Chapter Five

D arcy sat at the breakfast table exactly as I had hoped, looking irritatingly handsome as he methodically buttered his toast. His eyebrow arched at my early appearance—usually I preferred to emerge fashionably late—but I smoothly mentioned my pressing duties regarding the household closure. His expression flickered with mild surprise, but he remained characteristically mute.

Time to begin my campaign.

“You must be aware, Mr Darcy,” I ventured, delicately selecting a piece of toast, “that my brother has been inordinately attentive to Miss Jane Bennet.”

He responded with an expression that could only be described as that of a man who would rather face Napoleon’s army than this conversation. Still, he continued consuming his meal with measured, precise bites that made me want to grab a fork and demand he speak.

“I am sure,” I pressed on, “you cannot see such a match as one Charles ought to pursue.”

Darcy chewed. And chewed. And chewed some more. I began to wonder if he’d somehow acquired a particularly tough piece of toast.

I was almost certain Mr Darcy found the entire Bennet clan appalling, as did I, but Jane herself had been so inoffensive as to be nearly invisible. If Darcy did not have a firm opinion, I would make certain mine swayed him.

Finally, with all the enthusiasm of a man approaching the gallows, he spoke. “I heard Sir William Lucas speculate on a betrothal last evening.”

He paused to take a fortifying sip of coffee. “I was concerned that it appeared to the populace that Bingley’s attentions were marked. He may have given rise to an expectation.” He parsed his words with care, not opining on the match itself, but on the impression Charles had made.

“Indeed!” I seized upon this chance like a cat on a mouse. “And pray, did you have the supreme misfortune of hearing Mrs Bennet’s proclamations on the subject? The woman was positively vulgar in her celebrations of Jane’s ‘conquest.’” I affected Mrs Bennet’s shrill tones: “‘Such a fine match for my Jane! Ten thousand a year!’” I felt safe in degrading the matron, as she and Darcy had never agreed on anything. He had made that comment about her lack of wit, as well. How I enjoyed reviewing it in my mind. “She a beauty. I should as soon call her mother a wit.” Disparaging the meagre attractions of Miss Eliza and her mother was music to my ear.

Darcy merely grunted, though it was a very elegant grunt. The man could make clearing his throat sound like a pronouncement from the King.

I pressed on.

“I am certain that Mrs Bennet would do anything in her power to have Jane secure Charles, whether she likes him or not. She saw his fortune and directed her daughter to make herself agreeable. That business with the horse ride in the rain,” I continued, buttering my toast with perhaps more vigour than strictly necessary. “Utterly transparent manipulation. I would not be surprised if Mrs Bennet had been out there with a watering can, ensuring her daughter caught a proper cold.”

Another grunt. Getting conversation from this man was like trying to squeeze water from a stone. An uncommonly handsome stone, but still.

Darcy quirked a brow. I despaired of our marriage if he would ever be so taciturn. It was a raging battle to pull a syllable from him . He was far too much a gentleman to refuse to answer a lady’s questions, however, so I would put it to him.

“Mr Darcy,” I leaned forward slightly, lowering my voice to a confidential tone, “I cannot say I ever saw any evidence of actual affection from Jane Bennet for Charles. Do you not think it was only at her mother’s insistence that she accepted his attention?”

Darcy appeared to be solving complex mathematical equations in his head, such was his contemplative expression. I could have aged ten years waiting for his response. He was an intelligent man but given to long pauses as he evaluated his answers. At last, words emitted from the gentleman.

“Indeed, I noticed Bingley’s preference for Miss Bennet. It was quite marked.” An answer, of sorts, but not to my question.

Oh, for heaven’s sake! “Exactly!” I tried again. “But Mr Darcy, I am convinced that Miss Bennet does not return his affections with equal fervour. I observed her closely, and while she was pleasant and engaging as always—” Like a well-trained lap dog, I thought but did not say “—I detected no particular regard for Charles.”

The silence stretched so long I considered ascertaining whether he still drew breath. Finally, he spoke: “Your observations align with my own, Miss Bingley. I found Miss Bennet’s manner to be... lacking in a certain warmth one might expect.” Hurrah! Victory! I nearly upset my tea in excitement.

“Oh, I knew you would see it, Mr Darcy! You are always so perceptive.” I preened slightly. “Did you not find her countenance oddly serene for a woman supposedly in love?”

He took another bite of toast. Chewed. Swallowed. Took a sip of coffee. I began counting the flowers on the wallpaper to maintain my sanity. I could have cut and chewed an entire rasher of bacon while he contemplated. Not that I would be so unladylike in his presence. I nibbled as was appropriate for a refined person such as myself.

“I did find Miss Bennet’s demeanour to be composed,” he finally offered. “After Sir William’s remarks, I made a point to observe Miss Bennet’s interactions with your brother.”

At last! I had wrung speech from the sphinx!

“And? What did you conclude, Mr Darcy?” He looked away, thinking, or at least avoiding answering for another interminable moment.

He studied his coffee cup as if it held the secrets of the universe. “While your brother’s attentions undoubtedly pleased Miss Bennet, I saw no evidence of any deeper sentiment on her part. Her look and manners were open and cheerful, but with no symptom of peculiar regard. She is universally kind.”

“Exactly my thoughts!”

Well, aside from the kind part. I rather thought her calculating, but far be it from me to contradict the man when he was being so wonderfully cooperative. Now I was on the route to enlisting his help.

“Oh, Mr Darcy, we must warn Charles. He values your opinion so highly. If you were to tell him that Miss Bennet’s affections are not engaged, he might be spared a great deal of pain.”

Silence. Chewing. Coffee. I began composing my own epitaph: ‘Here lies Caroline Bingley, died of anticipation waiting for Fitzwilliam Darcy to speak.’

“I will consider the prudence of speaking to Bingley on this matter.”

Consider? CONSIDER? I wanted to shake him. This was not a time for consideration! No, no, no, he must step in immediately upon our arrival in London. This is not a time to consider!

“Oh, you must, Mr Darcy! Who else can save Charles from making a terrible mistake? You know how hasty he can be in matters of the heart.”

Darcy appeared to weigh this assertion with gravity. He exhaled sharply, then said, “You are not wrong. Bingley does tend to fall in and out of love with alarming frequency. However, this attachment seems more serious than his previous infatuations.”

If you say so. I believe he could easily be disengaged, but only if Darcy worked on him.

“All the more reason he needs your guidance, Mr Darcy. A word from you could prevent a most unfortunate alliance.” And preserve my chances of becoming Mrs Darcy, though I kept that thought firmly to myself.

A serious expression. Several minutes of contemplation. I was ready to shred my serviette in frustration.

“While I am loath to interfere in such personal matters, I believe in this instance it may be necessary for Bingley’s own good.”

Thank heaven! I knew I could bring him to my way of thinking. I could have kissed him. I still might, given the opportunity.

“Oh, thank you, Mr Darcy! I knew I could rely on your good judgement. When will you speak to him?”

Darcy looked about himself. He appeared to be readying to depart the breakfast room. I prepared to thrust myself across the threshold to prevent his leaving until he promised to speak with Charles.

“I shall seek an opportune moment to discuss the matter with him privately. Rest assured, Miss Bingley, I will approach the subject with all due delicacy.”

No need of that. Strike him on the head if you wish. Delicacy be hanged! He must see reason!

“I am most grateful, Mr Darcy. You are truly a friend to our family. Charles may not thank you immediately, but I am certain he will come to see the wisdom of your counsel in time.”

“Let us hope so, Miss Bingley. Now, if you will excuse me, I believe I must order my trunks packed if you plan to close the house today.” He rose and bowed.

“Of course, Mr Darcy. Thank you again for your intervention. The happiness of my dear brother depends upon it!” I trilled to his departing back. An uncommonly well-formed …view if I were to be honest.

I was exhausted. But victory was mine. If Darcy said Jane Bennet’s affections were not engaged, and I followed up regularly with reinforcement, Charles would soon forget his little fling.

But I had no time to dwell on such pleasant observations. Louisa and her husband still needed managing, though that proved simpler than expected. Louisa agreed warily to remove to London, and Hurst would do whatever preserved his comfort and access to good wine. He had planned to ride with Charles anyway, and like any practiced sponger, would remain wherever the best meals were served.

Louisa, for all her faults, had chosen a compliant man, albeit one with very little else to recommend him.

The morning was ending when we climbed into the Darcy carriage for our journey to London. Thank goodness Darcy had not objected to our departure; else I had not figured out how we would travel since Charles took the carriage. Hurst, that parsimonious dandy, never kept a carriage of his own, preferring to depend on the generosity of others’ horseflesh.

I ensured that the subject most concerning to me was not forgotten, dropping little remarks into Darcy’s ear as we travelled, ensuring he was reminded of his promise about Charles. “The Bennets’ connections are so very low... And that mother! Did you hear her at the assembly? Utterly uncouth...”

After about an hour of my helpful observations, Louisa’s foot connected sharply with my ankle.

“Enough!” she hissed, tilting her head meaningfully toward Darcy.

I followed her gaze to find him fiddling with his signet ring, his face set in a grimace of scarcely concealed suppressed displeasure. Well, perhaps Louisa had a point, though I should never admit it.

Besides, Darcy was a man of his word. He would surely speak with my brother that day. He could merely mention the fact that Jane Bennet was indifferent to Charles. Between his intervention and the inconvenience of reopening Netherfield, Charles would be free of the Bennet women’s mercenary snares by teatime.

I settled back into my seat, already planning my first London dinner party. One without any country beauties in attendance.

Charles was not, in fact, languishing in some dreary hotel as I had written to Jane Bennet. That little fiction was merely to underscore the vast gulf between her provincial existence and our life of refinement. When we arrived at our townhouse near Mayfair, we found him ensconced in the study, looking decidedly unhappy to see us.

“What the devil are you doing here?” was his rude greeting.

Louisa suddenly became terribly interested in arranging her shawl, leaving me to handle our brother’s ill-humour.

“Charles, darling,” I began in my most soothing tone—the one I typically reserved for elderly aunts and fractious horses, “we really saw no point in remaining at Netherfield. There is simply nothing to do in that dreary place, now we have suffered through all their provincial entertainments. I refuse to languish in the hinterlands when London has so much more to offer.” Charles did not appear to be soothed.

Charles’s face began to take on an alarming shade of red. Rather like those horrid window draperies Mrs Bennet seemed so proud of.

“I have undertaken obligations regarding the estate!” He spluttered, waving a handful of papers about. “I merely needed two days to resolve a matter here with my solicitor, but you could not wait a day before abandoning the place! I fully intended to stay in the country for the festive season!”

“Charles, my dear, Mr Darcy quite agreed with me that we would be better to return to London. He despaired of seeing Georgiana, and with one less in our party, what was there to do?” Then I added, with just the right note of pathos, “I do need to be seen in real society if I am ever to wed!” I was rather pleased with how neatly I had woven thoughts of Darcy with my matrimonial aspirations. Subtlety is an art, after all.

“Darcy said he was going to shoot today while I was off to attend to business. Now he has decided to remove to London? Caroline, I do not think this is entirely….” Charles was flustered and about to accuse me of something, but stopped himself in time.

“There is nothing for me in Hertfordshire, Charles. And nothing for you.” I fixed him with a serious stare, intended to communicate that my opinion was immovable.

Charles heaved a sigh worthy of a tragic hero and slumped back in his chair, fiddling with his pen like a schoolboy. I did not care for his pensive expression—thinking never led to anything good where Charles was concerned.

“I shall find Mrs Henshaw and get everything settled here,” I offered brightly. “Did she order dinner?”

“What? No, Hurst and I were to dine at my club. No need to disturb the entire household for one meal. You will have to manage without me.” Why was his tone so testy? I was only concerned for his future.

“Shall I arrange a little dinner party this week?” I pressed on, determined to redirect his thoughts. “Perhaps Mr Darcy and Georgiana could join us for an intimate party? Or I could see whether Miss Hazelton or Miss Merryweather is in town?” Surely ladies of their calibre would make him forget all about that insipid Jane Bennet.

“Do as you like. I will be at my club.” Charles grimaced, stood, and bellowed for his coat and hat.

I began to fear this might be more difficult than I had imagined.

As he stormed out, I turned to Louisa. “What ever is the matter with Charles?” I asked.

My sister looked up. Her eyes were narrowed and her mouth a grim line of distaste.

“I do not know, Caroline, perhaps he is not happy about being treated as if he is a school boy? Or having his plans altered without his being consulted? It could be a number of things. I hope for your sake that time shall soften his judgement. We will be departing as soon as Mr Hurst has made arrangements for transportation. Charles has taken the carriage thanks to your causing his precipitous departure.”

“You ought to have had Mr Darcy bring you home, Louisa. Whyever did you stop here?” Louisa really needed to think things through .

“I stopped here because you insisted we meet with Charles at once. Now, he has left, we are stranded here and I am certain there is nothing to eat. Really Caroline. You cannot direct Mr Darcy. He is a man grown and not particularly responsive to your attempts at managing him. He wished to see his sister.” Louisa had taken her ‘older sister’ tone which did nothing to endear her to me.

“Very well, I will see whether Cook can contrive a meal for us, if you intend to remain.” I would see to it that Mr Bradley took the least valuable bottle from the cellar. No use wasting good wine of the likes of her in a state of agitation.

Mrs Henshaw’s face grew quite red as I requested a meal, a hackney or carriage for the Hursts after dinner, or perhaps rooms fitted up for them for the night. The housekeeper was never insolent, impertinent or impudent. No, she maintained a perfectly polite manner. Somehow, still, I was quite well aware that she did so only to maintain her position. She knew her place, even if her curtsey was rather shorter than strictly proper. I was the lady of the house, after all, even if every servant from the Cook to the scullery maid seemed to have developed sudden deafness whenever I rang.

I watched Mrs Henshaw’s retreating form and sighed. Persuading Charles to abandon his regard for Jane Bennet might prove more challenging than I had anticipated. Perhaps I should arrange for Georgiana to play the pianoforte for him—that always put him in a better mood. And if Mr Darcy happened to be in attendance... well, two birds with one stone, as they say in less refined circles.

I know not how Adèle managed it, but for her, my brother’s valet was pliable as the overcooked asparagus Cook inflicted on us last evening. I averted my gaze as she slipped out from the dressing room where Faxon ruled over my brother’s wardrobe. Her dishevelled coiffure and flushed cheeks spoke volumes about her activities. Some things a lady prefers not to contemplate.

Thus far, Charles had not given any indication that Darcy had spoken to him about Jane Bennet. We had been three days in London. Charles made no movement toward preparing to return to Netherfield, which gave me hope. I would be fretting all night as I awaited a report from Darcy.

“Really, Adèle,” I murmured as she attempted to straighten her hair in the mirror as she stood behind me at my dressing table.

“Mais non, Mademoiselle. Ze information I ‘ave gained is worth ze... dérangement of my ‘air.”

I pursed my lips.

“Mademoiselle, Faxon ‘as prepared Monsieur Bingley for ze evening out. ‘E and Monsieur Darcy go to ze party at ze ‘ome of Monsieur Bentley. Eet is a party for ze gentlemen only.”

“Faxon volunteered this information out of the goodness of his heart?” I certainly hoped my servants were not so wanting in discretion.

Adèle’s answering smile spoke of arts not taught at Madame Dubois’s Academy for Young Ladies. “Non, but ze ‘eart was not what made ‘im so... obliging.”

“Adèle!” I tried to look scandalised but could not quite manage it. Competent servants were a rare commodity and excellent spies even rarer.

My evening of cards and supper with Louisa, Hurst and Miss Talley and Miss Richards was dull, quite frankly. The lack of gentlemen- Hurst being one only in name as far as I saw- made us all boring. I did get a snatch of gossip regarding Mr Hartwell and his pursuit of Miss Marple, but it was hardly worth the long, tedious evening. Even Mrs Henshaw seemed to be punishing us, sending up lukewarm tea and stale biscuits. When I rang for fresh refreshments, the footman arrived at a pace that suggested he’d stopped to grow the tea leaves himself.

“Jenkins,” I said with deadly sweetness, “do remind Mrs Henshaw that while my brother may be dining out, I still expect proper service.”

“Yes, miss,” Jenkins replied with a bow so shallow it barely qualified as a nod. “Though with the master away, she’s sent most of the kitchen staff to bed.”

“Has she indeed?” I arched an eyebrow. “How... economical of her. Please inform her that in the future, I expect a full complement of staff until I retire for the evening.”

Jenkins managed another microscopic bow before withdrawing at exactly the same snail-like pace. I made a mental note to speak with Charles about the declining standards among our servants.

Charles returned quite late. I attempted to wait up to interrogate him, but I collapsed with ennui by midnight. The next morning, Adèle brought my chocolate with triumph written all over her face.

“Mademoiselle,” she announced, setting down the chocolate with a flourish, “Faxon says Monsieur Bingley returned after trois heures, and ‘e was...” she paused delicately, “comment dit-on... dans ses vignes?”

I did retain some of the French I had studied. “Really, Adèle,” I sniffed, “My brother was ‘in his vines?’”

She saw my confusion and added with a knowing smile, “Ah, we say zis in France when a gentleman ‘as been... ‘ow you English say... visiting wiz ze wine cup too long. Ze peasants, zey say a man lost in ‘is vineyard ‘as found too much of its fruits?”

Now I understood. “It is hardly proper to gossip about the master’s condition.”

“Ze truth cannot be gossip, n’est-ce pas?” she pointed out.

I could not argue with her logic. Instead, I eyed my morning clothes with critical concern.

“The blue morning dress today, I think. And have Jenkins bring round the carriage after breakfast.”“Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle, but ze blue dress, eet is still with ze laundry maid. Ze poor girl, she is quite overwhelmed wiz all ze linens from ze guest rooms.”

I narrowed my eyes. The servants had again hindered me. “The grey will do then. Though do remind me to inform Mrs Henshaw that I expect the household to run efficiently whether my brother is in residence or not.”

The sole regret I held at leaving that horrible habitation in Meryton was that I no longer had unfettered access to Darcy. There, I need only survey the rooms he preferred- the library, the billiard room and from time to time the grounds, and I would surely find him. Now, I needed to make a greater effort. When he failed to call yet again, I intended to take a liberty in my acquaintance with Miss Georgiana Darcy and pay a call. The child was not out, and surely was not ready for such a thing with her mute, retiring ways, so she did not pay calls. Technically, she did not have an “at home,” so I would have to fabricate some pretext for calling. She certainly would not refuse me. If I timed my call carefully, Darcy would be at home. I would find a pretext to go to his study for our long overdue conference.

Since Charles showed no signs of life by calling hours, I had no choice but to attempt my stratagem to enter Darcy House on my own. When I am mistress of that elegant establishment—and I will be—that insufferable Mr Blank will be the first to go, followed swiftly by any servant who shows the slightest hint of loyalty to him. His rudeness in suggesting I merely leave a card as Miss Darcy “did not receive” was outrageous. He well knew I was on intimate terms with the Darcys.

“Good morning, Mr Blank,” I announced with my most gracious smile. “I have come to call on Miss Darcy.”

The butler’s expression suggested I had proposed hosting a public hanging in the drawing room. “Miss Darcy does not receive, Miss Bingley. Perhaps you would care to leave your card?”

“Oh, but surely she will see me? We are practically sisters already.” Did he suppress a shudder?

“I regret that Miss Darcy’s companion, Mrs Annesley, is most particular about maintaining routine.”

I had nearly run out of ways to wheedle the insufferable creature when Adèle sidled up and whispered in my ear.

“Zhe nécessaire.”

Brilliant stroke.

I fixed Mr Blank with my most imperious stare. “Surely you will allow me to come in for a moment to... attend to a matter of some personal necessity? I cannot possibly return to my carriage for the journey home without a brief stop to... retire.” I let the implications hang heavily in the air.

The butler’s face underwent a fascinating series of transformations as he weighed his options. Finally, with all the enthusiasm of a man heading to the gallows, he opened the door while calling, “Martha! Attend Miss Bingley to the retiring room.” He was not fooled, neither was he prepared to shove me down the stairs into the street. With a foreboding expression and exaggerated movements, he slowly opened the door.

It was my terrible luck these days. The housekeeper herself, Mrs I forget her name—but she too will be seeking a new position—had the gall to look me up and down as if I were a tradesman’s delivery mistakenly brought to the front door.

“This way, if you please, Miss Bingley,” she said with a courtesy that could not quite mask her disapproval. “We would not want you to be... uncomfortable.”

She marched me with military precision to the retiring room off the entry hall, rather than the more advantageously located one upstairs near the drawing room. I noticed she stationed herself firmly by the door afterward, like a sentry guarding a prisoner.

Entering Darcy House filled me with a sense of serenity. Here was a truly stately home, perfectly situated and providing every amenity one could wish for, even if the décor was woefully outdated. It was all I could do to stop myself contemplating the replacement of the tired wallcoverings with something more... Egyptian, perhaps? And surely that ancient footman by the stairs could be replaced with someone who did not look quite so... judgemental. Having given the excuse, I had no choice but to feign the need to use the facilities.

Adèle used her time wisely as she awaited me in the grand foyer. As I emerged after lingering as long as propriety allowed in the little retiring room, I saw Adèle’s grin. She had somehow managed to charm one of the younger footmen into letting her secure a position further into the foyer and was now situated with a full view of the adjoining chambers. She canted her head toward the far side of the hall, where, to my utter joy, my future caro sposo was just visible in his study.

I had the extraordinary good fortune to find Mr Darcy alone in his study—though judging by the way he stiffened at my entrance, one might have thought I was a tax collector rather than his dearest friend’s sister.

I crossed the hall to his study rather more quickly than my usual elegant glide, my face a mask of feigned concern. He stood at my entrance, surprise quickly giving way to wariness.

“Miss Bingley,” he said, executing a bow that somehow managed to be both perfectly proper and utterly unwelcoming. “I was unaware we were expecting the pleasure of your company today.”

“Oh, Mr Darcy,” I spoke with artful delicacy, “I have come to call on dear Georgiana. Is she at home?” I executed the most flirtatious curtsey I had contrived during many hours of rehearsal in my pier glass.

He regarded me with all the warmth of a February morning in Scotland. His eyes narrowed slightly. “I regret that my sister does not receive callers at present. Perhaps you might have sent word ahead of your visit?”

Blast. Necessity demanded I continue. I glided closer, as closely as decency might allow, or perhaps a smidgen closer, arranging my skirts just so, leaning forward to envelop him in my scent, and waved away his implied rebuke. “Never mind that now. I simply must inquire about Charles. Have you spoken with him regarding that... situation in Hertfordshire?” I emphasised the word as though referring to a particularly nasty outbreak of pox.

Darcy’s brow furrowed slightly. “I have indeed exchanged words with Bingley.”

“And? Was he in good spirits? I worry the country air might have addled his wits somewhat. All that... sheep-gazing.” I shuddered delicately.

“Bingley appeared to be in his usual temperament,” Darcy replied, his tone maddeningly neutral.

“I rather thought he might be wandering about in lovelorn melancholy. You know how Charles is—he would fall in love with a hedgerow if it wore a bonnet and smiled at him twice.”

Darcy’s jaw clenched. “Your brother’s personal affairs are not mine to discuss, Miss Bingley. They are private. Much like my study should be.”

Ouch. “Of course not,” I said, waving a hand dismissively. “I merely worry for him. Charles can be such a feather-brain at times, so easily swayed by a pretty face and a simpering smile. I had hoped that a wiser head might have counselled him on the folly of certain attachments.”

“I assure you, Miss Bingley, that your brother is quite capable of managing his own affairs,” Darcy said, his tone growing cooler still.

“Oh, naturally, naturally,” I interrupted, edging closer. My neckline happened to gape most advantageously as I leaned forward. “I merely thought, as his dearest friend and a man of superior judgement, you might have helped him see reason about certain... unfortunate attachments. After all, we cannot have him forming an imprudent alliance in such an ill-advised infatuation.”

Darcy closed his book with such vehemence as to cause me to start. “Miss Bingley,” he said, in tones that could have frozen the Thames, “while I appreciate your... profound concern for your brother’s welfare, I must insist that any conversations between Bingley and me remain private. Now, if you will excuse me, I have urgent correspondence requiring my attention. As previously mentioned, Georgiana is not receiving visitors. In the future, might I suggest sending word before calling? To avoid any... misunderstandings.”

His meaning was unmistakable. Flushing with embarrassment and thwarted ambition, I gathered what remained of my dignity.

“Of course, Mr Darcy. I apologise for the intrusion. Please give my regards to Georgiana.”

As I withdrew from the room with all proper dignity, I was sensible of his gaze following me—though evidently my strategy to secure his regard required adjustment. His was not the admiring look I hoped for, but rather one of marked displeasure. I retreated, but I did not surrender. I was already contemplating my next endeavour.

“Perhaps next time, Mademoiselle,” Adèle whispered as we descended the steps “we might try ze servants’ entrance.”

I pretended not to hear her. A lady would never stoop to such measures.

Though necessity has been known to overcome the strictest propriety .