Miss Bingley Requests

by Judy McCrosky

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

This is the story of Pride and Prejudice from the point of view of Caroline Bingley, who has always believed she will marry Darcy. However, she meets and falls in love with Mr Tryphon, and becomes torn between what she has always expected her life would be and her desire for Mr Tryphon. In the end, despite the emotional cost to her, she gives up Mr Tryphon because he has no money and no status.

Release date: November 13, 2018

Publisher: Crooked Lane Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

London, England, 1811

‘Miss Bingley requests the honour of your presence...’

No, that would not do. Caroline Bingley crumpled the delicately scented paper in her hand. Asking for an honour implied that the guests were above the hosts, and that was not the situation. Not at all.

‘Miss Bingley requests the pleasure of your presence.’ She wrote slowly, her long fingers guiding the quill so that it formed each curve, each line, without spattering a single drop of ink. There, that was much better.

‘Caroline, who are you writing to?’ Louisa Hurst, Caroline’s sister, bustled into the morning room, patting her hair into place. Louisa always rose from sleep later than Caroline did, and her maid spent longer on Louisa’s reddish tresses than did Genney with Caroline’s dark curls.

Caroline slid her hand to cover her paper. ‘Is Mr Hurst still abed?’

‘Of course.’ Louisa bent over Caroline’s shoulder. ‘What are you up to? I simply must know.’

Caroline sighed, but moved her hand aside. The sisters rarely kept secrets from each other. And Louisa was mistress of a country estate, Staunton, which belonged to Mr Hurst’s family. ‘Do not think me foolish, but I am thinking ahead to the first ball we hold at Charles’ new estate.’

‘Estate?’ Louisa walked into the breakfast room and Caroline followed her. ‘Has Charles made his decision, then?’

Caroline joined her sister at the sideboard and allowed the footman, standing ready, to place a piece of toast on her plate. He did so quietly, and without dropping so much as a crumb on her person. Mr Darcy’s servants were always impeccably trained.

‘Mr Darcy,’ Caroline said, ‘rode out with him this morning to visit one he thought might be suitable.’

Louisa sniffed and took her time deciding between baked ham and sausage rounds marinated in rosemary. Caroline felt a moment’s irritation. Fashionable breakfasts did not include meat this season, but Mr Hurst expected it at every meal and Mr Darcy, ever the accommodating host, met this need. Louisa finally selected a poached egg instead, sat across from Caroline and held out her cup without looking, knowing the servant would fill it with tea, and add just the amount of cream she liked.

Caroline scraped butter across her toast, giving Louisa a moment, knowing her sister was of two minds about Charles acquiring a country estate. On the one hand, it suited Louisa very well to have been the first in the family to profit from the advantages that came with wealth. Plus, Mr Hurst had inherited his money, while the Bingley family’s had come, shamefully, from trade. Still, her brother’s estate would be larger than Mr Hurst’s.

‘So he has decided to take a country estate before he purchases a London townhouse?’ Louisa pretended great interest in her tea as she stirred it, but Caroline knew what was important to her sister. She felt a moment’s sympathy for Louisa’s loss of stature that would come with Charles’s estate, but only a moment’s. Caroline had no plans at all for her brother to take a house in town. If he did, there would be no reason for Charles, or his sisters, to be guests of Mr Darcy. Once Charles had his estate, it would be no threat to Caroline. She would be his hostess there, but once she married Mr Darcy, she would be the mistress of the largest and finest estate of any one she knew: Pemberley.

Mrs Darcy. Her tongue shaped the words even though she kept them silently inside her head. Mrs Darcy, Mistress of Pemberley. She would take precedence over everyone then.

She fidgeted with her teaspoon, placing it in her cup, on the saucer, back in the cup, trying each time to make as little sound as possible. It would be some time before Charles and Mr Darcy returned. The day stretched endlessly before her.

There were always calls to be returned. Naturally, once Mr Darcy and his guests arrived in London, everyone who was anyone had left their card. Caroline picked up her spoon and held it before her face, examining her image. How very ill she looked. Her eyes were small and beady, her cheeks sunken, her chin huge, spreading over the spoon’s tip as if it was ready to drip from the silver along with the last drops of milky tea. No, making calls held no appeal, even after she put the spoon back in the cup and rose, ostensibly to take another piece of toast, but really to check her image in the mirror that hung above the mantel. How silly of her to be concerned about her image in a spoon, when she looked as lovely as always. Her features were the current fashion, classical in their symmetry, with just enough height to her cheekbones and curve to her upper lip to make an observer realise she was a woman who, while being utterly beautiful, was also intriguing, unlike the vapid beauty of so many of today’s fashionable young women.

If she wasn’t making calls today, did she want to be in? No, definitely not. Being available to receive calls might make her seem too eager to become a part of society; far better to be not at home. There was always needlework to do, and practice on the pianoforte. Or perhaps she could spend time in the library, learning more about Mr Darcy’s preferences from his choice of volumes. She might even find something to read herself, or to at least have close at hand once Mr Darcy returned.

Caroline hadn’t done much reading since completing her formal education. There was no need for a woman as accomplished as she to learn anything new. To do so would be to gild the lily. She smiled knowingly at her reflection.

She had opened a book, though, just yesterday. Mr Darcy was in the drawing room, reading while the others played at cards. She’d wandered over to sit by him and when he rose to go to his writing table, she’d picked up his book with a show of great interest. It was a collection of poetry by Lord Byron.

Caroline had giggled on seeing this, and Mr Darcy looked up sharply. ‘Does my choice of reading material amuse you, Miss Bingley?’

‘Not at all.’ She opened the book. ‘Lord Byron is a great favourite of mine. He is a trifle risqué though, would you not agree, Mr Darcy?’

Mr Darcy only frowned, so she quickly added, ‘Of course, anything written by a member of British nobility must be considered to be among the finest writings this country has ever produced.’

‘I find it interesting,’ Mr Darcy said, and she looked up to smile at their obvious meeting of minds, when he added, ‘that you would think so. Who else do you consider to be one of our finest writers?’

‘Why, Mr William Shakespeare, of course,’ she said.

‘Of course,’ he said dryly. ‘And who among those writers still living do you particularly admire?’

Caroline’s mind went blank, and so she quickly looked down at the book in her lap, opened it at random, and pretended to be deeply engrossed in the poem on the page.

Now, at breakfast, she let her gaze drift from her reflection and sat down again across from her sister, her mind still on the poem. It had been about love. Caroline had never thought much about love. It had not been a part of her parents’ marriage, or of her grandparents’. Focusing on Louisa now, though, she wondered, and her mouth opened and spoke words before her mind knew what she would say.

‘Louisa, are you in love with Mr Hurst?’

Louisa stared at her. ‘Caroline, have you gone quite mad?’

Caroline felt mortified, but at the same time a small flame of something, perhaps part of what made her such an intriguing creature, rose up in her head. ‘Forgive me if I shock you, but surely such a topic is not inappropriate between two sisters as close as we are. And there is no one else around to hear our conversation.’ The servants didn’t count, of course.

Louisa still frowned and so Caroline smiled at her, putting as much warmth into her eyes as she could. ‘You, Louisa, are married, and so know more than I about the ways of the world between men and women. I seek only knowledge so that I can hope to make as good a match as you.’

Privately, Caroline did not think Mr Hurst a very good match at all. He had an estate, but not a very big one, and his family was unknown within the circles of fashionable London.

The Bingley grandparents had been merchants, and made a great fortune from the buying and selling of ships and the goods they transported, but Caroline preferred not to remember the ignominious origin of the family’s wealth. Her parents at least had not worked in the stores and offices, but her father had still overseen all management of the company. Charles would be the first Bingley to be a landed gentleman.

Louisa, without looking down, scooped up some egg into her spoon, but as her gaze was still on Caroline, she didn’t notice when the runny yolk dripped from the silver onto the tablecloth. She put the mostly empty spoon into her mouth and swallowed. ‘Love Mr Hurst? I don’t know,’ she said finally. ‘The question never arose.’

‘I understand.’ Caroline nodded. ‘But I have a confession to make.’ She laughed lightly, trying not to look at the yellow spot on the tablecloth.

Louisa’s mouth dropped open and she looked even more astonished at this than she had at Caroline’s earlier question about love.

‘Mr Darcy enjoys poetry,’ Caroline said defensively. Louisa placed her elbows on the table, one dangerously close to resting on the still-moist yellow spot. ‘The poems said that when one is in love, one experiences shortness of breath and sometimes a pain in the chest.’

‘I have not experienced that,’ Louisa said faintly.

‘Of course not.’ Caroline laughed again. ‘I would expect no less of you. Why, surely my sister would not stoop so low as to experience anything that could be mistaken for a common cold.’

Louisa laughed also, and suddenly there was a warmth between the two sisters, a shared moment. Caroline reached across the table and gently placed her napkin over the spilled egg so it wouldn’t stain the sleeve of Louisa’s green silk morning gown. Because of this warmth, she dared ask a question she had long wondered about. Covering her sister’s hand with her own, she asked, ‘What is it like, Louisa, between a man and a woman?’

Louisa seemed to understand why Caroline would ask such an indelicate question, or maybe she remembered the time before she was married, and had wondered the same thing. She left her hand beneath Caroline’s, and sighed, looking away into a distance Caroline had no hope of seeing yet. ‘It involves a number of sounds one would be more likely to hear in the vicinity of a pig barn. And Mr Hurst is very heavy, much more so than one would expect from his relatively diminutive size.’

Before Caroline could absorb this rare sharing of hidden information, Louisa pulled her hand back and stood up so quickly the footman barely had time to pull her chair back. Louisa brushed her hands down along her sides, smoothing out any wrinkles the act of sitting might have formed in her gown. ‘I hope,’ she said, ‘that once Mr Hurst is down, he will take us on a carriage ride in the park. Would you like that, Caroline?’

Later, Caroline sat in the morning room, her needlework in her hand. She was making a cushion, with a pattern of delicately embroidered roses, but although she had been sitting long enough for the sun to shift across the room to the point where it glared off a side table, she had yet to sew a single stitch. Louisa’s confidence had given her much to consider.

The poems had also mentioned a sparkle in the eyes of one who loved, and a giddy feeling in the head. While Caroline had often practised putting a sparkle in her eyes as she stood before a mirror, she had always believed any giddiness in the head was to be avoided at all costs. She thought about Mr Darcy and tried to remember if being in his presence had ever brought on shortness of breath or a pain in her chest, but could not recall any such experience. No doubt if she had felt anything similar, she would have retired to her bed with a hot water bottle at her feet.

She pictured Mr Darcy standing, as he often did, before the fireplace in the drawing room, one elbow propped on the marble shelf, one leg crossed elegantly across the other so that all his weight was on one foot. She pictured him sitting in the library in his favourite chair of wine-red leather, a book held in one hand, his long fingers gracefully spread across the binding. She pictured him riding his horse in the park, moving slowly alongside the barouche in which she sat. His long spine erect, his fingers on the reins demonstrating an iron control over the beast, but also a gentle touch.

None of these images helped her imagine a circumstance in which oinks and squeals, and a question of his weight, could be imagined. She wished she’d been able to ask Louisa for more detail, but her sister’s demeanour after breakfast had been distant, and it was clear Louisa had important things to do that left no time for sisterly confidences.

Caroline tossed her needlework into the wicker basket that sat beside her chair and rose to go to the library. Perhaps further perusal of poetry would provide some illumination.

The gentlemen returned during the evening of the following day, and they looked very pleased with themselves. Or rather, Charles beamed, his smile warming his affable features, and Mr Darcy did not frown. He stood, a little behind his friend, his gaze resting somewhere over Caroline’s shoulder. She tried to watch him, without letting him see that she hoped for a smile, or at least a meeting of their gazes, but he stood apart from the others, somehow approving of what was said without being part of the conversation.

‘Netherfield Park,’ Charles said, ‘will do me very well.’

How large an estate is it? Caroline wanted to ask, but she waited as Charles spoke enthusiastically to Mr Hurst about the grand shooting to be found on the property and the very well-situated kennels for his hunting dogs.

How many servants? Caroline wanted to ask, but Charles was talking about the local people. ‘I met the squire,’ he said, ‘name of Sir William Lucas. Lovely fellow, very pleasant indeed.’

Oh, thought Caroline, there are people of quality there. I should have known. Mr Darcy would never allow Charles to settle in an unsuitable area.

‘Sir William told me about some of the other families,’ Charles said. ‘There’s a gentleman, a Mr Bennet, who lives in a house called Longbourn not more than three miles from Netherfield Park. He has five daughters, and apparently they are all great beauties.’

Caroline allowed her questions to fade away. There would be plenty of time to ask them later, and from what she’d heard from Charles and her understanding of Mr Darcy and his discerning taste, this estate would do very well. Her brother was well on his way to becoming one of the fashionable set.

She let her mind drift, as Charles continued to speak, now extolling the advantages of the stables, and pictured herself, her brother’s hostess, smiling and holding out a gracious hand for the gentlemen to kiss as she greeted the guests at Netherfield Park’s first grand ball. Music filled her head and she saw the ladies in their colourful gowns, the latest fashions, of course, dipping and swaying as they stepped through the dance. She would, of course, be claimed for the first two dances by Sir William, and Mr Darcy watch as she moved gracefully, swirling past him in her sky blue gown with the skirt that was wide enough to bell out as she turned, but not so wide as to be unfashionable. He’d pretend, of course, that he didn’t watch her, that he cared nothing that other men clustered around her, waiting for their chance to dance with her, laughing at her witticisms, competing to bring her the choicest morsels from the supper table. The gentlemen would all be handsome, but none as handsome as Mr Darcy. He would be uninterested in dancing with anyone else, even if Mr Bennet’s five daughters were all beautiful. The other women were lovely, with long necks and elegant postures, but she was the most intriguing, the most refined. Mr Darcy would watch her dance with the other men until he could no longer feign indifference. He would approach her to request the next dances; no, he’d haughtily inform the gentleman who had claimed those dances that Caroline would dance with no one but him. He’d take her hand in his, his eyes would rest warmly on her intriguing face, and...

Would she then experience the shortness of breath and pain in the chest that showed love? He would, of course, he’d been entranced by her beauty and wit and he’d lean close as they circled one another in the dance and say...

But at this point even her vivid imaginings fell short of picturing the taciturn and dignified Mr Darcy speaking words of love. She had no idea, she realised, of what a gentleman in the throes of love would say to the woman who so bewitched him.

Someone was speaking to her now, but the male voice belonged to her brother and he was definitely not speaking of love. ‘Caroline, what say you of the cook? There is a woman in Meryton who is very highly spoken of, but perhaps you prefer to select someone from town.’

Caroline gave herself a mental shake. It was difficult to return from the ball and Mr Darcy’s ardent attentions, but she moved her gaze to her brother. ‘Charles, your little passions are one of your most endearing qualities.’ Now Mr Darcy joined Louisa in staring at her in surprise, for her normal efforts in preparing her brother to be a landed gentleman included trying to tone down his enthusiasms so that he’d appear properly dignified and noble. But Mr Darcy was looking at her, and so she didn’t mind allowing Charles his excitement this once. ‘I will hire a cook here. Mrs Montague has one I think could be tempted to change employers if the right inducements were presented.’

Charles nodded, content as always to bow to her superior knowledge of How Things Were Done. Caroline glanced from under her lashes at Mr Darcy, but he’d moved his attention from her and stood gazing at the ceiling above everyone’s heads. She wondered for a moment what he thought about when he wasn’t engaged with the present company, but quickly jumped up and clapped her hands. ‘I simply must have a game of cards. Mr Darcy, will you assist me in setting them out?’

He nodded and gave her a short sharp bow. ‘Of course, I am pleased to offer you any assistance you require.’

Soon, you will offer me much more, she thought, and followed him to the cabinet where the playing cards were kept.

The date for the removal to Netherfield Park was set for three weeks hence, which would provide the time needed to hire servants and for them to prepare the house for its new master, and to purchase new clothing.

‘Because, of course,’ Louisa said, ‘the dressmakers in an area so isolated from London cannot possibly have the understanding nor the ability to meet our needs.’

‘Indeed not,’ Caroline agreed. ‘And we won’t be able to return here for fittings. Although, maybe the local ladies in Hertfordshire are in the habit of bringing dressmakers to their area on a regular basis.’ She shuddered. ‘Surely they must, because how else would they become aware of the latest fashions?’

Louisa nodded, but the sisters decided that it would save much time and bother for them to simply have their new clothes made while they were still in town.

That afternoon Charles suggested an evening at the theatre to celebrate his new estate. The play was the latest thing, filled with many long soliloquies and much swordplay, protestations of love and loyalty, and some small comedic bits that satirised the well-known among London politicians and nobility. It was also overly long, but that didn’t matter because everyone came to the theatre to observe who else was there, comment on their clothing and how ill they looked, and gossip about who had attended with whose wife, mistress, or husband. Long plays simply provided more time to see and be seen.

Mr Darcy’s box was one of the better ones: close enough to the stage that one could watch the play but, more importantly, situated so it provided a good view into the other better boxes. Immediately across from her, Caroline saw Lady Amesbury, with her current favourite lover, the Duke of E – Lady Amesbury! Her family was related to royalty, third, or possibly even second, cousins! 

With them was someone Caroline hadn’t seen before; a youngish man who wore a blue frock coat. Caroline trained her opera glasses on his person, noticing that both cut and fabric of the coat were of the highest quality. He had high cheekbones, a long aquiline nose, and a chin that, if it had only been a trifle shorter, would not have been out of place on a statue of a Greek god. She couldn’t quite make out the colour of his eyes, but they were well situated, not set too deep, and shadowed only faintly by a high brow and arresting slashes of black eyebrows that were suitably masculine without being too bristly. His hair, also the dark of midnight, was a trifle overly long, and she suspected that it brushed the high collar of his coat at the back of his neck, but many young men were seeing long hair as fashionably daring, and his was not wild or unkempt.

As she watched, he leaned over to Lady Amesbury and spoke, tilting his head to indicate across the theatre at... Caroline. She immediately dropped her glasses into her lap, but kept her spine erect and her chin at its most elegant elevation. She tipped her head to the left, showing her best profile, and pretended to be listening to Charles and Mr Darcy discussing what Charles should do with Netherfield Park’s gardens, but she kept her eye on the young man, knowing that of course he was asking Lady Amesbury about the intriguing creature who was the personal friend of Mr Darcy of Pemberley.

Lady Amesbury sent a sharp glance towards the Darcy box, and then nodded, clearly acquiescing to the young man’s request. They both stood and left their box.

Caroline continued watching the Duke, now left alone, as he pulled out a voluminous handkerchief, mopped his forehead and then draped it over his face, leaning back to have a rest. On stage someone suddenly screeched and fell dramatically to the floor, but it caught Caroline’s attention only for a moment before she moved her interest to another box where a very young lady, her hand clutched by an equally young man, pretended to try to pull it away as he raised it to his lips.

There came a polite cough from behind the curtain that closed off Mr Darcy’s box, and Caroline turned to see Lady Amesbury, followed by the young man. His eyes immediately went to her, and so she looked away, pretending intense interest in the play.

‘Stephen demanded an introduction,’ Lady Amesbury said in her distinctive husky voice.

Caroline risked a glance back, and Lady Amesbury gave her a gracious smile, which surprised Caroline very much, as Lady Amesbury had never been very friendly.

‘Of course,’ Mr Darcy said to the request for an introduction. ‘I would be honoured.’

‘Mr Darcy,’ Lady Amesbury said, ‘may I present a recent but already dear, dear friend, Stephen Tryphon? Stephen, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy.’

Caroline, curious enough to no longer pretend a lack of interest, turned to see the two men bow, Mr Tryphon’s bow, as was correct, deeper and lasting longer than Mr Darcy’s. Mr Tryphon’s eyes then turned to Caroline. He was older than she’d first thought, about her own age or a little greater, and his eyes were green.

‘My friends,’ Mr Darcy said. ‘Charles Bingley and his sisters Mrs Hurst and Miss Caroline Bingley. Mr Bingley’s brother-in-law, Mr Hurst.’

Caroline didn’t rise, of course, but she did incline her head as Mr Tryphon made his bow to her.

There was a momentary silence and then Charles asked the visitors how they were enjoying the play.

‘Very much,’ said Lady Amesbury, and entered into a discussion with Charles about the new settee and dining table she had recently acquired and how she hoped he and Mr Darcy would do her the honour of calling so they could admire them. Mr Tryphon took a step away from them and approached Caroline, pointing to the empty chair beside her. ‘May I?’ he asked.

She nodded in a distant fashion, and he sat, twisting to face her.

‘I have seen you before,’ he said, and then apologised when she leaned back and raised her chin. ‘I didn’t mean to be so forward. I hope you can forgive me.’

She lowered her chin a fraction and, encouraged, he continued. ‘It was at Lord C––’s soiree. We sat near each other during supper, and I wanted to ask you for the honour of a dance, but we hadn’t been introduced. When I recognised you tonight and learned that Lady Amesbury was acquainted with you and your party, I jumped at the chance of an introduction.’

The man was simply too forward and eager for her taste, but something about his openness flattered her, and the green fire in his eyes promised that there was more beyond this boyish façade. She granted him a smile. ‘I am most embarrassed that I do not recall you, Mr Tryphon, but it is a pleasure to meet you now.’

On stage, there was much clashing of metal and the pounding of feet on the wooden floor, as two young men in hose and tunics began to fence. Caroline let her eyes be drawn to the play and as she expected, Mr Tryphon immediately spoke to draw her attention back to him.

‘I can see that you appreciate the theatre, Miss Bingley. Do you also care for art?’

‘I do.’

‘Of course,’ he said, his voice warming. ‘A woman as accomplished as I can tell you are must be very talented at drawing and painting.’

She lowered her eyes, feeling warm blood add a rosy glow to her cheeks. ‘You are too kind.’

‘Not at all.’

She raised her eyes to his, and his smile caused her to blush again.

‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘you can be of assistance to me. Can you recommend a museum where I can see paintings of quality? I am but recently come to London, and do not know my way around. I do truly enjoy visiting scenes of great beauty.’

His eyes were fastened on her face, dropping to linger on her lips before a slow smile grew on his mouth as he again gazed into her eyes. His intensity imbued his words with a rather shocking forwardness, but as the words themselves were innocent, she glanced back at the stage while mentioning one or two of her favourite museums.

He thanked her, and then looked up as Lady Amesbury told him she wished to return to her box so as to enjoy the next act of the play. He stood, but then hesitated even as Lady Amesbury exited the box, clearly expecting him to follow.

‘Would you,’ he said to Caroline. ‘No, it is too much to ask.’

‘You can but ask,’ she said, smiling. ‘And I can but refuse your request. Surely that is too small a danger for you to fear?’

He looked at her full on and laughed. ‘You are right. I could never be afraid of anything you might do or say. You are too good to wish harm on anyone.’

Mr Darcy, Caroline noticed, sent a sharp glance at Mr Tryphon.

‘I was merely wondering,’ he said, ‘if you would be willing to show Lady Amesbury and myself around the Broughton museum tomorrow? Beauty is always best appreciated when one is in good company. Wouldn’t you agree? And I know no one else who would understand beauty as well as you.’

She was shocked again, but something about his fervour intrigued her. She glanced at Mr Darcy. He was looking at the stage and not at her, but something in the set of his chin suggested he was listening to her conversation. Could he be jealous?  She gave Mr Tryphon a smile much wider than she’d normally grant a man to whom she had so recently been introduced, and agreed to join him at the museum the following day.

After he left the box, hurrying after Lady Amesbury, she sat in silence, heedless of the tragic death taking place on the stage. Had she been too forward in agreeing to spend the following afternoon in the company of this stranger? Since Lady Amesbury would accompany them, visiting the museum with him would be entirely proper. It offered great potential, too, since Caroline had as yet been unsuccessful in achieving acceptance in Lady Amesbury’s set, which often included members of the royal family who attended soirées and concerts given at her home.

She’d agreed because she knew Mr Darcy did not want her to spend time in the company of other men. But if she was truly honest with herself, there was more to it. It was the young man. She knew she was acting most unlike herself, but doing something unexpected made everything around her different ­– the colours worn by those around her; her family’s murmured conversations; Mr Darcy’s deep voice from behind her. She drew in a deep breath and was suddenly overwhelmed with the joy of being alive.

The following day, when Caroline was driven in Mr Darcy’s carriage to the museum, she was accompanied by both of her siblings. Louisa had paid little attention, the previous evening, to the visitors, but now was curious to see this young man who had stirred Caroline’s interest, and Charles wanted to spend time with his sisters. Mr Hurst had preferred to remain in the house, and Mr Darcy had pleaded a previous engagement. Caroline suspected that it might be difficult for him to see her in the company of other men, and that was why he preferred not to join the party, but he was often engaged in his study with Pemberley’s steward or other important-looking gentlemen, an