turned him down—politely, of course,’ I stated. ‘But he is refusing to take no for an answer. And ... and Papa and Harriet seem to think I should accept.’ My voice wobbled, and I glanced up at the ceiling and took a breath to calm myself before continuing.
‘The whole thing is outrageous. Don’t you think so? I cannot marry a man I don’t love—and one that I, in fact, am beginning to hate!’
Jane sat on the edge of the sofa and took my hand. ‘Of course you should not be expected to marry him,’ she said in a matter-of-fact tone.
‘Hear! Hear!’ said Cassie. ‘It’s 1796, not 1596. We get so few freedoms as it is. A woman should at least have some say about who she marries, even if she can’t own the house she lives in.’
‘Well, actually, that is the crux of the matter,’ I said sadly. ‘Our house is entailed to him. So if we marry, I would have security for the rest of my life. And Harriet too. If I do not and something happened to Papa, Mr Humbleton would have every right to toss us into the street. So it is almost my duty—’
‘We would take you in,’ interrupted Jane confidently. ‘I’ve always wanted more sisters.’
‘Oh ...’ Hope rose in me but then fell. ‘Your parents would never agree to it. They have so many children as it is.’
‘Yes, but several have moved out, so there is space.’
It was a kind thought, but I still didn’t think her father would appreciate two more mouths to feed.
‘Is he so disagreeable, your cousin?’ asked Cassie curiously.
I nodded. ‘He is smarmy and pompous and talks about nothing of consequence.’ I opened and closed my hand like it was a duck’s bill. ‘And we have nothing in common.’
‘Except perhaps stubbornness,’ said Jane with a smile. ‘He seems determined to have you.’
‘But why? It is almost out of spite, as if he is trying to bend my will, like I am a challenge to him!’
A vision of myself walking down the aisle and Mr Humbleton waiting at the other end wearing a triumphant smile floated across my mind. It seemed entirely plausible that he might win.
‘Jane, what am I going to do?’ I asked anxiously. ‘I can’t marry him. If I do, I’m lost to society a-and anyone else who I might actually want to marry. And there is no way I could bear a child to him ... The thought of him touching me ...’
My fear of being pregnant after what had happened to my mother was bad enough, but being pregnant by him would be ten times worse!
Jane patted my hand. ‘Do not fret. You will just have to stay strong and keep saying no and that you will only marry for true love! Hopefully, your father will come to his senses and not enforce it in some way.’
She got up and stood in front of the fire, looking thoughtful. ‘What about if I recite a few of Shakespeare’s sonnets to him? So he can appreciate that a woman must marry for love?’ Clasping her hands together in front of her bosom, she lifted her chin and quoted,
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments; love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixèd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken ...
Cassie and I clapped, and Jane bowed, her cheeks flushing. ‘I would not hesitate if I thought it would help,’ she said solemnly, and I stifled a giggle, imagining her forcing Papa to listen to her quoting Shakespeare on my behalf.
‘It was very rousing,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
It was kind of her to try to comfort me and cheer me up. I felt as if Jane and Cassie were at least on my side, which was more than I could say for Harriet, my own sister!
‘But what about Mr Fitzroy? Wasn’t he calling today?’ asked Jane.
I stared into the fire and mumbled, ‘Zounds, that was even worse.’
‘What happened?’
I sighed and twisted my fingers together in my lap. ‘I suppose I should start from the beginning.’
Recounting Mr Fitzroy’s visit brought it back to painful life, but Jane and Cassie seemed enthralled as I explained how he’d had first caught me impersonating him, and then things had gotten progressively worse. ‘I was about to serve him a slice of sponge, but Mr Humbleton insisted on having it. There was a tug of war with the plate. Then unfortunately, the cake went flying and landed in Mr Fitzroy’s lap! ’
‘Oh, that’s excellent!’ Jane crowed.
I stared in amazement at her sparkling eyes and face creased with merriment.
‘No, it was a nightmare, Jane! He had cream and jam all over his trousers, and the more I tried to wipe it off, the worse it became ...’ I swallowed, remembering him murmuring to me and grasping my wrist. ‘H-he felt an urgent need to leave in haste!’
Jane, by this time, was in fits and clutching her stomach. ‘Oh stop, Flissy, don’t say any more. It hurts ...’ she gasped.
Cassie was also trying not to laugh, and I finally permitted myself to see the humour of it. My mouth quirked. ‘He said the housekeeper would tend to his trousers, but I am not entirely sure how he would explain it ... The stain on his crotch was ... sizeable.’
Tears rolled down Jane’s face. ‘Oh my goodness, that’s the funniest thing I ever heard.’ She hiccupped and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her dress.
‘You can tell no one, either of you! Do you swear on your lives?’
Jane and Cassie nodded in tandem, then fell about giggling madly again. I joined them, my spirits magically improved by the medicine of laughter.
When we’d all calmed down, I supplied the last bit of the story—that Mr Humbleton had told Mr Fitzroy that he was my intended husband.
‘Which was a blatant lie! I never said yes to him! And he calls himself a Christian.’ I folded my arms grumpily.
‘Or he’s just extremely hopeful,’ said Jane. I snorted.
‘I ran out to try to catch up to Mr Fitzroy to set him straight, but he was too far ahead, and I wasn’t wearing suitable footwear. Then it started raining, and well ...’ I gestured to my ankle. ‘You know the rest.’
‘Do you think he left in a hurry because of the state of his trousers or Mr Humbleton’s news?’ asked Cassie.
‘I have no idea.’ I tried to recall the timing of things. ‘He seemed to react unfavourably when he heard him say it, but then the cake incident occurred, and he may have used that as an excuse to leave. Suffice to say, I doubt he will be calling again.’
‘And that isn’t what you wanted, is it, dear?’ asked Jane, looking at me quizzically, and I felt like she was gently assessing my heart like she’d done my ankle.
Tears pricked at my eyes, and I looked away, unwilling to comment.
However, the subject of Mr Fitzroy’s visit was quickly dropped as Mrs Austin bustled in to see how I was faring; and my ankle was unbound, examined, and commented on, then bound again .
It wasn’t until later on that evening when Cassie and Jane had retired to their room and I was lying on my makeshift sofa bed that I started to sift through my feelings. There was no longer any doubt in my mind that I was in some danger of liking Mr Fitzroy too much for my own good despite his higher status and the complexity that entailed. His face was ever fascinating to me and rather like a cloud-filled sky on a winter’s day. Just today, I had witnessed it dark and brooding, then momentarily clearing with a brief respite from the rain (perhaps even a peep of sun). Then when the chill wind had blown, it reverted again to thick and impenetrable cloud.
What he thought of me, I couldn’t fathom. But I sensed I held some sway over his mind, that he was drawn to me inexplicably (even if I was a kind of curiosity) and that Mr Humbleton’s ill-timed comment had pierced his armour.
Closing my eyes, I played out the scene as it should have gone. Mr Fitzroy not striding away across the field but leaning against the oak tree, staring at the house and looking morose. His scowl would lift a little when I came running up to him, panting, and I would have said something like ‘Sir, why did you leave in such a hurry? I was going to cut you another slice of cake.’
His expression would darken inexorably.
‘I could not stay after hearing that you are to be married. And to that man? I cannot take pleasure in news such as that. It was disgusting. I had to leave before I said something I would no doubt regret.’
I, of course, would be taken aback by his strength of feeling but also curious as to what he would have said and have edged a little closer.
‘Why not say it now? There is no one here but us.’
I pictured his cheeks pinkening slightly and his breathing quickening as I approached to stand before him.
‘I cannot. I ...’
‘Maybe we don’t need words,’ I would say sultrily, placing a finger on his quivering lips.
He would be silent but look at me intensely as I caressed the side of his face and placed my hand on his strong chest and felt the heat emanating from him. Then he would be so overcome with need that he would have to kiss me, fervently ...
The kissing scene was so vivid and pleasing to me that I became quite overcome with a paroxysm of desire and gripped the edge of the small table at the side of the sofa for support.
Unfortunately, it wobbled precariously, causing Jane’s writing slope to tip open, her quill to drop out, and a couple of her papers to flutter to the floor.
Muttering a silent curse, I set about fixing the desk to rights, keeping an eye on the bedroom door. But there were no footsteps or drowsy voices enquiring what on earth I was doing out here. I breathed again. Thank goodness they were soundly asleep! Reaching down to collect the papers, which were covered in Jane’s elegant cursive, I glanced at a page briefly before I went to put them back in the desk. But something caught my eye, which made me peruse it more closely. I had assumed she was writing a letter, but it appeared to be more like dialogue.
‘What is his name?’
‘Bingley.’
‘Is he married or single?’
‘Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!’
And so it went on, a conversation between a man and his wife (a woman who I instantly disliked) about some young man who had let a house called Netherfield. What was this? Something that she’d overheard in the village? I knew most of the families in Steventon, and none of them had a single rich son who was called Bingley. If there had been, his presence wouldn’t have remained hidden for long! I looked further down the page, where another couple of random paragraphs had been written .
What a contrast between him and his friend! Mr Darcy danced only one dance with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being introduced to any other lady, and spent the evening in walking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party. His character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man in the world, and everybody hoped he would never come there again.
A slow realisation came over me, and I let out a soft chuckle. These weren’t real people that she was writing about. Well, they were based on real people, and two of them I knew. Eagerly, I scanned down the page.
‘She is tolerable but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.’
Mr Bingley followed his advice. Mr Darcy walked off; and Elizabeth remained with no very cordial feeling towards him. She told the story, however, with great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively, playful disposition, which delighted in anything ridiculous .
My hand flew to my mouth, and I stifled a giggle . Jane! How utterly delicious. And so naughty!
Hastily, I poked her quill and papers safely back into the writing slope, feeling like I had read her personal diary. The subject was a little close for comfort, but if it pleased her to write it, who was I to scold when I was so obviously Elizabeth and she’d painted me in a good light? Mr Darcy did not fare as well!
Admittedly, I felt slightly discomforted, but, at the same time, flattered to be thought interesting enough for her to write about, even in random scribblings. As long as her papers remained in this room and were never read by the real Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy, then I did not think they would cause any real harm.