This Disconcerting Happiness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Christina Morland

  I would prefer to dwell on happier thoughts. Perhaps that is why I have read your letter many times since you placed it in my hands yesterday morning. You claimed that, in fearing for my sister, you were being selfish. Such logic is so endearingly erroneous that I can only assume you do not understand the meaning of selfishness. Indeed, as my cousin has been so kind to point out, I am an expert on the subject, so I may declare that you have no right to use the word.

  I have stared at the page for several minutes, thinking how best to describe my sister to you. She has a quiet yet sharp wit, a generous heart, and a love of the natural world. She is an excellent rider, prefers Mozart, as you know, to all other composers, and is good with the tenants at Pemberley. She is painfully shy around individuals she does not know, but she will talk for an hour with hardly a pause if she trusts you. When the three of us are together at Pemberley—I do not know when this will be, but I am determined that it shall be so—I will no doubt find myself competing with her for your attention.

  Thank you for giving me leave to read your letter to Georgiana. I found it altogether fitting, and I am certain that Georgiana will cherish it. Now, I must admit, as charming as I found the style of your letter to me, I do have one complaint. The greeting seemed unnecessarily formal. I had hoped, after our conversation the other evening, you had abandoned Mr. Darcy for Fitzwilliam. Do you know that I have never liked my Christian name, not until hearing it on your lips?

  Excuse me for becoming sentimental; I will restrict myself to more sensible prose: I love you. I can think of no more rational phrase than that.

  Yours,

  F.D.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The cold mist that had settled over the city would have encouraged most gentlemen to call for their carriages, but Darcy preferred to walk the short distance between his home in Berkeley Square and his uncle’s at Grosvenor Square. Such mornings provided him with the rare opportunity to enjoy the outdoors without feeling crowded and crushed by the ceaseless bustle of London.

  Even in the rain, though, the city hummed with activity. The rattle of carriage wheels reverberated against the stone and marble exteriors of Mayfair’s fine houses, which sheltered families not unlike his own (and yet very much unlike his own). A few windows remained open despite the weather, usually on the upper levels where maids gossiped and laughed as they worked. From these gaps in the facade, private lives seeped into the streets: laughter, raised voices, scales on an out-of-tune piano—ordinary sounds to all except those who produced them.

  “Imagine!” his mother had exclaimed when, as a boy of ten, he had accompanied her to London. “All of this life! All of these people! And we shall never have enough time to know them all!”

  Anne Fitzwilliam Darcy had been the only Darcy to love London, the only one to feel as if its pandemonium were an escape from the quiet of the country. Having spent every winter and spring of her childhood in town, she had once dreamed of the day when she would host charming dinner parties at which all of society’s interesting people would orbit her like planets around the sun.

  Then she had met George Darcy.

  “My brother said you had arrived in town.”

  Startled by the familiar voice, Darcy turned to see his eldest cousin, Charles Fitzwilliam, Viscount of Grantley, emerging from a carriage parked along the street. He was flanked by two footmen, one of whom held an umbrella over his lordship while the second struggled to balance an odd-shaped package.

  “Do you mean to say that you walked in this mess?” Grantley asked before turning to the footman who held the parcel. “Hurry inside with that, and make sure you do not allow the rain to dampen it! I have just purchased,” he said to Darcy, “the finest set of pistols you have ever seen. Indeed, they are so fine that I did not trust the dealer to deliver them, for these tradesmen have been known to promise one set of goods and deliver another. Oh, and Cambers!” he called after the footman, “get an umbrella for my cousin!”

  “It is only a drizzle, and we are but a minute’s walk from the house,” Darcy replied. “I do not need an umbrella.”

  Grantley smiled. “You always have been an odd one, Darcy. I can only hope that the Earl of Sheffield is not visiting my sister, for he is particular about appearances, and would be shocked by your red nose and damp hair. But then it is still morning, and we did not expect any callers, even family, until the afternoon. Oh, do put that away!” he said to a breathless Cambers, who had rushed back out with the umbrella. “We do not need you now.”

  Darcy offered the bedraggled footman a small smile of thanks.

  “Is that Richard?” Grantley exclaimed, looking down the street. “It must be the new fashion, walking in the pouring rain! You and Richard are both damned strange, if you ask me.”

  As he made his way across the Square, Richard appeared as solemn as Darcy felt. When he reached them, the colonel greeted his older brother and nodded curtly at Darcy.

  “No doubt you two conspired while drinking together last night,” Grantley said as the trio made their way to the front door of Matlock house. “You thought to play a funny joke on me, both showing up at the same time, in the rain!”

  “Yes, Charles,” Richard said, his tone mild, “we spoke of you a great deal last evening. In fact, you were our only topic of conversation.”

  Darcy, momentarily forgetting his animosity, glanced at Richard, who also dropped his guard and smiled.

  Grantley waved his hand. “I do not appreciate sarcasm.”

  “Of that I am aware,” replied his brother.

  “I hear enough of it from my wife,” Grantley continued as they entered the house. “Indeed, if you see her in the drawing room this morning, do not tell her I have returned; I would like some time to myself before I hear just how ridiculous she thinks I am for purchasing another set of pistols. As if she knows anything about pistols!”

  Grantley threw off his hat and overcoat (both of which were caught by a servant, who must have been used to his lordship’s tendencies) and marched off in the direction of his quarters, leaving Darcy with Colonel Fitzwilliam.

  “You are calling early,” Richard said, his voice echoing in the marble vestibule as he handed off his own hat and coat.

  Darcy waited for the servants to depart before admitting, “I could not stay away.”

  “God, Fitz, what a mess this is. Our discussion last night—”

  Darcy shook his head. “It will do neither of us any good to revisit it.”

  “Perhaps not. Well, come on, let us brave the drawing room together.”

  Even before they reached their destination, they could hear Lady Catherine: “Play something cheerful this time, for I do loathe those dreary sonatas you so often play! You cannot expect to excel, Georgiana, if you do not practice in the correct way, and I do not think that melancholy music is suitable for practice. Do you not agree, Susan?”

  “Indeed,” Lady Catherine continued, without waiting for a response from her sister-in-law, “I think it wrong of any composer to create such somber music. What have they to complain about in life?”

  Just before entering the drawing room, Richard put a hand on Darcy’s shoulder. “Listen to me carefully, Fitz. It will do you no good to lose your temper the way you did last evening. I am not judging,” he continued quietly, holding up a hand to stave off Darcy’s interruption, “whether you were right or wrong. I am only being practical, as I think you should be.”

  Darcy stared into the room, watching as Georgiana made her way to the piano. He studied her profile, wondering why he had never before noticed how much she resembled their mother. He could not say exactly how—the shape of her jaw, the height of her cheekbones, the way her hair fell against her ear? Maybe it was none of these things, or all of them. But he was so struck by the similarity that he drew in a sharp breath.

  As Lady Catherine continued her sermon on why composers should only write in major keys, Georgiana began to play. From his vantage point, Darcy could not see his aunt, but he h
eard her bellow, “That is not what I called for!”

  Georgiana stopped. Without turning away from the keyboard, she said, “But I quite like this piece,” and then resumed playing.

  Darcy’s eyes widened.

  “Did I not tell you she was adjusting?” Richard whispered with a smile.

  Lady Catherine’s claim to the contrary, the tune was not melancholy, but it was not cheerful, either. The piece was too moving to be labeled so simplistically, and Georgiana played it perfectly. Or she would have, had she not stopped when she caught sight of him standing in the doorway.

  “Why have you stopped? I hope you have changed your mind about the piece because it is…”

  Lady Catherine continued speaking (for she believed only in interrupting, never in being interrupted), but Darcy had stopped listening. He was wholly absorbed by the sight of his sister, her eyes full of tears, as she ran to him.

  They embraced for a long moment before he tipped her chin up and said, “I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you.”

  “And I you,” she whispered back.

  “Well, Darcy!” Lady Catherine came to stand next to them, her arms crossed. “I see you have finally deigned to pay us a visit!”

  Remembering his cousin’s advice, Darcy forced himself to greet her without a trace of malice.

  “And Richard! Why were you and Darcy not properly announced? Darcy, come greet your cousin Anne!”

  Without letting go of Georgiana’s hand, he went to the other ladies in the room: first to his aunt Susan, Lady Matlock, a tall, statuesque woman who had given Richard his cheerful good looks and the majority of his common sense; then to Lady Grantley, formerly the Honorable Miss Isabella Wycote, until Grantley had married her two Seasons prior; and finally to his cousins, Sophia and Anne. No two women could have been more different: Sophia, much like her brothers, had, if not a handsome face, then at least happy one, while Anne, though blessed with fine features, appeared miserable and sickly.

  For the rest of the morning, and most of the afternoon, too, Darcy behaved as well as he could. That is to say, he spoke very little, but this at least had the advantage of giving less offense than if he had spoken a great deal. Of course, in such company, it was difficult to get a word in edgewise.

  The Earl of Matlock shared his younger sister’s ability to dominate a conversation, and when he and Lady Catherine were in the room together, there was not a moment’s silence. Indeed, the siblings could not allow a quarter of an hour to pass without engaging in a competition: when Lady Catherine spoke of the play they had seen last night, Lord Matlock spoke of every play he had seen last season; when Lady Catherine spoke of the improvements at Rosings, her brother spoke of the new wing of his estate; when Lady Catherine spoke of Anne’s many accomplishments, the Earl spoke of Sophia’s impending marriage.

  “They do this every afternoon,” Georgiana whispered to him when the clock struck three.

  “What is that you say, my dear?” the Earl demanded.

  “I said it is a lovely afternoon, Uncle.”

  “You are of such a cheerful disposition, my dear,” said Lady Matlock. “I would not call it lovely for all the world. All of this rain!”

  “Grantley tells me, Darcy, that you were walking in this weather,” scolded Lord Matlock. “You, too, Richard! That is very unbecoming. Why you should wish to walk in the first place, I do not know. It is why carriages were invented.”

  “By walking in the rain, you are very likely to catch cold,” Lady Catherine said. “I have often said that to catch a cold is to bring God’s wrath upon you, for it is such an unnecessary ailment. I have never in my life had a cold! Why, just the other day, when we were still at Rosings, I told my parson, Mr. Collins, that God punishes the wicked with colds. It is why the servants are always sniffling.”

  “Oh, colds are very shocking,” said Lady Grantley. “I fear the colonel and Darcy will have red noses for Christmas.”

  “You do not care when I have a red nose,” said Grantley, “and I am your husband.”

  “I doubt the colonel or Darcy purchase useless pieces of metal simply to annoy their wives.”

  “They do not have wives.”

  “But if they did—”

  “Speaking of wives,” Lady Catherine said, turning to smile at Anne.

  Richard stood so quickly that he looked almost as if he were jumping to attention. “Father, I should like to show Fitz your new purchases for the library. You know how he enjoys books. Georgiana, you will accompany us, will you not?”

  Darcy’s gratitude was so great that he thought his cousin might call him selfish every day for the rest of their lives without inspiring any more animosity.

  “I do not think now is the time,” Lord Matlock protested. “The Earl of Sheffield will call at any moment, and I do believe Darcy should meet him. He can be of great use to this family.”

  “We will not be gone long, sir,” Richard assured his father. Then going to his father, he said in a stage whisper: “Darcy claimed last night that Pemberley had the better library. I wish to prove him wrong, you see.”

  The Earl frowned. “You are not fooling me, Richard. Very well, Darcy, if you would like a moment to speak with your sister alone, I will grant it to you.”

  “But then you must speak to Anne!” Lady Catherine said.

  With his hands clutched behind his back and his jaw clenched, Darcy said, “You are too kind, sir.”

  With a condescending smile, the Earl waved them away.

  “You will show Fitz to the library, Georgi?” Richard asked when they had left the drawing room. “I am taking this opportunity to pour myself a rather large cup of brandy and enjoy a moment’s peace.”

  *

  When Mr. Collins hobbled to the carriage that would take him from Longbourn to Kent, no one (except perhaps Cook, who admired anyone capable of eating multiple servings of her dishes) regretted his departure.

  “You must be very careful,” Mr. Bennet managed in a raspy voice. Despite Elizabeth’s remonstrations, he stood outside with the rest of the family to see his cousin off. “We would not want you to injure yourself again.”

  “Your kindness, dear sir, is a credit to you.” Mr. Collins then looked to his left, to his right, behind and in front of him as if preparing himself for an attack.

  “You need not worry, Mr. Collins,” Elizabeth said, smiling. “We do not keep a cat, and Sam Johnson is asleep on the floor of my father’s study. Unless the chickens have again escaped their pen, I think you are safe from all domestic animals at present.”

  She knew it was wrong to tease her cousin; he had not, after all, meant to step on the Lucas’s cat three days prior. Dandy, however, had not known it was an accident, which is why the tabby had plunged his nails into Mr. Collins’ leg, causing the poor man to trip over his own feet and sprain his ankle.

  (“The more I think on it,” Mr. Bennet had said to Elizabeth the night before, “the more I believe Dandy is responsible for making Charlotte Lucas the next mistress of Longbourn.”)

  “While I appreciate your concern for my safety,” Mr. Collins said, turning away from the carriage to glare at Elizabeth, “I think your time would be more profitably spent thinking on the dangers confronting your soul. You would not want your father to go his grave thinking his daughter a deceitful—”

  “Now, now, Mr. Collins,” Mr. Bennet said, “I think we have had enough of that.”

  “Indeed!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. “I wish you would get in the carriage and never retur—”

  “Mr. Bingley,” Jane interrupted, “would you be so kind as to help our cousin into the carriage?”

  As Mr. Bingley moved to shut the carriage door, Mr. Collins performed one final sermon: “Lady Catherine once said to me words that I will never forget, and I pray you never forget, Cousin Elizabeth: lying lips are an abomination to the Lord, but they that deal truly are his delight!”

  Mary frowned as their cousin’s carriage rolled away. “That is from Proverbs,
Chapter 12, Verse 22—not Lady Catherine!”

  “Whatever it is, it is very boring,” said Lydia.

  “May we not go inside? I am cold,” added Kitty, rounding off the conversation in such a way that made Elizabeth glad Mr. Darcy was in London where he could not see such a spectacle.

  “Well, it is good to know that we are all back to normal,” Mr. Bennet said with a crooked smile.

  “Normal?” Mrs. Bennet replied. “How can you say such a thing, Mr. Bennet!”

  “Yes, I did forget that Mr. Bingley is an addition to our party,” Bennet said, taking Elizabeth’s arm as they all moved inside. “You must do a better job of being silly, Bingley, or I will not know you are here.”

  Bingley tried to smile, but still unaccustomed to the news that Mr. Bennet was dying, he was having a difficult time maintaining his cheerfulness.

  Indeed, there was not a soul in Longbourn who did not feel the melancholy that had settled over the house. The effect of this misery was to magnify some aspect of each resident’s personality. This was to the benefit of the household in only a few cases: Jane behaved with even more warmth and patience, and Mrs. Hill, who had always managed the household with efficiency and good sense, redoubled her efforts.

  For most of the family, though, sadness exacerbated flaws that had once been moderated, if not kept in check.

  “Oh, Hill, bring me a hot compress,” Mrs. Bennet said once she had entered the house. “Kitty, help me to my room!”