Miss Bingley's New Year Resolution

No one could later vouch for just how certain parties managed to get themselves invited to Sally Jersey's New Year's Gala, although knowing the hostess' capriciousness, some sage minds opined that Lady Jersey could have invited such guests for no other purpose, perhaps, than irritating the ton.

The arrivals of the brother and sister Crawfords early in the evening had caused no stir other than that expected: as silly, young girls flocked to the notorious Mr Crawford's side, and questionable gallants vied for Miss Crawford's calculating smile. The siblings moved with ease and grace about the room, like two eels in oil, leaving a splendid wake of anger and jealousy. Undoubtedly the party favoured the dark Mr Crawford, Henry by name, all the more so for his recent return to society after a disastrous seduction. Long-lashed socialites shimmied up to his fashionable side, while matrons took in with approval his highly polished Hessians and the neat tuck of his blue coat and well-tailored fawn breeches. Men, too, were not immune to Henry Crawford's allure, and they crowded around as much as the frill-heads, joking -- as best they could in polite society -- about Crawford's infamous conquest.

Alas, such was the excitement around our good sir, that Miss Mary Crawford -- whose own exploits had been of an, unfortunately, quieter scandal -- was within the space of an half-hour left entirely without prospective beaux. A small line appeared between her dark brows, marring her countenance. The line became more pronounced as she heard a most unwelcome voice behind her.

"Miss Crawford, a pleasure to see you here."

Miss Crawford turned, eyebrow and lip quirking together, as she faced a tasteless monstrosity of sharp orange and metallic green dress wrapped around the form of Miss Caroline Bingley. "And you," Miss Crawford replied, not bothering to nod her head much less courtesy. "I had no idea you had an acquaintance with Lady Jersey."

Miss Bingley choked out a laugh. "I keep a wide circle," she confided, leaning in like a certain Italian tower, towards Miss Crawford.

"Indeed," said Miss Crawford. "I am afraid, then, that you quite put me to shame. My circle is infinitely more exclusive." And with that, she hoped to pull away. But the crush of the party, and Miss Bingley's own haughty voice kept Miss Crawford quite unwillingly set.

"You are completely correct, Miss Crawford. I hope to think that my circle is wide but not without a certain something in its quality, its demeanour, the title and rank of its occupants, their many and varied accomplishments. But I do pity those whose acquaintance, of necessity, is small -- whether that be the result of rustication, affiliation with the military, or even scandal in the past. I speak, of course, as a friend."

Miss Crawford could only smile, hiding her anger in a polite sip of sherry. Regaining herself quickly, she asked of her maypole companion, "You refer, I suppose, to my brother?"

"Oh!" Miss Bingley exclaimed too quickly. "Is your brother here with you? I had no idea he had returned. Does he still keep his house in Town? Shall I call on him?"

"You might ask him yourself, if you can find him within this mob," with an elegant turn of the fan. "I believe I see him over there, speaking with the young lady in the vile purple gown. She looks hardly old enough to be out; just Henry's sort. You'd best hurry, if you are to secure him."

Miss Bingley giggled poorly. "How you tease. But now, Miss Crawford, do take a turn about the room with me. It is so refreshing."

And so, patting Miss Crawford's elegantly gloved hand into her own knobby elbow, Miss Bingley and her erstwhile companion set off, only to stop not a few paces from where they were, as they caught sight of a certain Miss Elizabeth Elliot.

"Good lord!" Miss Crawford moaned quietly. "What company does Sally keep?"

"Do you know that handsome lady, Miss Crawford?" Miss Bingley asked, studying the beautiful, but strangely pucker-faced woman some feet off. "Do tell: who is she?"

"No one of consequence."

"Ah, a rival perhaps? Do her fine eyes entrap one of your beaux?"

"I have no fear of Miss Elliot's charms, Miss Bingley," turning coldly to her companion. "I can gain whatever man I may desire. At present, however, there is no one who strikes my fancy."

A private, hardly concealed smile flickered over Miss Bingley's lips as she said, "Well, then, there is nothing to excuse the acquaintance now. Oh, Miss Elliot!"

The proud head turned to squint at the approaching duo. "Miss Crawford," Miss Elliot said coldly, without rising. She was, after all, the daughter of a baronet. "And who is this person with you?"

Miss Crawford made the appropriate introductions, hoping that the two scrawny cats would set to tearing each other to shreds, and allow her to escape into the crowd. She had just espied the dashing Willoughby, and, she reasoned, although he was married to that Grey chit as of a fortnight ago, that hardly made him less eligible.

"And so you know Miss Crawford through your naval connections?" Miss Bingley was purring next to her.

Miss Elliot bristled, but said, "A passing connection, merely. Her uncle has dined at Kellynch-hall, on my father's tenant's -- one Admiral Croft's -- sufferance. We met while I visited my sister, Mary."

"Mary!" Miss Bingley cried. "And so you share a name, within your family! How delightful! I am sure you are like sisters, are you not?"

Both Miss Crawford and Miss Elliot smiled tightly. "Of course," Miss Crawford said, not without feeling, "if it comes to that, you and Miss Elliot have so much in common. Or am I mistaken that that handsome and very well off Mr Darcy not marry an Elizabeth? Just imagine, Miss Bingley, you might have had Miss Elliot as an acquaintance long before this!"

Miss Bingley coloured and turned to Miss Elliot, inquiring whether she were long in Town. The latter replied that she had a house in Bath, and would only remain in Town a week more.

"Ah!" Miss Crawford said, gleefully. "Yes, I had heard something of that. Does not Mr Elliot, your cousin, leave at the end of a week, as well?"

Miss Elliot murmured that she hardly knew her cousin's schedule.

"But surely, you must have kept up a correspondence with your friend, Mrs Clay? Surely, you could persuade her to reveal Mr Elliot's plans?"

Miss Bingley's wide eyes flit excitedly from one face to another. "You are well-informed, Miss Crawford," she said, condescendingly. "Perhaps you would do better to write this Mrs Clay, if you are so interested in Mr Elliot? Although, I cannot think him as well off as your brother."

"Oh, no," Miss Crawford assured her, momentarily distracted. Had that been Frank Churchill's ridiculous laugh by the punch? "Mr Elliot is a fine catch for any young lady who can secure him. His late wife left him very much in funds, and he stands to inherit Kellynch-hall and the title. Rumour has it he is well-spoken, too, and more, I can vouch that he is exceedingly pleasing to the eye."

"You sum him up well," Miss Elliot spat.

"One must keep one's hand in," Miss Crawford returned, nonplused.

"Shall I then expound on your relation's better parts?"

"You hardly need do so. His tailor makes them quite evident."

Both Miss Elliot and Miss Bingley reddened at this outrageous statement.

"Yet you must readily admit, Miss Crawford," Miss Bingley said at last, sniveling, "that Mr Crawford is no poor match."

"Yes. But he will not be matched."

"Oh, no?" Miss Elliot said, leaning back in her chair and popping a commit into her rouged, rounded lips. "What makes you think so?"

Miss Crawford shrugged. "I know my brother."

"I would know him," Miss Elliot said. "Intimately."

Miss Bingley seemed to be choking for air.

Sensing a way out of their company, Miss Crawford said brightly, "And you, Miss Bingley? For I cannot think that you managed to find your way into this gala without some object d'amour in mind. Would you both take a wager -- a resolution, perhaps?"

"On what?" Miss Elliot demanded.

"On securing my brother."

"But," Miss Bingley chortled, "you just as well said yourself it were well-nigh impossible!"

"And whom else did you have in mind to pursue this evening, Miss Bingley?" Miss Crawford retorted pleasantly. "No, no, I'll make it simple. You needn't win his heart -- merely a cup of punch. Are you resolved?"

"For what prize?" Miss Elliot said around another bonbon.

"Why, the satisfaction of knowing your charms exceed the other contestant's. One glass of punch -- and what's more, I'll remember your name to my brother."

The Misses Elliot and Bingley glanced at each other, nervously.

"A silly proposition," Miss Bingley said at last.

"Ridiculous. He isn't even a Viscount," Miss Elliot agreed.

And with another avaricious glance at Mr Crawford, they bid each other adieu and set off to opposite sides of the crowd, leaving Miss Crawford to watch their proceedings with great pleasure. Miss Bingley took the surer route: heading at once for the punch bowl, there to lie in wait. But Miss Elliot, ever one to pounce first and ask questions later, diverted herself to the left of the grand staircase long enough to see Miss Bingley settled -- and to prove her own disinterest in the wager -- before pushing her elite way through the throng towards her prey. She had not gone a third of the way before a rotund, red-faced gentlemen, dressed in shabby hunting togs despite the season not to mention the hour, greeted her in a loud voice.

"Lizzy Elliot! Well I'll be d--ned to meet you here! Last I saw you was on Milsom Street, I had that fine new horse for my gig, d'you remember my gig, Lizzy? I swear, I once had a horse that could go sixty miles an hour but that is nothing to the one I have now. D'you know, I came here just today? Set out at noon and came here, snap, like that? He's outside now. Finer horse I've never seen. Of course, it's all in who's handling it. It takes a d--nable amount of swearing, I dare say, and no few horse whips, and I shouldn't be surprised if you should wet your knickers -- begging your pardon, if you had any -- if you rode about Town with me. Shall we go now? I really can't wait another minute. You needn't mind the mud, I never do."

Miss Elliot's colouring, normally so delicate due to a stringent routine of lounging about divans, had grown to such an extreme maroon that even Mr John Thorpe, who had so loudly opportuned her, noticed that the lady didn't look quite like she ought. Several minutes were wasted expostulating, much to the amusement of those near enough to hear -- although one need hardly have been near to hear Mr Thorpe's discourse -- on Miss Elliot's disfigured countenance before the lady managed to squeak out the strangled word, "Punch!"

"What's that?" Mr Thorpe demanded. "Didn't quite catch that. What d'you want? Come, come, madame! Speak up! None of this moping about, now that I'm here!"

"Punch!" Miss Elliot shouted into a convenient lull in the general din. All eyes turned to her, causing even her kneecaps to blush.

Mr Thorpe, oblivious to the hundreds of eyes upon him, only said jovially, "Oh, is that it, is it? Well, why didn't you say so? Over there, by my sister -- you'll remember Belle, won't you? C'mon. I'll take you over, and let Belle know where we're going. Right then, one side, sir!"

Thus unceremoniously, Mr Thorpe grabbed Miss Elliot and dragged her along to the opposite side of the room. They checked briefly where Miss Isabella Thorpe, Mr Thorpe's sister, stood batting her eyelashes at none other than Mr Crawford.

"Here now, Belle!" Mr Thorpe said, pulling aside his sister. "You remember Lizzy Elliot, d'you not? She's a-going to see my new horse and gig and take a whirl around. Shouldn't be faster than a minute, but I thought I'd let you know if you wanted to find a ride home with someone else. I didn't drive up from Bath today just so to drive you home, y'know. Here, now, who's this fellow."

Miss Thorpe dripped a smile at her brother, saying, with a touch upon Mr Crawford's wrist, "John, are you acquainted with Mr Henry Crawford? Mr Crawford, my brother Mr John Thorpe." The two men bowed, but had barely straightened before Miss Thorpe said, "I see you are occupied, John. I shan't keep you. Miss Elliot, how d'you do?"

Miss Elliot could not reply, since she was still gasping for breath after such a wild career.

"I'm on my way to get Miss Elliot a glass of punch, Belle," Mr Thorpe said, leaning towards his sister. "She asked for it."

Miss Thorpe sighed. "Yes, I'm sure. You're very good to do so. I shall see you later, John."

"Oh!" Miss Elliot found her voice at last. Dropping a low and calculated courtesy, she simpered, "I have heard so much about you, Mr Crawford."

"Have you?" he replied disinterestedly.

"Your sister and I are acquainted."

Mr Crawford raised an eyebrow every bit as eloquent as his sister's. "I can hardly speak for my sister's taste."

"Nor I for my brother's," Miss Thorpe giggled, leaning on Mr Crawford's arm. "John, do go away. Miss Elliot, a pleasure, I am sure."

"The pleasure is mine, Miss Thorpe, Mr Crawford," Miss Elliot said with another revealing courtesy.

"You do not want to miss seeing Mr Thorpe's gig," Mr Crawford reminded Miss Elliot, when it became apparent that she had no intention of leaving.

"I am only concerned for Miss Thorpe's welfare," Miss Elliot said, disengaging herself with some difficulty from Mr Thorpe's stubborn embrace. "I believe that she has no means home if her brother does not convey her. I, for one, should be embarrassed that my family kept no carriage, but more embarrassed yet if I did not avail myself of whatever conveyance were at hand. You should discuss the matter," she declared. Then turning to Mr Crawford, "I do believe myself a little recovered from my faint, sir. Might I beg of you a glass of punch?"

"Here, now! That's what you asked me to do!" Mr Thorpe thundered, once again grabbing Miss Elliot's hand.

"And you must speak with your sister!" shrieked Miss Elliot. "Your sister!"

"Dear me," muttered Mr Crawford.

Beside him, Miss Thorpe sighed mightily. And then again, until Mr Crawford turned his bemused face from the caterwaul before him to Miss Thorpe. No sooner had she gained his interest, than Miss Thorpe fell into a very convenient swoon. She recovered after a few calculated minutes -- just long enough, she hoped, to have given Mr Crawford enough time to appreciate her better qualities. "Punch," she moaned, lashes fluttering. From beside her, Mr Thorpe cried triumphantly, "D'you see? I told you my sister wouldn't have no part of whether we went or staid!" Miss Elliot burst out into noisy tears.

Mr Crawford chuckled, surveying the scene. From the corner of his eye, he noticed his sister blowing him a kiss. For the second time that night, one dark brow lifted. Then addressing himself to the corpulent Mr Thorpe, he cajoled that gentleman to lend his handkerchief to Miss Elliot and to hold Miss Thorpe until she fully recovered. Leaving no room for blustering excuses, the exchanges were completed and Mr Crawford extracted himself from the melee. The only path open to him -- and the one most likely -- happened to be that towards the buffet, and the much contested punch bowl. With an eloquent shrug, he ordered two glasses from the servant.

"Mr Crawford?" an oily voice said beside him.

He turned an started, barely remembering to bow before the hideous dress sheathing the equally distasteful lady.

"You will forgive my intrusion," the lady said, turning to stand discreetly beside him, shoulder to shoulder. "I do not normally make so gross a breech of etiquette, but your sister recommended me to you. Ah, thank you sir," this last to the servant who, likewise startled by her dress, passed the two glasses to Miss Bingley rather than Mr Crawford.

Mr Crawford muttered something pleasantly noncommittal, asking, in passing, the lady's name. Miss Bingley helpfully supplied it with a wide grin and a slow flutter of her large eyes.

"And are you long in London?" Mr Crawford asked, as he realised that Miss Bingley held his punch glasses.

"I am here for the Little Season," Miss Bingley demurred over the rim of one of the glasses. Just before she sipped, however, she laughed, crying, "Oh, but do forgive me! I seem to have acquired your prize! Here, and may I procure one for you?"

"I am equipped with only two hands, Miss Bingley," Mr Crawford said, receiving the glasses. "But you might request one for yourself."

Miss Bingley scowled, and turned to the servant. Mr Crawford's restless eyes were glancing around the crowd for an escape path. None presented itself, fortunately for Miss Bingley, who pulled upon his sleeve and exclaimed, "I cannot secure this man's attention, Mr Crawford! Servants these days . But perhaps you will have better luck. Will you not try, Mr Crawford?"

He was disinclined, but had grace enough not to say so. Alas, he had no more than shifted his weight to address the man when he was suddenly beset by Miss Elliot and Miss Thorpe who had seemed to regain their composure enough to race through the press of bodies to his side.

"Oh, Lord! Mr Crawford!" Miss Thorpe cried, stopping short of the table and resting one hand melodramatically against her brow. "I think I shall faint again any moment! Lord, it is so hot in here! It's positively horrid! As horrid as The Monk -- have you read it, Mr Crawford?"

"You are all solicitude, Mr Crawford," Miss Elliot said at the same time, shimming up to that gentleman, and reaching out her hand for her glass.

"Please, Mr Crawford, allow me. You have, after all, only so many hands. And I think the tender is coming this way. We should not wish to miss him!" Miss Bingley crooned, taking the glasses from his hands and holding one out to each lady.

"I -- I - I am going to faint, Mr Crawford!" Miss Thorpe breathed, staggering towards him, just as Mr Thorpe burst through the crowd, espied the glass in Miss Elliot's hand and shouted a string of unoriginal explictives.

"Quickly, Mr Crawford! Before someone else claims that man's attention!" Miss Bingley cried. And with that, Miss Thorpe crashed into the table, the punch bowl went flying, glasses skittered hither and thither, and with one huge shriek the entire party jumped.

"I -- am -- covered -- in -- punch!" squealed Miss Elliot, who promptly went into hysterics. Mr Thorpe attempted to console her, but received for his pains only a bloody nose.

"Help me up, Mr Crawford," Miss Thorpe whispered from her place on the floor. "I do not think I can stand on my own."

Miss Bingley could neither say nor do anything, but stood cod-faced before the entire assembly, her cheek be smudged by a damp orange slice.

"Your glass, mum," the servant said, wading through the broken shards and ruin of a table.

Dumbly, Miss Bingley accepted it and held it in both soaked hands. So doing, she turned a circle, seeing that for once all eyes were upon her. The glass within her hands jiggled, sloshing a little punch upon her drenched gown -- none the worse for the wear, since the colours of the drink and of her fabric matched excellent well. Tears welled up in her eyes, and her shoulders quavered, as, little by little, Miss Caroline Bingley began to laugh. In, this, too, she was alone, until she heard the cultured voice of Miss Crawford beside her, saying, "Come away, Miss Bingley, dear. Henry, I think it is well past time that we paid our respects to Lady Jersey. The New Year has come and gone, and we hardly need stay longer. You've quite outdone yourself, if tonight is any indication of the year to come. Miss Elliot, Mr and Miss Thorpe, bid you good night. Miss Bingley, all felicitations."

Things returned to a semblance of normalcy, the party turned away from the debacle and back to its usual gossip and intrigues. Miss Bingley choked back a sob, drew her brows together and sniffed largely. Pushing back her turban with one shaking hand, she cried, "Wait, Miss Crawford! One moment, if you would."

Miss Crawford -- somehow still immaculately groomed, despite the fact that she had waded in the sticky drink herself -- glanced over her shoulder.

"You," Miss Bingley laughed, excused herself, laughed again, took Miss Crawford's arm and drew her aside. "You never did name a winner."

"Oh," Miss Crawford smiled, "but undoubtedly you are, Miss Bingley. You are the one left holding the glass, you know. You were quite resolved."

Miss Caroline Bingley sighed, and fluttered her broken fan. "You needn't, of course, carry through on your promise of mentioning my name further," with a glance at the amused Mr Crawford.

"I wouldn't think of rescinding my promise," Miss Crawford said. "Be assured, Henry shall remember your name until the day he dies."

And with that, the Crawfords disappeared, as effortlessly as they had come.

The spill took the remainder of the night to clean, mostly due to Miss Elliot's continued hysterics, Mr Thorpe's raging, and most particularly Miss Thorpe's unfortunate dilemma of having lost the entire backside of her gown to the sticky punch. The servants, quite at a loss for more ball gowns had made due with the ruined tablecloth. This, of course, had set off another round of commotion as Miss Thorpe declared that she would rather be half exposed than wear a tablecloth in public. And several young gentlemen, hearing this, thought it behooved them to offer their services to such a poor lady. No, no one could later vouch for just how certain parties managed to get themselves invited to Sally Jersey's New Year's Gala, but neither -- all the guests there that evening resolved -- would they miss next year's escapade!

the end

© 2001 Copyright held by author