Miss Darcy's Beaux

by Eliza Shearer

  The afternoon before our departure Jones came back from her last shopping expedition in London with the most astonishing news. It was all over town that Don Cosimo and Miss Carteret were engaged to be married, with the reluctant blessing of the Dowager Viscountess Dalrymple. The extraordinary development caught me off-guard, but after some reflection, I came to see it as understandable, inevitable even. Besides a substantial dowry, as a Viscount's daughter Miss Carteret had the aristocratic connections that, according to Lady Hamilton's intelligence, Don Cosimo so craved.

  There was some bewilderment as to Miss Carteret's acceptance, given the prince's shameful treatment of her and his very public relationship with Mrs Wickham, but I understood. I had seen her eyes light up with utter devotion for the man she loved, in a response disturbingly similar to that of my fifteen-year-old self. It was by no means a bad match for either of them, although I felt sorry for the bride-to-be, for I did not think Don Cosimo would remain faithful to his marriage vows for very long.

  Once Mrs Wickham heard that we were due to leave London, she also sent a letter to Grosvenor Square. In the missive, written in her usual feisty tone, Lydia justified the incident at Lady Dalrymple's and the subsequent duel as the legitimate rebuttal by a loving husband of an attack on his wife's honour. She ended the letter with an urgent plea for money to fund the expenses derived from Wickham's sickness, as well as new gowns for her. My brother knew that, with their lack of a regular income and scarce notion of household finances, destitution would quickly come to the Wickhams, and his sense of responsibility towards his sister-in-law overrode any past qualms about her husband.

  Fitzwilliam arranged for them to move to a small cottage on the south coast; it was a simple dwelling, away from the temptations of society, with a single servant to tend to them. Their situation was such as to give the Wickhams privacy and tranquillity, with the secret hope that the husband might reflect upon his past behaviour and repent before his impending passing, and the wife might reconsider her ways. Whether my brother's goal was achieved or not, we may never know.

  For me, returning to Pemberley was a true homecoming; I seemed to recognise every tree, every shrub, every bird, and the estate more beautiful than ever. In my happiness, even the Bennets and their squabbles at the dinner table seemed pleasant. Seeing Elizabeth again was a balm for my excited senses, and telling her everything that had happened to me helped me reflect on the many blessings I had received in just a few short weeks. My brother, for his part, was equally satisfied to be back with his young family, and appeared as besotted with his second son as he was with his first. Will initially watched the new baby with a mix of inquisitive suspicion and irrepressible affection, but knowing his kind nature, I had no doubt that the latter would prevail.

  My last summer in my childhood home was unforgettable. Dr Robertson's forced absence from Lambton due to a professional matter may or may not be related to what happened, but with no bloodletting sessions, Elizabeth recovered surprisingly quickly after her lie-in. With her health came Mr and Mrs Bennet and Mrs Bingley's departure. Elizabeth’s parents found it difficult to leave their daughter and grandchildren, but her eldest sister was clearly eager to return home to her husband, although she gave us her assurances that she and her husband would visit Pemberley again before Christmas.

  I enjoyed a few weeks of perfect domestic contentment with my brother, sister and nephews, which only increased with the awaited arrival of Captain Price by Midsummer. We were married shortly afterwards, surrounded by family and friends, and remained at Pemberley for a few more months, during which the Captain became an indispensable presence in the Darcy circle. He was a trusted confidant to my brother, a charming conversationalist to my sister-in-law, and a fun playmate for my nephew, helping to mitigate Will's despondency at the departure of his beloved grandfather. As for me, what Captain Price represented, how my heart swelled every time our eyes met, the reader may imagine.

  It wasn't until after the summer that Lady Catherine informed me via a visit from Mr Collins that she had decided to leave the bulk of the Rosings estate to Colonel Fitzwilliam. I was glad for the Colonel, for I trusted that he would use his wealth wisely and move on from the disgraceful state his finances were in due to his previous lapses into gambling. At the same time, my feelings surprised me. My aunt's decision was not a disinheritance as such, as her London promises had never materialised, but I did not find it half as unpleasant as one might think. William says that it is because deep inside I always knew that Rosings was not the place for me.

  When it came time to decide on where to settle, we chose a beautiful property by the sea, only half a day's coach journey from Pemberley, with a spacious and comfortable house that met our requirements perfectly in spite of not featuring a single fireplace worth more than a few pounds. The three little orphans that Captain Price rescued from misery and their mother live in one of the tenants' cottages, about a mile from the main building. The youngest one may never see properly, but his eyesight is better than it was, and this gives us hope.

  We are happy, reader, very happy, and I feel like I'm the luckiest woman on earth.

  After Elizabeth, that is.

  THE END

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank my close friends and family for encouraging me to put years of daydreaming into words and supporting my efforts on a practical level. I am also very grateful to my wonderful editor and very efficient proofreader, Helena Hamilton, for her advice and suggestions. Finally, I am much obliged to the wider Janeite community for receiving my contribution to the genre with open arms.

  About the Author

  Eliza Shearer is a long-time admirer of Jane Austen's work and emerging writer of Regency romance and austenite variations. Find her on her blog or at Austen Authors.

  Miss Darcy’s Beaux is the first Austeniana book. What follows is the first chapter of Miss Price’s Decision, the second book in the series, available from the main e-book stores.

  Finally, if you enjoyed this book, please rate it on Goodreads, Amazon or the platform of your choice. It will make it easier for others to find it.

  Miss Price’s Decision

  Chapter 1

  There can be no greater pleasure than deciding for oneself, but such command over one’s life is only enjoyed by a few. My brothers chose their fate: William, by going to sea at His Majesty’s service; John, by becoming a clerk in a public office; and unfortunate Richard, by enrolling as a midshipman on board an Indiaman. However, as a young woman, I was expected to let others decide for me. The sole exception was the power of rejection upon receiving a marriage proposal. Fanny had used it once; she never spoke of it, but the sheer number of servants in a house as grand as Mansfield Park ensured there were plenty of opportunities to overhear conversations on the most sensitive of topics. Alas, I did not have a reason to think I might have to do the same as my sister. The life I led provided me with little opportunity to mingle with others, let alone potential suitors.

  I sighed and looked through the large windows. Spring had well and truly arrived and I was itching to go outside, but my duty was to stay with Lady Bertram. It was only eleven, but my aunt was gently snoring again, her thickest shawl draped around her shoulders. Putting aside the book I had been trying to read all morning, I got up from my seat. I needed to stretch my legs, even if it was to pace up and down the drawing room. Like the rest of the house, it was elegantly furnished, with a thick woven Persian carpet that muffled the sounds of my satin slippers and lustrous mahogany pieces that smelt of beeswax and wealth.

  I approached a glass-fronted cabinet on the far side of the room, which displayed Sir Thomas’ extensive collection of snuff boxes and chess sets. I didn’t much care for the former, too heavily ornate for my taste, but I was intrigued by the latter. My uncle owned chess sets made out of ivory, ebony and other precious woods, but my favourite piece was a travel set, well-used and less fine than its sisters. Closed, it looked like a simple wooden box with
a lid covered by small, even holes. Open, it transformed into a chess set designed to withstand the mightiest of typhoons thanks to the ingenuity of the maker, who had given the pieces long and thin feet that held them in place. It was the sort of thing sailors would use to play at sea, during their moments of recreation. Perhaps William owned one. Or Jamie.

  I blushed. Not a day had gone by since my arrival at Mansfield Park five years before, first as a guest of the Bertram family and later as companion to Lady Bertram, that I did not think of him.

  There was a sharp knock on the drawing room door that startled me as if I had been a Portsmouth urchin caught stealing sweets from Mr Dunn’s shop on Middle Street. Murphy’s round face appeared on the door frame.

  “A visitor, miss,” announced the burly girl. “Mr Munro for Lady Bertram.”

  Who else, I wanted to scream. With the notable exception of Sir Thomas’ trip to Antigua, which had taken place before my arrival, the Bertrams had always kept themselves to themselves. If anything, the dismal developments that followed soon after Sir Thomas’ return from the West Indies had magnified his retiring disposition, and only a handful of visitors were welcome at the Park these days. Mr Munro, the local apothecary, was one of them.

  “Let him in.”

  I went towards the sofa and gently patted my aunt on the arm. She did not respond. I nudged her again, to no avail. My eyes fell on the rosemary oil bottle that sat on the window ledge. I poured some in a handkerchief and placed the cloth under my aunt’s nose. The potent smell made her sneeze, and she slowly opened her eyes.

  “What is it?”

  “Mr Munro, Aunt. He has arrived.”

  My aunt stared at me with vacant eyes. I thought she had not heard me and was going to repeat my words when she nodded. Her little pet dog, a fawn pug with a dark nose, curly tail and round tummy, was sleeping in the folds of her skirt and stirred in its sleep.

  There was another knock on the door, and Mr Munro bounced in, his disposition as cheerful as usual.

  “Good morning, Lady Bertram. I hope I am not intruding,” said he, in his booming voice. “May I ask you if the ointment that I brought you last time has helped soften your complexion?”

  I could tell that my aunt was still fighting slumber, so I felt compelled to speak.

  “I am afraid that Lady Bertram’s dry skin is showing no signs of improvement. She is also fatigued in the extreme, and her hands are perennially cold.”

  Lady Bertram gave a faint nod.

  “I see,” said Mr Munro, taking my aunt’s wrist to check her pulse.

  Silence followed. The apothecary’s brow creased, and his eyes narrowed. He went towards the chair where he had placed his bag upon arrival and extracted a wooden spatula.

  “Miss Price, can you please assist Lady Bertram so that I may examine her? I need her to sit upright and remain as still as possible.”

  I nodded. Holding my aunt’s arms, I gently helped her adjust her posture, giving her what I hoped would look like a reassuring smile.

  Mr Munro proceeded to apply the instrument underneath my aunt’s eyes. He was close enough for me to smell his tobacco breath and the faint scent of beard oil. The apothecary made Lady Bertram look to the right, then to the left, then placed the palm of his hand on my aunt’s neck. Mr Munro’s features darkened but his voice remained as jolly as usual when he spoke next.

  “May I enquire if Sir Thomas is in the house?”

  My aunt appeared unaware of the question, her soft eyes not quite following the apothecary.

  “He is,” I replied. “I believe my uncle is in his study.”

  “In that case, I would be keen to speak to him this instant.”

  I nodded, feeling an invisible grip tighten around my throat, and rang the bell. As we waited, I glanced in my aunt’s direction. Lady Bertram was stroking the old pug’s velvety fur as if she had not a care in the world. The footman appeared, and Mr Munro left the room shortly afterwards. The apothecary was smiling as he did, but his good humour did not appease my concerns.

  Lady Bertram was silent for a few minutes.

  “I do hope that Mr Munro tells Sir Thomas that I am much improved, although I really cannot say that I am.”

  “Sir Thomas has great faith in Mr Munro’s knowledge and experience.”

  “Yes, yes, you are right. Sir Thomas trusts him very much.”

  Lady Bertram closed her eyes again and I clasped my hands tightly, bracing myself for bad news.

  About half an hour later, Murphy came into the drawing room announcing that Sir Thomas was calling for me. Lady Bertram had fallen asleep again, so after checking that her shawl was firmly in its place, I went to meet him with an empty feeling at the pit of my stomach. I could only think of Mr Munro’s look of uneasiness and how my uncle’s summons must surely be connected to it. When I opened the door to the study, Sir Thomas was waiting for me.

  “Susan, please come in and take a seat,” he said, rising from behind the magnificent rosewood desk. ”I must speak to you about Lady Bertram.”

  My uncle’s voice was stern. I could barely contain my anguish.

  “Is it serious, sir? Is Lady Bertram going to recover?” I blurted out.

  “I am not going to lie to you, Susan. Mr Munro is seriously concerned about your aunt. He says that he has recorded a steady deterioration of her health over the last few months.”

  In my Portsmouth days, I would have heartily assented, but after five years at Mansfield Park, I knew better. I bit my lip and waited for my uncle to continue.

  “I must confess that I do not find Lady Bertram much altered. Mr Munro speaks of general debility, lapsed memory and a transformed complexion, but I cannot say that I have noticed. Therefore, I would like to hear your frank opinion. Tell me, Susan, have you observed a difference in her ladyship?”

  I took a deep breath, carefully considering my answer.

  “As you know, sir, my aunt has a placid disposition that is not conducive to strenuous activity. However, I have perceived a few small changes in the last few months, perhaps not wholly unconnected with the matter at hand.”

  Hesitatingly, I looked up at Sir Thomas, who gave me an encouraging nod.

  “Lady Bertram is perennially fatigued, more so than she used to be. I can tell she has difficulty in even leaving her sofa. She is always cold, and although the weather has turned and there is always a fire in her rooms, no amount of shawls and furs seem enough to be enough to keep her warm. Even when she has been awake for some time, she often says that her thoughts are somewhat foggy. There is also the matter of her complexion. I know from my sister that Lady Bertram’s complexion has always been much admired, but her skin is now flakey and dry, and Mr Munro’s oils and concoctions do little to soothe it.”

  My uncle’s eyes were glazing over.

  “And you surely must have noticed the growth on her neck,” I mumbled.

  Sir Thomas gave me an admonishing look. I clenched my fists.

  “It is permanently swollen and getting larger every day. There are at least two chokers and three necklaces that Lady Bertram can no longer wear on account of the size of her neck. I fear that her physical changes may be at the heart of her illness.”

  Sir Thomas stood up and walked towards the window, deep in reflection. I took the opportunity to observe the magnificent map of the West Indies that hung behind his desk. It was extremely detailed, with intricate pictures of palm trees and parrots, tiny print buzzing over the many capes, bays and islands and an exquisite border of tropical fruits and leaves framing the central motif.

  My uncle’s voice brought me back to reality.

  “Mr Munro has recommended that Lady Bertram be seen by a famous Harley Street specialist.”

  “A London doctor, sir?”

  Sir Thomas nodded.

  “Given the circumstances, I am inclined to follow his advice and arrange for her to visit this physician in town as soon as possible.”

  The thought of Lady Bertram travelling to Londo
n without any resistance on her part was preposterous. My aunt was so attached to the comforts of her home that she routinely avoided even the most pressing of social engagements. She seemed to care little for company, other than the one provided by her small Mansfield Park circle; that is, my uncle and myself in the main house and my sister Fanny, her husband Edmund and little William in the neighbouring parsonage, which was a short walk away. Edmund was Sir Thomas’ and Lady Bertram’s second son, and Fanny was my aunt’s companion for years before I replaced her, so they were hardly strangers.

  Sir Thomas looked at me with tired eyes. The midday light pouring from the window made him look older and frailer than I had ever seen him. I knew at once that he had already considered all my anticipated objections to the upcoming trip. I sighed and nodded.

  “I believe Lady Bertram may be persuaded.”

  Sir Tomas appeared relieved at once.

  “I agree. I will ask Mr Munro to secure an appointment for Lady Bertram with the London doctor he mentioned.” Sighing, he added, “We will have to break the news to her gently. Perhaps we can broach the issue when Edmund and Fanny are here.”

  I did not think that the company would make much of a difference to Lady Bertram’s receptiveness of the idea, but I very much hoped that I was wrong.