Page 26 of Mrs Darcy’s Dilemma

“She replied, ‘In the first place, you must see that I had not much choice. You cannot go back again and be a chaste and virtuous lady once you have left off. You would have me come back amongst your people, who would then coldly cast me out again, or, since they call themselves charitable folks, they would see me shut up in a cottage somewhere for the rest of my life, with no society, no pleasures, no prospects. For diversion, I might be allowed to take in sewing or keep sheep. You may be sure I would be kept away from all decent gentlemen, lest I pollute their pure homes, and there would be no hope of my ever again enjoying the free and open companionship of any one of the sex. But your family is merciful, and I have no doubt I should be given a small pension, to enable me to live in this poor and retired way—like a prisoner in a solitary cell, to think over my sins and rue them for the rest of my days. This, I suppose, is the sort of thing you had in mind?’

“I told her that no one wanted to make prisoner of her, and if she truly repented, there was every chance she might always hope to make a respectable marriage, in time, but she said that in such circumstances she knew very well that no one in the country would have her but some cow keeper or other—no gentleman would take a penitent in a cottage. I could not deny that it was so, and she concluded, ‘I think we will agree that what I have described is no life at all, to be scorned and reviled by all the good folk around me. But consider: in town, I possess a degree of acceptance. Not, perhaps, as much as a great lady would, but my position is not altogether disagreeable. People enjoy my society—people who like a good time and are not glum and Church-ridden—and I decidedly prefer a city life to that of an anchorite.’ That was her answer, and I must admit I did not know what to say.”

“What could you say?” asked Elizabeth, all curiosity.

“I tried to talk about right and wrong, but there is where she grew vehement. Why was it wrong, she asserted, to be a man’s mistress?

It was only nature, and what was nature, made by God, could not be indecent.

Dogs didn’t worry about marriage, nor people in ancient societies; in Turkey, she believed, a woman’s duty was to have as many children as possible, married or not.

She knew a gentleman who had been to Turkey, and it was so.

“And that if we are Christians, she did not think it Christian to treat some folks like inferior beings. ‘The mere fact of being married by a preacher,’ said Bettina, ‘cannot determine if one is a virtuous, innocent woman; some properly wed in the sight of God are miserably wicked, and some who would be called—never mind what—have many virtues. Committing fornication does not make you bad, and chastity does not make you good.’ She might be good or bad, depending, but it had nothing to do with her lovers.”

“That is amazing,” said Elizabeth presently.

“Who would have thought that Bettina, so idle, so frivolous, would have thought so much on that subject—or any subject? It is as strange as the idea of her becoming a rope-dancer. Her reasoning is wrong, it is perverted in support of a false truth, and yet somehow it almost makes you respect her. I am not sure why. Oh! What a pity she did not learn to think before bringing about so much misery. For I cannot be at all sanguine about her future, whatever she says.”

“No. And I fancy she has been meeting with some of the unpleasant side of her role in life, for she did mention the awkwardness of mixing in with other ladies. Gentlemen were never discourteous, she said, but she would receive invitations and cards from ladies in society, who believed her to be a wife, and then she would have to refuse the invitation or be exposed to the humiliation of confessing what she was, which is hard for anyone. ‘I would not,’ said she, ‘intrude upon any immaculate creature or besmirch any lady who was pure by reason of being a virgin or a wife, but to be shunned, as I am, is unfair and undeserved, when I can behave as properly as any other lady.’”

“I wonder she thinks that,” said Elizabeth. “She could never behave with the least propriety before. Perhaps she has improved in her manners, since living in the great world.”

“You would not say that, if you saw her; she is just what she always was. Well, I saw no reason for the continuance of such a fruitless conversation. I could not bring her to God, nor to a sense of right, nor anything; rather, she was winning me to a sense of sympathy with unfortunate creatures like herself, reviled as they are. Compassion for all should be my aim, but as achieving it was not my mission on this particular occasion, I was not sorry to bring the interview to an end. When I prepared to withdraw, it was then that she made her proposal—one which I would as soon forget, but as I am telling you everything, my dear Mother, as extraordinary as it may seem, I shall not omit it.”

“You don’t mean that your cousin tried to—” Elizabeth broke off.

“She told me that I was much handsomer than either my brother or my cousin Jeremy (I was not so vain as to believe her) and she knew that, with her new wisdom and sense about the world, she could make me happy—much happier than her untaught sister, the little governess. She did not scruple to mention that.”

“Oh! I would not have believed it. And she is not fit even to say Cloe’s name,” said Elizabeth indignantly.

“In short, it was plain to me that she saw me in the light of the soon-to-be new heir of Pemberley and, as such, considered me worth her attentions, but I would not remain to be sported with, and so I departed, much to my sorrow, for I would very much like to have done better with her and made some impression. I told her to call upon us when she was in trouble or any need, and,” (with a sigh) “I have no doubt that she will.”

“Yes. It is an interesting portrait that you paint—we can see that no one becomes thoroughly bad at once; it happens by degrees. You have done your duty, Henry. I do not think anyone could have won her over,” said his mother decidedly.

“I am glad you brought Jeremy back, and I am most of all glad that your sister and Cloe are not at home to hear and suffer all this.”

“Yes, there is Cloe,” said Henry, with heightened colour, striving to be calm. “I would not for worlds have her know what her sister has become, or if she must know, then not the extent of it. Mother, how is she? Have you at all heard?”

Elizabeth explained the contents of her latest letter but could say nothing encouraging, either of Cloe’s situation or of Henry’s prospects.

The openness which had characterized the conversation between mother and son now abruptly came to an end, with an unwonted strain descending, neither knew from whence, and after a moment, with a polite bow, Henry withdrew from her sitting room and went downstairs to make preparations to return to his parish church at Manygrove.