Chapter Seven: Temptation
"The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful."
—O. Wilde, "The Picture of Dorian Grey"
Miss Raven, a woman in her early thirties, who, if not possessing the appearance of youth, at least had a mind of such. She pored over a letter, dated about five years past, the nostalgia coming over her in waves as she indulged in what she considered to be an idle pleasure. Then, she put it down abruptly, refolding the aged paper, and placed it atop a pile of letters of a similar date and writer; then binding them together with a silk ribbon. Into the small chest they went, the lock faintly clicking as its lid was shut, and everything put exactly as it was before. It was a handsome room in which she sat, with a large four-poster bed in the center with the curtains drawn, and cream-colored paneled walls. Lightly did Miss Raven step to the room's exit, tentatively cracking the door open so she might peer out into the wide corridor beyond; chocolate-colored eyes darting back and forth, and then, when it was determined that no one but herself was about, opened the door just enough that she might step out. And she did step out, her foot making a gentle tapping sound as it touched the marble floor; and then the door was closed, and she was taking measured steps towards the back entrance, only stopping to fetch her cloak and throw it over her.
What could be her possible motive for walking about in this discreet manner, throwing herself into the cold December climate, when she was needed elsewhere? She would never tell. Once she determined she was out of sight of anyone who may have been unluckily peering out of a window, she quickened her pace, scurrying along as she skirted the vast wood. She could see the road faintly in the distance, but had no desire to be any nearer to it; and, breathless, after some considerable period of time, she was approaching a country cottage, the thatched roof thinly covered with snow, though it had melted elsewhere; and eagerly she rapped on the door. She pressed her ear to the door, hearing footsteps from within; and then, pulling away when she heard them growing louder, poised herself as well as she could in her flurry of emotion as the door was pulled open.
It was answered by an elderly woman, grave in her dark-colored servant's clothes, and studying with her severe eyes her unexpected guest. Undoubtedly the housekeeper, thought Miss Raven as she smiled uneasily at the woman on the other side of the threshold.
"Your name and your business, madam?" said the supposed housekeeper, apparently annoyed that Miss Raven had not thought of explaining this at once, and that five seconds of her time had been wasted in looking the unremarkable woman up and down. Miss Raven tried to sound nonchalant.
"Ah! I am come to see a Miss Edith—she resides here, does she not?"
The servant replied that she did, though still eyeing Miss Raven severely, and not making any motions to allow her to enter. "I will ascertain if she is at home if you will but give me your name."
Miss Raven hesitated, her eyes nervously darting about as she had done previously; and then, as if with sudden recollection, blurted out: "Miss Samantha Hawkins. She will not know me—but pray, let me see her."
"To what purpose does this visit tend?" interrogated the skeptical housekeeper, her stony expression never betraying any emotion other than irritation. Miss Raven smiled again, more out of nervousness than as an attempt to soothe her adversary.
"A social call; and nothing more."
Reluctantly did the housekeeper allow the visitor in, before leading her to the drawing-room where she was asked to take a seat while she sought the wanted Miss Edith. "Who pays social calls to eight-year-olds?" murmured Mrs. Edwin to herself as she ascended the staircase.
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The local physician bid cordial adieux to Mr. Bingley and Elizabeth, the former who had thought it necessary to anxiously pace the hall while the good doctor conducted his examination, and the latter thinking it would be best that she accompany him in order to soothe his sometimes wild conjectures, and also wanting to be one of the first to be made privy to her elder sister's condition. The happy countenance of the doctor, however, likewise gave ease to Jane's vexed relations; and soon Jane herself emerged, looking the picture of health, and even with an additional glow to her rosy complexion. Bingley, however, was not disposed to think so favorably of her altered appearance, attributing it to a high fever.
"My dear, you should lie down for a little," he added with husbandly solicitude. Jane only laughed.
"Indeed, it is not necessary." Then, turning to her sister, said, "Lizzy, may I speak with you for a moment in private?"
Elizabeth was more than happily to oblige her sister, though she was surprised that there was something which Jane wished to tell her that her husband could not hear; but Bingley was not one to be jealous, and was not going to oppose anything which would please his wife, and which did not seem to be jeopardizing her health. So Jane took her sister's hand, and lead her into the private sitting-room in her guest chambers, which was decorated in light colors of blue and gold; and the two sisters sat together on the nearest sofa, now holding both of each other's hands.
"Is it more serious than you and the doctor have painted it to be?" asked Elizabeth immediately, not allowing herself to hope for anything less than the worst; but Jane only smiled, though a little more nervously than she had previously.
"No," assured Jane; "I had suspected it for several days now—only—I did not want to say anything till I knew for certain; and the doctor, you see, has just confirmed my suspicions. I wanted to tell you and Charles yesterday, only…"
"My dear sister, I will not hold it against you; but I beg that you will tell me what it is that ails you."
Jane drew in a deep breath, gathering her courage, and then said:
"I am with child."
Elizabeth's expression immediately changed from one of concern and worry to one of delight. She threw her arms around her sister, the violent embrace unexpected but not unwelcome to Jane, as she returned the hug. Then, pulling away from it, Elizabeth said with a bright smile:
"I am so happy for you. And here you have worked your poor husband and me into quite a fit of apprehension."
"Oh!" cried Jane sadly; "I am sorry to have occasioned you any pain on my behalf; it was not my intention to build this suspense. Only, I did not know how to tell you. But now that I have told you, my dear Lizzy, I feel confident I can tell my husband. Poor dear! I cannot bear to think that he has been thinking I have fallen mortally ill. Would you be so kind to bring him here?—I will tell him myself."
Elizabeth was only too glad to fetch Bingley for her sister, who was still pacing in the corridor and looking anxious and uneasy. She smiled broadly at him in an attempt to assure him that all was well, and begged him to go inside as Jane wished to speak with him—a request which he agreed to immediately; and she did not so much beg as merely begin to suggest it, and he was gone. Happily, Jane's courage didn't fail her, and Bingley, upon learning that her ailment was something much more delightful than he had anticipated, became much less fretful and much more sensible.
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Catherine and Mary, whose heads were both filled with their own thoughts, sat beside each other on the settee; the former with her hand holding up her chin as she gazed out the frosted window, the latter sifting through a pile of Miss Darcy's sheet music for something of interest. Catherine was tempted to seek out Colonel Fitzwilliam, whose company she found to be much more agreeable than his appearance suggested, and who could play a mean game of whist; but in the end, her laziness prevailed, and she did no more than shift about in her seat.
"Will you stop that, Kitty?" asked Mary sharply, replacing one of the sheets on the table in front of her.
"Stop what?" she replied confusedly, twisting around so that she was facing her elder sister.
"Wiggling around—I can't concentrate with the racket you make."
Catherine made no reply, but only glared at Mary before resuming her former pose. Mary sighed, feeling that it was an unfortunate day that she was cursed with a younger sister who cared only for pretty dresses and dancing with officers. At least Lydia was married, and far away in Newcastle! Catherine, however, continued shifting about unconsciously, much to Mary's chagrin; and so after a few more minutes, she stood up with a piqued sigh, cradling her music, and stalked off to the armchair on the other side of the room. This prompted Catherine to stand up herself, and she left the room, slightly annoyed.
She was walking down the broad corridor, her head flitting from side to side as she mindlessly walked past closed doors and little elegant wall-hangings, when she suddenly came to an abrupt stop. She had nearly run into two ladies, who had now ceased their conversation and were examining Catherine with some alarm; and once Catherine was at leisure to identify them, she saw, much to her own mortification, that it was Lady Rosaline and Miss Bingley. Miss Bingley, such a fine lady—and Lady Rosaline more so! She curtseyed very low to them, and quickly apologized for her thoughtlessness.
While Caroline was only somewhat mollified by this hasty but earnest apology, Rosaline was rather happy that the interruption had occurred; for she had had the misfortune of meeting with Miss Bingley, who was feeling dejected and bored, and Rosaline had quickly become the object of her rants and raves. She wished to formulate some sort of excuse to leave, but she was no good at such things, and at the same time reproached herself for wanting to employ any such pretence. She only vaguely recalled that the younger girl before her was one of the Miss Bennets; and so, exerting herself, Rosaline said before Catherine had a chance to disappear:
"You are Miss Bennet, are you not?"
"Yes, your ladyship," said Catherine nervously, feeling very much intimidated by Caroline Bingley's critical looks and the fact that Rosaline was an earl's daughter. "Though my sister Mary is the elder of us two." Catherine reflected it was very strange for there now being only two Miss Bennets, instead of five.
Rosaline nodded, while Caroline was annoyed that the inconsequential Catherine was lingering. It was true that she was feeling dejected in that she was being mostly ignored by Mr. Darcy and his new wife, but not so much so that she would condescend to make conversation with a vulgar Miss Bennet; especially not when there were Fitzwilliams about. But at the same time she was not about to contradict the illustrious Lady Rosaline, so she merely bit her lip and made a conscious effort to look unpleasant in hopes that she could communicate her message tacitly.
"Yes, I remember now," said Rosaline, trailing off into silence as she thought in vain for something else to say. Catherine bashfully averted her eyes from that of the fine lady's. Mr. Mulligan is certainly much braver than I am, she thought somewhat regretfully, remembering how he had stared at her. She was pretty to be sure…
"Your ladyship, shall we retire to the blue parlor? I can play for you the sonata that I was speaking of," said Caroline, interrupting her two companions' musings, and taking Rosaline's arm rather forcefully. Rosaline bore her sufferings in silence as she always did, and Catherine quickly slipped around the others, almost glad that it was Christmas Eve, and that she might soon not be obliged to awkward conversations with ladies whose existences she thought were worth about five of her own.
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Once she had shut the door to allow the mysterious Miss Hawkins her tête-à-tête with Edith, Mrs. Edwin stood fixedly in the hall, like a chiseled stone statue. She was suspicious of the visitor; her mannerisms had not suggested one who came with pure intent; and she regretted that Mr. Mulligan was off tending to his duties, and had not been able to examine the stranger himself. But still, she was only the housekeeper, and not the mistress; so it was all she could do to stand by the door, even if it earned her strange glances and questioning from Miss Brendan and Alice. When the door was opened, and the heavy-set lady trudged out, she exhaled a deep breath, as if she had been holding it the whole time; then wordlessly held the door for the visitor, who looked very cheery indeed as she stepped out; though as soon as her skirts were a centimeter from the threshold, the door was closed very decidedly behind her. Mrs. Edwin immediately went to the drawing-room, where she planned to extract all of the information of the unwonted interview from Edith.
She found Edith sitting on the sofa, looking if not alarmed at least very puzzled, and who felt that she possibly knew just as little as the housekeeper.
"Edith," said Mrs. Edwin seriously, "what did that—Miss Hawkins—say to you?"
Edith looked the severe old housekeeper in the eye, again with that 'challenging' gaze, and stared steadily for several moments before saying in a voice surprisingly childish:
"But Mrs. Edwin, ought I to tell you?"
"Ought you to tell me?—why, child, you must tell me!" spat Mrs. Edwin.
Edith stood up, recognizing her advantage in the situation, even if she knew not the motives behind it. Mrs. Edwin was at her mercy; and she was not fool enough to give her what she wanted for a mere nothing.
"Why must I tell you? For you are a servant, and I am your master's charge."
"It is for your own well-being, Edith! If you care for yourself, you will tell me!"
Edith, however, was not convinced.
"Indeed, and so you also tell me when I cannot have sweets—but I do not think that is a very pleasant thing. No, Mrs. Edwin, I do not think I ought to tell you what Miss Hawkins had to say. It is my secret."
Edith was very pleased with herself, and even allowed herself a small smile as she observed Mrs. Edwin's clearly exasperated expression. She could not possibly realize if there was any gravity in the stranger's words; but if there was, Edith was not about to lay it open for debate unless she was made some sort of offering in exchange for it.
"I have my studies, and you have your duties, Mrs. Edwin," were Edith's nonchalant parting words as she skipped out of the room, deciding that studying might not be such a disagreeable thing if Mrs. Edwin was, for once, under her command.