A Very Austen Valentine

by Robin Helm

  Sir Walter smiled slightly. “The thought has crossed my mind.”

  At that moment Mr. Jones parted the curtain and came in, creating a timely disturbance. Colonel Fitzwilliam was the first to sip his beer. Was he in need of fortification? If so, this was a very good sign.

  “You cannot be in love with her,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, once Jones went out. “Not in so short a time.”

  “The poets tell us, Colonel, that falling in love can happen in an instant. But since we are speaking frankly, no, I am not in love with your aunt. However, we share a surprising number of opinions and interests. That is an excellent foundation.”

  Sir Walter leaned in. “And in courting Lady Catherine, know this: I shan’t be asking for your permission.”

  “That is certainly frank,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Shall I return the favor? You, sir, are a nothing but a cursed fortune hunter.”

  “Meaning that I am a hoax?” Sir Walter spread his hands. “What have I to hide? Make all the enquiries you wish. I have had my share of monetary setbacks—but in these uncertain times who has not?”

  Sir Walter counted off the points on his fingertips. “I come from an ancient and respectable family line. I have no unsavory habits. I am not a drunkard. Nor am I a gamester—heavens, I play whist for penny points! Nor have I had a mistress or anything of that kind. Furthermore, I have no interest in managing your aunt’s financial affairs.”

  He saw Mr. Darcy flinch slightly. Here was the heart of the issue: money. However, Sir Walter was no novice in dealing with objections of this sort. Like all great men, conversational diversion was his specialty.

  “I am no fool, gentlemen,” he said quietly. “Women are so often the better managers of money; my late wife certainly was. When she died—oh so many years ago—I was lost. Since that time some of my expenditures have not been very wise.”

  “Why have you not remarried before this?” This came from Darcy.

  “Because, my dear fellow, why should I? Are you thinking that no one wished to become Lady Elliot? Heavens, at every hand I was—and am—stumbling over eager and ambitious widows! Hounded, my dear sir, I am hounded. Even by a dowager viscountess!

  “It is most bothersome,” Sir Walter continued. “She would surely deny it, but at every concert, every assembly, she commands me to be at her side.” He leaned in. “In fact, it is your aunt’s disinterest that caught my eye. It is one of the things I like in her.”

  “Oh, come on!” snapped Colonel Fitzwilliam. “You expect us to swallow a clanker like that?”

  “Also,” said Sir Walter, as if he had not heard, “I have not remarried because I had three daughters to raise. As you know, a second wife is often not kind to the children of the first. However, my daughter Elizabeth has lately married, and I am alone. I do not care for being alone—and neither does your aunt.”

  “Unless I miss my guess,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “you do not care for being broke.”

  Sir Walter met his eye. “No more than you do, sir.”

  There was a pause. “Come now,” said Sir Walter pleasantly, “why take offense? Your situation is hardly unique. You are the second son of a wealthy peer; you have your living to make. I daresay you are very expensive in your habits. I could well ask why you have not married.”

  “I am not the subject of this enquiry!”

  “But my dear Colonel, you should be! Of all the stupid things! There sits your cousin, in possession of a fortune and a grand estate. Instead of fixing your interest with her, as any rational man would do, you flirt with Miss Bennet. Are you off your head, sir?”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam was stunned to silence. Darcy gave a strangled chuckle. The colonel turned. “Have the goodness to pipe down!”

  “Anne likes you, you know,” Sir Walter offered. “You ought to court her.”

  “Now just a minute. She is promised to Darcy.”

  “Fitz—” protested Darcy.

  “So I have been told,” said Sir Walter. He turned soulful eyes on Darcy. “I have been working to persuade your aunt that it will not do. You need only to look at Anne to see it.”

  “I’ll thank you to not insult my cousin, sir,” said Darcy quietly.

  “How hasty you youngsters are! I do not mean that Anne is too sickly or too unattractive to marry. I mean that she dislikes you too much, Mr. Darcy. No, dislike is too strong a word. You bore her, sir. She finds you dull and tiresome.”

  “I am what?”

  Now it was Colonel Fitzwilliam’s turn to laugh.

  “What your cousin needs are flattering clothes, a better arrangement for her hair and, most of all, freedom from her mother.” Sir Walter saw Darcy wince, and he knew he had made his point.

  “This is ridiculous,” scoffed Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I do not wish to— nor would Anne wish to—”

  “Ah, but you are mistaken,” said Sir Walter. “Your cousin is quite taken with you. Wear your regimentals to dinner tonight and watch what happens.”

  “You will not be there to direct events!”

  “I do not need to be.”

  “We are wandering from the point,” said Darcy, and he turned to face Sir Walter squarely. “What is the figure?”

  Sir Walter spread his hands. “Figure? How do you mean, figure? I have a looking glass, Mr. Darcy. My figure is very well, thank you.”

  Darcy gave an impatient huff. “How much money will it take to make you disappear from my aunt’s life?”

  “You misunderstand me entirely, Mr. Darcy. I have no wish to disappear. My sole concern for the future, since we are speaking freely, is how to avoid taking Anne along on our wedding trip. The most reasonable solution is for her to marry.”

  “I shan’t marry Anne,” declared Colonel Fitzwilliam hotly. “And there is no way in Hades that you will marry my aunt.”

  “Lady Catherine will certainly have something to say in the matter, since the choice will be hers,” Sir Walter gently pointed out. “If you oppose her choice, my guess is that you will hear rather a lot! If the need arises, Anne is welcome to come with us. Lady Catherine will fear for her health, as any mother would. But the Mediterranean climate will likely do Anne good.”

  “You intend to take our aunt out of England?” said Darcy.

  “Only for a month or two.” Sir Walter smiled kindly. “Here is the thing. If Anne is to be left in England, as her mother will likely insist upon, and if she does not marry Colonel Fitzwilliam, she will stay with you, Mr. Darcy.”

  “Now wait just a minute,” protested Darcy.

  “Do not laugh, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Your cousin is the sensible choice because he has a sister to bear Anne company. However,” Sir Walter went on, “since it appears that you could have a new wife of your own, Mr. Darcy, adding Anne to your household just then could be awkward.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said could have. It might not come off, of course. She will be doing you a great favor by accepting.”

  “Oh, that’s rich,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “A woman does Darcy a favor by marrying him? I’d like to see that!”

  “I simply mean,” said Sir Walter with a quelling look, “that young women are fond of clever, lighthearted conversation, instead of a mere yes or no in answer to their questions.” He turned to face Darcy fully. “I understand that your visit here is wearisome, and that you are gifted by nature with a taciturn, unsocial disposition. But in the presence of a pretty girl, you ought to make an effort.”

  “The subject of this conversation,” cried Darcy, “is your marriage, not ours!”

  “But we have already established that!” said Sir Walter. “Now then, Colonel Fitzwilliam, will you and your bride take the London house? I, er, assume there is a London house?”

  “Of course there is a London house,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam angrily, “but we cannot have it because it is let to— Hang it all! I do not have a bride!”

  “Then,” said Sir Walter, “you will continue to be—what was the charming wor
d you used earlier? Ah, yes. Broke.”

  He turned to Darcy. “And you, sir, will keep your tight-lipped pride intact, alone.”

  Sir Walter gracefully rose to his feet, leaving his companions to stare up at him.

  “Please excuse me, gentlemen. I have enjoyed our little chat, but I have several letters to write. Do stay and finish your beer.” He gave a fond look to his untouched glass. “And have mine as well. I am told that it is rather good.”

  He nodded pleasantly, took up his hat, gloves, and walking stick, and went out.

  As the curtain swung closed behind him, Sir Walter heard Colonel Fitzwilliam say, “Confound it all! What the devil just happened?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Colonel Fitzwilliam accepted a cup of coffee from the footman, which was a very good thing. Lady Catherine had learned years ago that he was invariably cranky without it.

  He strolled to Darcy’s end of the table and pulled out a chair. “Apparently our mission the other day was a success,” she heard him say. “We have seen neither hide nor hair of our, er, quarry since then. Let us hope our luck holds.”

  Lady Catherine pursed up her lips. Breakfast had begun later than she liked, and now these two were gossiping! “What are you talking of?” she called down the table. “What are you saying to Darcy?”

  “Nothing of importance, ma’am,” Darcy replied.

  “I shall be the judge of that,” said Lady Catherine. “I distinctly heard the word hoary. I’ll have you know that my hair is nothing of the sort.”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam began to cough, but Lady Catherine was not fooled. He was laughing at her, yes, and so was Darcy!

  “Good gracious, what shocking manners you have,” she complained. “You were raised to behave better than this. At least, Fitzwilliam was.” She gave her military nephew an acid look. “I have always suspected that, as a parent, my esteemed brother was—and is—a disciplinary laggard.”

  “Not a laggard, ma’am!” said Colonel Fitzwilliam unsteadily.

  Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “Why else did you go into the army, if not to learn discipline? You could easily have continued your schooling and taken holy orders instead. Yes, and I had a fine living to offer you right here on the estate.”

  “Upon my word, ma’am,” he protested. “I should not have liked making sermons.”

  “Liking has nothing to do with it,” Lady Catherine snapped. “Instead of pursuing an occupation that is useful, what do I find? You spend your time lounging about London with your brother officers and waltzing in our embassies! Such foolishness! Drink your coffee,” she added. “It is hopeless to converse with you until after your second cup.”

  “Yes—ma’am.”

  “Not that it is particularly good coffee,” she went on, frowning down at her cup. “I am weary of reminding Cook how to brew it properly.”

  Neither of her nephews said a word, but she saw their expressions. “What of it?” she demanded. “Inferior persons need reminding. It is the most irksome duty imaginable. You have no idea what I suffer on your behalf.”

  No one said anything else. Colonel Fitzwilliam went to the sideboard and filled his plate. Presently a footman came in with a card on a tray. “Are you at home, milady?” he enquired quietly.

  Lady Catherine lifted the card, squinting in order to read it. “Ah, yes. Mr. Collins. Do show him in.”

  “Oh, blast,” muttered Colonel Fitzwilliam. “What is that bounder doing here?”

  Lady Catherine’s head came up. “What did you call him?” she demanded. She saw Darcy give his cousin a look. “What has come over you two?” she complained. “You have not been yourselves since you arrived.”

  There was a small silence. “It is that Miss Bennet,” Lady Catherine went on, eyeing them. “Yes, her influence has worked on you in a way I cannot like.”

  “Ah,” said Darcy suddenly. “Do you know, I think Fitz might have said expounder, ma’am. After all, Mr. Collins is fond of explaining things. We are a little surprised to see him at breakfast, that is all.”

  Lady Catherine put up her chin. “Mr. Collins has come at my express invitation. This is my home; I have the right to invite whomever I wish. What have you to say to that?”

  “Merely that I am not fond of being toad-eaten so early in the day,” grumbled Colonel Fitzwilliam.

  “Good heavens,” said Lady Catherine. “No one would bother to toad-eat you. Not even Mr. Collins.” The door came open and her guest was announced.

  “Good morning,” she said crisply. “Do sit down and have some coffee.”

  Mr. Collins took a seat at her end of the table, and she signaled for the footman to bring an additional cup. “Now then, how are things at the parsonage? I trust your guests are well? Is your wife’s table as prudently bountiful as ever?”

  “Oh, it is, ma’am,” he said promptly. “Under your ladyship’s esteemed tutelage, Mrs. Collins is progressing admirably. She will soon be an expert in the noble art of housewifery.”

  “What did you have for dinner yesterday?”

  “Spring soup, ma’am, and then the nicest plaice fillets, served with egg balls and asparagus from the garden. Pippins and rice rounded out the meal beautifully. It was simple fare, in comparison to your ladyship’s excellence, but Sir Walter was most complimentary.”

  “Sir Walter?” Lady Catherine fought to contain her surprise.

  “Yes, ma’am. We invited him to dine.”

  Lady Catherine caught the footman’s attention, and she signaled for him to leave. “I—see,” she said. “Has Sir Walter been in good health? I ask because we have seen nothing of him since our, er, lesson.”

  Here she paused. It would never do to show too much personal interest in Sir Walter’s well-being. “What has he to say for himself?”

  Mr. Collins did not disappoint. “He told us that he has been busy corresponding with his solicitor. He had much to say about the Kellynch estate—that is the name of his ancestral home, ma’am, Kellynch Hall. He also conversed with my wife about jewellry.”

  “How singular. I wonder why. Is Mrs. Collins an expert?”

  This Mr. Collins denied. “I did not hear all of the conversation, as Miss Bennet was sitting between us. But I did hear him ask each of the ladies, including Miss Lucas, which gemstone she preferred: rubies, emeralds, or diamonds.”

  Lady Catherine’s brows went up. “Most irregular.”

  “I did hear the word ring mentioned, milady,” Mr. Collins added helpfully.

  “By Jove,” muttered Colonel Fitzwilliam, “what a fellow. He plans to propose, so he asks every other lady—”

  “Fitz,” hissed Darcy sharply. He turned to Mr. Collins. “And so, which gemstone did the ladies prefer? Was there a consensus?”

  “That’s just the trouble, Mr. Darcy; you, in your estimable wisdom, have perfectly discerned the problem. My wife chose emeralds, Miss Lucas, diamonds, and Miss Elizabeth, rubies.”

  “Hmm,” said Lady Catherine. “What did Sir Walter say to that?”

  “He told us that Miss Elizabeth’s choice, rubies, was most appropriate for her present circumstance. And I agree. But only if she can find someone to marry.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Before Mr. Collins could answer, Darcy spoke up. “I believe he is referencing a biblical text, Aunt, about the virtuous wife. Her price is far above rubies. The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her.”

  Lady Catherine did not care for Darcy’s tone or for the nature of the quotation. Even if this was the Bible, Darcy should not sound so—so approving!

  She rounded on Mr. Collins. “What else did Sir Walter converse about? In addition to jewellry?”

  “Why, since you ask, he talked in great detail about Kellynch itself—describing everything! Ha- ha! Right down to the inch.”

  Lady Catherine just looked at him.

  Mr. Collins’s smile fell. “Er, a little joke, milady. Kellynch? Inch?”

  No one said anything, so Mr. Collins went on
talking. “Sir Walter described the size of the park and its environs—there are marvelous groves of trees and an avenue lined with chestnuts. He also told us about the mansion, describing each of the rooms.”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam stifled a yawn, or so it seemed to Lady Catherine. “How nice for you,” he said.

  “Oh be quiet and drink your coffee!” Lady Catherine turned again to Mr. Collins. “Tell me more about this Kell-inch.”

  Mr. Collins fairly rubbed his hands with glee. “The property is currently occupied by a rear admiral of the white and his wife,” he said eagerly. “Since Sir Walter had to remove to Bath for reasons of health, he thought it unwise to leave the mansion empty. Come summer’s end, however, he is thinking of resuming residency.”

  Lady Catherine was careful to keep her tone light. “I see. And he has not yet, er, departed from Hunsford?”

  “Oh no, milady.”

  She reached into the sleeve of her gown. “Then would you be so kind as to take Sir Walter this little note, Mr. Collins?” She passed it to him—and then noticed the expression on her nephews’ faces.

  “Good gracious,” she cried, and she felt her cheeks grow warm. “It is merely an invitation to dine tomorrow, not a clandestine love note. The idea!”

  Nobody said a word. “And even if it were,” she continued wrathfully, “I am not accountable to either you for my actions. First my hair is hoary, and now you accuse me of being a hussy.”

  Mr. Collins broke in, babbling. “Why, of course not, your honourable ladyship,” he stammered. “I would in nowise think ill of you, ma’am, regardless of the deed or exploit you saw fit to undertake—”

  She gave him a withering look and twitched her note from between his fingers. “Never you mind, Mr. Collins. I shall see to the delivery of this myself.”

  Lady Catherine rose from her chair, pausing to gaze at the men around her table. They were all standing now, aside from Mr. Collins who still struggled to rise. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said crisply.

  As she went out, she heard someone say, “Thank you, Collins. Now she is in a fine state.”

  For some reason, this statement brought much satisfaction.