Dear Miss Darcy (The UK Edition)
By Laura Briggs and Sarah Burgess
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Laura Briggs
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British spellings, slang, and phrasing provided by professional UK editor and proofreader Geoff Wolak.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
To Becky S.
who exemplifies the pluck
and independence that is Miss Darcy
Chapter One
Dear Miss Darcy–Is love contagious? Lately whenever I'm around couples, I find myself wanting to fall in love, even though I don't feel romantic when I'm not around any of them! Can you help me figure out what's happening to me?
–Confused in Camden Town
Miss Darcy had an answer for Confused before she finished reading his letter. She had an answer for everyone else's questions about love as well–although she couldn't guarantee the end result was always successful.
Evidence suggested that she was right often enough to justify the stack of mail on her desk at London's fast-growing Morning Post. If an agony aunt fails to provide readers with the right answer, their name usually disappears from the pages of any decent newspaper, but the collection of fan letters and notes of gratitude pinned to the wall behind Miss Darcy's desk suggested hers would not be vacant anytime soon.
Dear Confused, she typed, do not be alarmed– these emotions are perfectly normal and not a symptom that you simply must fall in love no matter the person. While I'm not a science expert, I do detect something of a chemical nature in your situation...
She paused at this point to take a sip from her tea and glance over a few more letters. Letters from desperate girlfriends afraid their boyfriends were cheating; letters from fiances afraid the big step towards matrimony was premature. A letter from one person who confessed themselves to be totally unlovable and wondered what on earth they could do about it?
Chewing her lower lip, she added that one to a pile of answerable mail. There were three stacks of correspondence on Miss Darcy's desk: letters from people who needed help, letters from psychotic readers of the morning newspaper, and letters from scam artists and other shady characters. Two she shredded at the end of each week, but one pile became the basis for her advice column, published Monday through Friday with a special weekend insert on Sundays.
"Livvy, I need the proofs for tomorrow's column by two." Mr. Collins, the Post's Editor-in-Chief, thumped a rolled-up edition of the Morning Post on her desk.
"By two?" she answered. "I won't be ready until three at the earliest. Why rush things?" Sensing ulterior motives in Collins's presence, since he usually reserved their chats for his office, where he could shove himself close to female employees without attracting the pointed stares of other employees.
"The last column on broken hearts was muck," he answered, with a snort. "We need a bit more sensation now and then, luv. A bit of excitement to keep the readers hooked so they won't go slogging off to the competitors."
His oily fingers had left marks on the newsprint, his short stature still not enough to keep him from bending close to her as she thumbed through her stacks of correspondence.
Your words say "sensation", your manner says "smut", Olivia thought. "No lewd habits or naughty tales to relate this week," she replied. "Sorry the readers haven't obliged us with any scandals in their latest correspondence– perhaps we should put out a direct request?" A coy smile plastered itself across her lips with these words.
He made a tisking sound in response. "Too much cheek, Livvy," he answered. "I like that in a writer, you know." With a knowing leer as he slid his way towards the next desk.
"By two," he repeated, over his shoulder as he departed. She waited until his back was turned to indulge a shudder of loathing. Oily hair, oily skin, oily personality. A sneering presence who cornered every female employee in brief encounters where he breathed heavily with the scent of Irish coffee.
But he did admire her column and raised her pay in accordance with her success–with that, she couldn't complain.
She had come an impressive distance for a young woman who landed in the field of love advice by accident, although her success was far from a coincidence. After all, who didn't want to receive love advice from the descendent of one of the greatest love stories in all of England?
*****
When Jane Austen penned the story of a poor gentleman's daughter and a handsome, wealthy suitor, she little realised it was destined for everlasting fame. Immortalised the world over were the names of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy. Who, in real life, were simply a quiet and charming couple who had avoided their fame as best possible within the walls of Pemberley.
The first words on the romance were not penned by the famous authoress Miss Austen, however; they were written by Elizabeth Bennet ne Darcy in her own hand. Visitors to the modern-day site of the love story could read the lines for themselves through thick sheets of display glass in the halls of Pemberley.
I do not pretend that there was something extraordinary in our courtship, but I am always happy to tell it to any friend who wishes to know; and you, my dear Miss Austen, have been a charming acquaintance indeed. For since our meeting, I have enjoyed these frank exchanges we have shared through letter, almost as much as I have enjoyed reading your story ...
While Lizzie claimed she saw nothing extraordinary in her accounts of Mr. Darcy and his romantic pursuit, Miss Austen apparently did. With their permission, she published a short novel of their love story, weaving Lizzie's letters into a somewhat fictionalised version of their life.
Of course, there was no money involved for the family, who little dreamed of the fame to come from the book. As the descendent of the second son born to Lizzie and Darcy, Olivia's branch of the family had long ago parted ways with title and fortune. But the love story had remained a legend, and imparted its own legacy to its descendents. A few keepsakes and heirlooms, a few stories of the famous Miss Austen visiting Pemberley before the book was published. And a sense that romance of some kind was destined for the children of one of history's great love stories.
Being descended from the Bennet-Darcy connection had not guaranteed that Miss Olivia Darcy would be an expert on the subject of love, but it gave her an edge over the competition. An easy confidence, a charming wit, a keen sense of the human heart's inner workings–that was all she needed to be successful, no? So believed Miss Darcy, who possessed them all, along with a pair of wide brown eyes and a knowing smile. The fair curls of her long-ago aunt Jane Bennet could be wound up into an impressive French knot that mixed business with beauty and softened the hearts of sceptics who viewed her profess
ional photo beside the column.
Despite this personal strategy on Olivia’s part, it wasn't her looks and charm that sold the newspaper on her column. It was the first piece of love advice Miss Darcy penned–not as an agony aunt, but a student at university who preferred psychology class to English Literature and letters to emails. A student who dared to correct one of London's most successful advice columnists with a few strokes of a pen and stamp of a white shark in the postage corner.
*****
Although Olivia's entrance into the world of love advice was heralded by an impromptu decision, she was the first to admit that its course was never set in any one direction prior to drafting the letter that changed everything.
At the time, she was a student of psychology torn between pleasing her father by becoming a social worker or pleasing her purse by getting a quicker position as a physical therapist. Living in a flat crowded by framed watercolours and textbooks where she perused secondhand magazines pulled out of the dustbin for potential coupons, supplementing her meagre allowance with shortcuts and bargain goods.
The item that drew her attention that afternoon was a letter printed by one of London's premier agony uncles, Hartshall Elliot of All the Rage magazine. Opposite a tantalizing bargain on shampoo, she found herself reading it as her scissors snipped through the paper.
The column was entitled "Bride to Begrudging?” its introduction written in the typically chic and tongue-in-cheek style that characterised a foppish, metro-sympathetic male columnist. That was Olivia's analysis of the situation involving a young woman who bemoaned her fiancé’s disinterest in their wedding, even missing meetings with their planner.
What she should think–was he losing interest in her, or just in the ceremony? Should she be concerned?
Obviously, it was a case of disinterest, maybe even a case of infidelity as anyone with reasonable judgment when it came to relationships would detect. Reading the bride's self-deprecating fear between the lines, she could picture her meek responses to the groom-to-be's vague explanations over the phone.
Her eyes automatically flickered to Hartshall's advice, half-expecting an indictment of the young man's carelessness. Her face flushed with indignation as she read his words.
Cut your future groom a bit of slack, love. If he's not interested in you, he'd break it off, not make it a round of reluctance whenever he calls. So keep in mind that flowers and other wedding frills will fail to arouse his enthusiasm the way a rugby match would and settle for being second best for now to his mates and male-friendly activities.
It was sardonic; it was condescending. Moreover, it was completely wrong. Almost reflexively, Olivia's scissors snipped threateningly in the direction of the paper, then paused when the silliness of the gesture hit her. Paper and print wouldn't feel the sting of a retort meant for a self-absorbed columnist who was a stranger to her.
She recognized the name of Hartshall Elliot from occasional mentions in the tabloids, his picture sometimes on the cover alongside his candid advice to celebrity marriages on the rocks. A pompous expression on a face made fleshy from decadent living and hobnobbing with pseudo-celebrities at clubs and parties.
Clearly his talent was overrated, judging from the garbage he spouted to his confused victim. With a little extra vigour in her arm, Olivia tossed the cut-up magazine towards the dustbin.
But the article occupied her thoughts, to the point where she found herself following another impulse. Scribbling her thoughts on a sheet of notepaper, a scathing rebuke in her eyes of Mr. Elliot's lack of sympathy.
Dear Mr. Elliot,
As a first-time reader of your column in "All the Rage", I was astonished by the piece of advice you offered to Bride to Be with regards to her fiancé’s forgetful state of mind.
You dismissed her questions regarding his commitment entirely, excusing his lack of enthusiasm as nothing more than "bad manners" on par with an eight-year-old unskilled with using a fork. But anyone with any sense, Mr. Elliot, would be asking the same sort of questions as this bride.
She paused momentarily–was that too strong, perhaps? But didn’t Mr. Elliot deserve something strong, after relegating his reader’s problem to the complaint dustbin? Her pen continued on with rapid strokes.
It's one thing to forget one appointment– but two or three? Surely the shame of the first incident would have spurred him to make an effort the next time. Instead, he seemed emboldened by the incident, offering her a weak explanation for the second time he failed to show at an important event.
Moreover, the nature of the excuses (my alarm clock failed, my boss asked me to stay longer) should set off a few alarm bells for any young woman who wants a lifetime of commitment from her groom-to-be. If she's the love of his life, shouldn't he be picking up the phone first– to explain himself before she has the chance to form negative conclusions?
Negative conclusions. It was far, far too late to prevent that–of that she felt certain. Picturing the groom’s ape-like babbling when confronted–or perhaps he would he be the smooth liar who pawned his habits off on marital jitters.
In short, I think it's time the couple had a heart-to-heart about his commitment to their plans (and maybe his fidelity, too). That's the advice I feel you should have offered this young woman who obviously trusts your insights. Instead, you justified the late-offered excuses of her fiancé–which is the last thing she needed to hear.
Sincerely,
Miss Olivia Darcy.
She posted it to the magazine’s address and resigned the issue to the recycling bin for good. With a psychology exam coming up and a part-time stint doing hired housework for the weekend, she forgot about the incident altogether.
Two weeks later, however, the ghost of Elliot’s advice returned. It happened at a newsstand where Miss Darcy selected the latest issue of Rage at random as she thumbed idly through a display of magazine issues for interesting articles for her psychology class.
A few pages flew by, exposing the editorial sections and a paragraph that caught her eye. As a first-time reader of your column in “All the Rage”, I was astonished by the piece of advice you offered Bride to Be…
Signed at the bottom, Miss Olivia Darcy.
In shock, she almost dropped the magazine. Her name in print? In the editorial section of the city’s best-selling magazine? The unintended consequences struck her with sledgehammer force as she stared at the bold print below.
"You buyin', miss?" The shopkeeper studied her with raised eyebrows.
"Yes, I … I suppose so," she stammered, fishing a few coins from her pocket. Why on earth had they published her name? Let alone her letter, which she assumed would be mailed to the columnist as a private piece of her mind. Folding the issue in half, she stuffed it in her book bag.
She was almost late to class as she took off in the direction of university with quicker than usual steps, hoping this particular issue of Rage would go unnoticed by any of her friends or family who might happen to read the magazine. If any possible good came from this, she was certain, it would be if Bride to Begrudging was a regular reader with a fondness for Letters to the Editor.
The second round of consequences from Rage editorial was more personal: a letter from Harshall Elliot’s pen. When she unfolded the letter, she found a kindly-worded, patronizing sheet of paper that suggested she learn a little more about relationships before offering advice on a regular basis.
Stuffing it back in the envelope, she should have wondered about the reasons behind Elliot’s personal address, but she didn't wonder long. Her idea of “buzz” in the world of printed medium was a foreign concept; the thought that her letter might be interesting to publishers because of its author’s “keen insights” on human nature was laughable.
Which explained the jolt of surprise awaiting her when she answered the phone ringing in her flat in the middle of the day.
Dropping her bag of books as she stepped through the door, she lifted the receiver, wondering why anyone she knew would ph
one her during normal class hours. But the male voice which greeted her on the other end was decidedly unfamiliar.
"Is this Miss Darcy?" His tone was leering, slightly oily as though something oozing from pores. This graphic description swam through her mind at the sound, along with a sense of confusion.
"Who is this?" she asked. There was a slight snicker on the other end, along with the crackle of paperwork.
"I read your little smack to Hartshall Elliot in All the Rage, Miss Darcy," the voice continued. "Quite a blow to the cheeky windbag and it's caused quite a stir among a few editors."
“I’m sorry, but who are you? And how did you find me?" she interrupted, wishing a second later she'd bit her tongue. Feigning nonchalance, she added, "You looked up my address by the name, I take it?" Why, why did they print my name? She groaned inwardly. More to the point, why on earth did she sign her name to the letter in the first place? Opening the door for every daft stranger who read Rage to track her down.
"To the point, Miss Darcy–would that be one of the Darcy's, I assume?"
"It is," she answered. There was a loud harrumph on the other end.
"Good. Very good. I like your style, Miss Darcy. Fresh, professional, and rather snappy. That's why I want you to send us your work. This is Collins over at the Morning Post–you've heard of the Morning Post, I assume?"
"I have," she answered, racking her brain for specifics. Not a magazine, not a tabloid, she was certain. "The little one next to the Telegraph on the rack, isn't it?"
"We're the fastest-rising circulation in London with over one thousand issues sold on the street daily," Mr. Collins replied, tersely. "Write up a little something, some first-person perspectives on romance and so forth and send them to us. We'll pay you for anything we use."
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