Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites (9 page)

The
gendarme
who stood holding the gun upon the malefactors still in the cart was much occupied by his duty, hence could not help load the Lord High Executioner onto the tumbrel. Thus, the Deputy Lord High Executioner ordered those same felons to assist. Throughout these horrifying proceedings, the nuns had stood mutely in the cart, their mouths agape (due less to shock than the fact that they had stopped singing mid-note). But their oath of duty bade them render aid. The intestinally indecorous man, however, was still in a snit over his bodily functions condemning him and refused to help. With only four in service, it was an ungainly procedure to hoist the Lord High Executioner onto the cart and had the disadvantage of landing the back of his head in the middle of a generous pile of manure still clinging to the floor of the tumbrel (by reason of its recent service as a dung cart).

Of course, the Lord High Executioner was not immediately aware of this, hence, it was not of immediate concern to his deputy. What was of immediate concern was that they take their leave whilst the crowd that had swarmed to the Marquis’ torso was still busy ridding him of his fashionable attire (his tasselled shoes had already disappeared).

The Lord High Executioner’s deputy encouraged the driver of the cart to make haste. This sallying encouragement was, indeed, needed, although the driver should have known it imperative to make away. But the man hesitated. For his duality of position demanded that he drive the prisoners to the guillotine and return with their headless bodies, whereby he would be paid to bury them. The Marquis’ body (along with remuneration) still lay atop the scaffold. The Deputy Lord High Executioner immediately saw the driver’s dilemma (for he, too, was a man of wages). Upon his pointing out that if the mob overtook them, there would be little need of money, off the little waggon went, its two wheels groaning and squeaking. Progress was, however, a little slow.

Juliette had watched this entire event unfold, quite entranced. She did, however, have the presence of mind to jump into the retreating cart. The leap was impressive for one who seldom leapt, but because her hands were still tied behind her back, the landing was not nearly so pretty as the jump.

Yet no less fortunate, for she landed face down atop the face up, but still senseless, Lord High Executioner. Although she was of slight frame, the percussion of her landing roused him to consciousness, and providence claimed fortune in that the crevice of her unpowdered, but still lovely, bosom wedged upon his nose.

Because the Lord High Executioner’s swoon had lent him amnesia of the recent unfortunate incident, he was compleatly beguiled by the fragrance (and bounteousness) of Juliette Clisson’s
décolletage
as the cart rattled away.

Although what came to pass was not entered into historical reference, it was still part of it. For, although the Carmelite nuns and feisting man did not, Juliette escaped the guillotine. And if in time it were suggested to her that a lady should be admired for her mind and not her physical charms, she would not argue. Nevertheless, she knew her wit did not save her that day. Perhaps her mind told her to run after the cart, but it did not land upon the Lord High Executioner’s face. Nor was it her mind the Lord High Executioner kissed that night before he fell into glorious wine-induced sleep mid-coitus.

D
inner at Netherfield in the company of Jane, Bingley, and his sisters was turning out more poorly than Elizabeth could ever have imagined. In Darcy’s absence, she had not wanted to come, but Caroline Bingley had insisted she accompany Jane.

“It will do you good, poor dear.”

If being the recipient of Miss Bingley’s frequent “poor dears” was not Elizabeth’s least favourite thing at the moment, it was amongst the bottom three, bested only by being tied up in a sack with rats, or being wife to her cousin, Mr. Collins, in that order. Comportment at Bingley’s house a week after the news of Darcy’s unceremonious decampment had turned absolutely funereal. Surprisingly, the same could not be said at Longbourn. Upon having been informed of Darcy’s leave-taking by Jane, Mrs. Bennet looked upon the matter with unlikely wisdom.

“Not to fear, Jane. Mr. Darcy dare not break the engagement less than a fortnight before the wedding. The marriage is secure.”

Yes, the marriage was secure. Elizabeth knew that as well as her mother. The marriage would take place regardless. Regardless of what? That was what worried Elizabeth. Eleven days before their wedding, Darcy had left Hertfordshire without warning. Not knowing what could have precipitated such a ghastly impetuosity upon the part of so deliberate a man was extremely vexing to Elizabeth, and his letter (actually no more than a note) had shed little light:

Dearest Elizabeth,

I regret I must away upon business. I shall return in time for final
arrangements for the wedding.

Yours,

F. Darcy

When Bingley had handed Darcy’s missive to her that day, he smiled. But it was an odd little smile, one accompanied by a slight twitch in his left cheek, as if it was less determined to present a happy face than its owner. Obviously, he was at least minimally aware of the note’s contents and his unease did nothing to appease Elizabeth’s. Taking the letter with more angst than she would have liked to expose, Elizabeth excused herself from Jane and Bingley intending to retire to the privacy of her bedroom to read the letter. But such was its brevity, she had it read halfway up the stairs. Standing upon the landing, she refolded it. Then she opened it and reread it. She refolded it.

His note was economic at best. Compared to the verbosity of his letter responding to her refusal of his marriage proposal, it was not merely terse. It was very nearly rude. Could he not at least have used the word “love” once? “Yours,” he had signed it. She signed her letters to her aunt and uncle with more affection. Her only comfort was that he had not written that he wished her “health and happiness.” An invective such as that would truly have been an outrage.

Daring not to press Bingley for details, Elizabeth spent that evening listening to the contrived gaiety of his and Jane’s conversation and gave her sewing much more attention than it had ever known of her. And whilst she embroidered, she thought again about why Darcy could have left with such haste, with not a word to her.

Certainly not because he thought he could express himself better by hand. It was unlikely a less flowery correspondent could be found in all of England.

Uninfluenced by Jane and Bingley’s pretence that all was well in the realm of romance, Elizabeth sat in silent misery. In her meditation, speculation was unavoidable.

Had her unguarded response to his kisses cost her his regard? Until then, she had held only the vaguest notion of contrition for her behaviour. The provocative abandon she had felt only the day before had degenerated into a black cloud of humiliation that threatened to follow her into perpetuity.

“Yours,” indeed.

After Bingley took his leave, Jane came to Elizabeth.

“Perhaps you don’t wish to speak of it, Lizzy, but I must tell you that Charles is just as perplexed at Mr. Darcy’s away as are we all. He spoke not a word of it. It is said he took his leave before first light.”

“Truly, Jane, I am vexed that he would leave so. But there are often unforeseen circumstances at such a vast estate as Pemberley that might well have necessitated his immediate attention.”

That answer sounded as contrived as it was and Elizabeth attempted to mitigate it with a smile, determined not to appear inordinately fretful. But she fretted. And the cost to her nerves and ego were considerable under the guise of “sisterly” solicitation from Bingley’s sisters, Caroline Bingley and Mrs. Hurst.

Hence, their dinner that night at Netherfield was insufferable, seated as she was betwixt Caroline (“You poor, poor, dear Eliza”) Bingley, and the bibulous Mr. Hurst, who had no conversation beyond a disparaging comment upon each dish just consumed and a preference for the one upcoming. Elizabeth had no opinion upon any of the ten courses of the meal, for she choked down only enough food to keep Caroline from remarking upon her lack of appetite.

Looking down her narrow nose, past her exceedingly long chin, Caroline clucked again and again to Elizabeth (who knew not if it was meant as a comfort or a threat), “To think, Jane will soon be our sister,” pausing dramatically before adding ominously, “as shall you, Miss Eliza.”

Sister to Caroline Bingley. Happy thought, indeed.

Having been thwarted in a rather overt and lengthy play for Darcy’s affection, Caroline Bingley was not even marginally successful at appearing happy at their engagement. She professed absolute euphoria at the match. If she had displayed even a little coolness of manner, a certain reserve in her voice when she spoke to her, Elizabeth might have felt some sympathy for her disappointment. But as it was, the more fervently did Miss Bingley vow her everlasting devotion to her new “sister” the more firmly she announced herself an unctuous hypocrite.

At the head of the table, Jane to his right, Bingley and his betrothed were conspicuously in their own world. Howbeit their besmitten countenances only emphasised her singular status at the table, Elizabeth was grateful Jane was unwitting of Caroline’s thinly veiled insults about the Bennet family’s circumstances.

“What a sweet country frock, Miss Eliza! You must be frightfully happy to know soon you shall afford fashionable ones!”

Elizabeth was bereft. Four days until their wedding and she was still without even a word from Darcy. Trapped with the Bingley sisters behind an obscenely becandled épergne subjugating clearly half of the table whilst watching Jane and Charles look lovingly into each other’s eyes, Elizabeth felt a great deal of self-pity.

Hence, the clap of thunder that rattled the windows was most unwelcome. The accompanying rain meant she and Jane would be overnight guests as well. Breakfast on the morrow must be partaken in the same unhappy manner as dinner. Briefly considering feigning illness, Elizabeth emptied her wineglass and set it down rather soundly, thus inducing a stare from Mr. Hurst and its hurried refilling from the footman. She was tempted to upend the glass again, this consideration taking her attention just long enough for the evening’s entertainment to be decided upon as cards. Given the manner in which fortune had trespassed upon her most recently, she fancied her partner would be Caroline Bingley and silently groused to herself.

Another clatter of thunder culminated with the crash of the front door loud enough to dislodge the portico, and the party synchronously jolted in their chairs. The wind that rushed in blew out many candles from the vestibule to the dining-room, sending the servants bustling to resecure the light. But before they could, another horrific rattle of thunder erupted, this one punctuated by a show of lightning that revealed a spectre at the door of the dining-room. Louisa Hurst shrieked.

But Elizabeth did not. Still, she was startled. For the convulsion of flickering light revealed the very face she saw every time she closed her eyes.