Joana Starnes

5^th December 1811, White’s, London

“Whatever ails the fellow?” Colonel Fitzwilliam good-naturedly muttered with a nod towards Bingley, who sat across from them still gazing fixedly into the fire, chin in hand.

It was little wonder that the colonel should remark on the other’s uncommonly sombre temper. It was distinctly out of character for Bingley. Yet Darcy was unwilling to speculate on the uncomfortable topic, either inwardly or aloud. Instead, he shrugged and made a show of turning the page of his morning paper. It did not come as much of a surprise that the evasive tactic did not serve him. Evasive tactics never did, where his cousin was concerned.

“You might as well set that aside,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said with a dismissive flourish of his hand. “You have been staring at it for six minutes together and you will not persuade me you have found something quite so fascinating therein. Which, come to think of it, begs the question – what ails you? You hardly said a word all morning. I grant you, this is nowhere near as shocking as your voluble friend lapsing into grim and extended silences, but ‘tis enough to pique my interest all the same,” he drawled, stretching his long legs towards the fire and reaching for his cup of coffee.

Darcy grimaced and stirred in his seat as he folded the paper, then dropped it on the table at his elbow with a gesture of impatience.

“You should join them if you are starved for conversation,” he observed, tilting his head towards the other occupants of the room. “I daresay they are garrulous enough to suit your taste and disposition.”

And so they were. The merry group of five were still gathered around young Sommerville, mercilessly teasing him about his unabashed delight in his recent betrothal. There was every reason to believe that Sommerville’s happy situation and excessively high spirits contributed to Bingley’s lack of cheer, but yet again Darcy reminded himself that it served no purpose to speculate on that particular topic.

What was done was done, and it was for the best. In due course, Bingley would come to see it too. In time, he would become attached to some other fair-haired angel. Well-dowered, hopefully, and with the right connections. A sensible man should know better than to succumb to fascination. No one in his right mind would be swayed by the transient appeal of all manner of allurements. However charming, they were inconsequential. There was more to choosing one’s life companion than grace and beauty, or a voluptuous form, a shapely ankle, rosy lips simply begging to be kissed, dimpled cheeks and laughing dark-brown eyes and sharp wits and a splendid gift of repartee.

Once it became blatantly clear to him that it was not Jane Bennet’s appealing attributes – physical or otherwise – that he was cataloguing, Darcy’s hand tightened around the armrest and he sat up straighter with a scowl. His frown deepened when his cousin chortled.

“Ah. There we have it. I think I can guess the cause of your ill-humour,” the colonel said with an air of confidence that might have made Darcy start, had he not known that, however astute, his cousin could not possibly read minds nor picture bewitching young ladies with whom he was not acquainted.

So he replied with matching confidence and a fair amount of feigned disinterest, “I should imagine not. But I expect you will regale me with your suppositions nonetheless.”

This time, the other laughed outright.

“You know me well.” Colonel Fitzwilliam sipped his coffee and gleefully resumed. “I am prepared to wager that all this talk of betrothals had you thinking of my mother’s upcoming soirée. Surely she did not omit to mention that Lord Denham and his daughter were invited specifically with you in mind.”

Darcy darted his eyes heavenward and said crisply, “She did not.”

His cousin’s wicked grin widened.

“Come now. Even a dour soul such as your good self might derive some amusement from our dear aunt Catherine’s likely response to the dinner arrangements.”

Darcy cast him a censorious glance, but true to form, his cousin was undaunted. The colonel gave a nonchalant shrug.

“Naturally, Mater had no way of knowing that her beloved sister-in-law would deign to travel to town and grace us with her presence. So, here we are. Mater could not very well rescind Lord Denham’s invitation. Lady Catherine will have to countenance seeing you paired with the charming Lady Alicia for dinner.”

Darcy’s censorious glance grew downright severe.

“Have you perchance considered Anne’s feelings on the matter?” he scathingly asked. “Or are you so entertained by the prospect of barbs flying over the dinner table to think of anything else?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam shrugged again.

“Anne has no wish to marry you. Why should she be affected?”

Darcy gave a low huff of exasperation.

“Because no person of common decency could be at ease in such circumstances. She will be mortified by her mother’s tactless comments.”

Just as Elizabeth had been mortified by Mrs Bennet’s. The sudden notion gave him pause. How odd that he had not noticed until now how similar his aunt and the Hertfordshire matron were, in this respect at least. One was an earl’s daughter, the other the descendant of some lowly tradesman, yet they both pursued their offspring’s interests – or rather their own – with the same steadiness of purpose. With the same mulishness, in fact, and the same lack of manners. Both loud. Both brash. Both damnably opinionated. Both of them paying no heed to their daughters’ wishes and relentlessly urging them towards an advantageous match instead.

The colonel’s reply drew him from his ruminations.

“You should give Anne more credit,” he observed. “The Fitzwilliam profile is not the only trait she had inherited from her mother. In case you have not noticed, she also has Lady Catherine’s ability to turn a deaf ear to anything and everything she does not wish to hear. Still, you have a point, so I shall make it my business to ensure Anne has entertaining company at dinner,” he undertook with a roguish quirk in his lips.

But Darcy could no longer hear him all that well. The colonel’s low tones were suddenly drowned out by raucous laughter, and above it rose young Sommerville’s cheerful but firm voice:

“Very well, gentlemen, laugh if it pleases you. I say you are naught but covetous wretches, and you shall not laugh me out of my joy, nor distract me from my purpose. Call me unfashionably besotted if you will, but I must beg to be excused from our regular amusements. I shall be otherwise engaged, you see. I must learn to brook being happier than I deserve, and that task will command my full attention. I said this before, and I shall say it again: she is an angel, and only a fool would absent himself from her society to silence your blasted quibbling. So pray, enjoy the delights of bachelorhood with my blessing and do not bemoan my fate. Mark my words, I shall have the last laugh in a few years’ time.”

Protests, raillery and laughter erupted yet again, but Darcy did not look their way. The harsh sound of a chair scraping against the wooden floor drew his eyes towards his friend. Jaw set and his mien dark, Bingley stood.
“Excuse me,” he said and abruptly left the room.

* * * * * * * * * *

6th December 1811, Grosvenor Square

When Darcy called upon Bingley on the following morning, he was told that his friend had already left over an hour ago.

“He said he was of a mind to go for a lengthy ride. Which is just as well, for I have something to say which could not have been imparted in his presence.

Unfortunately, I have received another letter from Hertfordshire,” Miss Bingley said, her tone of voice a clear indication of her deep sense of ill-usage.

Darcy found it as repugnant as her air of complicity. Colluding with her against his best friend sat ill with him, even though it was done in Bingley’s best interests.

The question “And what am I to do on the occasion?” sprang to mind, but it was an uncivil thing to say, so he bit it back. Just as he bit back the insane urge to request permission to read that letter. It would be in Miss Bennet’s hand, not hers, but it might convey something – might make some passing reference to the family. It was very likely that Miss Bennet would mention her dearest sister and closest companion.

Aye. Very likely. And what of it?

Darcy straightened in his seat and resumed control over his senses and his temper, only to have his efforts thwarted by Miss Bingley’s whine:

“Would you kindly advise me, Mr Darcy? Surely you must know an effective way of discouraging the impertinent. For frankly, this is sheer impertinence, to my mind. I made it very plain in my last letter that I have neither the expectation nor the wish to continue this acquaintance. If she had an ounce of dignity and decorum, she would cease importuning me in this disgraceful manner.”

That Miss Bingley of all people should speak of lack of dignity and of importuning others might have amazed him once. These days, however, nothing she said or did had the power to surprise him. Except, perhaps, that she could accuse the placid and uniformly civil Miss Bennet of impertinence. His countenance set, Darcy stood.

“I fear I have no advice to offer,” he said tersely. “But I am quite certain you can be as trenchant as the circumstance requires. Pray excuse me, I must leave you now,” he added, just as Miss Bingley opened her lips with the obvious intention of detaining him. He only stayed for long enough to ask her to inform her brother of his visit and to convey to Bingley that he was always welcome in Berkeley Square whenever he found himself in need of company or a friendly ear.

He had to make the offer, as Darcy knew full well, even if the prospect of lengthy conversations with a lovelorn Bingley was as unappealing as could be. But that was the mark of a true friendship: being at hand to give succour and guidance in times of need. Even if the words ‘Miss Bennet’ should be so frequently repeated as to drive him to distraction.

* * * * * * * * * *

11th December 1811, Berkeley Square

Yet Bingley did not come to unburden himself. A brief note was sent to Berkeley Square instead, to let Darcy know that, despite very vocal protestations from his nearest and dearest, Bingley had decided to spend a se’nnight or so with his unfashionable cousins in the North. Thus, at least Darcy was spared more conspiratorial exchanges with the man’s sister. He was also spared the sight of Bingley in the lowest of spirits, but that relief was hardly something a good friend should rejoice at.

Not that he was in any humour for rejoicing, Darcy thought as he paced before the windows, only to scowl as the feeble voice reached him yet again. The ballad singer who plied her trade in the square selling broadsides had become a nuisance of late. Ever since she had begun to sing that song to advertise her wares, to be precise. The ballad was set on the old tune of Greensleeves, and the well-known melody droned on and on under his windows in a manner that severely taxed his equanimity. It would doubtlessly try anyone’s patience – even that of fortunate souls who were not plagued by his recollections.

She had played and sung that at Netherfield. Not this woman’s ballad, naturally, but the traditional song. It had sounded odd on the pianoforte rather than the harpsichord and she had faltered in places, but she had tugged at his heartstrings with every note and every word nevertheless.

Three-quarters of an hour later, when he could not bear the ballad singer’s droning any longer, Darcy sent a footman into the square with thrice as much silver as her broadsides were worth, to buy her wares and send her on her way. In a while, the singing ceased – a sure sign that John had done his master’s bidding. A few minutes later, the young footman returned to the morning room, presumably to demonstrate that fact. Why else would the lad hand him one of the printed sheets?

Darcy cast it a cursory glance but did not take it. Instead, he shrugged. “What am I to do with it?”

“I thought—” John stammered. “Shall I dispose of them all, then, sir?”

“Aye. Take them below and do with them what you will. The servants may have them, or they can be used to light the fires. I have no use for them myself.”

“Very well, sir,” the younger man said and bowed, then promptly left, taking the broadsheet with him.

Alone once more, Darcy made his way towards the window, hands behind his back. He had not the slightest wish to read The Tragic Ballad of The Lady Who Fell in Love with Her Serving-Man. The title was a sufficient indication of its mawkishness. He gave a derisive snort. At least he had not lost his senses to the point of falling in love with a housemaid. Not that falling in love with a gentlewoman beneath his station served him any better.

The ludicrous thought brought him up short. In love? Preposterous! He was not in love. The very notion! Lust was not love. And the same could be said of the passing thrill of infatuation.

* * * * * * * * * *

12th December 1811, Berkeley Square

The ballad singer returned on the following day, and who could blame her? She had not found such success nor such riches anywhere else in town. Unfortunately, on this occasion she was disappointed. Regardless of how many times she sang the Tragic Ballad beneath the windows of a certain house in Berkeley Square, no more silver coins were sent her way.

She could not know that she had done her work all too well on the previous day, and had reminded both the master of the house and his sister of a favourite tune. She had also revived Georgiana’s interest in the small harpsichord that was still kept in the music room for sentimental reasons – it had been their mother’s. Thus, to Darcy’s dismay, his sister spent the best part of the morning playing and singing Greensleeves. There was no point in coaxing the ballad singer into leaving the square, now that the song rang within his very home. It was flawlessly performed. Georgiana did not falter. Naturally. His proficient sister could play sonatas and elaborate concertos, so she would have no difficulty whatever with a tune of almost childlike simplicity. A poignant tune. Haunting. Maddeningly so. And the words only served to make it worse. They clung to one’s mind and spoke incessantly of love. Or rather of an obsessive fascination.

…Oh, why did you so enrapture me?
Now I remain in a world apart
But my heart remains in captivity
Greensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight
Greensleeves was my heart of gold
And who but my lady Greensleeves…

Darcy gave an irritable snort as the chorus began to repeat itself through his mind, even though he had taken refuge far enough from the music room and now he could scarce hear it.

“Stuff and nonsense! She does not even wear green!” he muttered, as though the colour had anything at all to do with it, and since he did not have the heart to ask his sister to abandon the wretched tune, he strode to the bell pull and gave it a sharp tug.

The footman who came to attend him was told to send word to the mews for a horse to be readied. Darcy inwardly scoffed as he waited for his mount to be fetched to the door. With any luck, unlike Bingley, he might cure his foolish pining with a long and punishing ride.

* * * * * * * * * *

12th December 1811, somewhere in Mayfair

He was wrong, he found. She did wear green. Green and gold, diaphanous and bright. She was the very image of Pomona as she skipped along the footpath bordering the Rotten Row, a small bunch of wildflowers in her hand. Wherever did she find them at this time of year? His disobedient heart lurched. It was Elizabeth, was it not? He could not be mistaken, surely! No, of course he was not mistaken. He could have recognised that lithe form anywhere. So, this was what Miss Bennet had to say in her letter, that they were in town? Very likely. Yet Elizabeth was alone, blithely scampering through the park with no care for the proprieties, just as she had roamed over the fields surrounding her home. With no care for her safety, either, which was a great concern. For goodness sake, this was not her tame and safe Hertfordshire! She should be warned, he thought. She should be protected.
He made to speak, call her name, but no words came out. And then she turned around and saw him standing mere yards away. He could scarce tell how he got there, but it mattered not. Her eyes sparkled as she curtsied.
“Oh,” she said softly. “I was hoping we might meet again.”

“Did you?”

That was a foolish thing to say, he thought, and seemingly she was in agreement for her lips curled into a diverted little smile.

“Of course. I thought I made it plain enough.”

Perhaps she did, but he could not dwell on that as her smile widened and the adorable dimple made an appearance in her flawless cheek, just above the corner of her lips. Rosy lips and full, simply begging to be kissed. So he kissed her. Clasped her to his chest. Shapely, warm and perfect. Without another thought, he swept her up into his arms – his prize, his joy and his delight. He had to have her for his wife, the naysayers be damned!

* * * * * * * * * *

12th December 1811, Berkeley Square

A groan left his lips, followed by an oath. A dream. Just a dream. Of course. What the deuce did he expect?

The second groan was stifled. Only a sigh escaped. It had been a perfect dream. Senseless and unattainable, but ever so appealing. As was she. Not senseless – never that – but maddeningly appealing. And also out of reach, reason reminded him in no uncertain terms.

Darcy propped himself up on one elbow and pummelled his pillow in frustration. Everything could happen in a dream. One might float on air. Or fly to the moon. Or follow one’s heart and fly in the face of common sense and duty. And then the dream would vanish, leaving the stark reality behind.

He pummelled the pillow yet again for good measure, refusing to acknowledge that reality was stark in more ways than one. But the acute sense of loss would not be disregarded. It had washed over him in an instant when he had awakened alone in his bedchamber, his arms empty and his head still full of her. The sharp stab of dismay had since then turned into an odd sort of oppressive ache. It was still there, the dull ache. Very much so. It would not be dislodged from his chest, for all his scoffing at senseless dreams and wild flights of fancy.

Darcy expelled a ragged breath and dropped his head back on the pillow to fix his eyes on the canopy above. He could not even blame his dream on the brandy. If only things were as easily remedied as that.

* * * * * * * * * *

13th December 1811, Hanover Square

Upon reflection, a goodly dose of brandy might have made his aunt’s soirée a trifle more bearable, Darcy inwardly grumbled as he shifted in his seat. The conversation over dinner had been bland and uninspiring. Lady Alicia, Lord Denham’s eldest daughter, might have been a pleasant companion, but she laughed needlessly and often at nearly everything he said, and goodness knows he was not as entertaining as that. Not even at the best of times.

Miss Beatrice Mortimer, who was seated at his left, strongly reminded him of Miss Bingley and her ingratiating tactics and, unless he was much mistaken, Lord Fanshawe’s second wife had shamelessly flirted with him throughout dinner.

For her part, Lady Catherine had glowered. Her scowls were aimed in turn at him, his companions and at her sister by marriage, even though – or perhaps because – Anne seemed to be well entertained at the other end of the table by Richard’s and Lord Crowthorne’s conversation.

His other aunt, Richard’s mother, returned sweet smiles of angelic innocence in response to Lady Catherine’s glares, and since there was no love lost between the pair of them Darcy suspected that the lady of the house was having a fairly diverting evening.

The withdrawal of the ladies took the undercurrents to the drawing room, leaving behind more bland talk – this time about the war, public affairs and horses. A brief exchange with Richard provided a brief respite from the tedium, but not much amusement, for Darcy did not think he could safely express the wish that one day they might trade places, and it would be his cousin who would be paraded and disputed like some prized bull in the marketplace. This was not the best setting for raillery, and besides he suspected that Richard would in fact enjoy being paraded and disputed.

Unfortunately, they could not stay away from the drawing room for ever, and in the end Darcy steeled himself for the task and made his way therein. Still uncannily like Miss Bingley, Miss Beatrice found something to say to him before he had taken many steps into the room, but he offered her a civil bow and a brief reply and kept his course towards the sofa where Anne and Georgiana sat in quiet conversation.
His choice to join them was in deference to his sister and his cousin, rather than to please a certain cantankerous aunt. Nevertheless, Lady Catherine looked grimly pleased as she approached them.

“Ah, Nephew, a moment with you at last,” she sniffed. “It seems your society is in high demand tonight.”

Her petulance brought something akin to a chortle to Darcy’s lips, but he valiantly suppressed it. Likewise, it would not do to tell her that his society was always in demand and being importuned by two or three young ladies was nothing out of the common way.

“My apologies,” he said instead, and civilly followed it with, “I hope you are having a pleasant evening.”

“I am not,” Lady Catherine replied, which could not surprise him. She had always been one for uncompromising frankness. “But never mind that now. I trust you will escort us to Rosings and spend the festive season in Kent.”

“Oh. Will you not remain in town for Christmas?” was all that Darcy thought fit to say on the occasion.

“Certainly not!” Lady Catherine scoffed. “One should spend Christmas at one’s country estate, not gallivanting about town without a care for one’s duties,” she added with a flinty stare.

Darcy ignored both the stare and the barb and countered, “My thoughts entirely. Which is why I must regretfully decline your invitation. Georgiana and I will travel to Pemberley by the week’s end,” he said, which earned him a wide smile of gratitude from his shy sister. Clearly, Georgiana was as averse as he to being cooped up with a pontificating and overbearing Lady Catherine.

Their aunt grimaced.

“Rosings will be yours too, as you well know. And Pemberley is in dire need of a mistress. A man should marry in his prime. I said as much to my parson. Unlike some, he is ready to oblige me. He is to marry in a few weeks’ time.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. Was she expecting him to bow, scrape and obey her like that obsequious buffoon?

“I am happy for him,” he said tersely.

“Yes, well. He proposed last month to one of his cousins. The eldest, I think. No, the second eldest,” his aunt carelessly delivered the horrifying tidings that hit him like a punch in the stomach and robbed him of breath.

Elizabeth was to be married? A wave of nausea engulfed him. Mrs Collins? Bound to that sorry excuse for a man – bearing Collins’s children? The nausea turned vicious, just as the room grew unbearably hot.

“So they are to wed?” Darcy choked out.

And then his aunt spoke again, and he could breathe.

“No. The chit refused him. Inconceivable, I know. He made an offer to one of their neighbours next. A sensible gal, from what I hear, who knows her place and will make him a very proper wife…”

But Darcy was no longer listening.

“Excuse me,” he said with a stiff bow and made a beeline for the port decanter.
“Well, I never!” Lady Catherine spluttered, most seriously displeased.

* * * * * * * * * *

14th December 1811, Berkeley Square

A very proper wife. His aunt’s words stayed with him as Darcy nursed his brandy in the long hours of the night. That was what was expected of him: to choose a very proper wife. Not Elizabeth. He knew his duty, and one day his unruly heart would listen to the voice of reason. He would remember her as a delightful dream of his youth and follow his path, while she followed hers. One day she would marry. Someone sensible and kind, God willing, who would treat her well. Someone unknown to him, hopefully. Someone whom he could not picture courting her – marrying her – making a life with her. His grip tightened on the glass. Darcy brought it to his lips and drained the fiery liquid in one draught.

As for himself, it was high time he joined the marriage mart in earnest. Come January, he would. With any luck, he might find a tolerable life companion. Not Miss Bingley, perish the thought, nor Miss Beatrice, nor others of their ilk. Not Lady Alicia either. Miss Wyatt might have been an option, with her dark-auburn locks and wide brown eyes, if only she were not so mousy and insipid. Not a spark of fire in her, and not a chance of clever repartee.

Oh, well. The grand salons might have something to offer in the months to come, and he might be engaged by April. He had better be! Otherwise, Heaven help him, he would have to endure another visit to Rosings at Easter, and more prodding on the subject of matrimony!

(Copyright © 2018 Joana Starnes)

(Photo Joana Starnes)