Following forty hours with little or no sleep, my concentration had become hazy, movement sluggish. My head not only ached but buzzed.
Baddeley, bless his soul, had come with a steaming pot of tea and a plate of toast and muffins with black butter. The breakfast was most gratefully golloped in an inelegant trice. Then, at seven o’clock, just as I took a last sip and was swiping crumbs from the desk, there came a rap on my door.
“Enter.”
In her typical, dignified attitude, Lady Catherine sailed in, eyes narrowed, searching for something with which to find fault.
The shortcoming became immediately evident to both of us as I scrambled to my feet and bowed. My blasted burgundy banyan gaped open, and its silky sash—despite my blindly groping about for it—was nowhere to be found. Reaching only to my knees, my linen nightshirt did nothing to conceal long, strong, hairy calves from the woman’s bulging eyes.
“Nephew, I am exceedingly displeased!”
Gathering both sides of the banyan around me, I mumbled, “Well, erm, I would ordinarily be fully dressed by now, but I was not expecting you, and—”
“And I was not expecting you, Fitzwilliam Alfred Darcy, to desert my dear daughter during dinner last evening. Where were you?”
“Oh, that. Well, there was a pressing matter requiring my attention. As you see, I am still involved in the odious business. Um, will you not sit?” I gestured towards the ugly chair. If she would just sit, I could too, and conceal my lower limbs beneath the desk.
Adding to my vexation, she declined, pacing in a manner immediately recognisable as similar to my own. My mother’s sister was a tall, large woman, who might once have been handsome. A certain physical resemblance between Georgiana and Lady Catherine might be discerned, but two females could hardly be more dissimilar in temperament.
“Poor Anne was devastated by your unfeeling abandonment last night and could scarcely finish her third calf’s foot jelly.” Bulging eyes darted down again to my own calves and bare feet.
Shuffling said feet in awkwardness, I apologised for missing dinner and all its scintillating conversation.
“Humph! And well you should apologise . . . to Anne! When you marry my daughter—”
Pigs will fly. “Madam, I pray you desist! As dear as Anne is to me, I have no intention of marrying her, or anyone, anytime soon.”
“Nonsense! You most certainly will marry! Since your infancy . . .” Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
I had either dozed off on my feet or turned a deaf ear to her authoritative tone repeating the same unlikely story I had been subjected to since coming of age. The pounding of her cane on the parquet jolted me awake and alerted me to her purposeful advance towards the desk, under which I espied the slippery sash from my banyan.
“Nephew! What is that?”
Oh, blast! The ink stain! Bolting ahead of her, I sidled in front of the drawer while, with my foot, I rooted around under the desk, hooking the strip of burgundy silk with my toes. Bringing my foot up behind me, I snatched the blasted belt and properly cinched my dressing gown.
“Are you using blotting paper instead of sand? ’Tis unthinkably wasteful to use blotting paper when there is a pounce pot of the finest cuttlefish bone right there in front of you! When you marry my Anne, you must not be so profligate . . .” Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
At least she has not gartered her hose with my guts, I thought, as I guided her from the room.
I often wondered if bullying came in handy in Richard’s soldiering occupation. The trait obviously ran in the family, as Fitzwilliam blood flowed through both Lady Catherine’s and my own veins.
I may have been a bit intimidating last evening at Hunsford—insensitive and cruel to the woman I love. I would not be such a brute, if given a second chance . . . Alas, too late!
Glancing at the clock, I muttered, “Oh, blast! It is late! Elizabeth, no doubt, will be in the grove by now.”
At half past seven, thinking me gone for either a walk or a ride (as was my wont at that hour in the hopes of meeting a certain young woman on her rambles), a chambermaid slipped into the room to gather ashes from the fireplace. Scaring the poor girl out of her wits as she bent to pick up the crumpled papers strewn across the hearth, I growled at her to leave them be. Selfish disdain of the feelings of others echoed in my head, and I apologized to the wide-eyed servant, who bobbed a curtsey and fled.
I picked up those discarded pages myself, placed them in the grate, and set them afire using the candle stub. Flame licked along the papers’ edges, devouring my mistakes, turning them to ash.
Back at the desk, I made short work of rewriting the remainder of the page.
Finally, I held an envelope containing two sheets of letter paper, written quite through in close, neat penmanship. At least the first sheet was meticulously done; the second was less well formed. The envelope itself, likewise full, was naught but slapdash. There was, however, nothing to be done for it. I was drained.
At my summons, Baddeley returned and was badgered to hastily prepare me—without our usual fuss and fastidiousness—for another day.
I found myself at the plantation without any memory of having walked thither. Elizabeth, in answer to my prayers, was descried wandering the grove edging the park.
Having had my heart pierced by the woman’s refusal and wounded by her sharp, hurtful words, it was somehow fitting that our last encounter be amongst a stand of ash—a tree whose name means spear—and that our parting be amidst plants whose resilient wood was used in bow making. Over time, my heart may recover, but it certainly shall not spring back as easily as ash wood would.
Wood would. Splendid, you arse. I determined that, considering my condition, it would be best—should she spare me a moment—that I not speak overmuch.
At my heavy tread, Elizabeth turned away, but I stepped purposefully forward and pronounced her name. Turning, she came hesitantly towards me, hems dampened by the morning dew and cheeks glowing rosily. By God, she is a handsome woman! We met at the gate and holding out the letter dated from Rosings at eight o'clock that day, I, with affected tranquillity, passed the correspondence into her gloved hand. Beneath knitted brows, her fine eyes looked to mine for explanation.
With all expectations for a happy future together turned to ashes in my mouth, I had difficulty speaking. “I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?” I bowed and, after one last, lingering look, turned my back on her. Squaring my shoulders, I walked away—and reminded myself to breathe.
The deed was done. All association between us was at an end.
It proved impossible—although I tried—to banish all memory of her, of my proposal, and of its aftermath. How could I forget when my mind continually wandered back there? How could I possibly forsake the one woman who—despite everything—I still loved?
During those early weeks in London, while wholly unmoved by any feeling of wrongdoing, I thought I might run mad as her torturous words rang over and over in my ears.
I was a good man, an honourable man. Why had she, the insolent slip of a girl, not seen that? I doubted the blasted letter would ever make Elizabeth think better of me; but I wondered if she, at least, had read it and, if so, gave any credit to its contents.
Quite some time passed before I was reasonable enough to allow her criticisms the justice they deserved. Then my anger began to take a proper direction.
And I was suitably humbled.
A fortuitous encounter at Pemberley kindled a fire that later blazed into life during a warm autumn day in Hertfordshire and gave me the longed-for second chance.
My darling Lizzy and I have been married these many years now, and the words upon the pages of that letter are but water under the bridge. Having been fed to the flames ages ago by my saucy little minx of a wife, they are naught but powdery residue spread upon Pemberley’s peony patch. Long before their incineration, though, those words gradually removed all
my dearest Elizabeth’s former prejudices against me. The feelings of the letter’s composer and of its recipient are now so opposite from what they were back then, that all unkindnesses have been long forgiven and forgotten.
Coincidentally, the flowers rooted in the letter’s ash still bloom as strong and as beautiful as our marriage. It might be said that our love rose from those very ashes, but our love is built on a more durable foundation than mere cinders and cleansing ash.
Our union has not always been peaceable. Sparks sometimes fly, but our differences have certainly made our life together interesting.
We are both imperfect creatures, but we see through one another’s flaws to the good person within, the person we love. We are each other’s strength and refuge. My world is built around her. I live and breathe for Elizabeth and the offspring she has given me—girls all, so far. There is, however, another child in progress.
Given good principles, our daughters are, despite their Grandmama and Grandpapa Bennet’s efforts, unspoilt and unselfish. There is no improper pride and no prejudice against those beyond our family circle.
One day, God willing, I hope to give Pemberley’s heir better guidance than my own parents gave me. As with our daughters, a son would not only be taught what is right but taught to correct his temper.
No son of mine shall ever need hand to the woman he loves an epistle such as the contemptible one his father handed his mother.
I am eternally grateful that atrocious missive, written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit, was read by only my beloved’s fine eyes. Lawks! Imagine my mortification had the ghastly thing been made available to the world at large.
Pshaw! Unthinkable.
However, as Samuel Johnson penned in Life of Sir Thomas Browne, “Of every great and eminent character, part breaks forth into public view, and part lies hid in domestic privacy.”
The resentful retort I composed and handed to Miss Elizabeth Bennet on the morn of 10 April, 18__, lies buried deep down in Derbyshire dirt, supplanted by domestic felicity.
Fitzwilliam Alfred Darcy’s most confidential and infelicitous thoughts remain, mercifully, untold.
* * *
J. Marie Croft is a self-proclaimed word nerd and adherent of Jane Austen’s quote “Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery.” Bearing witness to her fondness for Pride and Prejudice, wordplay, and laughter are Joanne’s light-hearted novel, Love at First Slight, Babblings of a Bookworm’s Favourite Read of 2014; her humorous short story, “Spyglasses and Sunburns,” in the anthology Sun-Kissed: Effusions of Summer; and a playful novella, A Little Whimsical in His Civilities, Just Jane 1813’s Favourite JAFF Novella of 2016.
If Only a Dream
Joana Starnes
“Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her happy, for she loves to be of use.”
Miss Elizabeth to Mr. Darcy, Chapter LX.
Good morning, sir. Might I take your coat and—?”
An impatient gesture cut the man off; he bowed then reached to close the door. Even before it was shut, Darcy was already bounding up the stairs. He had barely registered the civil query yet peremptorily dismissed it, along with the softly spoken footman. To his mounting ire, his mind’s ear returned to other words, dragging them out from poisonous recesses, as it had for too many hours. Seventeen and a half, to be precise. Harsh words that cut with all the sharpness of a scalpel. Immovable dislike. The last man in the world. Selfish disdain for the feelings of others.
A loud snort left Darcy’s lips. She was a fine one to speak of the latter, having dismissed his avowal of ardent admiration and regard with contemptuous remarks and an assortment of ill-founded reproaches. Ungentlemanlike manner, she had called it! This from a woman so lost to every notion of propriety as to champion a smooth rogue in the midst of his proposal and take him to task over ruining Wickham’s prospects. Wickham’s! He gripped the banister as he gave another snort. Well, now she had the truth of the matter. She must know what vermin she had championed, and nurture no more illusions, once she read his letter. If she read it!
Darcy had no time to explore the sense of acute panic that suddenly gripped him, easily dispelling his dark satisfaction at the thought of Elizabeth bitterly regretting her refusal. Imperious tones rang below, breaking his stride and further bedevilling his humour.
“Nephew! What is the meaning of all this?”
He stopped in his tracks, his features twisting into something between a wince and a scowl. Without pausing to wonder why he should even give himself the trouble any more, he instinctively worked to smooth his countenance into impassive blandness as he turned to face his aunt and see her hastening up the stairs after him, her habitual air of haughty dignity entirely lost as she resumed her remonstrations.
“I have just learnt—from the servants, I might add—that you have given orders for immediate departure.”
Darcy took a deep breath and worked to subdue his temper.
“I have. It is long overdue. I was of course intending to do you the courtesy of informing you in person and—”
Lady Catherine impatiently cut him off.
“Pray tell me, Nephew, when exactly were you intending to do me and your cousin the courtesy of addressing other matters that are long overdue? Such as doing your duty?”
Despite every effort at rigid control, the scowl returned and Darcy’s lips tightened. He sternly delivered a few words of warning.
“This is not the best of times to remind me of my duties.”
Unsurprisingly, the sternness had no effect whatsoever on his aunt.
“If not now, then when? This has gone too far and I will not tolerate further procrastination!”
Darcy’s eyes flashed dangerously at his relation.
“Lady Catherine, pray heed me when I say I will not be worked upon today. I beg you would not force me to say something you would not wish to hear!” he shot back, too incensed at his aunt’s tone and her untimely interference in his affairs to consider he might well come to indulge her, now that he could no longer hope to marry for love. That thought would come later, when despondency settled, along with the bland acknowledgement that he would have to marry someone after all—and why not Anne?
For now, they glared at each other—Darcy at the top of the grand staircase, his aunt paused on the landing; one fiercely unbending nature pitted against the other and neither in the habit of brooking disappointment.
The drop of a pin could have easily been heard in the ensuing silence; the retreating footsteps of the very discreet footman had died out a full minute ago. As headstrong as the other, the two opponents refused to look away or step back from the confrontation, until all of a sudden Lady Catherine seemed to remember that she had other, more feminine, weapons in her not insubstantial arsenal.
“You would speak thus? To me? Your departed mother’s sister and indeed the nearest to a mother that you have?” she fervently exclaimed in accents of injured dismay and, despite the too broad hint, for the briefest moment Darcy’s severity softened.
She was advanced in age. Well into her sixties. Overbearing and infuriating, aye, but still…she was his mother’s sister. And with so few relations left, for Georgiana’s sake, if not his own, he would be well-advised to choose his words better. It would not do to cause an irreparable rupture with his aunt simply because a slip of a girl from Hertfordshire had brought him to the limits of his endurance.
His rigid posture lost some of its stiffness and he released his hold on the banister to descend one step and then another, as he brought himself to offer in a conciliatory manner.
“Lady Catherine, you are in the right. I have not dealt fairly with either you or Anne and a frank discussion is in order. Long overdue, even. But this is not the place,” he added, briefly gesturing around him, “and pray believe me, this is not the time. I must leave Kent at once.”
Lady Catherine gasped.
“What brought this about? You had me thinking your attachment to Rosings was ste
adily increasing. You have extended your stay with us se’nnight after se’nnight, showing that at long last you have become amenable to reason, yet now you are about to leave with so little warning? You cannot! I will not allow it!”
Darcy’s brow shot up. And, as he fought the urge to forcefully remind his aunt how many years had gone by since anyone had had the right to govern his actions, Lady Catherine must have seen for herself that she had overstepped the mark. She offered no apology—it was not her way. Instead, she gasped again and suddenly clutched at the lace and satin covering her bosom as her forbidding visage contorted into agony. Her nephew might have been greatly alarmed, but to the lady’s disadvantage he had not missed the swift, calculating glance she cast his way before launching into the consummate performance.
Thus, far from concerned, for all the dark misery of his circumstances, Darcy had the strangest urge to throw his head back and burst into laughter. That calculating glance—he had seen it oftentimes before. In the eyes of the Town’s matrons and their marriage-minded charges. In Miss Bingley’s. And most frequently in Mrs. Bennet’s. His lips twitched as his diverted eye caught further similarities with the latter. The shallow breaths. The eye roll. One hand still clutching at the fabric on her bosom, the other brought theatrically to her temple. All that was missing was the flapping kerchief and the feeble request for smelling salts, mingled with complaints of flutterings in her chest and assurances that she would feel better once she had been allowed a moment’s rest.
Lady Catherine’s performance was ludicrously close to Mrs. Bennet’s attempt to delay her family’s departure from Netherfield by every means possible at the end of a most unsuccessful dinner. How did his aunt know the precise ways to re-enact it? Had Mr. Collins given her such a detailed description?
Nay, he could not have. He was not there. It must be in their nature then. Artfulness. Deception. Darcy gave a quiet snort. They were all the same. Lowborn or highborn, young or old, Eve’s daughters were all endowed with innate aptitudes for dissimulation. Well, at least Lady Catherine, Mrs. Bennet, Miss Bingley, and the Town’s misses and matrons had a valid and acknowledged purpose in employing theirs. What had she sought to gain by deceiving him with playful banter, saucy repartee, and sparkling eyes? Another conquest to parade before her friends? Paltry amusement? His humiliation?
The Darcy Monologues: A romance anthology of Pride and Prejudice short stories in Mr. Darcy's own words Page 6
