Jump to new as of June 14, 2002
Posted on Tuesday, 18 December 2001
Charles Bingley's father had many good qualities. He was hard-working, clever, and industrious. He brought his family up from rather poor Yorkshire labourers to gentry, and if they were not landowning gentry yet, that was merely because he hadn't had time to find something suitable.
Unfortunately, he wasn't really a very good father to his children. His daughters he spoiled, passing on to them his feelings of superiority over those whom he thought beneath him. His meteoric rise made him look down on all the slackers who spent generation after generation in trade or industry, never moving upwards or downwards. If he could rise, why could not they?
His son, however, was his heir. With Charles, he was a strict disciplinarian, constantly seeking to inculcate sense, or failing that, obedience into him. Any infraction would be met with a good beating, and any foolish activity - which included a great number of things - was most strongly forbidden. The only allowed activity for Charles was dancing, and even then his father would be at the back of the room, keeping a close eye on him. Dancing was serious business: he wanted before he died to get Charles a wife, someone strong like himself or his daughters, to keep that foolish son of his in line.
Charles, under strong pressure, managed to convince himself in love many times. But always to foolish girls, without any sense, or so his father thought. His father grew sick of the endless failure of his son, and began to search out an appropriate wife for Charles, but fell ill before he finished.
In his last days, he called Caroline and Louisa into his room.
"Now, Caroline, Louisa, I want t'tell thee summat." - In his last days the superior accent cultivated during his rise fell away, and he returned to the accent of his youth. - "I want thee t'fick* thy gormless brother. He hain't got nowt but porridge in his noggin, so tha must keep him under control. And don't let any of those gentry tell thee they're better than thee! We're just as good as them, and I want thee t'show them that!"
It wasn't long after that that he died, leaving behind him a pair of controlling, selfish, spoiled sisters, convinced of their own superiority, and a man whose every opinion had always been thought wrong. A man who, despite having the best tutors, knew very little of the world. A man whose judgment must give way, who always felt the gaze of his father upon him at every step. Charles Bingley.
*fick: to manage. (back to text)
Their father had barely been buried before his sisters wanted out of Yorkshire, and Charles, accustomed to obeying, went down to London to find a suitable house to replace the small set of rooms their father had kept.
He had never been out of Yorkshire. When he was young, his father sometimes went to London on business, and sometimes even took his sisters with him (though not often, as they had to stay at an inn when he did). Bingley did not deserve such special treatment and expense, and was left alone with his beloved mother, the only person in his life hitherto to see the good in him, and his strict governess (who was on orders to keep him from being spoiled by her.)
His mother had been dead these seven years, and Bingley was now twenty-one. He had never known what it was to be loved since that time, never having had the chance. Despite all the dances he went to, he never had really gotten to know a girl before his father had rejected her, and those his father pushed him towards inevitably thought themselves far too superior to him, he whose fortune came from trade, and whose father was still actively engaged in it.
He learned to cope. He learned a great deal of politeness, and always sought to please. Sometimes, briefly, he even succeeded with his sisters, though his father thought his behaviour even more weak-willed than before. This then, was the gentleman who arrived in London with naught but his valet and driver, and took up residence in an apartment that had lay abandoned for the past three years.
Charles walked around the apartment, sighing. And sneezing at the dust. There was not much there, really: two bedrooms, to be divided amongst the three of them, some old, cheap furniture, a bookshelf full of records of his father's business, a small kitchen with a pot-bellied stove, and one sitting room, upon which no expense had been spared, in which visitors had been received.
"Sir?" asked his valet, who up until recently had been his father's.
"Yes, Grimsby?" asked Charles.
"Er, well, when I was here with your father, I was in charge of the cooking. I'm not really very good at it, I must confess, but if you do not mind, I could go out and arrange for the food we will need for the next few days?"
Charles looked at him with surprise and gratitude. "Yes, thank you. I'm sure that you will do fine. Er, Dugdale?"
"Yes, sir?" asked his driver, carrying in the last of the luggage.
"Would you mind terribly helping Grimsby arrange for the food, dropping him off in the market and such?"
"Er, no, sir."
"Sir," said Grimsby, "it is not necessary for you -"
"Nonsense," replied Bingley, warming to their helpfulness. "However, it has been a long journey for all of us, and so, if you can find a baker's shop that has something suitable for the three of us, and you do not mind...?"
"Er, certainly, sir," stated a confused Grimsby. "Er, do you have any preference as to what we order?"
"I trust you to do things as you see fit."
"Er, thank you, sir."
A pause ensued. Charles noticed it and looked at him in confusion.
"May we be dismissed, sir?" asked Grimsby timidly.
"Er, why, of course! Sorry."
The two returned to find Charles attempting to sweep the floor of the apartment, without a great deal of success.
"Sir!" cried Grimsby.
"Oh, hello, Grimsby! Er, there was a great deal of dust around, so I thought..."
Grimsby looked at him disapprovingly, and he sheepishly put the broom back into the closet. "Sorry..." he finished.
"In the morning, if sir would be so kind, I shall help him find a temporary maid to come in once a week until sir has found his new house?" stated Grimsby, with only a touch of affection showing through. Dugdale hurried into the kitchen, lest he should break out laughing.
Bingley smiled broadly. "Yes, if you could. I'm afraid I'm not terribly good at managing a household as of yet." He then grinned sheepishly. Dugdale, who had just stepped out of the kitchen from putting away the few things they had brought back with them that would not wait until tomorrow's deliveries, quietly turned around and went back in upon hearing that last statement. This went unnoticed by Charles, who had his back to the door, but Grimsby noticed.
"Shall I have supper brought in?" asked Grimsby, concealing a rather mischievous smile.
"Yes, if you would."
"Very well! Dugdale! Bring in the supper!"
It was only a moment before Dugdale walked out of the kitchen. Bingley turned to look at him, and Grimsby took this opportunity to make a face at Dugdale. Dugdale turned the laugh into a cough, then attempted to ward off Bingley's immediate concern, claiming it was just a bit of dust. After setting the tray on the table, he proceeded to glare at Grimsby as soon as he was certain Charles was not watching. Grimsby lifted the lid of the tray. Bingley looked at it with confusion.
"Is something wrong, sir?" asked Grimsby.
"Er.. Are you certain there's enough food for the three of us?"
Grimsby looked at him in confusion. "Three, sir?"
Bingley's confusion heightened, then slowly faded away. "Good God, man! You didn't think that I'd make you eat in that tiny kitchen or one of the bedrooms!"
"Your father -"
Bingley's face fell, and he felt the eyes of his father begin to bore into the back of his skull.
Grimsby saw this with great concern, and did the first thing he could think of. "Dugdale, bring in our suppers," he ordered.
Bingley looked up at him, eyes filled with nervous relief.
"If sir would like to discuss his plans for the morrow?" Grimsby began, leaping on the first safe topic that sprung to mind.
Things proceeded amiably after that.
Grimsby and Dugdale shared the second bedroom. After Grimsby was certain Charles was asleep, he went over to Dugdale's bed and woke him.
"What did you do that for? I had just fallen asleep." whispered Dugdale, angrily.
"Sorry, Phillip, but I'm worried about the master."
"What about him?"
"When he invited us to eat with him, I began to mention that his father always had us eat in here -"
"Why'd you do that?"
"Because I didn't want to take advantage of him!" Dugdale began to say something, but Grimsby hurried on. "As soon as I mentioned his father, the expression that suddenly appeared on his face... It was almost... fear."
Dugdale pondered.
...Shadows before now
Have driven travelers mad for their own sport
-Yates
...The wolves were behind him somewhere, coming to get him. He ran through the midnight forest, banging his head on branches he only saw too late, his heart pounding in his chest... but there, up ahead was something white - he hurried towards it. It was at the edge of the forest, and seemed to be some sort of huge, white building - A church? He raced towards it with all his strength, the howls echoing behind him, trying to find protection...
He crashed through the brush on the edge of the forest, scratching his arms and face, and looked at the white object he had seen... and stopped in terror. Looming up to the heavens was his father, still wearing the nightgown he wore when he died, looking down on his tiny form with disapproval. He heard a growl behind him - he turned and saw the first of the wolves, with gaping jowls. He looked pleadingly up to his father for help... Amusement filled the face of his father - and as his father began to laugh, the wolf pounced...
Grimsby and Dugdale awoke at dawn, and Grimsby went into the kitchen to prepare the master's breakfast, only to see the master already in there, attempting to boil water on a stove belching smoke, and transferring a seventh spoonful of tea leaves into a rather small teapot. "Sir?" asked Grimsby.
Tea-leaves went flying everywhere as Charles wheeled around, his eyes filled with a panic that quickly calmed upon seeing Grimsby.
"Er... sir?"
"Er, good morning, Grimsby. Can I offer you a cup of tea?"
Grimsby's eyes traced a circuit around the room.
"Er, I didn't want to wake you..."
"If sir will allow me to finish as I am now awake?"
Bingley grinned sheepishly, and stepped aside. Grimsby concealed a smile and quickly proceeded to bring the kitchen back to some form of order. Sir did, at the least, try.
After Bingley had finished his tea, and looked a bit calmer, Grimsby decided to venture into the subject of hiring a maid whilst Dugdale was tending the horses. Grimsby mentioned an agency Bingley's father had occasionally used (he did not mention the two agencies that Bingley's father had been barred from using), and Bingley agreed. It was thus settled that, after breakfast, Grimsby would go and request a few maids be sent round. It was also settled, at Grimsby's hesitant offer of help, that he would assist in the interviewing process. With that settled, Grimsby went into the kitchen and began frying.
Dugdale returned not long after from seeing to the horses. Bingley smiled at him, asked him if he would mind taking Grimsby around to the agency later - which he cheerfully agreed to do, and sat down to the breakfast of eggs, bacon, Cumberland sausages, and tomatoes. (Grimsby had begun to cook a more austere meal for himself and Dugdale, but Bingley had stuck his head in and corrected him.)
"...The only time I've ever really had trouble when driving was soon after your father had hired me, and he asked me to take him to Leeds. I thought we were making pretty good time, until I saw the signpost, and realised we were half way to Sheffield, and not heading into Leeds like we were supposed to be. It seems Bartholomew can't read a map correctly"
"I had to conceal the map from the former Sir, as you will recall. You had said you knew the roads well," replied Grimsby in the most disapproving tone he could muster. Dugdale, well-used to his eccentricities, ignored it.
"Well, I did. But I didn't think he expected me to know them that far out of town. And when he told me about the journey, he had fixed me with that expression - the one that dared you to make a mistake so that he could pounce? So I couldn't very well tell him then. Luckily, I was able to correct myself before he noticed, and was able to blame the extra time on those sheep that were blocking us - But I was terrified when I saw him vent his anger at the delay on that poor shepherd. Er, sir - are you quite all right?"
The description of his father's expression had returned it to Charles' thoughts, and it began to bore into his skull once more... He knew his father would not approve of his behaviour towards the servants - yet more of the weak will that his father despised - and he knew had his father heard Dugdale's confession, he would have fired him, and Grimsby for conspiring with him and he knew he should fire them as well. But he couldn't - he liked Dugdale, and he liked Grimsby, and he couldn't bring himself to do what he ought - and he knew he was disappointing his father by being ruled by his emotions - and he knew that he had failed his father - but to succeed would go against every fibre of his being - and he was doomed to be a failure once more, and was doomed to be one forever.
"Er, sir?" repeated Dugdale, as he and Grimsby watched Bingley break into tears, as they watched on, helpless against sadness they could not understand.
The finding of a maid could not proceed that day, not that anyone cared much. Dugdale put his arm around Charles' back, and tried to offer comforting words. Grimsby fetched that most English of comforters, a nice cup of tea, and offered it to him, which he accepted with gratitude. Eventually, Bingley calmed down. He could not explain his behaviour - not to them, anyway, who played such a prominent part in his failure - but they did not press, and, after a light dinner, Grimsby hesitantly encouraged him to take a nap, hoping that, perhaps, it might help.
The sleep was mercifully dreamless, and Bingley awoke much improved. He still knew he was a failure deep down, but he had stopped thinking of it constantly, and the force of his father's gaze was but dully felt. Grimsby eventually was persuaded to go out and arrange for the maids to come by the next day - though he refused the repeated offer of the carriage, as he was still unwilling to leave sir on his own. His every step was filled with worry...
Posted on Sunday, 27 January 2002
That night, Charles' dreams took him back to the time of his mother's death...
"You're going t'go and learn t'trade, whether your mother's ill or not," stated his father.
"But father, surely it can wait until mum's better?"
His father glared at him. "Business is business, and t'sooner you learn that, t'better. Let me tell thee summat, lad. If you go letting your emotions get carried away with you and don't apply to your work, you're going t'be a failure all your life. Your precious mother," he added cruelly, "will be there t'comfort thee when tha return. But you aren't going t'return until my foreman tells me that you've learned all the basics of working t'mills. Because if you can't understand t'basics of t'wool trade, you'll never be able t'manage it! Remember thy great-grandfather! He went soft in t'noggin, and lost all t'family's fortune. My father was barely able t'save us enough t'set us up in t'wool trade. But it was me who industrialised it. I saw what they did over in Lancashire with those great machines - and then I knew what I had t'do t'get t'fortune back. Through blood and sweat I dragged this family back t'gentility, even though all seemed lost! And I'm not going t'let thee lose it all! The Bingley Pride will not fail because of thy weak-willed emotional ways! Now, go to t'mill, and I won't hear of you returning until you understand it all!"
The worst weeks of Charles' life followed, as he tried to understand what was going on in the business, but was mostly horrified. The mills, the satanic mills seemed a larger version of his father, a horrible hell into which he was sucked, and which he knew not whether he would escape. He saw the loss of fingers to the machines, and nearly had a needle go through his hand once, but he had moved it a second before to a different position and the needle missed it by a quarter inch. Life degraded into a day of misery followed by a night of nightmares.
He survived the first week, and the foreman told him he probably had sufficient understanding. He waited for the coach to come and rescue him... but his father came on the coach, and insisted on a demonstration of his skill. Under his father's glare he fell apart, nearly injured himself again, and, with happy malevolence, was sentenced to another two weeks. He cried the entire night, and every night after, until he was finally allowed to go home. And when he arrived, he rushed to his mother's side, only to learn that she had died five hours earlier.
Although Bingley never knew it, it was Louisa that saved him from another test that he would surely have failed. Although she was too much in awe of her father and sister to ever show it very well, Louisa did have a measure of sensitivity buried within her, and had seen the workers at the mill once when their father went to show them the Bingley pride, as he called it. It was only with the greatest act of will that she kept from showing her horror at some of the sights she saw - a number of the workers were missing fingers, and her clever mind showed her the ways the machines could maim and destroy the men that ran them. She feared for her brother, and, as her father was about to set off at the end of two weeks, she took him aside, knowing she must prevent him from being left behind again. She knew her father well, and knew how to go about it.
"Father, I must insist that you bring back Charles thiis time."
"Have you grown soft like thy brother, Louisa! T'lad must learn t'business, and he'll have t'keep trying as long as it takes!"
"Surely you know me better than that!" said Louisa, her mind working at a furious pace. "But you cannot allow our brother to gain the rough hands of a common labourer! Our marriages will depend in a large part on proving ourselves members of the gentility. And if Charles' stupidity keeps him there too long, his hands will never recover, and they will give him away."
Louisa was also the only person to ever know their mother's last words - "Please, Louisa: Protect Charles from his father..." It would be a long time before she would gain the strength of will to defy the legacy of her father and the will of her sister, but she never forgot.
But the dream did not end with Charles learning of the death of his mother (and it certainly did not go on to tell of Louisa as the nrrator of this tale felt obliged to do). For it was the aftermath that forced Charles awake - when Charles fell into tears, crying out for his mother to return, to allow him to say goodbye - and his father pulled him away, chiding him for falling to his emotions, chiding him for being so weak willed, and Charles saw the flame of sadistic pleasure and amusement that danced in his eyes at his son's fate.
Charles' sobs eventually wore him out, and he fell back to slumber for a few hours - but the maids had been asked to come, and it was only a matter of time before he would be awoken once more...
The light streamed through the dirty window onto Bingley's faded coverpane. From the street came the clatter of horses on the cobbles, and the first cries of the fishmongers and other food sellers who plied their trade. Bingley awoke with a groan, and sighed - another day had arrived...
It was not long after that that Grimsby tentatively entered. "Good day! How is sir this morning?" he asked in the well-rehearsed phrases - but with much greater desire to know than he had ever felt before.
"Grimsby? I'm... well enough," he said, with only the slightest hesitation. He tried to muster some cheerfulness. "So, shall we get some breakfast then?"
Grimsby peered at him suspiciously, but let it pass and hoped the change of mood was genuine.
As Bingley sat at the breakfast table, munching his sausages, eggs, bacon, fried tomatoes, beans, kedgeree, and toast, Grimsby slowly got up the courage to remind him what was to happen that day.
"Er, sir?"
"Yes Grimsby?" asked Bingley who had managed to regain a fair bit of cheer.
"I just wanted to remind you that the maids are arriving today to be interviewed."
Bingley stopped chewing for a moment, saw no threat in the statement, and resumed. Upon having swallowed, he said, "Very well! When do they arrive?"
There was not a knock at the door.
"In about half an hour," said Grimsby, smiling back as broadly as he would allow himself.
Bingley's mood remained cheerful, and if worries ate away at him beneath the surface, he concealed them well. He began to make plans to look around for suitable houses the next day, and in the ensuing discussion, the time passed quickly, until a discreet knock was heard on the door. Grimsby went to answer it.
"Good morning. May I ask your name?"
"Er, Miss Agnes Doggett. I was told you might be looking for a maid?"
"Ah, you must be the maid!" cried Bingley. Grimsby coughed. "Very well, may I -" Grimsby coughed a bit louder. "Er, am I doing something wrong?"
"Er, it is customary to interview a servant before hiring them. Usually several," stated Grimsby.
"Oh, right.. of course. Well, then... Er..." A pause ensued. Miss Doggett looked around in confusion. It certainly looked like a rather grand house - why did they only need her once a week?
Bingley continued, "Er... I'm terribly sorry, I've only just inherited... Right, shall I show you around beforehand? I'm afraid most of it's a bit shabby - my father only used this house for short business trips to London, so... Anyway, we're trying to find a new one. Right then..."
Bingley lead Agnes out of the sitting room and into the dining room, with its simple wooden furniture - functional enough, but rather scratched and not really that attractive to begin with; and on into the even more dilapidated bathroom, with its copper bath that had turned quite green in spots, and had obviously been patched a few times; the kitchen, with merely a pot-bellied stove and a small counter; and the bedrooms, with their faded curtains and threadbare furniture. "Er, that's it, really.... Do you think it would suit you?"
Agnes was very confused. He seemed rich enough, but the house... Well, she needed the money. "Yes, sir."
"Very well, then!" - At this point, Grimsby slipped away to send off the other candidates discretely. - "Would tomorrow be an acceptable start? Oh, yes... money - er, a pound a week?"
Agnes stared at him in shock.
"Er, have I done something a bit daft again?"
Her salary having been lowered to a still generous five shillings a week, Agnes quite happily tidied up a bit before leaving. Dugdale went over to the solicitor's to make an appointment for the next day, and Bingley went for a walk. Everything was going so well....
The day faded into night, with cheerful conversation, and Bingley's remaining worries beginning to evaporate. It was a much more cheerful Bingley than had existed in several years that went to bed that night.
The dreams still haunted him, but for tonight they contented themselves with one of the few parts of his life when Charles' father failed to oppress his son completely: University...
"Son, tha'rt going t'university."
"Father?"
"Well, tha may be gormless, but I won't have thee ruining thy sisters' chances. And if the gentry wants thee to be educated then tha will be educated."
Charles' heart began to soar, perhaps now he could show...
"But tha won't be allowed to go soft! I've signed thee up to Oxford, but thee can go there, get thy books, come back here, and work thyself. As long as thou hast been there for the proper terms, that'll be enough. Tha won't do very well, so no point in thee trying. Oh, and if thee brings back anything too soft, tha'rt going right back and replacing it."
Charles sighed. "Yes, father."
Charles' father wasn't very happy with anything the university had to offer. Classical Civilisation was quickly deemed too soft, despite Charles' great enjoyment of it on the way back. Philosophy met with an even more severe rebuke. After that, Bingley's father himself went to get the materials.
"I've gotten thee mathematics. Get to studying. I'll be testing thee next week"
Charles just didn't get mathematics. Not without tutors or any previous knowledge. He tried very hard, he read every book several times over - but his father had decided that there was no need to get the easier books in the course, and so Charles never had any chance of success. He begged his father to let him go to Oxford to try to get help - his father insisted that he learn to stand on his own two feet.
Three years of studying passed in this way, with occasional trips to Oxford for a day or two so that he wouldn't lose his place, heavily supervised by his father. He did the only thing he could do... he memorised most of the example exercises so he could quote them back and convince his father he understood when tested on them. His father looked somewhat disappointed when this happened. He dreaded heading back to Oxford for the end of his course... he knew he would never pass, and once more be a disappointment... then... his father died.
Bingley took his finals in Classical Civilisation, and passed with perfect marks.
Bingley was about to enter into the open world, and learn there was more to life than he had ever expected - more people, more possibilities, more pleasures, and more pains. Two people he had not yet met would later have huge impacts on his life. If the reader will forgive me, allow me to move back in time, to Hertfordshire, where we will meet the woman destined to eventually become our heroine.
THIRTEEN YEARS AGO
Breakfast dawned at the Bennet household, and the two Bennet daughters who had come of sufficient age - Mary and Kitty still being quite too young - joined the family at breakfast. Jane had always been a polite, kindly child, beloved of both her parents, and at the age of seven had all her optimism, with little of the shyness that would later develop; whilst Elizabeth, then aged five, had taken after her father, and was a bit of a mischievous rascal.
"Did you hear, Lizzy? Father says that I can have Quentin - the beautiful sorrel mare with the white sock - all for myself! I'm so happy! Isn't father wonderful?"
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Bennet indulgently. "I am fully aware as to how happy you are, you told me in great detail earlier. However, if I might interrupt for a moment, your dear mother and I have a very important announcement."
"I'm going to have another child!" exclaimed Mrs. Bennet, breaking in. "A son and heir, to keep Longbourn from that nasty Mr. Collins! Although I don't see why Jane can't just inherit it."
"Now, Ellen, it's not really my choice, you know."
"Oh, so you tell me, but it is dreadfully unfair - but our son will stop it! And all of you will have dowries from the estate, and everything will be just perfect!"
"Well, so we can hope," replied Mr. Bennet, beaming.
It wasn't to be. Lydia, the fifth Bennet daughter was born, and with the added expense she produced Mr. Bennet soon found it a struggle just to remain within his income. He cursed himself for not being more prudent - but it was much too late... He fell into a depression for the next two years, and by the time he came out of it, things had changed drastically.
SIX YEARS AGO
"Tell me, Lady Lucas," Mrs. Bennet fumed inwardly. What right had she to a title? "Has Charlotte any beaus yet?"
"No, although I'm sure it is simply a matter of time. She is only twenty. After all, she is an eminently sensible, clever girl with a fine dowry. Which reminds me, have you managed to save up a dowry for your daughters yet?"
"My daughters need no dowry. Any gentleman who cannot see their worth is a fool, and does not deserve them. Have you ever seen such beauties?" Everyone's eyes turned on the one daughter she had brought along. Jane attempted to move backwards, out of the women's sight. "Now, Jane! Come here. I want everyone to see you!" Jane reluctantly moved forwards. "Now, am I not right? With her beauty, every man in the country will be in love with her in a few years! All the hearts she will break! Of course, none of your girls can hold a candle to her."
Mrs. Long would never admit such a thing. "She's pretty enough, I suppose, but with her shyness.
"Shyness? That is simply her modesty! She has the sweetest disposition you could ever ask for!"
The women continued talking. Jane began to shut them out, and withdraw into her own world. She couldn't believe her mother was intentionally trying to cause her pain - and indeed, in truth, her mother was not - but though Jane tried to think well of people, she was very shy, and found it extremely difficult to become close to anyone - she took some time to open up, and they often grew impatient. And now she learnt she was a beauty... and her parents never had succeeded in getting the boy they needed to save Longbourn. A lot seemed to depend upon her, and she wasn't sure she would be able to do what was required.