A Very Austen Valentine

by Robin Helm

She stood gazing at her reflection, thinking, remembering.

  She had been daring once; could she be so again? Just for one afternoon? After all, Sir Walter Elliot was of no importance; a mere baronet who now lived in Bath. It wasn’t as if anyone she knew frequented Bath, for goodness’ sake. Only invalids and worn-out clergy and military men lived there.

  Besides, if she danced in her own ballroom, what did it matter?

  “The Chantilly gown is not bad,” she admitted. “But wear this cap I shall not. It looks ridiculous.” Lady Catherine pulled it from her head. Her hair was still dark…

  “You’ll cut a dash yet, milady,” said Dawson. “About time, I say.”

  Chapter Nine

  All the following day, from breakfast until after dinner, Lady Catherine waited for her nephews to object to the proposed lesson. Colonel Fitzwilliam was hopeless, but Darcy had a finer sense of duty.

  “I find the waltz distasteful,” she expected him to say. Or, “This class of Sir Walter’s is not in the best of taste and should be given up.” But Darcy said nothing of the sort. She dropped hints and asked leading questions, but he refused to respond.

  It was, Lady Catherine decided, all Miss Bennet’s fault. Obviously, both of her nephews hoped to waltz with her!

  Why had she consented to such foolishness? Why had she allowed Dawson to dress her in the Chantilly gown? She must find a way to dissuade Sir Walter.

  However, once he arrived, he came directly to her with that charming smile of his. “So much better than widow’s black,” he said, speaking so that only she could hear. “A pale copper pink, reminiscent of Pinot Gris. Charming!”

  One had to wonder how Sir Walter Elliot knew so much about wine.

  He stepped back to study her. Lady Catherine had the impression that she was being evaluated by a connoisseur. “I look ridiculous,” she muttered, without meaning to. “This is the only dancing dress I own.”

  “Then we must do something about that,” he said promptly.

  Her eyes flew to Sir Walter’s face. Insolent man! Was he thinking that she would consult him when having new gowns made?

  “This dress is truly beautiful,” he said at last, “and fashioned in a timeless style. The Empress Josephine had one like it, did she not? You want a diamond circlet—but I suppose a tiara is not appropriate for the occasion.”

  Lady Catherine opened her eyes at him. “Really, sir. I’ll have you know that—”

  But Sir Walter was no longer attending, because the party from the parsonage had arrived. “As we are among friends, there is no need to stand upon ceremony,” he announced. “Shall we make our way to the ballroom?”

  What else could Lady Catherine do but agree?

  Up the main staircase they all went, and soon Sir Walter was marshalling them into order. “Now then, ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “if you would be so good as to put on the dancing gloves you were instructed to bring.”

  Lady Catherine was already wearing long evening gloves—absurd! But this was the only length that looked well with the Chantilly gown.

  “La sauteuse is danced with two couples,” Sir Walter explained. “Each couple will dance together. Later, the partners will exchange places. First, however, we must master the basic steps.

  “The sets will be as follows: Lady Catherine will be my partner; Mr. and Mrs. Collins will dance together as part of our set.” He turned to Maria Lucas. “If you would care to learn, my dear, you may exchange places with your sister midway through the lesson. Unless,” he added, smiling, “you would prefer to turn pages for the excellent Mrs. Jenkinson?”

  Maria Lucas’s relief was palpable. “I would much prefer to help Mrs. Jenkinson. Thank you, sir.” She fairly ran to the pianoforte.

  Sir Walter addressed the others. “Mr. Darcy, you are to dance with Miss Bennet. Colonel Fitzwilliam, Miss de Bourgh will be your partner.”

  This was too much for Lady Catherine. As soon as Sir Walter was within earshot, she whispered, “Anne must be Darcy’s partner. I have already told you how it is between them.”

  Sir Walter was unconcerned. “My dear,” he said softly, “think how uncomfortable this lesson will be for your Anne. She will feel much less awkward dancing with Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

  “Anne will feel nothing of the sort!”

  “But Mr. Darcy is so stern and exacting! He seldom smiles when in Anne’s presence. No, Darcy is better off with Miss Bennet, who is not afraid of him.”

  That Anne was uncomfortable in Darcy’s presence Lady Catherine knew. But was Anne afraid of the man? She glanced at her daughter, who was smiling at something Colonel Fitzwilliam had said. Her pale iris gown made her skin appear less sallow. Indeed, Anne was looking better than she had in weeks.

  “Colonel Fitzwilliam is a kindly fellow,” Sir Walter went on, “and he knows the steps. It is better for Anne to begin thus. Then too,” he added, “he is the second son of an earl. A much better match for her.”

  “A better match? He is nothing of the—”

  Sir Walter interrupted. “Excuse me, my dear. We have a crisis brewing. I must intervene.”

  At once he went to Miss Bennet’s side. “My dear girl,” he said, “do you not wish to dance with Mr. Darcy? What can be the objection? True, he lacks a title—not every gentleman can be so blessed—but his attire is perfection itself. Observe the tailoring of his frock coat. Very fine! Now, take his hand…”

  “But—”

  “No missish airs, if you please. You hold a man’s hand when dancing the boulanger, do you not? This is no different.”

  Lady Catherine saw Miss Bennet and her nephew exchange a look. Darcy was smiling, and he held out his hand to her. Obediently, she put her gloved hand in his.

  “That’s right,” said Sir Walter. “Now, place your other hand here—yes, right here on his shoulder.” Sir Walter gave Mr. Darcy’s shoulder a little pat. “Aha,” he said. “No padding. I daresay his waist is also what it should be, unconfined by a corset. So uncomfortable and unnatural, corsets.”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam burst out laughing. A flush crept up Mr. Darcy’s neck. Miss Bennet’s eyes began to twinkle, and a dimple appeared in her cheek.

  Sir Walter turned to Darcy. “You, sir, will place your hand here. Yes, on the shoulder blade; the better to guide Miss Bennet through the dance.”

  He paused, and Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed. Was Sir Walter now examining Miss Bennet’s gown? Infernal man! Must he have an opinion on everything?

  “You are to be congratulated on your dressmaker, Miss Bennet,” he said. “One seldom sees stylish evening attire in country places.”

  Though she smiled, Elizabeth Bennet’s blushes intensified. Darcy now struggled to keep from laughing.

  Sir Walter continued with the task of arranging the couples. “Colonel Fitzwilliam knows his business, I see,” he announced. “It is gratifying, sir, to know that your time at our embassies was not wasted.”

  Meanwhile, Mr. Collins was fumbling about. “One holds the lady’s hand in this way,” Sir Walter told him. “Allow me to demonstrate.” He boldly clasped Lady Catherine’s hand. “The other hand, Mr. Collins, is positioned thus.”

  Lady Catherine fairly gasped to be held so near to Sir Walter, yet his demeanor was decidedly unloverlike. “Lightly, sir, lightly,” he called to Mr. Collins. “Granted, you are dancing with your wife, but you are not to enfold her in a bear hug. There is to be open air between you. To pull your partner against your chest is what gives the waltz a bad name.”

  “Hear, hear,” called Colonel Fitzwilliam. “We cannot have the parson lead us into disrepute.”

  Mr. Collins’s face went red, and at once he took a lunging step away from his wife. In so doing, he trod upon Lady Catherine’s foot.

  This was intolerable! “Sir Walter,” said Lady Catherine in a low voice, “can we not change sets? I have no desire to dance with Mr. Collins.”

  Sir Walter’s tone was similarly confiding. “My dear, who would? But since Collins
is not a gentleman, he has not been instructed in the art of dancing. Therefore he will need extra assistance from me. Not that it will help…”

  Lady Catherine almost laughed aloud. Good gracious, this lesson was becoming a farce!

  “Now for the footwork,” announced Sir Walter. “A step back, a step to the side, and then a closing step. I shall demonstrate without music and then—No, no, no, Mr. Darcy,” he protested. “Were you not attending earlier? You are not to put your hand on Miss Bennet’s waist. Higher up, dear sir, higher up! This is a dance position, not an embrace!”

  “Most unfortunately,” called Colonel Fitzwilliam, laughing.

  “Ladies, you will step back with your right foot. Gentlemen, you step forward with your left. Then you will take a step to the side, and finally a step bringing the feet together. One-two-three. Lady Catherine and I will show you.” Sir Walter lowered his voice. “Are you ready, my dear?”

  Before Lady Catherine could answer Sir Walter gave her a gentle, graceful push, and back she went. Almost without thinking, she performed the necessary step! Under his guidance, she moved to the side and then made the closing step. Why, Sir Walter was easy to dance with!

  Presently Miss Jenkinson was instructed to play, and the couples began to move. Awkwardly at first—and amid much laughter—the dancers soon gained confidence. “Step-slide-step. One-two-three,” called Sir Walter. “Allow the music to carry you.”

  Lady Catherine knew that she ought to be observing Anne. She ought to be keeping an eye on Darcy and Miss Bennet, too. But somehow she had no time for this. Under Sir Walter’s capable guidance she was gliding smoothly around the ballroom, the skirt of her gown flaring beautifully. Not once did he tread on her toes. Not once did they barrel into the other couples.

  “Have a care, Collins!” called Colonel Fitzwilliam, laughing as he and Anne narrowly avoided a collision.

  Sir Walter clicked his tongue in disapproval. “That Mr. Collins,” he said into Lady Catherine’s ear, “is a menace. Like the proverbial bull in a china shop.”

  What else could she do but laugh?

  Sir Walter raised his voice. “Gently, gently,” he called out. “Soft, round, flowing movements. The waltz is not a gallop.”

  “The waltz?” protested Lady Catherine. “What happened to la sauteuse?”

  “All in good time, my dear,” Sir Walter said. “All in good time.”

  Why did she have the impression this was patently untrue? That it was Sir Walter’s intention all along to compel her to waltz?

  She needed a rest! She was too old for this! And yet the bewitching music continued to play, its three-quarter rhythm coaxing her, compelling her. In Sir Walter’s capable arms, Lady Catherine twirled as nimbly as if she were a girl of nineteen.

  Chapter Ten

  On the following morning, Sir Walter came down to breakfast quite late—as was right and fitting for a gentleman of his stature. The innkeeper’s wife brought out a plate of haricot mutton, swimming in gravy. Sir Walter eyed it with distaste. The carrots he recognized, but what were the pale lumps? Ah, turnips.

  He sighed. And he had thought yesterday’s curried beef was bad!

  However, overall he had no complaint to make. The waltzing lesson had been a success. In fact, his entire campaign was progressing superbly. He had not only met Lady Catherine (a name found at random in the Baronetage), but he had dined with her, driven out with her, conversed with her, and waltzed with her. Best of all, he had laughed with her. And she with him!

  Sharp-tongued ladies rarely laughed; they were too serious! Only the cleverest of men were able to entertain women of that kind. Sir Walter paused to ponder the magnitude of this achievement, his fork poised in midair. Yes—he was, on every hand, a very great man.

  Today he would put into motion a crucial component of the courtship, a detail most gentlemen overlooked. He would withdraw from Lady Catherine’s presence to create a void. She must be made to feel his absence. Ennui and tedium would do the rest. When he reappeared on her doorstep in two days’ time, she would welcome him as a long-lost friend.

  Beside Sir Walter’s plate lay a letter to his solicitor. It had cost his pride to write it, but things were progressing so speedily that he would soon need funds. The time had come to sell those acres adjoining the Kellynch estate.

  After picking through the edible parts of his breakfast, Sir Walter pushed away from the table. He collected his hat, gloves, and walking stick, and sauntered from the inn to post his letter.

  The sooner it was on its way, the better.

  Without a doubt a buyer would soon be forthcoming—perhaps his son-in-law’s father, the squire of Uppercross. The Musgroves were always prosing on about the importance of property. Why, Sir Walter would be doing them a favor!

  Apparently the village shop also served as the post office. Now the trouble with entering a shop in an obscure place like Hunsford was the curiosity one stirred up. Sir Walter could not understand this, for Lady Catherine had said that there were many prosperous estates in the area. However, from the way people gazed at him, he had to wonder whether stylishly-clad gentlemen ever came there. Sir Walter gave his letter to the woman behind the counter. Into a drawer it went, and part of his heart went with it.

  Ah well, there was no way to retrieve it now.

  Sir Walter pushed aside regret. Manfully he reminded himself that Faint heart never won fair lady. Or, in Lady Catherine’s case, perhaps not so fair…

  He bid the woman good morning and turned away. There was nothing he wished to purchase in this horrid little shop, but politeness demanded that he make a show of looking. After all, if everything went according to plan, he would soon be Lady Catherine’s husband.

  And so Sir Walter tarried a bit, joining the few customers who were there. The display was pitiful: primitive buttons, wooden toys, a bolt of truly ugly plaid flannel, ceramic crockery in various sizes…

  “That’s him, I tell you,” he heard someone say. “He’s the one Bob’s taken again and again up to Rosings.”

  There was a pause, during which something was said that Sir Walter did not catch. And then, “That’s right, Mrs. Stuart-Morton. A widower, from what Mr. Jones says.”

  Sir Walter froze, overcome by a dreadful sense of foreboding. Was this the name Lady Catherine had mentioned in the letter? Mrs. Stuart-Morton, the man-hunter? He could feel her interested gaze. There was nothing for it; he must beat a hasty retreat.

  Back to The Crown Sir Walter went, walking as quickly as his shining leather pumps could take him. He did not need to look to know that the eager widow was following! Once inside, he was waylaid by the innkeeper.

  “Couple o’ gents waiting for you, sir. I put ’em in the coffee room, private-like.”

  Two gentlemen? Of course. They would be Lady Catherine’s nephews. Out of the frying pan and into the fire!

  Sir Walter drew a long, deep breath. He ought to have expected this. Certainly, talking with them was better than facing down Mrs. Stuart-Morton. But had they come at Lady Catherine’s behest? He would soon find out.

  “Very good, Mr., er, Jones,” Sir Walter said. “Would you kindly bring us some—” He paused. What did men drink in places like this? Ah, yes. “Bring us each a tankard of beer, if you please. Whatever sort you think is best.”

  Sir Walter hesitated before parting the curtain and going in. Fortunately, the men were sitting not far from the doorway, so he was able to hear snatches of their conversation.

  “—no carriage, no horses,” said a voice. “He’s a sham, I tell you. A hoax.”

  Sir Walter gave a mighty sigh. Always the lack of a carriage cast him into the ranks of the shabby genteel. It was most unfair.

  However, in his courtship of Lady Catherine, he would need a chaise—at least until after the wedding. Yes, his decision to sell those acres was sound.

  “There is such a place as Kellynch Hall in Somersetshire,” said a second voice—was it Mr. Darcy’s? “A modest estate. Contemptible, even. B
ut it does exist.”

  Contemptible? Sir Walter drew himself up. This younger generation had nerve!

  There came a ragged laugh, probably from Colonel Fitzwilliam. “That’s fine for you to say! Any estate is better than none. And if old Cousin Gainsbee wishes to leave his contemptible estate to me, I won’t quibble! But is this fellow the genuine Sir Walter Elliot?” he added. “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  “Aunt Catherine was evasive. Apparently she sent him a letter—and here he is.”

  “Without a carriage or horses. But,” added Colonel Fitzwilliam, “with two trunks of very fine clothes and a valet. Mr. Jones has much to say about the valet.”

  “A nasty piece, is he? A stable boy, posing as a gentleman’s gentleman?”

  “Quite the contrary. A consummate professional, according to Jones. With a valet’s finicky ways.”

  Sir Walter could not believe his ears. Was he to be proven genuine because of Roberts? It was time to put a stop to this nonsense. Besides, he could see Mr. Jones at the taps, filling the glasses with beer. He parted the curtain and went in.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said pleasantly, and he laid his hat, gloves, and walking stick on a nearby table. “I hope you will not consider it amiss if I have bespoken beer for each of us. Not that I drink beer, but I know you young bucks do.”

  Sir Walter pulled out a chair and sat down. He brought his hands to the tabletop and steepled his fingertips. “And now,” he said boldly, “perhaps you’ll tell me to what honour I owe this visit.”

  And then he waited, with a gentle smile pulling at his lips. A look was exchanged between the two.

  “Come, come, gentlemen,” he prompted. “Shall I guess? Has your Aunt Catherine sent you to discover whether my intentions are honourable?”

  Mr. Darcy coughed a little.

  “Or have you come on your own initiative? You are forgiven the presumption,” said Sir Walter gracefully. “After all, your deduction is not unnatural. I am a widower and she is a widow.”

  Darcy found his voice. “Are you intending to court our aunt, sir?”