A/N Urgh. I guess you've got to have this chapter before we can move on to the good stuff. The fact that I'm posting this in the middle of a thundering downpour seems appropriate.
Please be advised there is a scene of sexual assault.
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Tuesday 20th June 1797
With the close of Parliament for the summer had come a decampment of the premier families to their country seats, and those not inclined to take residence at their own estates had settled at Wentworth Woodhouse for several weeks of merriment and genteel outdoor entertainment. The whole affair was to begin with a magnificent ball, attended by the most powerful and most fashionable individuals in the country. There were single men, married couples and siblings, as well as men who did not wish to return to their wives and women who did not wish to return to their mothers-in-law. The production was presided over by Lady Fitzwilliam, who was an experienced, accomplished hostess.
Surrounded by so many people, most of them previously unknown to her, Elizabeth was in her element. Before now, she had had very little contact with the ton, knowing them mostly from the gossip sheets: Lady A. who was spotted in a dark corner of Vauxhall Gardens embracing Lord D.; the illustrious gentleman who was known to linger about the Theatre Royal in the company of the opera singer F.S.; the Honourable Mr H who had been visited by the police on serval occasions that month; Lady P. whose scandalous notes to Lord R. had been summarised in the columns a month prior.
Caring little for the escapades of these grand men and women, Elizabeth was content to watch their antics and laugh at their foibles and engage as many of them as possible in ridiculous conversation. She felt as though she was right at the centre of the finest, most well-perfumed show in England, and she would enjoy the performance. She only lamented that Viscount Duncannon had returned to Hensleigh Castle before the hoards descended, so she did not have someone to laugh with.
"So I turned to Ashcroft, I turned to him and said, 'small hands are quite possibly the worst attribute to have in a son-in-law, and you must have your daughter refuse him if he cannot rectify the situation,'" one gentleman had exclaimed, "small hands and a tendency to get on the gin, the worst vices in a gentleman."
"And did he listen to you?" his friend had replied.
"Of course he didn't! The moment you tell him not to do something, the moment it becomes his very dearest wish, and now he's got himself a son-in-law with the most dreadfully small hands."
Throughout all of these amusements, not once did Elizabeth think of Mr Darcy. Which is to say, she sometimes thought of Mr Darcy, but refused to dwell on him. He had an amusingly sardonic reaction to the absurd and the farcical – at Bingley's ball they got much amusement out of Mrs Fothergill and her outrageous headwear, a wig decorated with an intricately detailed replica of a schooner and several decades out of fashion. But then Mrs Fothergill had stopped for conversation and Mr Darcy fixed his gaze somewhere over her shoulder, retreating into haughtiness when he could not think of a single thing to say. She was sure around the ridiculousness of the beau monde he would become laughably stiff and awkward. Except such thoughts inevitably strayed toward the ineptitude of his social skills in other areas, such as in his romantic advances, and then Elizabeth would have to go for a brisk walk to distract herself.
The evening of the dance was warm, so the tall doors of the ballroom had been thrown open onto the terrace, where an elegant parapet stretched the considerable length of the raised walkway, separating the house from the sweeping gardens. The air was sweet and heavy with the scent of apple blossom. The light of the sinking sun cast the grounds in shades of honey and gold.
When Elizabeth descended to join the growing crowd, she was met by a sea of periwinkle, mint, rose, ivory and cream, which rose in a swell and ebbed through the ballroom. She was quickly pulled into conversation with one lady and then the next, all the while filling her dance card with requests. By the time the opening notes of the first dance were struck, she was engaged for the first four sets. Elizabeth was highly sought by the men who liked to dance with a pretty, charming woman but were not in search of a wife. For her first partner, this was because he had been recently disappointed in love (or so the gossip columns had reported). For her second, this was because he already had a wife and felt that was one too many.
Even Lord Fitzwilliam had asked for a dance, and they exchanged all the pleasantest sentiments. He abandoned the ballroom for a game of cards immediately afterwards, though Elizabeth decided to believe this was not because of her.
With her lovely figure and bright eyes, Elizabeth's popularity was well assured. She wore a pale gown of light, draping muslin embroidered with delicate patterns of lilac silk. The square neck and high waist emphasised her classical silhouette and she had draped about her shoulders a cashmere shawl in a striking shade of violet, matching the flowers woven into her tightly-curled hair.
As the sun sank below the horizon, the atmosphere grew heavier still. Time seemed to slow as the dancers swirled through the syrupy air. Then the weather broke with a thundering crash, and the guests idling on the terrace rushed for the ballroom with squeals. The heavens opened.
The evening continued in a haze of chatter, as the dancers skipped and twirled to the rhythm of the rain as it beat on the roof. Each reel was punctuated by a rumble of thunder, and lit by the blue ribbons cut across the sky. The musicians, not to be outdone by the squabbles of vengeful deities, rose to meet each clap and crash with the sort of harmonies that call the feet to jig! The fiddler came to stand, his bow travelling across the strings with gusto.
On the dancefloor, it seemed each hop was higher, each hand grasped tighter, each woman rose from a curtsey with a spring. The energy in the room was intoxicating, and all the while a storm raged outside.
"Gracious," remarked one of the guests, "surely the thunder should have moved on by now."
The hour was growing late by the time the rain eased to a gently pitter-patter. The candles were burning low. Many of the visitors from nearby estates had departed in their fine carriages, eager to be home by the time the rain soaked into the parched ground and turn the roads to mud. Even the guests staying at the house had begun to filter upstairs, masking their yawns with fluttering hands. Tired but content, Elizabeth had sought a quiet moment in the library, for libraries were always her sanctuary.
It was empty. Libraries were not well frequented during balls, in Elizabeth's experience, and those who did take shelter amidst the books were particularly old, particularly young, or particularly amorous. From the silver-rimmed spectacles left on a sideboard and the papers strewn on the floor around a now-empty table, the library had played host to several such visitors that night.
She settled on a sofa in a dark corner, and let out a soft sigh. She had enjoyed herself immensely – the music was excellent, her dance partners were delightfully contrary, the food was divine – but being surrounded by so many people left her muzzy and tired. She was no longer wide-eyed and seventeen; certainly, she felt older than her twenty-one years.
Bookcases lined every wall from floor to ceiling, creating the feeling of a room which was somehow both spacious and snug. The books were uniformly collected, with each leather-bound tome wedged securely between almost identical volumes in exactly the same shade. Books with a red cover were on the shelf with other books with a red cover. All of the books with gold detailing on the spine were squeezed in together, one after the next. There were only a few candles still burning, and their flickering flames darted dark silhouettes across room. Captivated by this shadowy dance, Elizabeth did not notice the Viscount's entrance until he had already crossed to stand in front of her.
"Mrs Fitzwilliam," he purred, drawing her name out like treacle.
"Lord Milton."
"I did not ask you to dance, this evening."
"Yes, my lord, I noticed," Elizabeth replied. She cast her eyes to the door, but the Viscount's broad frame was blocking the way.
"I thought I would do you that favour. I know you do not like me."
She did not.
"And you could not turn me down without forfeiting the rest of the dances, so I decided not to put you in that position."
"I'm sure that was kind of you, my lord."
He loomed close enough that she could smell the wine on his breath. Elizabeth kept her gaze downturned, and leaned away.
"But, you see, I would like to dance with you. And as we did not earlier, I have come to claim my dance now."
"I thank you, my lord, but I must say goodnight. I was about to turn in-"
As Elizabeth stood to move past him, the Viscount's hand caught her forearm and he bent his head to whisper,
"I don't think you're going anywhere, Elizabeth."
"I think you may have overindulged, my lord. Now please let me past."
The tip of his nose grazed her ear, and she shuddered. He pulled her even closer to his body and whispered firmly,
"No."
His other arm reached around her to press her back to his chest. His hands – his damned, wandering hands – brushed over her body.
"Stop. Please stop!" she cried.
As he bent to gather her dress in fistfuls, she deployed a sharp elbow to his gut. The Viscount doubled over, his mouth agape with surprise. Elizabeth took this opportunity to run for the exit.
She flew up the stairs to her room, where she walked back and forth with agitation, gasping for air that did not come. Her hands were shaking; she felt dizzy and sick. Her mind was filled with insensible flashes of emotion which danced in front of her eyes before rushing beyond the grasp of conscious thought.
This could not be tolerated. She flung open her bedroom door with such force that it crashed against the wall and bounced back to close behind her as she made for the Earl's bedchamber, steps short and quick, at the other end of the corridor.
Lord Fitzwilliam answered her harried knocks with hair rumpled and cravat untied.
"Is there something I can help you with, Mrs Fitzwilliam?" he enquired, blinking slowly.
"You must deal with your son," she demanded.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Your son just- just attempted the most despicable act of violation, and I will not stand it."
As the Earl was coming to comprehend her, Lady Fitzwilliam appeared, having been content to let the few remaining guests make their own way to bed. She was startled at the site of her daughter-in-law at the entrance to her husband's suite and drew her mouth into a sharp frown.
"Mrs Fitzwilliam?" she questioned, her tone brittle.
"Your beloved son," Elizabeth said scornfully, her expression drawn into a snarl, "your oh so beloved Milton, is not gentleman."
The Earl, now having some grasp on the issue, winced. More troubling, considering her usual habit was to vehemently protest any slight against her son, Lady Fitzwilliam showed little reaction at all.
"Come now, Mrs Fitzwilliam, I'm sure it was nothing," the Earl murmured.
"It was not nothing!"
"Mrs Fitzwilliam, calm yourself," hissed the Countess. She tried to take Elizabeth's arm, perhaps to lead her away, but Elizabeth jerked back, out of her reach.
"I shall not!" she cried. "I shall not, until you deal with that- that- that man!"
"Oh do be quiet, girl." The Countess had taken charge of the situation, the Earl beside her content to pass this mantle to his wife. "You've had too much wine. Go to bed, you will feel better in the morning."
"I have not had too much wine! You son attacked me!"
"He did not. Now, go to bed."
"Why will you not listen to me? Your son behaved in the most ungentlemanly way possible and yet you will do nothing?"
The Countess' expression did not change.
"If you cease your babbling and go to bed, there will be no need to speak on the matter further."
Elizabeth was growing frantic in her distress. They would not hear her. They would not believe her. They would not choose her.
"I cannot stay here, I cannot!"
The Earl cleared his throat gruffly and vanished behind his closed bedroom door without another word. At this moment, the Viscount appeared, sauntering towards his suite. He wore only his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, with his coat hooked on a finger and slung across his shoulder.
"Ho! What have we here?"
"You are a despicable man," Elizabeth whispered, suddenly flat and cold. Every passing comment he had tossed her way, every time he had brushed too close on the stairs, every time his eyes had scanned her figure brazenly washed over her with sickening rage. "You are a hateful, despicable man."
"What on Earth are you talking about?" He turned to his mother. "What is she talking about?" His air of affected bewilderment was almost comical in its absurdity. Elizabeth hated him for it.
"Mrs Fitzwilliam merely had too much wine and talked herself into a flight of fancy, that is all."
Elizabeth turned, silently, and left the wicked man and his accomplices behind.
She had only a moment of peace - hand pressed to her mouth as her chest heaved - before she was again disturbed. The Countess sailed into the room imperiously and came to stand squarely in front of Elizabeth. It was only at that moment that Lizzy noticed she was several inches shorter than her mother-in-law.
"I am sure I do not need to impress upon the speed with which you much cease these theatrics, Mrs Fitzwilliam. You are overwrought and tired from this evening's excitement, and it will do no good to continue this fit of hysterics."
"I am not having a fit of-"
As quick as an adder, Lady Fitzwilliam's hand shot out and grasped Elizabeth's chin between thumb and forefinger. Thoroughly taken aback, she could only blink as the older woman pinched her face,
"It is in your best interest to put aside whatever you imagine happened. Your son is of great importance to this family, and it would be such as shame to have to separate him from his mother because you could not control yourself."
Elizabeth could find no words to respond. The Countess let go off her but continued to press herself into the other woman's space.
"You will sleep off the wine which has so clearly made you insensible, you will join us at the breakfast table tomorrow, and you will enjoy the rest of this week's events. We shall say no more about this evening and that will be the end of the matter."
The Countess glided from the room with a swish of her skirts. The door closed with a clunk behind her.
It took Elizabeth only a moment to rebel against all the events of the past half an hour. She blindly grabbed at a pillow and flung it at a wall with a vicious growl. She felt like a wounded cat being backed into a corner.
Limbs heavy and the taste of pennies in her mouth, Elizabeth dragged her trunk from where it was stashed against a wall and piled her belongings in haphazardly. She did not call for a maid, and instead contorted herself to undress and then donned her simplest gown. Her pelisse and bonnet were laid aside, ready.
She sat in wait for an hour or more before she dozed, and when she woke again the morning sun had crept its tendrils around the heavy, brocade curtains. The house was silent. She crept up to the nursery where the children were sleeping and gathered up John without waking the maid in the adjoining room. He whimpered his protestations but allowed Elizabeth to carry him on her hip back to her bedroom. Eyelids drooping, John lay on the bed as Elizabeth finished packing her trunk, by which time the quiet scuffle of the hall boys could heard in the distance.
Elizabeth took a moment to say a prayer of thanks that she was well enough liked by the servants that her hasty plans might just succeed.
The house seemed to her grey and washed out, like the vibrant energy of the party had been swept away by the rain. The extra candelabras, the vases and vases of flowers, everything was gone, leaving no remnants of the previous evening's chaos. Elizabeth padded quietly through the halls, her face as colourless as the morning.
The scullery maid (who she came across blacking the grate in the morning room) informed her, wide-eyed, that most of the downstairs were only now awakening. Not wishing to wait for the footmen, Elizabeth corralled two of the hall boys into carrying her trunk out to the front steps. Though she had little money with her, a matter which had not previously troubled her but now drew concern, she found a penny each to press into their hands.
Next, she left for the stables – John staying behind with the startled scullery maid – where one of the grooms was already puttering about. Less known to the outdoor staff than the servants, Elizabeth was not sure of her ability to induce the necessary assistance. Luckily, the man she found seemed inclined to help her, his motivation evidenced in his clear enjoyment at the novelty of the request.
And that was how Elizabeth Bennet Fitzwilliam came to be sat next to a man in rough, dirty clothes on a rickety cart, her son on her lap and her belongings jolting noisily with every rut and divot.
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