A Very Austen Valentine

by Robin Helm

  Sir Walter gave a heartfelt sigh. How gratifying it was to attend a service with the good-looking!

  After a time the bells ceased ringing, and the organist launched into the introit. A group filed down the centre aisle to a pew at the front. Were these the local gentry? Sir Walter studied them with interest. A tall, stately woman in stiff black silk came first, with a thin, ashen-faced younger woman and two handsomely-attired gentlemen. The latter two could have stepped from the pages of one of Elizabeth’s fashion periodicals. Well! Things were definitely looking up.

  The entrance was nicely staged; Sir Walter could not have done better himself. Thus they were seen by the entire congregation, and the music added an air of ceremonialism. Behind them came the rector. Sir Walter had not missed his guess. Here was the fellow he had seen run out of the parsonage.

  Horrors, even a surplice could not give the man dignity! It was the way he walked, Sir Walter decided. Swaying from side to side was definitely unclerical.

  Presently the service began, and Sir Walter noticed that the beautiful young woman opened her prayer book. Such devoutness was touching—countrified and provincial, but touching. When the opening prayer was said, she actually bowed her head.

  Sir Walter Elliot did not bow his head; he hadn’t for years. Fortunately this rector was content to read the prayer, unlike the vicar of Kellynch. Spontaneous prayers were so undignified! Sir Walter had had rather enough of Mr. Allen and his earnest confess-your-sins piety.

  Sir Walter did not confess sins, ever. Nor had he brought a prayer book. Why bother when The Grand Estates Guide was similar in size? He was mindful to open to a page without illustration and arrange his features in a worshipful mode. While the rector droned on with the prayer, Sir Walter turned round to get a look at the congregation.

  Surely Lady Catherine de Bourgh was present, and yet Sir Walter could not locate her. Unless—he gave a little gasp. Was she with the party in the front pew? The stiff black crow? His eyes narrowed as he studied the woman. Her clothing was not in the latest mode, but appeared to be well-tailored. Her rigid stance had a certain dignity, and this pleased him. A few stray curls peeked from beneath her hat; her hair had not yet gone gray.

  Sir Walter leaned this way and that, hoping for a better view. He could not detect a double chin or crow’s feet. Naturally, her hands were encased in gloves, which was a pity. Were they veined and freckled with age spots? The thought of holding an old woman’s hands brought a shudder. Now if he could just get a good look at her teeth…

  The prayer ended, and it was time for various readings. The beautiful young woman kept her attention focused on her open book. Sir Walter understood this perfectly. The alternative was to gaze at the rector’s doughy cheeks and bulbous nose! He prepared himself for a dull and lengthy sermon, as he knew that ugly clergymen were prone to compensate for their lack of social appeal.

  In this Sir Walter was surprised, for the message was rather good. Not as to delivery, of course, but the content was sound. The sermon had to do with work—useful for those who were employed, unlike Sir Walter—and duty, and the importance of paying one’s rent in a timely manner.

  Sir Walter certainly paid his rent—because the Crofts paid theirs! The twinge of guilt he felt about the tradesmen’s bills was shrugged off. Why feel guilty when the money was not yet due?

  “A fine message, sir,” Sir Walter told the rector later, when he met him at the door. “Hard work and duty and prompt payment. Very encouraging!”

  The rector blushed and smiled, and kept pumping Sir Walter’s hand. “I have not seen you here before,” he confessed.

  “That is because I have not been here before. Sir Walter Elliot. Of Bath, I suppose I should say. My estate is in Kellynch parish. I have lately removed to Bath to take the cure.”

  The rector opened his eyes. “Indeed? You look to be in blooming health, Sir Elliot.”

  “Sir Walter,” he corrected gently. “And you are so right. My health and my spirits have improved to the point that I am able to travel about. Your message today was timely. Quite practical, too.”

  He lowered his voice. “The vicar in Kellynch village has—” Sir Walter paused to wrinkle his nose “—evangelical leanings. So tiresome, the way he rambles on about personal piety and the Bible and letting one’s light shine. I find you quite refreshing, Mr.—”

  Sir Walter looked a question.

  The man gave a start. “Reverend William Collins,” he stammered. “A pleasure to meet you, a genuine pleasure! Are you with us for long? Do you make an extended stay?”

  “For a fortnight, possibly more. I find your village quite pleasant.”

  “Why,” Rev. Collins gushed, “then we must have you to dinner.”

  “I shall be delighted, Mr. Collins. You will find me at any time at The Crown. My calendar is unfilled.” Sir Walter smiled and moved on.

  A most profitable morning!

  Chapter Four

  Dinner at the parsonage was tedious, for it fell to Sir Walter to keep the conversation flowing. Heaven preserve him from the ignorant and countrified! Their table manners were well enough, but they knew nothing of the gracious art of conversational insouciance. How did one talk with such people?

  Mrs. Collins, daughter of a newly-made knight, was interested only in what happened in Hunsford village. Her sister, the schoolgirl, either gaped at Sir Walter or, when she thought he was not looking, giggled into her napkin. The beauty, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, was no more than a country gentleman’s daughter. She had never been to school, nor had she traveled. When Sir Walter learned of her relations in London, he made a generous attempt to draw her out. Alas, it was hopeless. She knew little of the latest fashion trends and nothing at all about popular plays and operas. Heavens, she had never been to so common a place as London’s Vauxhall Gardens!

  “My father dislikes London, you see,” she told him, as if this explained everything. Apparently the fellow read books all day or else played chess with this daughter. Sir Walter was not about to discuss the subject of chess.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Collins was happy to talk—about nothing and everything. Apparently the man was extremely fond of food. He carved the roast with gusto and described for Sir Walter’s benefit each dish that was brought to the table. He ate and he ate, until Sir Walter feared the buttons on his waistcoat might pop off!

  On the other hand, his unrelenting praise for the provider of his living gave Sir Walter much useful information.

  “In point of fact,” he confided to Sir Walter, after the meal was finished and they were alone at the table with a bottle of port, “Mrs. Collins chose the excellent joint of beef we enjoyed tonight because of her ladyship’s kind suggestion.”

  “You don’t say,” said Sir Walter politely.

  “Indeed, yes. She noticed it in the butcher’s shop and knew it would be just the thing for us. Lady Catherine watches over those living on her estate with admirable care.”

  Which only showed how hideously bored she must be. The poor woman needed a change of scene.

  “As further evidence of her generosity,” Mr. Collins went on, “you have only to observe the wonderful renovation of our parsonage. When you come again, Sir Walter, I will take you through every room. The improvements are most extensive.”

  Sir Walter smiled, but could not enter into Mr. Collins’s enthusiasm. This was, after all, a small and commonplace house. But because he wished to hear more about Lady Catherine, Sir Walter adroitly exchanged his full wineglass for Collins’s empty one. “I take it she has made similar improvements to the mansion?”

  Mr. Collins’s pink cheeks grew pinker still, and he described at length the excellent renovations made to the kitchens. Sir Walter passed the wine bottle, and Collins again refilled his glass.

  “And,” he added muzzily, “you will not believe the new shimney-peach in one of her drawing rooms. Eight hundred pounds it cost,” he added, “and not a penny lesh.”

  To Sir Walter, this was a truly thrilling d
etail, for it indicated good taste as well as largesse. Any woman who would spend that much for a chimney-piece was just the wife for him.

  “We have been asked to after-dinner coffee tomorrow. I tell you what, Sir Walter. I’ll write to her ladyship tomorrow, firsht thing, to inform her of your arrival. She will like to meet you.”

  “That is very kind,” said Sir Walter. But he knew that this was not the first thing Collins would be doing tomorrow. He would be confined to his bed, nursing a stunner of a headache.

  “My patronesh makes it a point to meet all newcomers. Well, not all of them, just the well-born and deserving. If you take my meaning.”

  Sir Walter was delighted to take his meaning, for it meant that he would be meeting Lady Catherine sooner rather than later. Although, when Lady Catherine saw his name (which she would no doubt recognize), how would she respond? With alarm, most likely. How could he work around this?

  By the time he returned to The Crown, Sir Walter had his answer. He would nip in before Mr. Collins with a note of his own. He would send it to Rosings Park tonight.

  “I am a clever man,” he said to himself as he brought out the bottle of ink and stationery. “A very clever man.”

  My Dear Lady Catherine,

  Thank you for the note. How I appreciate frankness and plain-speaking!

  This was an outright lie—politeness trumped forthrightness always—but Sir Walter knew that opinionated women enjoyed appreciation. He also knew that he ought to play along with Lady Catherine’s idea of a boyish prank. It would not do to begin their acquaintance with her feeling like a fool.

  Truth to tell, since your letter arrived I have lived in dread of receiving a summons—or shall we say a command to propose?—from your Miss Kipp or Mrs. Stuart-Morton.

  I am pleased to report that both ladies have been on their best behavior. Neither has sought me out or encamped on my doorstep.

  However, because business compels me to travel through Kent—and, indeed, through Hunsford village itself—I shall mind what you say and keep on the watch. For if either of these ladies were to lay eyes on me, I fear my peril would be sealed.

  I remain,

  Sincerely yours,

  Walter Elliot

  That finished, it was time to add an aura of mystery. What woman did not appreciate mystique when it came to courtship? Particularly when the suitor was so very handsome? Granted, Lady Catherine did not know this yet—but she would.

  Therefore Sir Walter went down to the front desk and found a boy to deliver his letter by hand—without postal marks or evidence of origin. She thought he lived in Somerset, so how did his message arrive at Rosings Park?

  Magic? No, it was more than magic. It was destiny.

  Sir Walter climbed the stairs to his room, smiling to himself. He was better than clever! “I am a great man,” he said aloud. “A very great man.”

  ⸟ﻬ⸞ﻬ⸟

  Lady Catherine de Bourgh read the letter in shocked silence. Walter Elliot, the baronet who had sent that Valentine—no, who had supposedly sent that Valentine—had penned a response. Here it was on her breakfast table.

  Was this another jest? No, how could that be possible?

  She reached for the bell to hail her butler—for surely her household staff knew how this letter had arrived—but the rattle of a newspaper stopped her. At the foot of the table sat her nephew, Fitzwilliam Darcy, with a cup of coffee at his elbow. Without looking up, he turned another page.

  Lady Catherine discovered that her cheeks were warm. Horrors, had this letter made her blush? Were the poundings of her heart palpitations? It would never do for Darcy to see her in this disordered state!

  She took up Sir Walter’s letter and again read it through. Of course this man had not written the Valentine—he said as much. And yet the handwriting was beguilingly similar. Botheration! She had thrown that dratted Valentine in the fire, so there was no way to compare.

  Presently Lady Catherine sat back in her chair. So the man would be passing through Hunsford. Perhaps she ought to stop in at The Crown and let Mr. Jones know. Sir Walter, when he came, would certainly like to have the best room. Then too, an innkeeper was a treasure trove of information; she could learn much about Sir Walter from Mr. Jones. Now what about Mr. Collins? Should she mention Sir Walter to him?

  This idea she instantly dismissed. Mr. Collins might be an excellent rector, but as a keeper of secrets he was hopeless. A gabster, as her nephews would say. It would never do to put him on the watch for Sir Walter, for then he might wonder why.

  This was a very good question. Why should she bother with Sir Walter Elliot? He would travel through Hunsford on his way to somewhere else—although Hunsford was not precisely on the way to anywhere—and that would be that.

  Heart palpitations, indeed. It was all the fault of that ridiculous Valentine! So much foolishness!

  The door came open to admit her butler. He placed a silver salver beside her plate, bearing a single letter. “This just came, milady,” he said.

  Speak of the devil, here was Mr. Collins’s handwriting. “Thank you, Johnson,” she murmured. “And Johnson?”

  Her butler turned.

  Lady Catherine shot a look at her nephew and then quietly said, “Do you know when and how this was delivered? There are no postal marks.” She held up Sir Walter’s note.

  “It came last night, ma’am, at half-past ten,” Johnson answered promptly. “Young Ben from The Crown brought it to the service door. You had already retired, ma’am, so we did not wish to disturb.”

  Lady Catherine pressed her lips together and glanced down the table. Darcy was still engrossed with the newspaper, thank heaven. “Thank you, Johnson, that will be all.”

  She folded Sir Walter’s letter and put it aside. He was best forgotten. Now then, what was Mr. Collins up in arms about? He was coming to coffee this very evening. Could his business not wait until then?

  Lady Catherine broke the seal, spread the sheet, and began to read. “Good gracious!” she cried.

  Mr. Darcy looked up. “Ma’am?” he said.

  “Of all the troublesome creatures God put on this earth,” Lady Catherine burst out, “a rector is simply the worst.”

  Mr. Darcy’s brows went up, but she waved aside his concern. “Never mind. It’s more of a nuisance than anything else. Is your coffee cold? Shall I ring for more?”

  Darcy’s response was to reach for the coffee pot and fill his cup. “Great heavens, Fitzwilliam, my footman can see to that. It is not as if he has anything else to do.”

  He took a sip and then resumed reading. “Stubborn man,” Lady Catherine said under her breath. “So like his father! And his grandfather.”

  As for Mr. Collins—with whom she would have words shortly—what was he about, asking her to invite this Sir Walter Elliot for coffee?

  Outrageous!

  As if she wished to make the man’s acquaintance! She could see Sir Walter now, a self-congratulatory humbug—no doubt like Mrs. Collins’s father, Sir William Lucas. A little man, probably potbellied and poorly attired, with a miniscule estate and no social acumen. Well. She would soon show him his place.

  And Mr. Collins as well. For when Johnson came in later, Lady Catherine was ready. “Have Dawson write a reply to Mr. Collins,” she said and held out the note. “She is to tell him that he may bring his guest to after-dinner coffee tonight. Only that, Johnson. Nothing more.”

  Lady Catherine had to smile. A reply written by her maid would show Mr. Collins exactly what she thought of his bold request.

  ⸟ﻬ⸞ﻬ⸟

  It was with no little difficulty that she waited out the day. Dinner was just as tiresome. All during the meal Lady Catherine’s mind was busy with what she would say to Mr. Collins. He cringed so delightfully when she scolded—and scold she would, in an under-voice that only he could hear. She had chosen to wear her most forbidding black gown, the better to drive home her displeasure.

  Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam—she refused to c
all him by his preferred name, Fitz—conversed about estate business, and for once Lady Catherine did not bother to listen. Anne was particularly listless tonight and had no conversation. She toyed with her food, causing her companion, Jenkinson, to hover anxiously. It was a quiet, thoroughly tedious meal. When at last Lady Catherine rose from the table, leaving her nephews to their port, she was in fine form. Let Mr. Collins beware!

  The footmen opened the doors to the drawing room and in sailed Lady Catherine, ready to do battle. There sat Mr. Collins with his mouth agape, his wife, Miss Lucas, Miss Elizabeth Bennet … and a man who could only be Sir Walter Elliot.

  Lady Catherine halted mid-stride. What in the world?

  At once Sir Walter was on his feet, and he made a graceful bow. Before Mr. Collins could say anything, Sir Walter said, “I apologise for making your acquaintance in this forward manner, Lady Catherine. Thank you for your gracious invitation.”

  For once Lady Catherine was bereft of speech, for his voice was perfect and his smile was singularly charming. He was about her height and very much the gentleman. His dark hair had a nice sprinkling of gray—so distinguished!—and he was anything but potbellied! Humorous eyes, dimpled cheeks, a cleft chin—why, he cast even her nephew Darcy into the shade!

  “I thank you for agreeing to come on such short notice, sir,” Lady Catherine heard herself say. “Won’t you please be seated?”

  Chapter Five

  The man was maddening. Here he sat in her best drawing room, as if he belonged there, perfectly attired for an evening call and displaying flawless manners. Sir Walter’s interest in the history of Rosings Park was, frankly, surprising—and Lady Catherine found herself talking far more than usual. Would that her nephews had such an interest! But no, they were intent on conversing with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She must do something about that, demand to have a part in their conversation… but not just yet.