Friday 5 June 1812, Hertfordshire
Bingley was foxed. He knew this because each of the tankards on the table before him overlapped the other by several inches. He wished he knew which one of them contained his ale.
“Speaking of women,” somebody said, slapping him heavily on the shoulder and sitting down next to him, “how goes your courtship?”
“Terribly!” he slurred. Then his forehead thumped onto the table, and laughter erupted all around him.
“That bad, eh, old boy? Come, tell us all about it.”
Would that he could explain it, but he was tied in such knots, he knew not how to begin. He had come back to Hertfordshire to court Miss Bennet, the handsomest woman ever to have walked the earth and for whom he had pined all winter. Yet, it was not she who trespassed his dreams at night. That honour was reserved for Elizabeth, possessor of the most provocative smile, penetrating eyes and come-hither figure of any woman of his acquaintance. Elizabeth whom he had carried in his arms, broken and beautiful. Elizabeth with a marked resemblance to the maid he had squeezed past in the narrow passage to Peabody’s pantry earlier…
He lifted his head and propped an elbow on the table, pointing his forefinger at the sea of expectant faces. “’S’the wrong one!”
“Ah ha! He is wavering!” another voice cried, banging the table triumphantly.
“I told you he would. They all do. Only took him a little longer than most.”
“Damn it, Bingley, you’ve cost me a florin!”
Bingley squinted at them all. “What are you blathering about?”
“Miss Bennet, man,” Henry Lucas, sitting opposite him, said with a grin. “The enthralment wears off after a while, does it not?”
Guilt sent a hot flush up Bingley’s neck. “It does?”
“Invariably, my friend. Trust me, I have known the Bennets all my life. I have watched more than a few men follow the same course.” Addressing the entire table, he said loudly, “Boys, shall we? Attend, Bingley—the Bennet Ballad!”
Bingley almost fell off the bench when, without warning, the man on his right gave forth a booming note, from which several others took up their harmonies then burst into a rowdy tavern song.
Take the fifth for a wife only if ye dare,
For a man tied to her will needs must share.
A ripple of sniggers and snorts rolled around the table, and more voices joined in the evidently well-known song.
Wed the fourth if you value not common sense,
For asinine prattle will deafen you hence
Take the third for a wife to atone for your sins,
She’ll preach you to death but yield not her quim.
He had lapsed into a drunken stupor. It was the only explanation.
Marry the first and be every mans’ envy,
’Til ennui strikes and witless rends ye.
Every man in the tavern seemed to join the refrain as the volume swelled loud.
But hail the man who weds the second,
For she is the jewel, alluring and fecund,
She’ll fill your days with laughter and wit,
And by night, beguile ye with that arse and those tits!
