The Darcy Monologues: A romance anthology of Pride and Prejudice short stories in Mr. Darcy's own words

by Joana Starnes

  Very well. She had her wish. He had been thoroughly humiliated. Let that be her only satisfaction when she aged into a bitter spinster or as a tradesman’s wife!

  The fresh burst of anger swiftly dispelled the vaguely better humour he owed Lady Catherine, so much so that the performance no longer had the power to divert him; not even when it was skilfully enhanced with a wince and a faltering request:

  “Nephew… Your hand… Pray attend me, I am suddenly unwell…”

  “Flutterings to your chest, perchance?” Darcy inquired curtly, and Lady Catherine’s eyes widened by a fraction.

  “I… Yes. How did you know?”

  “A common enough affliction, I was given to discover,” he replied with so little sympathy that the wilful performer must have determined it was time to become far more convincing.

  She swayed—and it was masterfully done. The perfect impression of an aged frame suddenly weakened by illness and ill-usage. Whether she would have stooped to feigning a swoon—there, on the landing—Darcy would never know. Lady Catherine had neglected to take two crucial points into account: one, that her hapless servants had been too often drilled to polish every surface to perfection; and two, that she was too close to the edge. Both points conspired to work against her. The feigned loss of balance turned hideously real. She reached to grab the banister in the utmost panic but found it slipping from her grasp. She fell, rolling all the way from the landing to the bottom of the stairs. She probably cried out, as he might have. Darcy could not tell. Remorseful and anxious, he ran down to assist her. Several servants rushed in too, their shocked glances darting between him and their groaning mistress.

  “Send for the physician!” Darcy called out as he crouched beside her where she still lay, face down. He tentatively touched her shoulder. “Aunt? Can you hear me?”

  To his relief, she stirred and turned, then reassured him further with a sharp retort, much more in keeping with her nature than the show of dainty weakness on the landing.

  “Yes, yes! I have lost my balance, not my hearing. Come now, do not dally. Help me to my feet!” Her Ladyship commanded.

  “Are you quite certain you can stand? You took a severe fall,” Darcy cautiously remarked only to receive a grim scowl for his efforts.

  Lady Catherine sneered.

  “Why, thank you for informing me. It quite escaped my notice. Of course I can stand,” she snapped. “Help me up!”

  Darcy did as bid, but to everybody’s shock—herself included—Lady Catherine was once more proven wrong that day. No sooner had she been restored to the dignity of standing on her own two feet than she relinquished it and fell back with a roar of pain, loud enough to be heard from the end of the drive, if not the church and parsonage.

  * * *

  No! It could not be real—this nightmare, this complete disaster.

  Yet for all his disjointed inward protestations, Darcy had to concede that the nightmare was real enough. He could not leave Rosings! He was marooned there by his aunt’s fall—her own blasted fault and nobody else’s—and her deuced broken ankle. The physician harboured no doubts on the matter. The stark reality was plain once Lady Catherine had been installed upon one of the sofas in the drawing room and the injury was examined. By the time the old physician had arrived, her left ankle had swollen more than twice in size and had turned an ugly shade of purple.

  “No, ’tis not a sprain.” Old Mr. Henshaw despondently confirmed the worst expectations, shaking his head in solemn sympathy. “I could feel the broken bone under the skin—begging Your Ladyship’s pardon once again for causing you more pain with the examination. Laudanum will help, if taken in substantial quantity. I will send instructions to the apothecary for a draught. But firstly, you must be taken above stairs and made comfortable in your bedchamber, then the fracture must be immobilised. Thank goodness, only the thinner bone was broken—the fibula, as we call it—and not the stronger tibia. Still, with every pull of the muscles the two ends are drawn further apart and this must be stopped, or the fracture will heal poorly—”

  “How long will it take?” Darcy interrupted before Lady Catherine could speak.

  “Six weeks at the very least, and that in a young person where the body still has all its healing powers—” the physician tactlessly replied, only to provoke his incensed patient.

  “I trust you are not suggesting I am too old to heal,” Lady Catherine enunciated, making the other quail under her glare.

  “Heavens, no, my lady! Merely that it might take a vast deal longer…”

  But Darcy was no longer paying any heed to the man’s frantic attempts to mitigate Her Ladyship’s displeasure. Six weeks! Lord above! Surely, he was not expected to remain there until she made a full recovery. But he was doubtlessly duty-bound to remain for at least another se’nnight … the exact duration of her remaining stay at Hunsford! He had expected that by nightfall he would have put as many miles as possible between them!

  His frantic pacing brought him to the wall and Darcy did an about-turn to pace in the opposite direction, his heels hitting the floor in rhythmic and precise succession, with the very sound that an exacting sergeant would expect from his recruits. Colonel Fitzwilliam looked up to assess his cousin’s progress with no small amount of interest. Lady Catherine glanced his way as well, her eyes shooting daggers.

  “Will you not cease that infernal pacing, Darcy? I suppose I should thank you for your concern, but you are driving me to distraction!” she cast over her shoulder and groaned again.

  From his post at the other end of the sofa, Mr. Collins cringed and wrung his hands as he bowed, seemingly to his patroness’s injured ankle propped up on two cushions.

  To Darcy’s growing irritation, the parson had escorted Fitzwilliam back to Rosings on his cousin’s return from the, now woefully premature, leave-taking visit, and had bemoaned Her Ladyship’s predicament in the most profuse and aggravating manner.

  “Pray allow me to hurry to the apothecary and bring you relief for the pain. I will consider myself fortunate if I could spare you a moment’s suffering! Sadly, it would not be at all proper for me to attend you but, same as myself, Mrs. Collins will deem it a privilege to serve you. She is gone into the village now with Miss Maria, but I will send her to you directly she returns. Until then I will fetch my cousin Elizabeth. She will do well enough for—”

  “No! She has no business here! I will not have it!”

  The overpowering silence that followed his instinctive outburst brought Darcy to his senses. To his dismay, he found four pairs of eyes fixed upon him with sentiments ranging from surprise to outrage.

  “You will not have it?” Lady Catherine was the only one to question his shockingly poor choice of words. “I daresay this very circumstance would not have arisen had you taken steps to earn the right to command at Rosings,” she said with a gesture towards her injury, her voice dripping with resentment. “As it is, you do not possess it, and I will thank you to remember that. As for the young woman, she is tolerable I suppose, although vexingly outspoken—”

  Darcy valiantly suppressed a wince at hearing his own dismissive words voiced in an uncanny echo of his old faux pas and, although disguise of every sort was his abhorrence, he latched upon the opportunity Lady Catherine had presented for him to cover his unfortunate slip of the tongue.

  “Indeed. And at the moment, you do not require further provocation.”

  Fitzwilliam’s brow arched at his disingenuous pronouncement, but its purpose was served, for Lady Catherine appeared slightly mollified.

  “I daresay there may be truth in that—” she sniffed “—your thoughtfulness does you credit, Nephew, belated as it might be. Very well. Send your wife to Rosings, Mr. Collins, when she returns from Hunsford, and Miss Lucas too. I imagine Anne will appreciate some company. Speaking of Anne, Darcy, I trust I can rely upon you to extend her your thoughtfulness as well at this trying time,” she pointedly instructed, settling a level look upon her nephew.

  D
arcy bowed, and his reply was no less pointed.

  “We can at least be thankful that your injured ankle has not worsened your heart condition,” he tersely remarked.

  If he imagined she would show signs of discomposure, she was supremely unwilling to oblige him. A lady of her quality was above betraying so plebeian an emotion as mortification. She did not even blush. It was Mr. Collins whose colour and agitation heightened.

  “Your Ladyship!” he cried. “A heart condition?”

  “I was not aware of it either. My lady, perhaps a more detailed examination is in order,” the physician also hastened to suggest.

  But Lady Catherine dismissed their concern with a regal gesture.

  “See to my ankle now, Mr. Henshaw,” she loftily retorted. “I am a firm believer in tackling each difficulty in its own time.”

  * * *

  Darcy might have claimed the same once. After all, he had been brought up to uphold the same principles and rules of conduct as his relations. That Lady Catherine chose to follow them in a deceitful manner was something he had deplored and inwardly censured. Yet now that difficulties—nay, disasters—were coming all at once leaving no hope for them to be addressed composedly one at a time, he found himself following in his aunt’s footsteps and stooping to deceit as well!

  He scowled. What else could he resort to in this pitiful debacle but deceit?

  So, there he was, spinning one falsehood after another.

  He had told Richard that the sole reason for his foul temper was the unforeseen mishap that tethered him to Rosings when he had more than enough reasons to be elsewhere—and no, they did not pertain to Miss Elizabeth Bennet, for whom he had not offered and had no intention to. The truth would have to be revealed eventually, but not now and not there. Over and above everything else, he would be damned if he would also endure Richard’s pity!

  He had told Anne that of course it was no hardship to extend his stay at Rosings—he could not very well leave her to face this trying time alone.

  He had told Lady Catherine, when the topic could no longer be avoided, that he would be pleased to address the issue of his manifold duties before the year was out. That was not a falsehood in essentials—only insofar as claiming to be pleased about it. No matter. It had to be done. At least one thing was certain: Lady Catherine would be pleased enough for all parties.

  He had told Mr. and Mrs. Collins that he was in their debt for their dutiful attendance. This was not entirely a falsehood either, little as he could bear to spend time with the deeply vexing man. As for the lady, she was of great assistance in providing Lady Catherine with company and occupation—or rather giving her an audience for her rants and complaints. More to the point, Mrs. Collins’s regular attendance ensured that the same was not requested of her friend.

  He had not laid eyes on her since handing her the letter. He had avoided the Hunsford parsonage as though it were riddled with all the plagues of Egypt; likewise, all the woodland paths where there was the slightest risk of an encounter. He had spent the last couple of days doing a few hours’ penance in Lady Catherine’s sickroom, then riding as far away from Rosings as man and beast could handle, to return with barely enough time to dress for dinner. He would then sit with his cousins, toy with his food upon the plate, and repeatedly assure them that apart from Lady Catherine’s condition there was nothing whatsoever troubling him.

  Yet now the grimmest trial was upon him. This morning he would have to see her again. It could not be avoided. He could not very well absent himself from Sunday service, not when Lady Catherine was incapacitated, and he and Fitzwilliam had a duty to stand beside Anne as she undertook her mother’s role. Nothing to be done about it. An appearance in the family pew was mandatory.

  Darcy clenched his jaw as the church came into view, the rectangular tower low and squat, barely visible above the yews—a most unprepossessing building for a parish church under Rosings’ patronage. It will be done. It must be. A word of greeting, a brief exchange of dull civilities, an hour under the same roof. Surely, he could withstand that after the hell he had endured already! And then he grimaced. No, not an hour. Two, most likely. The verbose parson had already demonstrated he was incapable of composing a short sermon. Two hours! His jaw clenched again and his back stiffened. At his right, Anne gave a quiet chuckle.

  “Goodness, Darcy! One would think you were going to the gallows.”

  With some effort, Darcy brought himself out of dark ruminations.

  “Pardon?”

  “Your grimace,” Anne elaborated. “Are you well?”

  “As well as anyone can be in expectation of that man’s sermonising,” Darcy said, dissembling with a practised shrug.

  “Oh, you can set that fear aside. And that uncomfortable look as well, if the sole cause is Mr. Collins’s sermon.”

  “Of course it is! What else?”

  “Indeed. Well, take heart. I believe he will be more concise today.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Anne gave a light shrug of her own.

  “My mother was in no fit state to advise him, and without her prompting, I doubt Mr. Collins can find quite so many topics on which the congregation needs instruction.”

  On Anne’s other side, Fitzwilliam stifled a guffaw and Darcy could only roll his eyes at his cousin’s manner. Both his cousins’, come to think of it. Anne’s light quip at her mother’s expense was novel, yet however undutiful under the circumstances, it was not entirely unwelcome. At least he could find some reassurance in seeing this side of her. It would be easier to live with, more companionable than the bland nothingness she exhibited in Lady Catherine’s presence. Companionship for him and Georgiana … what a bland notion that was too, when viewed against what he had dreamt of…

  The sharp sense of loss found him unprepared, as did the assault of vividly bright scenes flashing through his overwrought imagination. A life full of joy and laughter. The wince turned into a scowl as he fought against the unwarranted intrusion. If Anne noticed it, this time she did not say a word.

  By God, she will not have the upper hand! She will not know how much her ill-judged refusal cost him. She will not see his pain!

  If there was anything he had ever learnt in eight and twenty years, it was self-control and the paramount importance of doing his duty. He would present her with the finest show of cold indifference and she would go forth to whatever life awaited her, while he would return to his. And he would do his duty! By Georgiana, by Anne, and by his heritage.

  Upon reflection, dwelling on his duty to the latter was unwise just now, seeing as it was so intrinsically linked to begetting an heir with Anne. Not a prospect he could contemplate with anything but dutiful reluctance and the surest way, moreover, of bringing the worst thoughts to the fore. There could not be a starker contrast to the bliss he had longingly envisaged for his marriage bed—and if the previous assault of unwelcome visions had brought a sharp pang to his chest, the violent new onslaught took him to the brink of overwhelming anger. With her, naturally, and with himself in equal measure. He would conquer this. He would exorcise her, one way or another! She would not be permitted to wreak this hellish havoc in his life!

  Of all the events and people that provoked his ire, for once Mr. Collins ranked so very low, to the point of barely qualifying for that list. Nevertheless, it was the hapless parson who received the full brunt of Darcy’s darkest look of anger when he hastened from the porch to welcome the exalted party. Mr. Collins quaked and seemed compelled to bow again.

  Darcy did not wait for the obsequious vicar to resume the closest he could come to a vertical position. One hand on Anne’s elbow and the other coming up to remove his hat, he muttered through clenched teeth, “Let us go in and get this over with!”

  As soon as the words escaped him, Darcy wished he had chosen them better. This was not the sentiment anyone should voice entering the house of the Lord, and for once, Collins’s look of dismay showed that their thoughts were in agreement. B
ut the man merely sighed and the dismay seemed to melt into resignation. For all his limited mental powers, he must have had sufficient common sense—or rather enough sense of self-preservation—to forgo putting his censure into words.

  * * *

  The little church was full. Not in recognition of Mr. Collins’s abilities as a parson, Darcy inwardly scoffed, but simply because it was the only one in an eight-mile radius. He had barely made his way into the de Bourgh pew behind Fitzwilliam and Anne when profound relief washed over him at noting that Mrs. Collins and her sister were the only occupants of the lesser one reserved for the vicar’s relations. She was not in attendance. He refused to wonder why. His whole frame lost its tension, and Darcy bowed silently to the two ladies, only to be shocked into further anger when his relief was followed by the most unwarranted sense of disappointment. Lips tight and the dark scowl back in place, he took his seat, willing Collins to get on with the service. Eventually, the foolish man saw fit to oblige, and Darcy steeled himself for the bland offering and began to count his blessings. It did not take him long. The current tally only went as high as “one” for, despite the ludicrous flash of disappointment at her absence, he would not see it as anything other than a blessing.

  Up in the pulpit, the man began to drone. Listening to his words was as unprofitable an exercise as ever and certainly not likely to soothe anyone’s spirits. For all his show of piety, Mr. Collins was far more apt to worship his patroness than his Maker, which must have been the reason he was preferred to the Hunsford living in the first place. There he was, pontificating on the subject that must now be closest to his heart: the benefits of a healthy spirit in a healthy body and the Lord’s mercy, which might finally restore the afflicted to their former flourishing state.