Page 7 of Mr. Bingley: Just As a Gentleman Ought to Be
“ Must we attend an assembly this evening?” Mr. Hurst asked in a much-agitated fashion.
“My brother has been invited and escaping introductions is, regrettably , unavoidable,” Louisa replied.
Her husband chafed at the thought of spending an evening in the company of country-town simpletons as he had earlier branded the people of Meryton. Though he had, as far back as he could recall, been fond of drink, he had not to this moment in his life felt as though he must depend upon it simply to endure an evening—any evening, but particularly one so unpalatable as this. The news of Sir Fraser’s gruesome demise had shaken him deeply, for more reasons than one. It was, firstly, the death of a friend, however removed the period of their true closeness had been. Secondly, such an unthinkable crime was an affront not simply to humanity, but particularly to the known social order—to natural law itself. Gentlemen, say nothing of members of the nobility, were not victims of lower-class crime. In an age of manners, modernity, and reason above all else, such a barbaric act was illogical at best, and a symptom of some dark and chilling derangement at worst. Mr. Hurst simply could not wrap his mental faculties around a deed of such brash contempt for the civil and sacred authorities that govern the universe itself. To his mind, if something such as this were possible, what form of evil was impossible? A world like this was certainly not one that Mr. Hurst had the fortitude to navigate in sobriety.
“I understand quite fully the grief under which you now subsist my dear, but it will pass, I assure you,” Louisa said with every effort at sincerity.
“It is not simply grief, Mrs. Hurst,” he barked back. “It is a matter which shocks the conscience completely—who on earth could commit such an act of depravity?”
“I would not know, Mr. Hurst.”
“And there will be no justice, will there?”
“Again, I could not possibly answer your question with any degree of surety,” answered Louisa while adjusting the glove on her left hand. “There is a constable investigating, is there not?”
“A village constable, who spends his days repairing shoes ,” he quipped with a sneer and a swig of wine.
“But a man who will be dedicated, for the near future, anyway, to the task of apprehending the fiend.”
“Grantley Village is not half the size of Lambton,” Hurst stated with disdain.
His wife chortled and jeered, “It is a wonder there is anything there at all, then. It must make Meryton seem like Vienna by comparison.”
She walked to the window as he attempted to suppress his laughter. “You understand me well, Mrs. Hurst.”
“Come, darling,” Louisa called, walking back to where he sat. “The coach is at our service.”
“I consent to this evening only on your bequest.”
“I know Mr. Hurst, and I thank you,” answered she with a kiss on his ruddy cheek.