Page 21

It was a little after nine by the ormolu clock when Elizabeth awoke that same morning.

Ruth arrived with coffee and hot water for washing, and Elizabeth was soon attired in one of her simpler day gowns, hair done, and cosmetics applied.

“I would like to have breakfast in my room, if possible, Ruth,” said Elizabeth, and the young maid left to bring back a tray.

As Elizabeth ate, and Ruth busied herself about the room, Elizabeth decided it was time to bring up Hunsford.

“I remember you, Ruth. You were the parlor maid at the parsonage in Hunsford. I remember seeing you while I was visiting this past spring.”

“Yes, Miss Bennet. So I was. ”

“What has brought you to London to this establishment?”

“Lady Catherine decided I should come here to look after my mother, who was also being sent here.”

“Your mother was sent here from Hunsford?”

“Yes,” said a third voice from the doorway. Ruth’s mother, Elizabeth’s captor, entered the room, closed the door, and took the seat by the fireplace. Elizabeth turned to face her.

“I shall finish what you have so unwisely started, Ruth,” said the woman. Ruth hung her head. “It may be that our story will serve as an example to Elizabeth of why it will be to her advantage to stay in this house.”

“Pray, go on, Mrs. Oliver,” said Elizabeth. “Ruth, find a place to sit.” Ruth sat on the hearth rug near her mother’s feet.

“First, I’ll have that knife you took from your dinner tray yesterday. That was very unwise, Miss Bennet. Very unwise indeed. You have no idea of the danger you may yet face. Believe me, you want to stay in this house. It is in your best interest.”

Elizabeth handed over the knife without a word of apology.

“Thank you.” The woman closed her eyes for a long moment before she began her story.

“My father, the Reverend Doctor Charles Oliver, was the rector of Hunsford Parish, a preferment he owed to the late Sir Lewis de Bourgh. I was the younger of two sisters, and our mother died in my infancy. My father served Hunsford for many years, and there are still people who remember him fondly for his devotion to God, and his dedication to the poor and needy. Sir Lewis was considerably older than his wife, and he died when their only child, Anne, was about four years old.”

Mrs. Oliver glanced at the clock. “I must try to make a long story short.

Let us say that Lady Catherine and my father disagreed substantially concerning the treatment of the poor of the parish.

His wish was always to lend them a helping hand.

Hers was always to browbeat and punish them.

My father said she liked to scold people back into peace and plenty.

My elder sister married, and when I was about fifteen years of age, the disagreements between my father and Lady Catherine became so pronounced that it was clear something needed to be done.

“Rather than work out the differences, Lady Catherine accused my father of misappropriation of parish moneys intended for the relief of the poor. She suborned both churchwardens and several church members, and she took her story to the bishop’s court.

Despite the number of people willing to swear to my father’s inviolate honor and devotion, she won her case.

After a trial, my father found he was no longer the rector at Hunsford, nor could he function as a priest anywhere in England .

“It broke him,” she said simply. “Lady Catherine ‘generously’ gave him a cottage on the outskirts of the village at what she called a greatly reduced rent.

There we lived as he watched a new man, a far more complaisant man, take over his work.

I cared for my father for nearly two years, but it became obvious that our small income needed to be increased.

I hired a woman to come in and look after him, and I took a post in London as a governess, sending the bulk of my earnings home for his maintenance.

“The usual difficulties with an adolescent son in the family occurred. His interest was unseemly, I resisted, he complained to his mother anyway, and I found myself turned off without a reference. It is so common as to be laughable, except to the unfortunate young women who fall victim.

“I took a cheap room, searched for work sewing or cleaning, could find none, and succumbed to the blandishments of my landlady to take up a far worse profession. Within a few months, I was with child. I also fell ill with a weakness in my lungs. I gave up and returned home to my father, who received me as though I had been the prodigal son. We lived on my small savings, and when I had recovered from Ruth’s birth, I found work in the village as a daily servant for some of the more well-to-do families.

Everyone sympathized with our plight, and no one criticized me or gossiped about me.

Even Lady Catherine seemed to take an interest and often exhorted me to work harder in order to improve our situation.

So, we continued until my father’s death two years ago.

Ruth was employed at the parsonage, and when the incumbent died and Mr. Collins took over, she stayed on, having achieved the position of parlor maid.

“We continued to live in the cottage at the edge of the village until three months ago, when under pretext of our having fallen behind with our rent, Lady Catherine sent us to this establishment to work, I as maid-of-all-work, Ruth as lady’s maid.

Lady Catherine gave me to understand that she is a silent partner in this enterprise and that she expects an abundant return on her investment. ”

“And who is the other partner?” Elizabeth managed when she was finally able to speak.

“You will meet the other partner soon enough,” said Mrs. Oliver glancing at the clock, which showed ten minutes until eleven.

“I might as well tell you. The other partner goes by the name of Madame Charpentier. She is, in reality, a Mrs. Younge, the same woman who was my landlady seventeen years ago.” Elizabeth’s eyes had widened. “You recognize the name, Miss Bennet?”

“It . . . it sounds familiar to me.”

Elizabeth was accompanied to the ground floor by Ruth and admitted to a pleasant parlor there.

The first thing she noticed was that the draperies were open, admitting bright sunlight.

An attractive middle-aged woman with dark hair was seated in a small wing chair on the other side of the window.

Standing behind the chair was George Wickham.

Elizabeth heard his voice as if from a great distance. “Good morning, Miss Bennet.”

Elizabeth clenched her fists at her sides, willing herself to present a calm aspect. She said nothing and stood her ground.

“Don’t just stand there like a fool, Miss Bennet. Approach.” The woman’s voice was low and slightly rough.

Elizabeth approached, keeping her eyes on the woman’s face, looking neither to the right nor to the left, and ignoring Wickham. The woman spoke again. “Now, turn around. No, turn around slowly.”

Elizabeth complied, keeping her eyes lowered.

“Good. Take down your hair. Do it now, Miss Bennet, or I will have Mr. Wickham do it for you.”

Once again, Elizabeth complied, eyes lowered. She allowed her hair to fall of its own weight without touching it or shaking her head.

“The modiste is wrong about your hair. It should be cut into classical, boyish curls, very short. We will summon the hairdresser tomorrow. I am Madame Charpentier. I believe Mr. Wickham is already known to you. Now, Miss Bennet, what are we to do with you? You certainly have incurred the wrath of our patroness, Lady Catherine. She would have you cast out into the streets. Fortunately for you, I do not see eye to eye with her on this subject. I believe you will fetch us a very tidy profit. And of course, that will be to your advantage as well. Gentlemen will pay, and pay handsomely, for your companionship. In return, you will do whatever they ask. And you will do it with a smile and with every appearance of enjoyment. Who knows? You may even come to enjoy it.” She turned to Wickham.

“I can see what you meant about her, George. She has a certain enticing, almost exotic quality. I think we know several gentlemen who will be interested in her, provided she is still virginal. Am I correct in assuming that you are still untouched, Miss Bennet?”

Elizabeth said nothing.

Madame Charpentier dealt her a stinging slap on the cheek. “You will answer any question that is put to you.”

“I am not married. I am as yet a maid.”

“The treasured betrothed of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.” Wickham’s tone was insinuating, the weak smile on his face insufferable. “Of course, she’s slightly damaged by her afternoon carriage ride the other day.”

“You will be silent, George. Or you will leave.”

Elizabeth said nothing, merely allowing her nostrils to dilate and contract slightly in a way that could only betoken distaste.

“And you, my fine young lady, will mind your manners. If you cannot control your expressions, you will never turn a profit. I am sorry you find Mr. Wickham distasteful.” Another slap on the cheek.

“Understand this and understand it well, Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Your maidenhead is, as of now, on offer to the highest bidder.”

Elizabeth had been expecting something of this nature, and she continued to school her reactions and expressions rigorously.

“I beg your pardon. I did not hear you. Did you say ‘Yes, ma’am’ as you should have?”

Elizabeth said nothing and was dealt another slap. “Yes, ma’am.”