Chapter 1
I would like to confess here and now that I had little hand in bringing together the present Mr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy. True, I rejoiced whole-heartedly in the match, and I have certainly more claim to the general title of matchmaker than my cousin's oh-so-dear mother-in-law, but, unassuming as I am, I will accept the fact that I had little role, positive or negative, in their marriage.
In fact, all I knew of the matter prior to the marriage was that Darcy returned from his stay in Hertfordshire with Bingley looking like a lovesick mooncalf determined not to appear one; when he returned from Rosings in the spring, like a lovesick mooncalf determined to be angry; and when Elizabeth appeared at Pemberley, a mooncalf too lovesick to care about appearances (and thank God for it!). I was amazed enough when I detected the first signs of Cupid-inflicted wounds, but Darcy's countenance does not invite confidence or prying. Anyway, having to suppress my curiosity out of necessity (oh the pain!), I decided instead to quiz the Colonel, whose gift of inquisition discovery overawes even Darcy's tightfistedness with information. However, I resolved on this course too late, in April, after Darcy and the Colonel returned from Rosings, and all I received as relies to my carefully-worded questions were his even-more-carefully-worded (and evasive) replies. I understand it now, for he is as honorable as he can be clumsy, but at the time his reticence was a sore disappointment. It seemed a cruel conspiracy to keep me in suspense and to punish me for my curiosity (and some think I deserved it...as if!).
At any rate, I did not know then that they had both made capital fools of themselves. To be sure, the Colonel was less in fault for idiocy; he was merely, as I mentioned before, clumsy with what he revealed. No, the accolade for stupidity belongs to dear cousin Darcy, who (I learned later) managed the most insulting proposal possible. (When I first heard of it, in fact, I rejoiced under the delusion that the proposal had been made to Caroline Bingley; on the other hand, she would have accepted regardless - heaven protect us!)
Well, they returned, Darcy and the Colonel, like two soldiers sent home because of dysentery without having seen action. Darcy (silently) ranted and raved for a while, then decided to drop down to brooding and gloominess. I have always maintained that enjoying both Milton and Dante could not possibly be good for a person. Darcy changed moods yet again when we met him at Pemberley, and I seriously began to doubt the wisdom of allowing even Shakespeare in his library. Of course, when Mrs. Reynolds recounted the appearance of Elizabeth Bennet avec uncle and aunt, I decided that it must be Elizabeth Bennet sans famille that had flustered dear Darcy so. (Really, I could hardly believe that it was the uncle that excited such admiration.)
But, as fate would have it, I was hindered from meeting Miss Bennet because of some old acquaintances (barbaric creatures!) that coerced me into staying for dinner, and I could hardly have intruded the first day when Georgiana was to meet Miss Bennet. The result was that while Elizabeth Bennet returned home and Darcy scampered about London, I was left in severe doubt as to the existence of the mysterious and powerful EB.
However, when I saw Darcy retuned from his mysterious exile, looking serious but content, I decided that that even if EB were a figment of my overtaxed imagination, it must be a masterpiece. My remaining fears for its material being were demolished when Darcy first sent a letter announcing his engagement to the said EB, and then presented himself and a pretty, intelligent, and quick-witted young woman in my drawing room as Mr. and Mrs. Darcy.
Modesty is not my particular strength, as some more acquainted with me would hasten to assure you. But, I cry in response to their accusations of egotism, who but I could resist the temptation to appear a significant character in the Darcys' story of skewed courtship? Does that not, I ask my many detractors, show a great restraint on my part? Alas, poor Cordelia, they hear me not. This is particularly distressing because the rest of the story is, undoubtedly, full of myself. However, I shall be bold, bloody, and resolute, as Macbeth was recommended, and hopefully will not meet the same end.
I believe an introduction is in order. This alone I can extend to the length of several weighty tomes, so it will be best for me to summarize. I, Patience Cordelia Melbourne, was born on March 14, 1796 as the sole child of indulgent parents, and as such was spoiled for eight years. The fame, however, of being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child was denied me by the abrupt extraction of the spoiling agent, and I was transferred to the care of an old great-aunt who seemed determined to mirror Providence in giving back a hundred-fold the irritation she derived from me. She wasn't a bad old creature, really; after all, she was the only relative who would take me in. (A matter of recompense for the onerous task of bringing me up. Wills are such silly things; they break up one's social circle dreadfully.)
Well, under her cantankerously considerate scrutiny, a state of mind possible only for her, I turned into an almost, but not quite, entirely unspoiled child of eighteen years, with not much to her name but the usual collection of education and accomplishments along with rather unusual wealth. Of course, there came a time to say goodbye to my aunt. After the funeral and all attendant legal rigmarole, I found myself a rich, albeit rather lonely, adult of eighteen. I had decided to scandalize the world by living alone (and for what do we live but to shock our neighbors and refuse to be shocked in our own turn?) but a chance invitation gave me pause, and the opportunity of wreaking pleasant havoc into the lives of others seemed too good to pass by.
The invitation was from Miss Georgiana Darcy.
The Darcys can be called, if we stick to distant family ties and take into consideration a second marriage, my cousins. If I take into account how many times removed the connection is, I fear I shall have to remove the connection in its entirety; so, for simplicity's sake, they shall be called my cousins. I had known that at the time my parents died, the old Mr. Darcy's wife had been very sick, so I had no dark intentions towards the family. (This is my disclaimer of liability; I intended no ill so any ill that resulted from the visit and any subsequent stays should be blamed on the vagaries of fortune.) And so, packing up my country and town homes and depositing a set of butlers, housekeepers, and servants at each place like a sedimenting river, I headed to Pemberley.
The Darcys are an odd family. Here, I pause to demonstrate the effectiveness of the understatement in the English language (although it should be as effective in French). The attentive reader will pick up on that one short sentence and expand it in accordance with his imagination. Udolpho lovers will see Pemberley as a gothic castle and the late Mrs. Anne Darcy as a damsel imprisoned in an ironclad chamber. Romance lovers will imagine the elopement of the late Mr. Darcy with a tormented dairymaid that he installed at Pemberley as wife and mistress. Other stories will, doubtless, abound. However, all these will fall far short of the truth. Considering how many such stories exist in the written world, one tends to develop the attitude that such eventualities are not exceptional.
No indeed, the Darcys are not famous for their scandals.
Go back and read that sentence again.
Yes. The Darcys are odd because they are not famous for their scandals. Not a taint resides even transiently on their social fabric, which, like their tablecloth, is always immaculately brilliant. (I have often envied those sparkling cloths. Even my white gowns aren't as white as their kitchen rags. If one thing strikes jealousy into a homeowner's heart, it is the sight of a house better run than her own. As someone once said, people with clean tablecloths do not like to see other people's clean tablecloths.) But to resume, the Darcys are so proper, correct, and polite, that to an effervescent individual such as myself, they seem on first glance to be unbearably staid and boring. However, some freak of chance put me into their household temporarily, and since then, they can at least claim that life with them will be exciting (still taintless, however, more's the pity).
This is not the story of how I affected the Darcy household before the entrance of the new Mrs. Darcy. This is the story of what happened afterwards.
Chapter 2
The day I met Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy started out innocuously enough. I had gone through all the harmless motions of waking up, dressing, and eating my breakfast without any untoward happenings. Then, retiring to the drawing room to confront the inevitable visits from my London acquaintance, I went through my sewing basket to find an appropriately ornate embroidery piece that would mislead the oncoming plague of harpies...er...socialites regarding my needlework skills.
As I heard a carriage pull up, I sighed a resigned farewell to my freedom. Although I am not one to increase pain by anticipation, I am glad that some ancestor of mine decided to build or buy a house in which the parlor overlooked the driveway and warned me of visitor by the sound. However, having suspected only some dreary lady with her gossip, or, at the extreme, a whole flock of London vultures descending upon me to exclaim upon a juicy piece of scandal, I was not prepared for the shock of meeting Mr. and Mrs. Darcy.
I am sorry to say that the shock of the moment so impaired my mental faculties that I lost my accustomed suavity. I believe that the expressive and inexpressibly crude expression, "gaped like a fish," would have suited me at the moment. The announcement of the butler had caught me, to say the least, unawares, but although I seem to have survived the incident without many ill effects, I shall not soon recover from that embarrassment. Never again shall I, the audacious Cordelia, be named as the great steel-nerved, withstanding-the-greatest-shock-without-apparent-surprise personification of nonchalance.
As soon as I had partially recuperated from the shock, I shook Darcy warmly by the hand and proceeded to berate him thoroughly for keeping his marriage a secret from me. I have slight idea that Darcy began muttering about eagerness to get married, absence of mind, and charming distractions, but I was too occupied in appraising Mrs. Darcy to pay much attention. A slender, pretty young woman, certainly not much older than myself, with dark hair and dark, sparkling eyes that had an intelligent, alert expression. I had the feeling I would like her. After all, any woman that could soften the intimidating Darcy was worth knowing.
After the necessary introductions, formalities, and apologies (from Darcy), we sat down to conversation. My first good impression of Mrs. Darcy did not lessen over the short visit; she was witty, unaffected, and charmingly frank. In short, she was the kind of woman that would perfectly suit my cousin, but one that would not attract him at first sight, of that I was sure. She was altogether too human to appeal to the perfectionist also known as Fitzwilliam Darcy. Curious, I asked Mrs. Darcy how long they had known each other (since Darcy's engagement letter, which had been astonishingly short and vague, had given next to none information).
"We first met last Michealmas, although," and this with twinkling eyes and sly smile at Darcy, "Mr. Darcy assures me that he has adored me all his mortal life. Of course," she said, her face a deliberate yet convincing study of innocence, "he must have simply not recognized me at our first ball together." Darcy looked embarrassed and repentant. "I believe he called me 'tolerable enough,' though I had thought that I was is rather good looks that evening."
Darcy was reddening so dramatically in the exclusive Darcy manner that it was almost painful to watch. Almost. As it was, I was enjoying it a great deal, perhaps as much as Mrs. Darcy herself.
"I am sure it was only a slip of the mental tongue if he said anything untoward." I would have been highly insulted at the look of suspicion in Darcy's eyes if, alas, he had not been perfectly right in his apprehensions. "Why, it was only this past May that I heard the highest praise of you from Mr. Darcy. It must have been you that he had in mind when he pronounced women the curse and bane of humanity, seductive temptresses that looked like nectar and stung like serpents."
Darcy would have protested the slander against his good name had not the shock rendered his jaw immobile. Amused beyond bounds, I was yet a little anxious about Mrs. Darcy's reaction. One does not live in society for eighteen years without becoming desirous of certain people's good opinion, no matter how savagely barbaric one might be. Indeed, I am most sure that even cannibals must feel embarrassed when they commit a social faux pas such as serving humans as the main course rather than the appetizer. (With so many unfulfilled promises, how can we be fulfilling? How can failing digestions help others' digestion? Astonishing enough that such unappetizing personalities as politicians even become appetizers, but impossible that we should become main courses when our own Maine course has disowned us!)
Now that I have added to my manuscript a Study on Society and have successfully Censured the Immorality of Certain Classes of Humans in the manner of true authors, I beg leave to continue my story.
All concern on behalf of Mrs. Darcy's reception of my admittedly eccentric humor melted away as I saw her face, alight in all the intelligent appreciation and amusement that even I could hope for in a friend, and falling short of full delight only in terms of audible laughter which, I suspect, was kept at bay out of respect for her husband's feelings.
Propriety dictated that I invite the Darcys to a grand dinner, but my own inclinations tended towards a smaller family party, and I knew that Darcy himself would be more comfortable in such a situation. The idea of dinner presented itself to me. I made the suggestion timidly (well, timidly for me), and it was received with enthusiasm from the person for whom it was made. However, Mrs. Darcy did defer to her husband for his opinion.
"Of course we will come, if you desire it my dear," he said to his bride in a tone of voice that assured me that he would assent to being beheaded if it gave her pleasure. It was rather sickening to see Darcy being so soft. A man in love is a sorry sight at the best of times, and Darcy, from walking so high, must have fallen hard. Personally, I think that such idiotic grins of happiness as graced his face at the moment ought not to be displayed to a third person. It is disgusting to all except the principals.
I did not see the Darcys again until the evening of the dinner. Besides extending the invitation to Georgiana and Colonel Fitzwilliam, who happened to be in town, I had taken care to invite no one else, not particularly keen on having the Darcy statue in my dining room (to which Darcy would inevitably revert if found in a roomful of strangers). I did, however, have two unexpected, though not unwelcome, guests.
The first of the party to arrive was Colonel Fitzwilliam, who shook my hand cordially and told me that his parents were following him in the carriage with Georgiana, hoping that I would not think it an intrusion. I assured him, quite honestly, that I would think it no such thing. During my two year stay with the Darcys, I had had occasion to meet the whole family at Matlock and liked them immensely, especially Lady Matlock. She is my ideal of an aunt and mother, and those who terrorize and overrule (viz, Lady Catherine) quite mistake the matter. I believe that most members of the family like me as well, and think me a charming, lively, and harmless sort of girl, which just goes to show how little people know me.
The Darcys arrived at practically the same time as the Matlocks and Georgiana. I was very pleased to see a sort of surprised friendship between the new sisters. Georgiana is a quiet sort of person I could never really fathom - too quiet to be happy, I sometimes think. However, with a Spartan for a brother and a Tyrant for an aunt (Lady Catherine, of course), it is hardly unexpected. Poor girl! I was glad that her sister-in-law, at least, would liven her up and apparently had not frightened the girl out of her wits already. That she would not do so later, I could not swear to, but it would hardly hurt Georgiana, at her age, to find out that there are more things in heaven and earth than are allowed in Darcy's philosophy - as, for example, laughter.
Lady Matlock greeted with me a twinkling eye and an inquiry about "whether I was married as well, as no one seemed particularly eager to announce things in the traditional way" and Lord Matlock gruffly declared that he hoped I wouldn't welcome Darcy's pretty bride with the salver (an allusion to an complicated incident involving a corkscrew, a dish of butter, Lord Matlock's new pointer, and the butler's silver salver, that to this day brings blushes to the face of the stolid butler).
"Not at all, sir." I turned to the attentive Mrs. Darcy. "Truly, it was nothing more than a simple joke. I assure you that the pointer in question was not at all hurt."
"Though I can't say the same for the butler," the Colonel put in.
I turned to him. It really was unfair of him to say that. "I don't remember that you exactly tried to stop me, cousin. In fact, I believe you exact words were, 'I'd help if I weren't sure that the pater would murder me.' "
The colonel put up his hands, as if to declare his innocence. "I never said that Merriman wasn't a bore." Everyone laughed while the colonel wilted under the glare of his father, who thought that Merriman was an absolute rock, although I believe he would have liked the joke as well as any other if a rather favorite urn had not been the other inadvertent casualty of it. (For any concerned about the welfare of the urn, 1) it was of stern iron and the damage was easily repaired, and 2) the basis of the concern should be investigated - any one who likes that Greek monstrosity must be out of his mind - I was doing a public service by putting it out of commission for a week.)
The Incident of the Butler's Silver Salver was put aside by Lady Matlock's quick-witted conversation and her rather complex explanation of exactly how I was related to her, which of course led to the suggestion and execution of the scheme of looking at the portrait gallery before dinner. This ceremony, found necessary by all and benefiting none, is always boring to such poor souls as myself, who care more about the art than the subject. As Artistic an idea that may be, it renders all such excursions inestimably tedious to me. However, this particular one was interesting since I got the opportunity to talk to Mrs. Darcy as Darcy and Lady Matlock discussed the history of certain distant relations (including one Stratton Portwine, who was an unyielding teetotaler, as if determined to defy the urges of his last name, and who ultimately met his end by falling into a tub of newly-made).
"How do you like your new home and husband, Mrs. Darcy? Although I shouldn't include them in the same list, should I? After all, you can change one but hardly change the other. Perhaps that is why he was so eager to get married, so that his evils would remain hidden until it was, alas!" here a histrionic hand to my forehead, "too late for repentance."
She smiled mischievously. "Yes, indeed, that is a drawback. But you have overlooked one benefit of the arrangement." She inserted a dramatic pause, and leaned in as if to disclose a secret. "He cannot return me either."
We left the gallery arm-in-arm, laughing, surely leaving the impression that we had both lost our minds. After all, our ancestors were hardly so amusing. I liked Mrs. Darcy and was sure I would like her more as I got to know. I had resolved to call on her.
And that, dear readers, was the beginning of the end.