No Thank You, Mr Darcy

by Lucy Tilney

  Until Elizabeth entered the ballroom Mr. Darcy had been secure in the dislike he’d been working on for two months. He had criticised her attitude and disparaged her looks and thus safely dismissed her as beneath his attention. Now, watching her in her lavender peacock-feather silk cut a little lower at the back than at the front, with moonstones at her ears and wrists, he found himself repeating, She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies; and all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes.1

  This irked him. Only mooncalves quoted poetry and as Fitzwilliam Darcy, multi-millionaire and owner of one of the finest estates in England, he knew he could have his pick of the prettiest, cleverest, and most successful women of his generation so moon calving over an opinionated, small town girl even if she did have lovely eyes was unpleasantly disconcerting. He watched her chatter animatedly to the plain woman who was going to be a nun or something and then moved so that she was no longer in his sight then, when the dancing had begun, moved again and monitored her partners while still refusing to admit to himself he was interested.

  She danced first with Nigel Stoughton, a gentleman farmer who was said to be too fond of his pig, but she did it with good grace, and then with a handsome young man for whom Mr. Darcy experienced a great and inexplicable dislike. That dance over she made her way to one of her sisters who was sitting down rubbing her foot, and he found himself headed in the same direction.

  “I have just had my annual dance with Cousin William,” said the sister, “and I think he has bruised my toe.”

  Elizabeth grimaced, “Since when did dancing with that wretched man become a Christmas tradition? If only he’d keep to his Anglo-Catholic principles he would be prayerfully preparing to celebrate the 8.00 am Communion tomorrow and not jigging around a ballroom looking ridiculous in his clericals.”

  Mr. Darcy silently agreed.

  “It’ll be your turn next,” said Mary, “I am going to find a martini. I deserve it.”

  Mr. Darcy agreed with that too. He would like to give a footman the sole duty of providing generous martinis to all the parson’s dancing partners but it was not his house. Then, continuing to watch Elizabeth, and seeing her sigh and steel herself for the unpleasant experience, he was struck by a chivalrous thought. He could, in actions if not words, apologise for his rudeness at the Assembly Rooms which was still prickling his conscience. He would rescue her from the parson who was even now weaselling up brushing mince pie crumbs off his waistcoat.

  “Cousin Elizabeth,” he murmured, “I have come for my long looked forward to Christmas gift…”

  Mr. Darcy stepped forward. He was directly in front of her which gave him an advantage over his rival.

  “Do you know the Ländler, Miss Bennet? We are dancing it in honour of some Austrian friends Charles has invited.”

  He tilted his head slightly in the direction of a couple who had split up to partner Charles and Caroline.

  Elizabeth demurred for a second. She did not want to dance with Mr. Darcy, she had spent almost three days in the same house as him and that was enough of an acquaintance for a lifetime, but she did know the Ländler and the thought of dancing it with Cousin William was too dreadful to contemplate. Yet, unless she was prepared to be rude, or make a bolt for the door through a seething mass of people all clutching drinks she had to dance it with one of them.

  “Thank you,” she replied pretending not to notice her cousin's bumbling protest.

  “The rector looks rather put out,” he said as the music began.

  “I have been waiting all night for him to ask me to dance,” she said mischievously, “but perhaps this particular dance is not best suited to his talents.”

  Darcy stifled an ungentlemanly snort. Mr. Collins and the Ländler would only be slightly less ludicrous than Mr. Collins and the Sugar Plum Fairy and if this was to be his only chance, as it certainly seemed it would, to prove to that gentleman’s bewitching hazel-eyed cousin that he was not an unchivalrous lout he did not want pirouetting parsons to disturb it.

  One two three… two two three… three two three… Yes, I can do this, she thought with relief. The only thing worse than Cousin William stumbling through a dance would be doing the same herself.

  1 ‘She Walks in Beauty’, Lord Byron.

  AN EVENING TO REMEMBER

  Yet the feeling that she should be grateful to Darcy stung her. No-one in their right mind wanted to dance with Cousin William whose enthusiasm for the idea was out of proportion to his ability and the young women of Meryton had renamed one popular dance as ‘The Other Way, Mr. Collins!” due to his ability to spoil it for his partner. However, she had determined to dislike Mr. Darcy intensely and only concentrating on the certainty of dislocating her spine while being twirled under William’s short arms could produce the mildest gratitude.

  Her first thought was not to speak at all until fancying it would be much against his wishes to speak, she made an observation on Caroline’s work on the house.

  “Miss Bingley is very talented,” he replied.

  And that was the end of that. She had just consoled herself with the idea that it was an unfamiliar dance and she might as well concentrate on the steps when he voluntarily spoke.

  “When describing your magazine, Miss Bennet, you said you advise young women not to marry. What do you advise them to do instead?”

  “We encourage girls to see something of the world. To experiment, to have an adventure and, yes, find other ways to fulfilment if marriage is not desired or possible.”

  “Experiment?”

  This was the point at which she sashayed three-quarters of the way around him swishing her skirt which was longer and straighter than a drindl and did not do it as well. Still, he was handsome standing there and 'experiment' had been an imprudent choice of word.

  “We don’t encourage them to experiment with morals,” she said as it was his turn to step briskly around her before reaching over his shoulder for her hand. With a glimmer of a pause she gave it and lost track of her thoughts.

  “But with life choices,” she managed to continue as they faced each other once more, “one of my sisters, for example, wishes to become a solicitor but she may still marry. My friend, Miss Lucas, has decided to become a deaconess and will probably never marry. They have both exercised choice and, increasingly, that choice is open to all women. Indeed, that is the definition of a modern woman to me: one who has choices and can make them intelligently.”

  “I see. Do all your sisters hold your views?”

  “Of course. You cannot imagine Mr. Darcy that women dislike having greater opportunities than we had a quarter century ago.”

  She told herself it was having her arm above her head that made her feel a little giddy and nothing to do with his hand on the small of her back.

  “Your older sister is a very intelligent, capable woman, yet she does not have a profession.”

  Elizabeth faltered. The question, for it was a question despite the lack of inflection, struck her as intrusive and for a moment she had no answer. Annoying man, he knew perfectly well that almost 1924 or not that the daughters of the gentry didn’t normally work.

  “You were reading Trollope the last time I saw you. Is he a favourite of yours?”

  She had not expected him to make a genuine effort to converse (fishing for information didn't count) and she could not think of books in a ballroom.

  “I found very few books of any kind here and the best were almost old Mr. Woodhouse’s collection of almanacks, but I wasn’t in the mood for reading about the full moons of 1868 or making a note of the best times to sow turnips until 1955. I believe though the situation has improved?”

  That way she didn’t have to tell him she liked Trollope.

  “It has,” he replied, “the very morning you left a sizeable order of books arrived from Foyle’s and another from Blackwell’s as well as some extra copies my niece sent from Pemberley. I took the liberty of arranging them meth
odically to prevent Caroline from doing it by spine colour to achieve a more pleasing look.”

  Elizabeth laughed and was about to comment on his taste in operetta but the pleasant moment passed when she caught him glancing darkly at Charles introducing Jane to his Austrian friends. There was something about Mr. Darcy’s expressions that bothered her deeply and this one could not bode well at all.

  The music ended and still holding her hand he made their way carefully through the crowd to where Mr. Collins had just deposited Kitty by the punch bowl.

  Elizabeth smiled up at Darcy praying he would move before her mother’s rabid imagination could jump from a dance to love to encouraging Cousin William to think of Mary again. Seeing Kitty, and recognising a likeness he did leave them, dancing with Elizabeth was one thing but socialising with the rest of the tribe was not something he was prepared for.

  “Do you think Mr. Bingley has proposed to Jane?” whispered Kitty who like Lydia imbibed far too many romances.

  “Hardly. Their whole relationship consists of covert glances in church, morning coffees in The Copper Kettle, one accidental meeting at a tea dance, two visits to the cinema, and the happy discovery that they both prefer the toddle to the turkey trot. Only our mother could hear wedding bells in that.”

  As she spoke her mother’s voice pealed over several clusters of people as she assured Sir William and Lady Lucas that Mr. Bingley would be a very lucky man indeed and could do no better. And the briefest of glances to where Mr. Darcy stood with the limpet Caroline attached to his arm told her that she was not the only one who had overheard. Kitty winced sympathetically and wandered off in the direction of better partners.

  Elizabeth leaned against the wall feeling her energy seep from her; she would have given anything to be snuggled on her window seat at home with a cup of tea and a book. It seemed that her whole family had conspired to expose themselves - and her - to every imaginable censure and if they had been working to a well-rehearsed script they could not have put on a better performance. Her grandmother echoed their mother's expectations to every matron in the room, her uncle danced with girls young enough to be his daughters, her aunt was gregariously tipsy, her mother was loud, and Cousin William cheerfully and methodically canvassed the Bingleys’ wealthy friends for donations to the Chancel Roof Fund.

  She consoled herself with the thought that Jane and Charles were so absorbed in each other that neither was likely to notice or be distressed but even that sparse comfort was denied her for long as she watched in unmitigated horror as her cousin approached Mr. Darcy.

  A desperate “noooooo…” left her lips without permission.

  “What was that, dear?” said an elderly woman but Elizabeth was transfixed as he sidled up to Darcy and began to speak. Her instincts told her to get a drink and hide but instead she inched towards them to torment herself. She could glean that he was telling Mr. Darcy about his curacy at Hunsford although she could not imagine why he thought such an august personage would be interested and in response, Mr. Darcy stared at him with undisguised abhorrence much as he might at a cockroach in his bed before ringing for his valet to dispose of it. The conversation (if something one-sided could be so described) ended when Caroline announced that she wanted all the guests in the great hall for photographs and, to Elizabeth’s relief, Mr. Darcy simply walked off leaving her cousin talking to air.

  He disappeared amongst the guests and thinking how lucky it was she had never sought his good opinion she slunk out on to the balcony where, although freezing in a sleeveless gown, she could at least feel safe for a scant moment before Cousin William insinuated his portly frame through the half closed door with a glass of champagne in each hand. Seeing exactly what was about to happen, and that there was no escape short of throwing herself over the balustrade, she cringed and thought if she had a fairy godmother it might be a good time for her to appear. It was clear that Mr. Collins had been meditating on this for some time and was now resolved to make his declaration and begin 1924 an engaged man.

  “My dearest Elizabeth! Mr. Darcy may have spirited you away from me earlier but finding you here like this answers all my prayers. You can have little doubt, I am sure, of what I am about to say but grant me leave to say it nonetheless. As you must be aware it is incumbent upon a man in my position to wed and set the example of marital bliss in his parish.”

  “William… I…”

  “Nay, let me speak, there will be time enough for sweet nothings afterwards.”

  Elizabeth tried not to shiver lest he take it for excitement and he dropped to one knee with the ease of a man accustomed to genuflecting.

  “My fair cousin, as you know it is my God-given duty and privilege to christen, marry, and bury all those within the parish of Holy Trinity, Meryton. I also say my Morning and Evening Office every day, celebrate Mass three days a week, organise the annual pilgrimage to St Mery’s well, edit the Trinity Trumpet, serve on the Parish Council, judge the vegetables at the horticultural show, attend the meetings of the Mothers’ Union, visit the sick, dispense necessary advice to the bell-ringers, and run the Anglican Rosary Society. In all of this, my only help is Mrs. Partridge who frequently serves me lukewarm porridge without jam so my dear, Elizabeth, I ask you to be the companion of my future life. Your professional experience, however generally undesirable, will be particularly helpful in editing the Trumpet and, of course, you are already well-loved in Meryton, so without further ado, well, except to say I expect you to tender your resignation to your magazine tomorrow, and not to wear any more lip rouge and to buy some decently thick stockings, I beseech you to consider God’s will for your life and become my most dearly beloved helpmeet…”

  “William, please, this cannot go any further. I thank you for your kind offer but I must decline and advise you to consider a secretary rather than a wife.”

  She bent down to yank him up but although she was strong he was solid and she was pulled down into an unintended embrace just as Mr. Darcy burst through the doors on to the terrace. Elizabeth lifted her face from William’s waistcoat in time to see him storm out again and her humiliation was complete. Of all people!

  She picked up one of the glasses and drank it quickly.

  “My dear, my dear, you must be quite undone, those were meant to toast our happiness.”

  “I have just refused you,” said Elizabeth curtly.

  She tried to slither past him to the door but he had her hand again, “Ah, your feminine wiles make it impossible for you to accept me the first time. I shall wait and press my suite again ‘ere the year is out.”

  She darted into the ballroom and found Charlotte shepherding a flock of dithering old ladies.

  “Lizzy!” she exclaimed, “you look very poorly, whatever is the matter?”

  “Mr. Collins proposed!”

  “Oh, my goodness, no wonder. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  They skirted the reception hall where Caroline was arranging a tableau of honoured guests against the backdrop of the Christmas tree now lit twice as brightly. Elizabeth could not fail to notice that Mr. Darcy had not lost his look of black fury but why exactly he should look like that in his best friend’s house three days before Christmas was a definite mystery. Then she saw the photographer and forgot Mr. Darcy entirely.

  George glanced at her and winked. Elizabeth put her arm firmly through Charlotte’s. Why hadn’t he told her he was working at Netherfield?

  The remainder of the evening passed in a blur of embarrassment with her mother's voice or her aunt's giggling following her everywhere she went, Kitty had a spat with Mabel Harrington over a boy which needed to be broken up by their uncle, Mary stormed off the floor halfway through a dance with Harold Watkins and her father, standing in the open doorway of the card room, referred to the Conservative front bench as a bunch of horses’ behinds well within hearing of any number of the Bingleys’ Tory friends.

  It was an evening that would imprint itself on Elizabeth’s memory so that even in extreme old
age she could remember each excruciating moment.

  CHRISTMAS AT LONGBOURN

  Christmas Eve dawned sharp and clear with a heavy frost. Elizabeth went out for a long ramble and, despite stopping to feed the birds on the way back, she was in the dining room before nine digging into poached eggs and buttered muffins when a pale but happy Jane slid in.

  “I won’t ask if you slept,” laughed Elizabeth pouring her a coffee, “I can see very well you were awake all night.”

  “And you were out at the crack of dawn. Is it cold? Shall we have a white Christmas, do you think?”

  Elizabeth laughed, “It’s a nipping day, a biting day; in which one wants a shawl, a veil, a cloak and other wraps…1 but I don’t know about a white Christmas.”

  Jane added hot milk to her cup and settled back cradling it in her hands.

  “Snow or not it’s going to be a wonderful Christmas. He kissed me goodnight and oh, Lizzy, he said when he’s back from Louisa’s wedding he wants to see me every single day!”

  “I was worried the superior sisters or very superior friend would put a spoke in it for you. I am glad Mr. Bingley is his own man.”