I made a few changes to the previous chapter based on a review's comment, so you may want to reread it if you have been reading each chapter as it posts.


Chapter 7: My First Love

As Bingley and I began to grow closer, our association at Cambridge had become a regular part of my life. I do not know if he noticed that I inevitably talked to him most Tuesday afternoons after we both had our last class and like clockwork, invited him to study with me in my quarters afterwards. I typically was waiting for his last class to end, to catch him leaving, to exchange the requisite three sentences before inviting him hither, though of course given Bingley's volubility it might be far more than that. Scheduling him into my life in such a regular manner was comforting to me though he did not always have work that could benefit from my help. I often practiced to myself what I might say to him that would be different yet close enough to what I had said before that I might have an idea of how he would react.

It was on a Tuesday, then, when we interrupted my bedmaker from her tasks, returning to my quarters earlier than was typical as Bingley's last class had ended early on that day. When Mrs. Webb saw me she blushed a little, bobbed a curtsey, "Mr. Darcy, Mr. . . ," she noticed Mr. Bingley and he helpfully supplied his name, "Mr. Bingley, I am almost finished. Five minutes at the most and then I have just the water to fetch."

"Very good," I told her and tried to ignore her after that as Bingley and I sat at a small table and talked (that was part of what we always did, talking for fifteen or twenty minutes before we studied, or rather typically before I helped Bingley). Of course, we could not talk of anything important and it was hard to ignore Mrs. Webb as she finished scrubbing the floors. Those sounds were loud to my ears.

I knew she was supposed to serve me, had been hired for such a task and I was to take her for granted and not see her unless one of us addressed the other, and yet it was hard to ignore what was occurring in my room (I never was good at ignoring things, it was one of the reasons that I needed to be far away from other people a goodly amount of the time, it took me many years to learn that this was one of the ways I was so different than other men, I have not whatever they have which should allow me to focus solely on what I am meant to notice).

When she was finally finished and had left for good, Bingley asked, "Why are you so distracted; have you some history with her?"

"Whatever do you mean?" I asked him, knowing by now that Bingley would not laugh at my ignorance of not knowing what he meant, that I could ask such a question and get a serious answer.

"I cannot decide if she is scared of you, perhaps you yelled at her in a moment of pique (you can be most fearsome you know when in a poor mood) or if perhaps you have taken some liberties with her and she has thought the better of them now, making her uncomfortable in your presence. It is quite bad form to become involved with servants."

"Liberties? Why would you think I would do so?"

"Come now, Darcy, while I might not imagine it of you, it cannot have escaped your attention that she is comely enough. Several of our classmates have tupped their bedmakers or more commonly their bedmakers' daughters and Mrs. Webb is young yet. You cannot be entirely innocent of the knowledge of such things."

"I had not noticed," I told him. I was not sure which statement I was responding to, though that answer might do for any of the three, it was a lie for any and all.

I was not sure why I lied, except that I was uncomfortable with the turn our conversation had taken. I felt a hotness to my cheeks. I knew Mrs. Webb had many of the womenly attributes which were deemed attractive: a large bosom, a rounded bottom, honey blonde hair, though some of it was concealed beneath her mob cap.

I knew also that George Wickham had "known" Mrs. Webb; at least that is what I had concluded from my observations. His chamber door was just down the hall from my own. On one occasion I had heard a woman's throaty laugh and George's muffled tones and then later his grunts of effort (rather like he made when running hard) and a woman's moans that sounded more delighted than pained. A few minutes later when departing to wait for Bingley outside his class, I saw Mrs. Webb exiting George's room. Outwardly she looked mostly as she normally did, cleaning supplies tucked in her basket on one arm, a wooden bucket and mop in the other. However, her clothes were wrinkled and somewhat askew. As our eyes caught each other a blush suffused her face (which was already somewhat rosy).

And if these clues were not enough, I overheard George making jokes about his intimate association with Mrs. Webb, though he never mentioned her by name. He said things like: "Oh, it is most convenient to occupy my bedmaker, as once we are finished messing up my sheets, it is her job to remake them."

If I had any attraction to Mrs. Webb, undoubtedly it would have been squelched by knowing what she had done with George, however I do not remember ever having found her desirable. She was nothing to me.

Yet, still, when I saw Mrs. Webb, it made me wonder what had become of Miss Wilde. I hoped she had remained virtuous, was now married and had found happiness. But I feared that she was living a life like Mrs. Webb's instead, perhaps even now serving to gratify the desires of the older boys at Eton.

Bingley must have sensed a story, though, as he proceeded to adroitly question me. I did my best to supply little information, to turn our conversation back to our studies, to the paper I knew he needed to write. I almost sent him on his way, half resolved that after I did so I would stop inviting him hither, retreat back into not knowing him (as if it could be that simple).

Finally, he sighed, saying "I suppose if you do not want to talk about whatever it is, I should let you keep your mysteries." We then proceeded to study, which is what I had thought I wanted, but now I was distracted, and my terse answers must have showed it.

This went on for a while until he finally said "Something is not right with you. I am sorry for whatever shadow I have cast over you, it was not my intent to make you uncomfortable."

Suddenly a bit of truth burst forth from me, "But I am, I do not truly know how to relate to the gentler sex unless they are related to me. In questioning me about Mrs. Webb, I have been dwelling in a memory I wish to avoid."

He gently and deliberately laid a hand upon my shoulder in a gesture that must have been intended to be comforting. "I will leave it be."

"What if I do not want you to leave it be?"

"Well then, you might choose to talk about the matter." He looked down at the table and not at me. I knew why he was doing that; I had told him before that when I was speaking of difficult things it was easier when another person's gaze was not upon me.

"I know why Mrs. Webb is uncomfortable in my presence," I told him, "but that is not what I wish to talk about. What I have been thinking on is why I am uncomfortable in hers."

"Why are you uncomfortable in hers?" By now he had removed his hand from my shoulder after giving my shoulder two pats. That was his way, two pats, always two pats. He continued to look at the table. I looked more at his eyebrows which were just a shade darker than his white-blond hair before focusing off in the distance and forced myself to speak.

"It is not Mrs. Webb exactly, but she reminds me of the women who cleaned my quarters at Eton. Mr. Stowbaugh, I think in despairing that I hardly talked to anyone, instructed that I should say more to merchants and servants. He told me that they had to listen to me, that my position could be used to give me good practice. I took this to heart in always greeting Mrs. Wilde, trying to exchange a sentence or two with her each time I arrived back in my quarters when she was still cleaning them. She was kind to my bumbling efforts. I noticed that on most Tuesdays and Fridays (the days when she did the heavy cleaning) she brought her daughter with her and though it was even harder to make myself converse with her daughter, it was well worth the effort."

"Her daughter?"

"Yes, Miss Wilde was perhaps fourteen to my almost sixteen years. She was a clever brunette; too clever to be doing mere menial work."

I was silent for a time while I thought about Lucy Wilde, my hands sweating a little, my throat feeling dry. Bingley waited patiently until I began to speak once more. For a voluble fellow, he knows when to be silent.

"When I met Miss Wilde, she was in that awkward phase where a girl's body is becoming that of a woman, but her curves are still slight, her body still thin with recent growth, like a half-grown horse. She had chocolate hair which was always tightly restrained in two braids. I do not remember the color of her eyes, but her lips were fuller and darker than was fashionable, as was the shade of her skin; perhaps she had a bit of Moorish blood."

I could see her there before me, but with the cross look she had after, not the more pleasant expression of before, when I first met her, or the smiling expression when she appreciated me a bit, which showed her front teeth with a gap in the middle.

"I finally said more to Miss Wilde one time besides a bare greeting when in straightening my books (the shelves were close to the table at which I was working) her hand lingered on one particular volume; it was Gulliver's Travels. I took a chance and asked quietly, 'Have you read it?' She shook her head and made no other reply, her braids moving a bit with the movement of her head. She had long braids, down to here or so," I gestured to my waist. I omitted added that I always had the desire to, wished I could run my hands along the bumps of her braids, though of course I never acted on such desire.

"I do not know what possessed me, but I asked her, 'Should you like to read it?' I remember she glanced at her mother who was busy dusting across the room. She answered softly, shyly, 'I should like to, but I fear my mother would not like me doing so.' That was as much as we talked about the matter that day, but I thought much upon that exchange.

"On her following visit I asked why her mother would not like her to read that and she told me, 'When I am drawn into a book, it means that I am not knitting stockings to sell or cooking our dinner.'"

I paused and Bingley commented softly, "The poor must be most industrious when there is daylight and have no money to waste on unnecessary candles at night."

I nodded, but did not allow his comment to distract me, my words still freely pouring forth.

"All that week I was consumed by wondering how I could share the book with Miss Wilde as she had no leisure time for reading. The answer came to me after we had to recite Latin in class. If she could not read the book, she could hear it. The next day she came to clean with her mother, I made sure I was present as early as possible. I pulled out the book and began reading aloud from the beginning. I made sure to mark my place and read from the book only when she was present. In this way she heard all about the Lilliputians. When I had finished reading about that voyage, she chanced discussing it with me, bit by bit, when cleaning near me."

I remembered Miss Wilde making her comments, head tilted slightly as talked, both braids down her back, hands resolutely moving, reddening as she scrubbed with the hot water. She never paused in her work, while I had nothing I need do but give my attention to our discussion and looking at her.

"When I had read Swift, and I had read his novel more than once, I had enjoyed the adventure of it all, the wonder of it, but it was from her that I learned more about how it was satire. At first, I was resistant to this, but she convinced me with her cogent explanations, she who had only heard the book read and only the one time, while diligently working. She was the first female (bar my mother and sister) I can remember that seemed to want to speak with me about something I wished to discuss as well. I was looking forward to reading the other voyages to her and what she would make of them, but it was not to be."

"Why ever not, did her mother notice and think it improper?" Bingley asked, glancing up for a moment and then refocusing his eyes on the table.

"No, certainly her mother caught on to what we were doing, but I think she, too, was drawn into the story as she told me one time, 'Those Lilliputians are really something' and she laughed when hearing how Gulliver put out the fire. I do not think she minded as Miss Wilde never slacked in her cleaning."

I was silent once more as I thought about the event that was likely the impetus for the actions which caused my shame. This memory had distinctly carnal overtones for me. It was something that occurred before I had so much as even exchanged a word with Miss Wilde, some months earlier.

Miss Wilde was wearing a stained and ill-fitting frock (the dress had probably been her mother's made over for her) and it was in a deeper color more apt for a married woman than a girl, a somewhat reddish brown color. It was a bit too large, especially on the top, though it was cinched tight around her waist with a rather ugly ribbon in an unfortunate color that was neither pink nor brown. It was a warm fall day and as she worked her face was ruddy and gleaming a bit with sweat. I had watched her, likely stared, as she hurried to complete the cleaning of my room, but if she or her mother noticed my staring, they ignored it.

But the sharpest memory of that day was of just a few seconds duration. As Miss Wilde bent over in the task of helping her mother make my bed, the angle was such, when combined with her too large of dress, that it afforded me quite a view of her dugs which were small but had a pleasing swell to them. I even saw the darker flesh of them which terminated with her nipples. At the time it was a revelation to me that a woman's nipples projected out, rather than being flatter like those of a man. I remember her particular nipples were a bit dark, like her lips.

That was the image to which I had first given myself pleasure. I also used it again on many nights that followed, picturing her leaning over my bed as I lay upon it.

While the underlying memory was a delightful one, soon after reading Gulliver's first voyage to Miss Wilde, it became caught up with another that left me deeply ashamed of my conduct. From that time forth, I could not think of the first memory without the cloud of the last, had to find a new fantasy though naturally it was nothing to the first.

Bingley interrupted my musings, asking, "Why would reading aloud to a girl who helped clean your room make you uncomfortable around the woman who cleans your room now? Is it that you miss her?"

"No, that is not it at all. It is what I did later, the thing that ruined it all."

"Will you tell me of it?"

I did not say anything for a few moments, considering whether I really could trust him with such a thing. It was not anything that I had ever told another. I could have shared with Mr. Stowbaugh when he asked why I seemed not myself, or I could have talked to my cousin Edwin about it (when I had seen him next, though given how things had changed between us and certain suggestions he had given me later regarding how I could gain the experience it was expected that all gentlemen would have, I was glad that I had not). I felt I could trust Bingley, with this at least.

"Yes, I shall. I knew I could not have anything further with Miss Wilde. I knew that as much as I might be becoming fond of her, even more than fond, that we were not of the same sphere. I always knew my place in the world, my father made sure of that. I had no wish for the sort of paid associations that are possible for a man and women of such different consequence. I really did not have any improper intentions toward Miss Wilde, just a sort of curiosity brought about by understanding a little of what could take place between a man and a woman, but we were both little more than children still, though I had started to develop the appetites of a man. It was a confusing time."

"Yes, it is an awkward age as I can well recall." He colored slightly and I wondered what he might be remembering, but I had no wish to inquire. Instead, I wished to proceed with my story and, so, continued on.

"Her mother left to fetch water for my pitcher. It must have been an oversight that she left her daughter there, usually the two of them went together. But in my mind somehow Miss Wilde had contrived it, wanted what I wanted. Though in looking back on the experience I can only feel ashamed.

"I stood up and said to her, 'I want to show you something over here' as I walked towards my shelves. She came over by me, probably expecting that I had a new book to show her, but as she was gazing at the shelf, I bent down and kissed her. It was just a small kiss, my lips had barely met hers before she turned her face to the side and backed away."

I noticed that Bingley's expression changed, but I did not know from that what he was thinking and my gaze shifted from him to focused on the books upon the table instead.

"I shall never forget what happened next;" the image was suddenly before me as I narrated it to Bingley. "Once Miss Wilde was a sufficient distance away, she pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and swiped at her mouth, as if I had contaminated her with something noxious, and her face became drawn and pinched. She asked me, without leaving me any time to answer, 'What do you take me for? So, tell me Mr. Darcy, the reading, was it all some act of seduction? I will have you know I am not such a girl! Did you pretend not to understand the ironies it contained to lure me in?'"

I told Bingley, "I was swiftly and suddenly ashamed. I had not meant to demean her, to force anything on her. I simply desired to feel what a kiss was like, a kiss with her. I felt, I do not know exactly what I felt, but the emotion overwhelmed me, and I knew that I needed to get away. Perhaps it was shame? I fled my room, nearly colliding with her mother in the process. As I walked around, the things my body does when I am upset were writ large upon me.

I chanced to pass near George, and he shouted out as I hurried past him, 'Why is Bitsy running away?' I rationally knew he had no idea why I was out there, but still my distress increased and I felt I could not get away fast enough, that nowhere I could go would I be safe. Finally, hours later, my legs sore, my feet blistering, I returned to my room when they must have been long gone."

"Did you see Miss Wilde after that day?"

"Yes, she came as before, but everything between us was altered. When I greeted her and her mother, they both responded properly but seemed cross. I had no further conversation from Miss Wilde. She did not smile at me anymore. The thing that had happened, the thing that I did, opened up a chasm between us that was impossible for me to cross, or at least I did not have the courage to try to cross it by attempting to explain myself, certainly not in front of her mother. I tried reading aloud the next voyage in Swift's book, but she pointedly walked as far away from me as she could, while still finding some cleaning to do. From that time on, the two of them cleaned my room much faster than they had before. I had ruined a good thing. After a couple of times of this, I did my best not to be present when they cleaned. Although Mrs. Webb is nothing to Lucy Wilde, bears no resemblance to her at all, the situation in cleaning my quarters here is too similar to them cleaning my quarters at Eton."

"If your stations had been different?" I met Bingley's eyes for a moment before I looked away.

"Then I am sure that I would have never ever gotten a chance to know her at all, given our ages at the time, but if I met her now and she was a gentleman's daughter, I would have pursued her. I have never forgotten the joy of discussing that book with her, nor her flashing eyes as she berated me, nor her chocolate hair."

He told me then, "When you are ready for it, I will help you learn to talk to women. Someday, should you desire my help, I will even help you find an intelligent and well-spoken woman who you could marry."

"A brunette," I declared.

"I will not forget it," he answered.