This is a story about damsels in distress in the Regency period. It contains non-consensual bondage and bad period dialogue; reader discretion is advised.
1.
The great house at Thornfield was let at last, and everyone knew it. Husbands told their wives; wives told their daughters; daughters received the news, cherished it, and deployed it as ammunition in the ongoing war for gloves and sprigged muslin.
Each household's excitement varied according to the number of marriageable girls it contained, and by that measure the home of Mr Henry Catchpenny, a great rambling property with extensive woods, was a veritable circus. He had three girls, and all were in need of a husband; all were determined to get one; and all, happily, were well equipped to do so. Miss Eliza Catchpenny was 20 and fast approaching the status of old maid, albeit one with a pretty face, tolerably ravishing figure and rich chestnut curls; Miss Georgiana was 19 and in every way equally lovely, with the solitary exception, that her hair was raven dark; while Miss Ann was at 18 perhaps the most delightful of the three, boasting red hair, a set of freckles which were generally allowed to be among the neighbourhood's principle attractions, and the ability to play the pianoforte.
There is no need to memorise these names, for they will be repeated; and in any case the girls were felt to be largely interchangeable depending on one's preference in hair colour. Furthermore we will not begin our tale at Catchpenny Lodge—or Catchpenny Castle, as it was satirically known in the village—but in the humbler surroundings of Larchcroft Rectory, where an altogether more fascinating lady was reclining at her ease on the sopha and reading a novel. The sopha and the novel were equally battered and worn.
"Mrs Fitzgerald!" called a voice from without. "Mrs Fitzgerald! I must have you at once."
Mrs Fitzgerald looked up, considered a pert reply, and thought better of it, for she was a woman of good breeding. But she did not offer an obliging reply either, for she was also a woman with a wilful temperament, and did not wish anyone to think she was at their beck and call.
"Mrs Fitzgerald!"
A gentleman burst into the room.
"There you are," he cried. "Marvellous news!–The Catchpennies' footman has just been. They wish to engage our services."
"Shall we be paid this time, or is this merely a pretext to flirt with the three sirens?" wondered Mrs Fitzgerald. "For it is my observation, Mr Fox," she added, "that marriage does not inhibit a gentleman's pleasure in the society of beautiful single ladies, but indeed appears to increase it."
"Perhaps you are right," said he, "in the general sense; but I must protest that between Mrs Fox and yourself, I am amply provided with female beauty and have no need to cast about for further supply." He smiled. "There is no need to be jealous."
We had better pause at this juncture, and describe the two characters; for they are important, and will appear throughout the story. The Reverend Edmund Fox was the curate of St Gwendoline's and as poor as a church mouse, since he had made the mistake of marrying young without taking the precaution of being rich. Nor indeed did he have much prospect of becoming so, curacy being so proverbially ill-paid a profession; although a living had been promised, and would apparently fall to his use if and when a certain priest in Kidderminster happened to drop dead. At one time Mr Fox had told himself that it would be wicked to wish for such an outcome, but that time had long passed.
Mr Fox was nine-and-twenty years old, slight of build, mild (if mischievous) of temperament and fond of music; he had dark hair, which was beginning to recede, and wore spectacles. He was generally thought handsome, sometimes credited with wit and occasionally suspected, unfairly, of whiggism.
Mrs Harriet Fitzgerald had become a widow at the age of four-and-twenty, when Captain Fitzgerald had died in an action with the Spanish; she received the thanks of parliament for his valour but very little by way of a naval pension and was quite as poor as Fox, who took pity and obtained for her the position of church organist and its small but welcome stipend. The two further supplemented their meagre income by solving mysteries for genteel families with an aversion to common enquiry agents.
Now six-and-twenty, Harriet remained a notable beauty in the English rose manner, her complexion having freshened rather than dimmed with the passing of time. She had glossy fair hair, a slender waist and a startlingly jaunty bosom which her present gown—indeed her entire wardrobe—did little to disguise. Mrs Fox disliked her prodigiously.
"I am not jealous of those three little strumpets. There can scarcely be a single diverting thought between their heads from one Sunday to the next. Shall I bring the pistols?"
"I do not think that will be necessary. Mr Catchpenny wishes to consult, merely."
Mrs Fitzgerald had extensive experience of such interviews, which frequently resulted in some form of bodily peril. "I shall bring the pistols," she said firmly.
2.
Mr Catchpenny received the pair later that day, pistols and all, with the utmost cordiality but understandably little pleasure. They were used to such a reception.
"I thank you for coming so soon," he said, "and hope you will forgive my impertinence in reiterating my request for the utmost discretion. What I wish to tell you must be repeated to no others."
Mr Fox nodded.
"Our discretion is assured, of course, but if this is in relation to Miss Catchpenny's recent mishap, I must point out that it is too late for discretion to make any difference one way or the other. My dear sir, the entire village is aware of what happened."
Miss Catchpenny—which is to say the eldest Miss Catchpenny, the chestnut-haired Eliza—had lately experienced difficulties while travelling back from her aunt's home in Bath. In the twilight hours a highwayman had presented his compliments and a large firearm, and desired the driver and footmen to depart, which hint they had gladly if ingloriously accepted; the young lady being left alone had been accosted in the most impertinent fashion, divested of her jewels and clothing, tightly bound and gagged, and left naked and helplessly lashed to the front of the carriage like a ship's figurehead. In this state she had been discovered by the packed stage coach the next morning, and the story had been throughout the village by midday.
"Perhaps it would be wise," said Mr Fox gently, once Mr Catchpenny had gone through this painful narration without adding any information of which he had not previously been aware, "if we might discuss the particulars of this ordeal with Miss Catchpenny herself, if she is at leisure."
Eliza Catchpenny has already been described, but it is often the case that reports fail to convey the experience of witnessing beauty in the flesh. When she walked in the room, Mr Fox's equanimity deserted him; he was unmanned. She was quite lovely, her loveliness enhanced rather than diminished by her evident embarrassment. She was dressed in a yellow silk gown of daring cut.
Once Mr Catchpenny had been induced to leave the drawing room, Mrs Fitzgerald took Eliza by the hand and desired her, in the gentlest of tones, to tell what had happened.
"I was travelling back from Bath," said she—
"Along the Bath road?"
"On the contrary. There is a short cut that runs down by the river; larger coaches cannot pass, but our Landau has no difficulty, and it is quieter and prettier. I always prefer to go that way."
"Did the highwayman ride towards you, or was he waiting?"
"Waiting. There is a shaded nook which cannot be seen from either direction but commands a view of the road. He emerged, brandished a pistol and instructed the servants to depart. Which they did, with unseemly haste."
"They have been given notice, I imagine."
