The Question of Consent
By DJ Clawson
A sequel to "A Bit of Advice"
Chapter 17 – The Great Bingley Heist of 1785
"Master Charles, you get back here!"
Mrs. Anne's call went entirely unheeded by the six-year-old Charles Bingley Junior. In fact, his response was to put as much distance between himself and her as possible in as little time as afforded to him. He climbed the old wooden steps of their house with greater ease than he knew she could, and practically swung himself onto the second floor by grasping onto the worn railing. While this would give him some time, it did not give him very many places to hide. His own room was too obvious, and he would never invade the sanctity of his parent's bedchamber, even if neither were at home. That left the storeroom (locked) and the rooms of his sisters, and he was still debating his escape plans when he heard the voice of his nurse and governess.
"I see you!" she called indignantly from the bottom of the stairs. "Master Charles, you get down here right now!"
He huffed and darted down the hallway. Having only moments to decide (as the Bingley family house, just outside of Town, was not very large and not filled with many places to hide) he did what he judged best, which was to burst announced into his youngest sister's room.
"Charles!" Caroline Bingley of nine years said with indignation. She was sitting at her dresser, combing her long hair. "What are you doing?"
He put his finger to his lips. "Shhhh!"
"Charles Bingley Junior! Where did you go?"
In the room, Caroline kept her silence until the noise outside the door died down, at which point she whispered, "You can't just barge into a lady's room!"
"You're not a lady! You're a girl!"
Caroline, only four years his senior, could not correct him easily. "Well, you can't go into a girl's room either!"
"Says who?"
"Says Mama!"
He stuck his tongue out at her, only to be pushed forward by the banging on the door. "Miss Caroline! Is your brother in there?"
"Hide me," he whispered. "I'll make it worthwhile."
"How will you do that?"
"Do it and I'll tell you."
Caroline bit her lip as she decided, then called out, "No, he isn't."
"Did he come past?"
"No, Mrs. Anne."
"Remember your lessons are at noon!"
Charles mouthed a thank you and sighed when they heard no more from their governess.
"I hate piano," Caroline said.
"Father says you shouldn't say hate. You should say dislike. It's not proper."
"Neither is hiding from Mrs. Anne!"
"You hid me!"
"Because you asked! Why would you do it anyway? She doesn't make you play piano until your fingers hurt."
"She wanted me to bathe. Again."
She crinkled her nose. "You should bathe. You're filthy."
"But I'm not!" And his arms to prove it. "See? No mud. Perfectly clean."
"But your hair is a mess." She bid him to come over. "Here." And despite his struggling, her superior strength held him as she scraped the brush across his hair. "Why can't you ever make it look proper?"
"Because I don't spend hours – Ow! Carol! That hurts."
"Because it's a knot. Don't be such a baby about it. Now, you owe me for lying to Mrs. Anne."
Free from her grip, at least temporarily, he reached proudly into his pocket and produced a metal object, shaped a bit like a rod with many bumps and strange curves on one side beyond the handle.
"Where did you get that?"
"Father's desk."
She reached out to touch it, and he waved it beyond her reach. "Don't be such a brat."
"Do you want to use it?"
"You don't know how to use it!"
That much was true. They had only seen their father use his lock pick once, when the laundress was stuck in the closet with the old door and he had misplaced the key. "It can't be all that hard," Charles asserted. "Or maybe you're just chicken."
"I'm not chicken!"
"I think you look like a chicken."
"Shut up!" She snatched the lock pick from him. "I'm going to use it, just to prove you wrong. Not because I want to."
There was no question as to where it would be used. Even with all of the doors that creaked, and got stuck, or wouldn't shut properly, or had their knobs broken sometimes, there was one door that always stayed locked, at the end of the hallway. It was Papa's storeroom, and though he gave no grave warnings as to venturing inside, he kept it locked, which led to no end of speculation as to what might be inside. No idea was too gruesome or scandalous, at least when it was very late at night and they were talking. He spent almost no time there, giving them not a chance to peek inside. Papa was most often in Town, or occasionally on the Continent, and sometimes came home only late at night or not at all, except on Sundays.
As soon as they checked that the hallway was clear, Charles and Caroline scampered down the hallway to the door at the end of it. Charles put the pick in, but it did not unlock it as he thought it would.
"Stupid. You're doing it wrong," Caroline said, and pushed him aside. Her own attempt was no better. The door remain locked. She jiggled the doorknob, to no avail.
"That's because you don't have the key."
They spun around to see Louisa towering over them. Being older than both of them at a time when age determined height, this was not very difficult. She was holding in her hand a small, sharp item of the same metal and color as the pick. "You need the other half."
"Charles!" Caroline said, apparently annoyed that her time was wasted. "So?"
"So? Let me show you," she said, and put her half in, and after some wiggling about, hey all heard the door soundly unlock, and the door swung open.
"...that's it?" Charles said. "Clothing?"
"Not clothing, Charles. Fabric." For that was what it was. It was shelves and shelves of rolled, piled, and folded fabric, and practically nothing else but a chair. "But it is very beautiful." She ran across the embroidered silk, in colors she had never seen. The three of them had their way about the room.
"Look at me," Charles said, draping himself in brown fabric. "I'm a monk!"
"I'm the Princess of Wales," said Caroline, wrapped in the prettiest print on the top of the pile.
"And I cannot begin to imagine the trouble you will be in when your father comes home," their governess said with all severity, and they all turned to her, blocking their escape by standing in the doorway. The most terrifying part of it was that they knew it to be true.
Charles thought it was most intolerable that he was last. He was dressed in his best clothes and made to wait in the chair outside his father's office while one after another his sisters were sent to Charles Senior, leaving his son to swing his legs back and forth on the chair that was too big for him. He was almost relieved when he was finally called in.
To his surprise, his father's expression was not entirely malign. Mr. Bingley was seated at his massive desk, which was stacked with endless papers of business. He was not a corpulent man, but he did allow himself the fine French food when he had the chance, so he was not the walking stick of a person like the rest of his family, which for not the regular broad smile on his face, could have easily made him an intimidating man. Perhaps he was, when he needed to be. All his son really knew was that his father was very successful, so he must have been good at whatever he did.
Charles Bingley Senior said nothing, but bade his son to take a seat on the chair, which he practically had to climb into, feeling very small indeed, and very afraid.
"Charles," his father said. His father usually called him Junior. "I heard about your little exploit today. Do you have something to say about it? The proper Christian thing to do would be to allow a proper chance for a confession." And he crossed his fingers, and waited, while his son gathered his thoughts.
"I didn't – we were just really – we wanted to know. What was inside."
"But you didn't ask."
"No." He shrunk further into his seat. "We didn't know. Maybe it was awful. Maybe it was ... not proper."
"And do you really believe your father would do anything scandalous?"
"No," he answered quite honestly. He had, after all, only respect for his namesake.
His father was very patient as he began, "Charles, would you like to guess the worth of the cloth in that room? I will aid you by saying some of it is from the Far East."
"I don't know." This was not the time to admit that he was behind in his math lessons. "Uhm ... thirty pounds?" He watched his father's face for a reaction. "Forty?" Still nothing. "A hundred."
"I will not torture you. I purchased that collection at some twelve thousand pounds. I plan to sell it at about forty thousand, depending on the current market," his father explained. "I think you are old enough to see now, how a fortune is made. Because I intend to have a fortune – not for myself, of course, or my wife. For you, and your sisters, until they marry well. I work so you will inherit, and be a man of society, though that may seem like a daunting prospect, but it is very important that I provide for my children to the best of my abilities." He went on, "I keep it in the house because it is the best of my stock and my warehouse is regularly robbed. I keep the door locked because even the best of servants cannot always avoid the temptation of Chinese silk. So now you know, and this was your method of discovering it."
"I'm sorry," he said. He would have been crying in shame, but instead, he was just overwhelmed at the astronomical numbers flown at him. "I was curious – "
"There is nothing wrong with curiosity, as long as it does not involve the theft of his father's things. Now, the pick?"
Charles guiltily climbed out of the chair, went around the desk, and presented his father with the lock picks that Louisa had shoved into his tiny hands upon their discovery.
"Thank you. You understand this is an emergency tool, to be used for the old locks when they fail and trap people. It is not a toy."
"No, sir."
"Good. And since no damage was done, I suppose I could let you off – provided you do not pull this sort of stunt again."
"Yes, sir," his son said proudly, eager to please his father. It was only later that he and Caroline would decide that 'this stunt' referred to only the storeroom, which barely interested them anyway now that that mystery was solved, and many hours were passed picking the locks on their own doors until all three Bingleys could do it with just two of Louisa's hairpins. But this secret, they kept to themselves.
1807
Geoffrey was jumping on his head. Of that, Darcy was sure. It was the only way to explain the splitting pain in his skull. Kincaid hadn't gotten him in the head, right? And he was dead, right? The details were a little fuzzy. The pain wasn't.
"Darcy? How do you feel?"
His lovely wife's wife was entirely unwelcome. "Please," he mumbled into the pillow, as he found himself facedown on his bed. "The noise."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Was I TOO LOUD?" she said, and he covered his ears in defense. "How you could HAVE A HEADACHE, I really have NO IDEA. DARLING."
"Lizzy – " he whispered, wildly and numbly grasping for her. "Please – "
"Something about a drinking horn?"
He picked his head up, his vision blurry in the morning light. Or afternoon. He had no idea. "What?"
She kissed him, which had its mixture of pleasure and pain. "You are too adorable when befuddled to be tortured further."
"Thank G-d for that," he said, and put his head back down on the pillow.
It was some time before he was properly roused and put together in a way that he considered presentable, and was willing to venture outside his bedchamber, but only after a lot of coffee had been brought up for him.
On the stairway he immediately encountered Bingley, who not only had a welt on his head but was otherwise injured. "My G-d man, what happened to your eye?"
Bingley looked confused, then stifled a grin. "You socked me, Darcy."
"I did?" he stumbled. Bingley did have a black eye in evidence, and he was not known to be a good liar, so it was probably true, but why in the world would he punch Bingley? "Do you wish to tell me the circumstances under which this occurred? I assume it was more than just being inebriated."
"Are you daft?" This time, his friend felt no compunction to hold back his laughter. "I have no desire to have a matching pair."
"Well, then." Darcy decided it was prudent not to question it. "My apologies."
"Apologies accepted. Oh, and the constable has arrived, so you may wish to gather your memories for the inquest."
"My memories are perfectly clear," he said, adding, "until about the third glass."
"You may wish to leave that out."
"I do not believe it is relevant to the inquest," Darcy said.
"Good point." Bingley added, "And there is the matter of Mr. Maddox."
"How is he?"
"I am not the expert on the subject, but he is alive, and has a long recovery ahead of him. Whether he spends it in prison or not is a decision that falls to you."
"Dr. Maddox is not pressing charges?"
"No."
"Nor Miss Bingley, I assume?"
"No. Or, not last I asked. She may feel differently now. I've not had the time – "
Darcy put his hand up. He was Master of Pemberley. It was time to act like it. "When am I expected to report to the constable?"
"I believe, when he is done with Lord Kincaid." He clarified, "Lord William Kincaid."
"Then I must find the good doctor and speak with him if I can, first. I assume he is well."
"All things considered, I think he is faring better than either of us."
"Good for him. Sorry again about the eye. Was it really that terrible?"
"I'm not telling you, Darcy."
"That bad," he said, and inquired no further.
Darcy was eventually directed to the library, where he found Doctor Maddox trying to distract himself with some text Darcy had not the time to identify. "Doctor Maddox."
"Mr. Darcy," he bowed.
"How is your brother?"
"Recovering." Maddox put his book down. "But very slowly. He has some terrible days ahead of him."
"And you clearly think this enough of a punishment."
"What am I to do? He's my brother."
"He's a fool who has ruined your fortune, your life, and almost gotten us all killed. If I must remind you."
"If you wish to press charges, that is your right, Mr. Darcy."
"You are changing the subject."
"Not very well, apparently."
There was a silence between them, and Darcy stared out the window. When Maddox would not break it and might have even gone back to his reading, Darcy announced, "He cannot stay at Pemberley."
"I understand. But in his condition, I must go with him."
Darcy sighed. Everyone seemed to be making life harder for him than was necessary. "Then I suppose ... until he is recovered ... he may say here. But, under guard, of course."
"Of course." Maddox audibly closed his book. "Thank you, Mr. Darcy."
Darcy did not have to look at the expression on Maddox's face to know it was genuine.
On his way out of his meeting with the constable, which was mostly procedure at this point with an escaped convict breaking into his home and stabbing people, nobleman or no, Darcy was surprised to run into someone he had never met before.
"Mr. Darcy," the man bowed. "It is good to see you again."
The accent was unmistakable. He recognized Lord William Kincaid, now back in normal, proper clothing. Which included pants. "Lord Kincaid. Thank you."
"I have no wish to further intrude, now that my business is concluded. And I must return for the funeral. Thank you, Mr. Darcy, for all of your aid, and I'm sorry to bring James' habits into your family."
"Hardly your fault."
"It is, but I will not press the point. Thank you again," he bowed.
"Your welcome." Darcy took the trouble to properly show out his guest to the waiting carriage.
"Sealbh math dhuit," said the Scot from his carriage. "Ask your wife what it means. And hail to the Chief!"
Darcy did not reply because he had not the slightest inclination as to what he meant by that.
Next Chapter - Epilogue (Yes, final chapter, guys. Did you notice the plot is sort of over? Yes, there'll be a wedding)