No Thank You, Mr Darcy

by Lucy Tilney

  He roared with laughter, “Never, ever say that to Ranulf or I’ll never hear the end of it. I promise my love, to always be proud and unbearable. I have no intention of changing all my spots but when you told me I was an arrogant so & so and the last man on earth you could ever be induced to marry I made a conscious decision to stop being so arrogant and start paying more attention to people. I have, of course, always given money to good causes but I have never stopped to consider those around me perhaps not needing, or being eligible for, monetary assistance from a charity but still in need of help. I decided to start being a friend to people. That is all. I promise in all other respects I remain entirely as I was. I have no intention of joining the Labour Party, wearing brogues in town, ceasing to dress for dinner, or becoming a West Hampstead bohème. You may still consider me the most awful old dinosaur of your acquaintance. My role model is, and always has been, Plantagent Palliser.”

  It was her turn to laugh heartily, “Oh, Fitzwilliam, if you will choose role models from Trollope, couldn’t it be John Bold?”

  “A social reformer? Never! Unless we are talking about the unspeakable evil that makes a man pay for the privilege of being ill or watch his wife or child die if he has not the means to pay the doctor. Now let me continue awkward, noble, and starched and I shall let you remain Henrietta Stackpole. You see, I do not only read Trollope.”

  Over the next few hours with a great many breaks to assure each other neither had changed their feelings they organised a wedding trip (Switzerland and the Tyrol, not India) and began tentatively to make arrangements for Annette.

  “Here, look at these, they’re papers by a Dr. William Turner, a neurologist at Kings College who is interested in the care of epilepsy. I’m going to ask Annette if she wants to see him.”

  Elizabeth took the papers and glanced at them, did he think she understood a word? But she would. She would learn to understand anything to help Annette make informed choices.

  “What about the phenobarbital?” she asked.

  “Started and cautiously optimistic,” he replied, “and something called a ketogenic diet which she isn’t keen on. She’s far too used to appalling economies of Mrs. Younge.”

  Elizabeth sighed, “What was Mrs. Younge doing with the exceedingly generous sum she was receiving from your father’s estate?”

  Darcy shrugged. He kissed her and got up stretching his long legs, “Possibly paying off blackmailers. Ranulf’s mother and I had it out with Aunt Catherine, possibly the most unpleasant business of my life short of being stuck in a trench, and I honestly thought at one point my Aunt Delia was going to physically assault her, but Aunt Catherine’s lawyers were meticulous in making sure Mrs. Younge got a generous sum but unfortunately no-one thought to check if was actually being spent on Annette. I loathe my aunt. She had the power at any time to return Annette to us and she never did. She let me visit every year for nigh on twelve years, I even used up leave during the war to go there, and she knew my sister was ten minutes drive away all that time!”

  He brought his fist down on the table with enough force to make the footman dozing outside spring to attention and step on an imaginary rat. He too had served in the trenches.

  “You said Ranulf will have the dower house, will he have to continue to put up with his aunt as a neighbour?”

  Darcy nodded grimly, “It is legally impossible to remove her from the property. Anne could force her into something else on the estate but as no-one else wants to live in the manor house she might as well remain in it but she will be confined to it and its garden and if she wants to spend money on promoting the fasciti she will have to use her own funds; she has lost access to the estate accounts and the money Sir Lewis left Anne. Here, speaking of awful women,” he crossed to a small table and took a neat, square envelope from the drawer, “Caroline was here a few days ago professing to have no idea where to find you and left this. I imagine you will find a card with a hand-done watercolour and an apology. Caroline has begun the I imagine the exceedingly lengthy business of paying off arrears of civility to everyone she’s offended since she came out.”

  Elizabeth examined her card showing a female chaffinch on an apple blossom. There at least Miss Bingley had put her education to good use and in a perfect calligraphic hand, she had penned a short but pleasant (for her) apology for her lack of friendliness. She looked at Darcy in puzzlement.

  “I daresay after her abominable outburst in Bourne & Hollingsworth during which both Lady Claire and the manager would have been justified in calling the police, and did not, that Caroline has had time to reflect on her general behaviour and has thought better of it.”

  “I hope she hasn’t offended too many people in two years or she’ll be a very busy little painter,” said Elizabeth in an attempt at lightness. There was something in Darcy’s tone she could not be comfortable with.

  Plantagenet Palliser was infinitely preferable to Mr. Rochester. There was nothing appealing about a man with secrets.

  1 British for parakeet.

  HAPPILY EVER AFTER

  Back in London, in the comfort of Uncle Edward and Aunt Marianne’s drawing room, the wedding plans began in earnest. Fearing for her father’s financial condition Elizabeth was relieved when Darcy haltingly suggested they didn’t repeat Jane and Charles and marry at Longbourn. It was a small step from that to suggesting herself that they didn’t have a society wedding at all although she feared some unwritten rule of etiquette would insist on one. To her relief, he agreed and they tumbled over each other for a few moments justifying it by the fact that Jane and Elizabeth’s friends overlapped the way Charles’ and Darcy’s did so they’d all just had a terrific wedding and could not feel deprived by not having another within a few weeks.

  And they were determined to marry as soon as possible.

  He suggested the chapel at Pemberley with its fourteenth century rood screen admired by Pevsner but she countered that for most of her family and friends the one-hundred and thirty-mile trip would require a week long stay. He reminded her they’d be in Venice (she’d managed to add Venice to Switzerland and the Tyrol) but she demurred. His next thought was St George’s, Hanover Square, but she said it was too grand. Uncle Edward brought in tea and suggested the parish church but Elizabeth said it was too dull. Aunt Marianne said if only they’d convert to Judaism they could have a chuppah in the garden but they told her they didn’t have seven years and sent her away giggling. In the end (a two pots of tea sort of end) Darcy said he had a friend near Margaret Street with an empty flat that one of them could move into so they could marry in All Saints’ where he had given her the letter that turned around their relationship. And that was that.

  Elizabeth was thrilled to find that Gunter’s had wedding cakes ‘on standby’ waiting to be iced and decorated to the buyer’s specifications. That left the venue for the reception - and the guest list.

  “It so happens,” said Darcy stretching his long legs and threatening the flower arrangement in the fireplace, “that Monty’s flat is colossal and rather sparsely furnished so with very little effort we could put in the appropriate tables and chairs and whatnots and no-one would have to walk more than five minutes from the church. If it’s raining I’ll arrange footmen with umbrellas. And, of course, as it’s an impromptu kind of thing I’ll pick up the tab.”

  “That is a wonderful idea,” said Marianne who had returned fearful that Gilbert would be bankrupted, “if you will tell me how to contact your housekeeper, Mr. Darcy, we will have the whole thing done. If Monty doesn’t mind.”

  “Monty lives in California with a widow twenty years his senior whom his family disapproves of,” said Darcy, “he’ll be thrilled. And do call me Fitzwilliam.”

  Marianne pinked. Even the best educated and most forward-thinking women like to find themselves on first name terms with devastatingly handsome millionaires now and then.

  The problem quickly became who to invite and how to invite them. Darcy said he only wanted Ranulf, Anne, A
nnette, and Georgiana given that Charles was in New York.

  Elizabeth said she had to have her immediate family (not extending to Cousin William) and Charlotte.

  “Then,” he said, “let’s organise for the maximum number of people we can imagine, including a few hangers-on, and then ‘phone around three or four days before simply informing them that the event is taking place leaving them to decide if they’re coming or not. How’s that for being avant-garde, Miss Stackpole?”

  “Simply perfect, Mr. Palliser.”

  The organist played Vivaldi’s ‘Spring’. Perhaps it was a little unconventional but unlike Jane Bennet, Elizabeth Bennet was having everything she wanted and she knew she would walk out on her husband’s arm to the triumphant and appropriate ‘Thine Be The Glory.’ Her dress was an ethereal wild silk Eau de Nil, in her hair she wore the peridot and diamond chaplet he had given her at Pemberley and, despite all protestations to the contrary both her wrists were adorned with diamond bracelets - two new, two Lady Anne’s, and one his grandmother’s. Kitty walked in front of her in the most expensive dress of her life in a pale marina green carrying white rosebuds. Annette, too diffident to walk the length of the aisle, stood opposite Ranulf on the altar steps surrounded by the golden, multi-hued glory of All Saints, wearing palest ivory holding a bouquet of fragrant green herbs and lavender.

  Elizabeth was too caught up in the joy of the moment to notice but Gilbert rather enjoyed the fact that the church was overflowing, that the Ritz caterers would have to scramble to feed them all, and that the champagne and canapés would have to be served in the street. He had also spotted two members of the Opposition front bench he might like to get his teeth into plus several members of the House of Lords. It had been a long time since Professor Bennet had been able to maul a peer and he felt every last ounce of gratitude toward his soon-to-be son-in-law.

  Gilbert’s prophecy was fulfilled. Monty’s flat was inadequate, the Ritz had to ‘phone Claridges, Mr. Robards’ hair turned whiter, and a constant caravan of cars from Darcy’s house supplemented the already extravagant amounts of food with ever more mouthwatering creations ‘thrown together’ in the Berkeley Square kitchen where Monsieur Leconte was having the best day of his life since the coronation. To the bride’s immeasurable relief Aunt Florence remained sober, Phoebe was speechless (except to quake every now and then in the direction of the Countess of Alndale) and Granny Gardiner was so over-awed by everything she saw and everything she heard that she occasionally had to be reminded to close her mouth, but blessedly no sound ever came out of it.

  Caroline Bingley turned up arrayed by her Parisian couturier in silver-threaded lavender and presented Elizabeth with a perfect watercolour of Longbourn House to take to Pemberley with her. Annette took it from her driver and, with the resourcefulness expected of chief bridesmaids, found somewhere to put it for the duration of the reception.

  Ranulf delegated the telegrams to Reggie Hurst to sit back with Princess Natalia Bolkonsky and point out to her the one hundred and one things she didn’t yet understand about English weddings. He had not yet understood he would have a Russian wedding.

  Sir Reginald who loved nothing more than to stand in front of an assembly of ladies and gentleman of the first water and hear his own voice took on the task with enthusiasm. The first telegram read, “So happy. Love Jane and Charles.” The second, “Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, Sir William and Lady Lucas.” And the third and fourth were the same but from Philadelphia and the Bishop of Buxton, and Leopold and Ophelia. He stared briefly at the fourth before stuffing it in his pocket and telling Darcy it was from the Ritz asking who would pay for the champagne but it didn’t take much imagination to guess it was something unkind from Aunt Catherine. The fifth and sixth were from Jane and Charles again, the seventh from a member of the royal family, and the eighth from Mr. Baldwin. The ninth was from Georgiana’s grandfather, the Maharajah, and the tenth from Jane and Charles. Umpteen more followed from people Elizabeth didn’t know and then one that read, “It is with great joy I proffer my profoundest congratulations on your nuptials, Mr. Darcy and Cousin Elizabeth. It truly is a glorious day for our family and one which I… What do you mean this is costing a fortune, Mrs. Horris?” Roars of laughter erupted as Sir Reginald mimicked Fatty Willikins pulpit-voice and even more when, in the same voice, he wondered how many dollars Charles had racked up in the New York Post Office.

  At last, when the guests had returned to eating cake and drinking too much, she followed Darcy into the little kitchen where Sibley and Snooty were preparing themselves hasty - and hastily abandoned - cocktails.

  “Our marvellous idea for a quiet wedding has backfired,” she said feeling someone had to state the obvious.

  “I had no idea,” he said earnestly, “I have no idea where all these people came from. All I can think of is Georgiana. Has she so much as congratulated you?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. She could understand that Georgiana felt silly even although she had never been able to understand why she had reacted the way she had in Monsieur Germain’s. And she knew that on this day Darcy would brook no excuses for neglect of her. She stayed where she was, as told, in Monty’s little kitchen and in no time Georgiana, resplendent in rose and gold (it used to be one of my grandmama’s saris, you know), was impelled in by her irate uncle.

  “Now, just this once, conduct yourself like the princess you like to think you are and congratulate your aunt.”

  Elizabeth cringed. Georgiana curtseyed.

  “Congratulations, Aunt Darcy,” she said demurely.

  Poor Elizabeth. Between being too happy and a little overwrought she gave into her nature and started to laugh and looking at the aghast faces of Georgiana, Darcy, and Anne (who had followed Georgiana out of curiosity) only made it worse.

  “Are you quite well?” demanded Anne pushing past the other two.

  “She’s laughing at me,” said Georgiana.

  “Everyone is laughing at you,” replied Anne tartly, “the whole of England has been laughing at you for eighteen months. Why you don’t buck up and start behaving like a lady - like the granddaughter of an earl and a maharajah, and a millionairess in your own right - is beyond me but you are determined to act like a little idiot.”

  Elizabeth stopped laughing and clutched Darcy. Neither of them wanted the inevitably dramatic denouement of the relationship between Anne and Georgiana to occur at their wedding and there was an enormous Delft platter within easy reach of Georgiana’s ruby embellished little hands. Strains of Pachelbel’s Canon in D floated from the drawing room blending with the chatter from the dining room and the sounds of laughter and clinking glass in the garden in a stressful slow motion as they all wondered what to do if the worst happened because, if Georgiana Darcy threw a platter at her uncle’s wedding, it would get in the papers. All of the papers.

  “I’m sorry,” she said abruptly with her hands at her sides, “I’m sorry Elizabeth and Anne. I’m sorry, Uncle Fitzwilliam. I know I’ve been the most atrocious simpleton and I’ll stop now. I promise to behave like a Darcy and welcome people into the family with the grace and friendliness you expect and they deserve.”

  If Darcy started a little then Elizabeth in her relief didn’t feel it. She took one of Sibley’s Southside Royales and handed the other to Anne, “All’s well that ends well,” she said.

  “Cheers,” replied Anne with a huge smile.

  Much later that afternoon tipsy, mostly from joy and a little from champagne, Elizabeth Darcy took leave of her old friends and her old life. A new one, not as a career woman, but as the Mistress of Pemberley and wife of one of the most influential men in the English-speaking world awaited her.

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  Lucy lives in the cool, misty west of Scotland with a large, plush tuxedo cat called Sachiko-san. Her favourite Austen novels are ‘Emma’ and ‘Persuasion’ and as well
as Jane Austen she is partial to the writings of Anthony Trollope, Elizabeth Von Armin, Elizabeth Goudge, and J R R Tolkien. Sachiko-san is partial to a bit of salmon from the Loch Fyne Oyster Bar.

  In Austen heroine quizzes she is unfailingly Elinor Dashwood and when not obsessing over Austen she enjoy beachcombing, travelling, and various needle arts.

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