No Thank You, Mr Darcy

by Lucy Tilney

  “Well, let’s drink this coffee and we’ll go. You mustn’t take much of what Lady Catherine says to heart. She’s getting on for becoming a lonely, bitter woman wrapped up in herself. No-one comes here anymore. Her ladyship likes to talk about her family - the Fitzwilliams, the de Bourghs, Countess Clereborough and so on - but if any of them have been here more than twice since Sir Lewis’ memorial service I’m Lloyd George’s uncle. No-one wants to hear her rambling on about genes and birth control and Jews financing the Labour party. We had a bit of a respite in 1919 when she exercised her mind on the appalling mess Lord Knolesworth made of his department during the War but, after she went up to London and set about him with her umbrella outside his club in Pall Mall, it all died down and we were back to the usual nonsense which has only got worse now that she’s met this Sir Oswald Moseley.”1

  “Lord Knolesworth is the cousin of Sir Edwin Brereton, our local grandee in Hertfordshire,” said Elizabeth, “but I don’t recall that story although I can just imagine how much he must enjoy telling it.”

  Mrs. Pringle chuckled, “They may keep it quiet, dear Miss Bennet, for in the ensuing chaos a constable was called and he promptly arrested his lordship!”

  “And the nephews do not mind all the talk of eugenics and putting children in institutions to die?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I can assure you I am rarely invited and only go now and then to give Miss Lucas some moral support. Let us fervently hope they don’t agree.”

  “They must agree or they could not tolerate it or the ghastly way she treats her daughter. Do you see anything of them when they are here, do they talk to anyone but their aunt?”

  “They may talk to Mr. Annesley, that’s her ladyship’s chaplain, although he’s often laid up these days with his injury and sheer nerves about not hearing from the Foreign Missions Board. He’s desperate to leave and she’s desperate not to let him leave because she has such an abominable reputation no-one else will come. The poor woman can’t see that a little kindness would go a lot further than threatening him with the archbishop all the time. However, he may come to dinner one night and then we will see what he knows of Mr. Darcy and the colonel. We do see the colonel wandering around on occasion but we only know when Mr. Darcy is there through gossip as he never visits the village, but then I suppose one can’t expect millionaires to find much to interest them in Hunsford.”

  “Do they not attend church?”

  “Oh my goodness, no. Mr. Annesley does Sunday services in their private chapel. Sir Lewis stopped attending the parish church after a disagreement over the number of candles on the altar in ’97 or ’98, I believe. Now come along and I shall introduce you to the Turners.”

  The doctor’s house was a rambling Georgian stone house on sloping ground overlooking the village green. To the left of it separated by an orchard and a public park there began a stretch of road with a row of narrow terraced houses beginning the socially downward slope into North Hunsford where Charlotte found most of her work.

  Mrs. Turner, the former Matilda Pearson so disapproved of by Lady Catherine, was undoubtedly the local beauty and her auburn hair and porcelain skin had been inherited by the little girl whose bright eyes and ready smile said that if she possibly could she would leap up from her wheelchair and hug Elizabeth.

  “Oh, Miss Bennet, you have no idea how I’ve longed to meet you,” she said as soon as they were introduced and before Elizabeth could even get her coat off to hand to the maid. “I have waited my whole life to meet a woman writer.”

  “I hope I am not a disappointment,” said Elizabeth, “I’m only a magazine writer.”

  “I know. As soon as Miss Lucas told us about you we went to the newsagent and ordered a copy of ‘Twenty’ and now we are subscribers. It is my ambition, Miss Bennet, to be a writer. There’s a limit to what a person can do from a chair but she can think and type. I am full of thoughts and my darling papa has just bought me my very own typewriter! It’s hard on my hands but Mr. Annesley, who is the dearest man in the world next to my papa, is going to see what he can do to make it easier for me.”

  “A clergyman who can fix typewriters,” laughed Elizabeth, “that is a stroke of good luck!”

  “We have always been lucky with our vicars,” said Barbara, for that was the small, starry-eyed damsel’s name, “Mr. Pringle is a dear and Mr. Collins who used to be curate here always brought me two-penny bars to share with Nettie. I miss him.”

  “But your dentist doesn’t,” put in her mother. “Would you like a cup of tea, Miss Bennet? If Barbara keeps talking you may need the sustenance.”

  By the time the tea came, Elizabeth had promised Barbara a pre-publication copy of Georgiana’s story which she at first declined on account of the person who would have to retype it but upon Elizabeth’s describing the office’s pride and joy of a Gestetner stencil copying machine she became ecstatic.

  “You should come up to London and see it work," said Elizabeth and then bit her tongue because she had no idea if that was possible for Barbara who was gazing at her with shining eyes.

  “May we, mother, may we?”

  Mrs. Turner nodded to Elizabeth confirming Barbara would be able to make the journey but added that they must wait on her godfather to visit and bring his roomy car.

  At that moment there was a tentative tapping on the front door, so timid that for a moment Elizabeth thought she had imagined it but soon she heard the maid ask someone in. The someone was not introduced in the parlour but within minutes the strains of Für Elise began to drift through from a room at the back of the house.

  “Music for your visit is supplied by our friend, Nettie, Miss Bennet,” smiled Mrs. Turner, “and I’m sure she’ll look in before she leaves. She doesn’t have a piano at home so doesn’t often get the chance to play.”

  At that moment another knock at the door brought the maid in to whisper something about “that poor woman again” which took both Mrs. Taylor and Mrs. Pringle out of the room leaving Elizabeth with Barbara who leaned towards her and whispered conspiratorially, “What my mother means is that Nettie’s mean old guardian stopped her piano lessons and now Nettie must sneak along here when the witch goes to Sittingbourne to visit her sister.”

  “That’s a sad situation,” replied Elizabeth, “she sounds very talented.”

  “She’s putting some of my stories to music,” said Barbara, “or at least she was before Mrs. Young decided to sell their piano. She says Nettie’s family don’t pay as well as they should but I think she just wanted the money for herself.”

  “Don’t pay as well?”

  Barbara nodded with her mouth full of cake, “For some reason, I have never been able to fathom, Nettie’s family gave her up when she was a tiny child and they pay money to Mrs. Younge to take care of her. Nettie says if she had the money herself she’d run away. She’s been in that poky terrace for twenty years and she has never seen the sea. Even I have been to the seaside, Elizabeth, may I call you Elizabeth? I feel so sorry for poor Nettie.”

  “Poor Nettie,” echoed Elizabeth, “and yes, of course, you may call me Elizabeth, even Lizzy if you’d like.”

  The music stopped as Elizabeth was describing the holiday to Brittany her aunt and uncle had taken on after the war and both she and Barbara looked at the door. The girl who entered was taller than Elizabeth with fine, white skin and a fall of long nut-brown hair making her look very young although her age was probably twenty-three or so.

  “Miss Elizabeth Bennet, I’d like to introduce to my dear friend, Henrietta Smith. Nettie, this is Miss Bennet from London, she writes for the new magazine Miss Lucas told us about.”

  “You have an exciting life, Miss Bennet.” Miss Smith held out a long, slender hand that barely made it out of the sleeve of the most hideous jersey Elizabeth had ever seen. Both it and her skirt, a serviceable looking serge, looked like hand-me-downs from Anne de Bourgh and if Miss de Bourgh’s clothes could look any worse on anyone else they certainly did on poor Miss Sm
ith.

  Miss Smith was an interesting if unusual conversationalist. An old governess had taught her music and she was able continue and improve herself, her knowledge of history and of current affairs was excellent even if clearly derived from only one source besides the news bulletins on the wireless, and she had a great love for flowers and all sorts of birds. On the other hand, she freely confessed to never having been to the cinema or theatre, or an art gallery, or to any museum apart from the local one into which Lady Catherine had decanted Sir Lewis's collections of stuffed animals and Anglo-Saxon grave goods; and when Elizabeth remarked that her own schooling had had serious deficiencies Miss Smith merely chuckled and recommended a good perusal of the 1889 edition of the Encyclopaedia Brittanica.

  1 Sir Oswald Ernald Mosley, Bart., became an MP in the 1920s and was later leader of the British Union of Fascists.

  MISS SMITH

  Elizabeth returned to the deaconess’s cottage that evening with a head and heart full of Nettie Smith but quiz Charlotte as she might there was very little more information than Barbara Turner had already given her.

  “I believe,” said Charlotte, cheerfully dishing out generous portions of spinach pie, “that the poor lamb had terrible fits as a child and her parents thought that it indicated bad blood which would make it difficult for her older brothers to marry and carry on the family line.”

  “Good God! Oh, Charlotte, that is abominable. I am sure Lady Catherine would approve wholeheartedly but for the rest of us, it’s as if the sixteenth century never ended along with burning odd women with cats for being witches. Do they do that here too?”

  “I hope not or my time in this world will be short. I don’t know anything about Miss Smith or the woman she lives with beyond that they never attend church either here or in North Hunsford. Indeed from what I can gather Miss Smith has only been seen out and about this past year or so and before that, she was only marched around the park for some sort of constitutional two or three times a week. I have no idea what's going on there but I doubt it's godly. You should ask Barbara Turner, she knows the intimate history of the entire village, nothing and I mean nothing gets past that child.”

  “Barbara knows no more than you,” said Elizabeth resolving to make another social call on Mrs. Pringle as soon as she could. If anyone was better informed than Barbara it should be the vicar's wife.

  Between giving a talk to the local girls’ school, visiting Canterbury, going to the coast, and the various other things Charlotte had found to occupy and entertain her guest it wasn’t until Saturday that Elizabeth had a chance to have coffee with Mrs. Pringle again.

  She decided to start with the topic of Georgiana and work her way around to Miss Smith.

  “I believe Lady Catherine has a great-niece as well as her two nephews.”

  Mrs. Pringle chuckled.

  “She has an enormous family but I suspect you mean the half Indian girl who is a great-niece by marriage. Oh my, that was a to do, she only came once mind you, but no-one will ever forget it. Lady Catherine made sure everyone knew her mother’s family are Brahmins but I needn’t tell you that most people here don’t have a clue what that is. Poor Mr. Collins thought it was something to do with Brahms so the dear girl played him a few movements on the piano! He thanked her so profusely it took a good ten minutes and all the time Mr. Pringle and I couldn’t look at each other for fear of bursting with laughter.”

  Elizabeth sighed, “The brains in our family were very unevenly distributed and my cousin fared worst of all. I hear though he kept Barbara and Miss Smith, well supplied with two-penny bars during his curacy.”

  “Aye, that he did. Barbara says Miss Smith had never had chocolate before and having met the woman who cares for her I can quite believe it.”

  Elizabeth shuddered and decided Barbara’s theory about the guardian selling the piano to line her own pocket was probably true.

  “Does Lady Catherine know of Miss Smith or have an opinion on her situation?”

  “I expect she does, her ladyship has an opinion on everything but I don’t believe I’ve ever heard her mentioned. I have seen her Miss de Bourgh talking to her in the public park.”

  “Barbara gave me something of her history yesterday. It is so terribly sad.”

  “It is but the poor girl used to have fits and money and pride does terrible things to people. Money, power, status… there’s hardly one in a thousand that can carry them off without becoming corrupted.”

  In the end, Mrs. Pringle knew no more than Barbara. Miss Smith had been farmed out as a small child and even though she had grown into a lovely and accomplished adult no effort was being made to create an adult life for her. When Mrs. Pringle went off to the Mothers’ Union Elizabeth took another wander around Hunsford. She had drifted as far as the edge of Rosings’ grounds but not wanting to encounter any of the family she turned back at the site of the old parsonage where clusters of snowy and violet crocuses marked the remains of the garden so lost in her thoughts that she failed to recognised the tall figure striding through the cypresses towards her.

  “Elizabeth! I am most happy to see you. I had begun to fear you had left or at the very least my aunt would be present at every meeting.”

  “Mr. Darcy, how are you?” Fitzwilliam was not going to slip naturally off her tongue. She wondered why he was making a fuss now after having vanished from all his apparently usual haunts in London after the Lydia debacle.

  “I am well. And you? How are your family?” He looked charmingly awkward (and suited his tweeds so very well) and she had to remind herself what manner of man he was and what manner of a family he came from.

  “We are all well, thank you.”

  He remained blocking her way. “Primrose becomes you.”

  Elizabeth had forgotten she was wearing the primrose coat and the hat with buttercups. It was one of her favourites and she rarely received compliments on it unless her mother likening her to half a pound of marzipan counted. Still, compliments or no, her heart was hardened and with a few more meaningless pleasantries she was on her way leaving him to do whatever rich, proud, bigots do. If she had learned one thing from the Lydia affair – between the days with her heart in her mouth, being lectured by sanctimonious clerics, snubbed by silly girls like Lupin Browne, patronised by Ethel Long, and given the cut direct by a man with a pig – it was that friends were what counted. Charlotte, Lily and the girls in the office, Edith Leigh – people like that. Not people who stuffed you in a taxi and forgot about you and then reappeared in the drawing rooms of vicious old bags giving consent to their vicious opinions through silence.

  She walked back to Charlotte's house in a foul mood kicking all inanimate objects in her path and feeling angry with herself for caring about the whys, whats, and wherefores of Fitzwilliam Darcy's behaviour. By the time she reached the cottage, Miss Smith had taken over again as her principal concern and remembering that someone had said she often walked in the park she had a very quick cup of tea standing at the kitchen table and set out again. She watched her from a distance as Miss Smith helped a woman in a nanny’s uniform push two small girls on the swings and then as she wandered, book in hand, to a bench by the pond. It was not hard to walk past her apparently accidentally and when Miss Smith took the initiative of addressing her she sat down immediately.

  “Barbara tells me she’s going up to London to visit your magazine premises, Miss Bennet?”

  “Yes,” smiled Elizabeth, but apparently we must wait for her godfather to bring her in his car. I imagine a train journey would be unpleasant for her.”

  “Yes, I believe she suffers much more than she reveals. She is a remarkably brave little girl.”

  “If you would like to join us you would be more than welcome. And please do call me Elizabeth.”

  Nettie looked wistful. “I would like it very much but Mrs. Younge would never agree, Elizabeth.” She glanced for a moment at the ducks on the pond and then dropped her eyes to her lap.

  “Mrs. You
nge? But surely you are old enough not have Mrs. Younge dictating to you how you spend a day?”

  “I am nearly twenty-four but age is not the issue. I am, as they say, feeble-minded and must spend my life under the care of a guardian. I can no more go where I please than a ten year old child.”

  Everything about Nettie Smith from her deportment, to her manners, to her well modulated voice, to her choice of reading matter bespoke a young woman of taste and refinement. It was possible, perhaps, that she was mentally ill and for the past few days had been in a kind of remission but impossible that she had been diagnosed by any honest physician as mentally deficient.

  “How long have you lived with Mrs. Younge, if I may ask?”

  “Nearly twelve years and, of course, you must call me Nettie.”

  So she had lived nearly half her life with the abominable Mrs. Younge. Elizabeth squirmed, it was not in her nature to fire direct questions at someone, in Mary's perhaps, but not hers. Nettie looked at her and smiled, “If you want a potted history, although there isn't much more than would fit in a flower pot, here it is. From the age of five to twelve I lived with Miss Porter and Nanny Brown in Sittingbourne. Miss Porter taught me music and some refinements, she was I believe, a good woman. She died and Nanny started asking too many questions about my origins because she said Miss Porter had had a plan to return me to my family but there was nothing in her papers to say who they were. Poor, dear Nanny, she had such a good heart and found it hard to believe that others were not so good. Finally, she tried to take me to a doctor and was removed and replaced with Mrs. Younge and we came to Hunsford in 1913.”

  She paused for a moment watching two sparrows chase each other around the bird-table on a nearby tree, “You see I have fits and although they have been less of late they blighted my childhood dreadfully and caused great distress to my parents, especially my mother. Miss Younge tells me it was deemed best for my brothers and for any future children that I am not part of the family.”