Sorry for the delay. I needed a bit of a break to think through this next part.
This next chapter has some disturbing content regarding forced prostitution (although to my mind very little prostitution is truly voluntary).
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam's POV
20. The Three Elizabeths
I was already in a melancholy mood over our Easter visit to Rosings before I heard the worst of news about what had befallen the Bennets. For it was ten years to the very day that my dear sister had departed this world. My annual visits to Rosings over Easter when I was not serving on some battlefield (sometimes accompanied by my cousin Darcy, sometimes by my brother John, and occasionally by both), had begun the year after she died. Visiting my aunt and cousin, the change in scenery, even my aunt's pedantic conversations, were a welcome distraction.
My sister Elizabeth (though we called her Beth) had always been of a delicate constitution since having scarlet fever at the age of five. Her heart was weak and she often felt dizzy when she stood or walked, so she was frequently abed. She was younger than me by three years and although I had some vague memories of when she could run and play, I was sometimes uncertain whether they were real or not.
I do remember well coming and reading stories to her, but such was her feeling and compassion that I had to make sad stories happier, redeem the villains and could not let anyone be maimed or killed. When it came to choosing my profession, the church or the army, she begged me to become a clergyman, feared for my safety. But I was headstrong and the stories in my head of the glories of winning on the battlefield, of receiving field promotions for my bravery, deceived me from those grim realities, similarly to how I deceived her that all stories had happy endings for all. Too, I had no head for the mysteries that cannot be seen, require belief.
While there were certainly things I enjoyed while in the cavalry, such as urging my stallion to run like the wind, when I wrote to Beth I only told her happy tales. Some stories only required a bit of shaping. The hero who saved a company of men by informing us where the enemy lay was never struck down in battle, the brave nurse who soothed injured men (they all recovered of course and there was not a death or amputation among them) was not later taken by the enemy in a sudden offensive, the kidnapped woman whom I aided to reach safety. Other stories came straight from my imagination.
I also omitted much about how I felt. I was never uncertain or scared. I never doubted the wisdom of my commanders, never even hinted about how I hated them for keeping themselves safe well behind enemy lines while the blood of our young men soaked the field. I never sought revenge when my stallion was struck down, killed horses on the other side. No, I was brave and good so that my sister would still admire me.
I think Beth had to know at least something of my deception. Her life may have been confined, but she was not simple and not all of the ugliness of the world could be hidden from her. Maids talked before her when she was only half-asleep, my mother could not hide it when no live baby resulted from her travails. Still, Beth pretended along with me, wrote poems about my bravery, imagined me better than I was.
I was not home when Beth was taken from us. It was just supposed to be a simple cold during the winter, nothing that would have bothered anyone else for more than a week. But in her weakened state, that was all it took. My mother told me she was not in any sort of pain, died in her sleep, but I do not know if it is the truth or not. I doubt it for I well recall past illnesses when she struggled to breathe, choked and struggled even with the plasters on her chest, being placed near steaming water. It hurt me that I was not there to distract her with tales, to let her dream of heroes.
I had met plenty of other Elizabeths of course, both before and after Beth died. It is a very common name (as common as Anne). There were currently at least half a dozen Elizabeths that I counted among my acquaintances before I met Miss Elizabeth Bennet (and a similar number of Annes, including my departed aunt and sickly cousin). Thus, the name Elizabeth was not enough to favorably predispose me toward any woman.
With some Elizabeths, the name is actually an affront, that someone so self-absorbed, vicious or unfeeling could share the name with my sister. So while when I met Miss Bennet, the name sparked a temporary interest, that only lasted a few minutes. However, in that time with Miss Bennet, I learned enough about her personality to wish to know more.
I recall meeting Miss Bennet at the parsonage in Kent (we of course all addressed her as Miss Bennet, although we soon learned she had a single, older sister, for that Miss Bennet was not in Kent, that is all but Darcy who always called her Miss Elizabeth). I remember that occasion and our further interactions well; they were the sort of memories that a man takes out to keep him warm on a dark night sleeping in the field, uncertain that he will still be well after the battle to come.
Upon meeting any Elizabeth, my initial perusal includes comparing her to my Beth. In physical characteristics, Miss Bennet could not have been more different than Beth. Beth was fair, fairer than Georgiana, fairer than my aunt Lady Anne; Beth even had flaxen hair. Miss Bennet had dark curly hair. Beth was painfully thin, with stick-like arms; she gently smiled when happy, amused. Miss Bennet had a vitality to her, an energy, a strength, and womanly curves that a man could well imagine cupping. I did not see it on that first visit, but Miss Bennet laughed freely, had a myriad of expressions, dancing dark eyes, a way of twisting her mouth wryly when amused. She was everything that Beth never had a chance to be.
I knew two things when Darcy and I left the parsonage after that first visit: I was attracted to Miss Bennet but nothing could come of it. I well knew that I needed to marry an heiress if I was to have a comfortable life. I could not be a soldier for life and as a second son no inheritance was coming to me from my father. While my brother John might well be happy to get what he could from those beneath him in consequence, have not a care for the lives he ruined, I could never act likewise. So since I could not afford to marry Miss Bennet, there could be nothing but friendship betwixt us.
Still, I was determined to enjoy her company and the distraction it afforded, and if sometimes I saw dancing eyes in my dreams, those dreams were not involving the carnal act, for even my sleeping self seemed to realize she was not for me. I never used her image when I defiled myself; I had enough memories of the real thing to need to disrespect a woman of my acquaintance so.
I had never been in love, but a man of my station always has options for satisfying his needs. Of the choices, I prefer to occasionally indulge with paid company. It is easier that way, no feelings to get hurt, no attachments, simply physical fulfillment. But I am not a fool in how I indulge.
I was a soldier in the cavalry before I yet needed to shave daily, and was fortunate to overhear some soldiers commiserating about the affliction they suffered and their suspicion that they had acquired it from the same piece of wanton baggage. I was also inquisitive enough to question a battle surgeon about the token when there had not been a battle for some time. He was also kind enough to explain the matter to me and what could be done to prevent it. Though I was well young then, I still determined to acquire some of the French letters he spoke of, to experiment with exactly how long of a soaking such preservatives required to be supple enough to apply over my tickle-tail. I determined that I could not be impetuous.
The next time I returned home, I had become a man in both body and experience. I had reached my full height, acquired strength, and indulged myself twice with a woman, using a sheep-gut sheath each time. The experiences had not been as satisfying as I had hoped for, but how pathetic would it have been if such an indulgence had cost me my life? I could have indulged myself thrice, had paid for company three times, but I did not that third time.
The first time, she was a brunette woman of middling years and roundness everywhere. I do not recall her name, but I remember that she called me "young one" as I stood and stared at her in all her glory. "No need t' be shy, young one. Doff y'r duds. Mama 'ill show y' good time."
I approached, took off my coat, my breeches, careful with the pouch at my belt which held the jar and my soaking preservative. I felt my interest stirring, but was not sure I could perform. However, rather than laughing and turning me away, she pulled me forward, placed my hand on one of her massive dugs and touched me with knowing fingers. Within a few seconds I had to jump away and pull on the preservative with shaking fingers, lest I lose myself to her caresses and forget.
I approached her again, proud my yard was not dissuaded with the application of the barrier. She nodded and opined, "Young one knows som'ings, wise's he. Y'll do." Then I gave myself over to her and when it was done she hurried me into my clothes and out the door.
The second time, the paid woman was a red head of perhaps twenty-five years. She was sufficiently accommodating and I felt less nervous when I put the preservative on and climbed a top her. She had not quite the enthusiasm of "Mama" but seemed happy enough to service me. I never learned her name, but I think of her as "Not a Complainer" on account of our conversation. After I had rearranged my clothes and was about to leave, she said "Stay a bit; I could do wit'a break."
I complied, but then felt awkward, standing there in silence, and so to have a bit of conversation asked "How do you like your lot in life?"
Not a Complainer shrugged, grimaced (exposing a rotting tooth) and said "I no much cause t' think on it much. I s'pose it's all f' the best. I had a no 'count husband who ran 'round 'n died. I got me meals, a roof o' me, me he'th 'n my fingers do n' ache like some seamstr'ss do." She forced a laugh, "Well some me do ache on 'cassion, but d' not last. 'T ain't bad."
Not a Complainer then proceeded to tell me that she had hope a few years back that one or another fellow might buy her to be his own, as had happened with a couple of women there, but that it seemed a lot less likely now. Not a Complainer said she was not sure what she would do with herself if she had only one man to contend with, figured she would be bored but would get more rest. She told me she thought it likely that she was there for life or until she got too old, but explained when that happened she might be kept in as a sort of maid of all trade, unless all the other women were occupied in which case she might help accommodate anyone who needed her.
For several days after, I found myself pondering what she had told me, and the realities of such a life. I wished her well, hoped she never caught one of the diseases, hoped her future might be better than her past.
It was the third time I visited a paid woman that showed me the depths of evil possible to the whole thing. I desired and embarked upon getting myself some satisfaction once again some four months after I had visited Not a Complainer. I went into it expecting something similar to my first or second experience. As usual, I planned things out, began soaking my preservative in the morning.
I had been told there were some skilled women among the camp followers and on the eve of a likely battle I wished for some few minutes when all the worries and anticipated horrors would fade away. But when I approached the tent, Banfield, a tall, gangly fellow with a gap between his overly large teeth, grabbed my arm and pulled me to the one beside it, where a couple of men lingered. "Don't waste your time with that old baggage. You must see Rosebud instead."
"Rosebud?"
"Yes, a fresh young one, only with Madam Turner a week or two." Banfield grinned lasciviously.
I recalled how "Mama" had called me "young one," wondered aloud, "How young is this 'Rosebud'?"
"Fifteen or sixteen, or perhaps seventeen or eighteen. She is a little thing, so it is hard to know. She is not a Frenchie but an English Rosebud is not into her majority to be sure, is firm, tight despite being ridden quite well by the lot of us. I have had her two times since she's been here, just finished." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "She costs more, and as the sailors say, my purse is now at low tide but it was well worth it. Lieutenant four-eyes has been saying he might offer her his protection, but I doubt he has enough to buy her from Madam, but as we do not know what the morrow will bring," his face grew serious in anticipating the planned offensive, "better take your turn before it's lost."
I admit to being intrigued, so I waited my turn, tried to ignore the sounds coming from the tent (which could have been of pain or pleasure or something in between), tried not to mind that while protected by my French letter that I would be going for a swim in fresh leavings. It was just the way of things unless you had a mistress or a wife. I am not sure quite what I was expecting when I had paid and it was finally my turn, but it was not to be faced with a sobbing girl.
Rosebud must not have heard me enter, for I was light of foot, and she certainly could not see me as she was sprawled face down and away from me on the pallet that served as a bed. I could see that she wore a sheer, short dressing gown, which did not even serve to cover the whole globes of her bottom.
I did not know what to do, just stood there perplexed. But then something in how she swiped at her face, with a sort of flick to her wrist, reminded me of my sister, so I enquired as I would have of her, "My dear, what is wrong?"
Rosebud turned toward me and I saw that despite the fact that her face was still streaked with tears and she had healing bruises on her face, that she was a lovely young woman with pale blue eyes and auburn hair. Her features were far more refined than I expected for the occupant of a nanny house and she had a grace about her. I also observed she had healing bruise marks on her wrists.
Rosebud stood up and I saw that she barely reached my chest. She said in a gentle, piping voice, properly pronouncing her words as well as any debutant, "Forgive me, sir, I did not hear you enter. Please, I beg of you, do not tell Madam I kept you waiting. Just give me a moment."
Rosebud took a deep breath and tried to compose herself, squaring her shoulders as if she was preparing to meet the queen rather than a Corinthian like myself. The whole thing felt slightly ridiculous with her in her dressing gown that in the front did not even cover her lower hair.
But despite her best efforts at dignity, it was clear to me that she was miserable. I had no wish to impose myself on her when she was in such a state and I did not delay in telling her so.
"Be at ease, Miss. You have nothing to fear from me." I raised my empty hands in a gesture of surrender. Remembering Not a Complainer, I suggested, "I will stay in here where I am for a while so you may have a rest."
Rosebud sagged with relief, "Do you truly mean it? I would be delighted if you do. I never thought I would end up in such a place, forced to serve every man's appetite, no matter how depraved."
"I am sorry you have been used so ill, Miss. You do not seem to belong here."
This seemed to give Rosebud the permission she needed to spill her sorry tale. I suppose she could have been lying, but I am convinced that even now she spoke the truth. "Thank you for your forbearance, the last man who was within decided he wished to occupy my back passage and I had no idea how much worse that would be than what I had already suffered before."
Rosebud rubbed at her wrists. "They had to keep me tied up for the first week, for I fought any man they brought forth. I kept trying to run away, too, so when I am all used up for the night I am still lashed tight."
"I am grieved to hear it," I told her.
"You are the first who has asked about me, rather than demanded his satisfaction right away." She gave a decisive nod and then began striding around the confines of the narrow tent, apparently unable to relax while sharing her tale.
"No woman should have to bear what I am forced to do, but even now I believe if I could but get away and return to England that my brother would welcome me back. For I was stolen, and I am fairly confident that it was the man who was courting me whom I refused, that got his revenge by stealing me away, seizing me from behind as I took a turn about our London garden. He gagged me and dragged me to his carriage and while a burlap bag covered my head, took what I had denied him with my refusal, and two days later I was placed upon a ship and in France became the property of the Madam."
She paused right in front of me. "Please, please, Sir, can you help me get away? I am sure my brother can buy you a promotion, anything you like. I shall surely take my own life if that be my only escape."
I could not deny her, but as much as it grieved me, I could not help her to gain her freedom just then, but we plotted together and made plans and she even shared with me her brother's name as well as her own. Her first name was Elizabeth, but I shall not share the family name of her or her brother, or anything else. None should have to bear the knowledge of her shame being made public.
I remained with her as long as I dared and though her torment continued for several more hours, in the confusion of the battle I was able to help effect her escape with the aid of my batman and a hired companion who accompanied her all the way to England and beyond.
Can it then be doubted how in earnest I was when I heard of the disgrace of the Bennet family and Lady Catherine's suggestions about the daughters possible future interaction how much I wanted to spare Miss Elizabeth Bennet what the other Elizabeth had suffered? Who could not be moved to want to spare her such a possible end, to keep her vivacious spirit from being dimmed or snuffed out entirely. I was sure I could love her, if she became my own.
