Miss Darcy's Diversions

by Ronald McGowan

  Chapter Eleven :London

  With her brother’s departure, Miss Bingley seemed at first to feel her obligation to entertain her guests the less.

  She sat writing her acceptance of the invitation without one more word until she had finished. Then she looked up.

  “There,” she said. “I have written merely that we may be bringing two very great friends with us. That leaves the door open should you change your minds. I should be very pleased to take Miss Darcy to my dressmaker’s this afternoon. I am sure something could be run up to suit her colouring, and her build, in time for the party.”

  Fitzwilliam kept his temper admirably, or is it that men do not notice even the most deadly insults?

  “You are very kind, Miss Bingley, but my sister is of a delicate constitution, and must rest after her journey. I confess to feeling a little fatigued myself, and must beg you to excuse us.”

  Immediately she was all concern.

  “How remiss of me to forget!” she exclaimed. “We all seem quite such old friends that it positively slipped my mind. Of course, you will be longing to rest and change out of your dusty clothes. I will ring for a servant to show you to your rooms. Your bags will have been unpacked by now, and I trust everything will be satisfactory. But if there is anything you need, you have only to say.”

  I had already decided to hate Miss Bingley, but at this point I realised that I did not like her either. I made many an effort throughout our stay with the Bingleys, but found I could not warm to her. I dare say it is very wicked and unchristian of me, but I fear I am not much of a Christian these days. I blame it all on Mr Elton.

  I could find no fault with the apartment assigned to me. The furniture was obviously the best Mr Adam’s book could provide, and the wallpaper quite in the latest taste. In fact it looked as if freshly decorated for the season. The view was out over the street, and gave a tantalising glimpse of the corner of Bond Street over to the right, while the trees of the park could just be seen at the other end of the street.

  I had barely discovered all the conveniences when there was a knock on my door.

  It was Fitzwilliam.

  “I hope you did not mind my taking your name in vain,” he remarked, “ and imputing to you a fatigue which perhaps you do not feel. It was the only polite way I could think of on the spur of the moment to avoid surrendering you to Miss Bingley’s mercies for the rest of the day. I never asked you what you think of my friends, by the way.”

  “That is quite true,” I replied.

  “Well, perhaps you will enlighten me?”

  “Mr. Bingley is good-looking and gentlemanlike; he has a pleasant countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters are fine women, with an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, assuredly looks the gentleman. I can say no more than that on such short acquaintance.”

  “From you, that is quite enough, and bears out what I thought. Miss Bingley, I do not dispute, is a very good sort of young lady, but I doubt very much if her company for the rest of the day is what either of us had in mind for your first day in the capital.”

  “I am so glad to hear you say so,” I replied, “the shops on Bond Street certainly have an interesting look to them, but I cannot say that I long to explore them with someone who has already called my taste in dress into question.”

  “Miss Bingley’s dress is the epitome of the current fashion, and I am sure that she had only good intentions at heart when she made the remark to which you, quite rightly, object, but I agree that she ought not to have made it, and I believe that her style of dress would not at all suit your nature.”

  “But let us think no more of Miss Bingley, save to say that she will be gone to her dressmaker’s within the hour. Let you and I take our ease till she has departed, and then look about us and see what we can find for your amusement and education.”

  We both giggled like naughty children, and retreated to our respective rooms, whence I, at least, had the benefit of watching Miss Bingley’s carriage depart shortly after I had finished rearranging my room. Why is it that strange servants always put everything in the wrong room? Pausing only to pick up my spencer and bonnet, I crossed the corridor and knocked on Fitzwilliam’s door. There was no answer, and, when I pushed at the door, it swung open to reveal no sign of its occupant.

  It crossed my mind that there was the makings of a Gothick tale here, a young girl, abandoned by her brother in a strange house in London. Or had her brother been abducted, or horror of horrors, made away with, leaving his poor sister at the mercy of the villainous criminal mastermind Bingley and his even more villainous sister?

  A good beginning, perhaps, and the most susceptible might be taken in, but I had met Mr Bingley, and, although there was no knowing what his sister might be capable of, I could not believe it of him.

  In fact, I had scarce begun to embroider the fantasy when I found Fitwilliam, who was sitting comfortably in the drawing room, reading the newspaper.

  “I see they are playing Figaro at Covent Garden tonight,” he said. “Should you like to go?”

  “Which one,” I asked, “the Paisiello or the Mozart?”

  “Did you not attend? I said Figaro. Had it been Paisiello I should have said the Barber. Do you have a very strong preference?”

  “Not I. I asked only for clarification. Where should I have seen either? But I have played several of the Mozart pieces on the piano, and should be very pleased to see them on the stage, and hear the full works, as it were.”

  “Then we shall go, and what is more, we shall sit in the stalls, the less to be inconvenienced by the conversation of those in the boxes. But I warn you, it may be more of an experience than you look for.”

  “I cannot see why you should think that. I have read M. Beaumarchais’ play, and think I remember the plot, of which I heartily approve. I think I shall manage to follow.”

  “Oh, I could hardly criticise your Italian, after what you said to Miss Bingley this morning. But it was not the performers that I was thinking of. The audience can be very mixed.”

  “Oh, I should not mind that. I dare say it would be amusing. But I fear I cannot go; my wardrobe is so rustically outré that it is not possible that I should find anything suitable to wear in it.”

  “With any other female I should take that as a tolerably broad hint that we should immediately betake ourselves to the nearest dressmaker’s, but I think I know my Georgiana better than that. But Miss Bingley did score a hit with that one, did she not?”

  “Palpably,” I replied, “and far be it for a mere country girl, fresh from school, to contradict such a fine lady. She must know all about drapers and dressmakers and such, after all. Was not her father in the trade?”

  “Miss Bingley sometimes has a rather unfortunate manner, but there is no harm in her, I assure you. But tell me this, do you trust my taste?”

  “Impeccably.”

  “Then believe me when I tell you that I trust yours, and would back it against Miss Bingley’s any day of the week. Whatever you wear you will look lovely. But let us not waste this fine afternoon. Shall we take a walk in the park while we discuss muslins?”

  “A walk in the park would be very agreeable. And, when all is said and done, what does it matter what I wear. I am invisible, after all. I am not out.”

  The audience at the opera that night may have been quite as mixed as Fitzwilliam had promised. For all the notice I took, or remember, the mixture might equally well have been of dukes and duchesses or ducks and drakes.

  All I that I remember happened on stage but it would be futile to try to describe it.

  Anyone who has not shed tears at ‘Dove sono’ or held her breath in that everlasting pause between the count’s final ‘Contessa, perdono’ and the Countess’s ‘Piu docil’io sono’ can have no idea of the magic world into which I was transported. The groundlings laughed at all the pranks and tricks, and Figaro and Susanna, and Barberina and Cherubino played their comic parts excellently, but I had
read both plays quite recently, and was almost overcome by the heartbreaking unreliability of human love that the piece portrays so incomparably. The scheming count and his betrayed countess were what had become of Rosina and Lindoro, the young lovers from the Barber of Seville. This is what happens, the libretto was saying; people change; there is no happy ending. And yet, the music said something else, that there was still hope, that we must hold onto that hope, and do whatever we can with it.

  I fear I was in a sad way by the end of the evening. I may not have been drunk in the conventional sense, but I was certainly tired and emotional, as Aunt Fitzwilliam used to call the Earl when he had taken too much port.

  We were joined at breakfast the following morning not only by Miss Bingley and Mr Bingley, but by Mr Bingley’s elder sister, Mrs Hurst, and her husband. It soon became evident that Mr Bingley, who had but just come of age, was very much disposed to rely upon his sisters for guidance in everyday matters. As a consequence, perhaps, Miss Bingley was by no means unwilling to preside at his table, nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had married a man of more fashion than fortune, less disposed to consider his house as her home when it suited her.

  Miss Bingley was full of conversation, and her brother hardly less so. The difference was that while the sister regaled us with her account of the fabulous ball we had so unfortunately missed, Mr Bingley enquired politely of our activities since we had last met, and wished us joy of them.

  Mrs Hurst said very little, and Mr. Hurst nothing at all. The former was divided between admiration of the brilliancy which youth had given to my complexion, and doubt as to the occasion's justifying my going out to such a public place with my brother alone alone. The latter was thinking only of his breakfast.

  Miss Bingley was all regrets when she heard that we had gone to the opera.

  “Oh!” she cried. “What a pity you could not have waited for us! I believe I told you what a great lover of opera I am, and how I am word-perfect in my favourite arias. We could have made a party together, and I could have introduced your sweet sister to all the best people, you know, Mr Darcy.”

  “My recollection of what you said about attending the opera yesterday does not quite accord with yours,” replied Fitzwilliam, “but I see I must be mistaken. A gentleman is always wrong when recalling a conversation with a lady.”

  “Oh, I am sure that you are never wrong, Mr Darcy, but, on such short acquaintance, and such short notice, you know, things can be said which are perhaps susceptible of misunderstanding.”

  “I do not doubt you have the right of it, Miss Bingley, and regret that our selfish impatience deprived you of such a pleasure.”

  After breakfast I came down to the drawing room with Non so piu on my lips. I was only singing absent-mindedly, almost under my breath, but I immediately found myself silenced by Mrs Hurst.

  “Hush, child,” she hissed. “You will disturb Mr Hurst.”

  I looked where she was pointing and saw her husband stretched out on an armchair, his feet on a footstool, snoring away.

  “Oh!” I exclaimed. “Mr Hurst must be very tired. Were you all out so terribly late? I did not hear anyone come in.”

  “Mr Hurst always sleeps after breakfast. The state of his digestion requires it.”

  “Oh! What a pity! I was hoping to do my morning piano practice now.”

  “Out of the question, my girl. Neither Mr Hurst’s digestion nor my nerves could possibly support such a thing.”

  “No matter. I will come back in an hour or so, when you will all be up and about.”

  “Pray do no such thing. Mr Hurst will sleep until lunchtime. He always sleeps until lunchtime.”

  “I will come back this afternoon, then.”

  “What, and disturb Mr Hurst’s afternoon nap! How will he recruit himself for the labours of the evening without his afternoon nap?”

  “How indeed! How silly of me not to have realised! In that case I can only leave you with my respects to you both, Mrs Hurst. Pray convey them to Mr Hurst should a moment both convenient and sentient ever occur.”

  Fortunately, Fitzwilliam was coming down the stairs as I stormed out of the room, and I was able to rage conveniently at him. I have done this ever since I was little, and he quite understands it.

  “There is no point going in there,” I told him. “Mr Hurst must not be disturbed. He is evidently preparing for a trip to Ephesus, where he hopes to become the eighth sleeper, and the slightest intrusion cannot be countenanced.”

  “Both Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley have evidently decided that I may be treated as a child, since I have been officially and authoritatively pronounced not out, and have not the slightest compunction in sending me about my business as it suits them.”

  “We must do something about that, certainly,” he replied, and since out in one sense is not practicable without a certain amount of preparation, perhaps we had better begin that preparation, which will permit you to come out in a different sense. Or should you not care to accompany your brother while he searches for a house of your own to rent?”

  “I do believe I should. Let me get my spencer. But should we not wait for Mr Bingley.”

  “I should not advise it. Since coming to town, Bingley has become something of a dandy. He will be at least an hour yet agonising over the set of his cravat.”

  “In that case, let us go. But where shall we go? I have no idea how to set out on such an errand.”

  Chapter Twelve:An Establishment

  “Oh, there are agents who concern themselves with that sort of thing,” replied Fitzwilliam, “but I admit that I have cheated. I have been in correspondence on this point for some weeks now, and have a list of addresses her that we may inspect.”

  “Then you truly did intend to take me away from school soon? You did not just say that to make me feel better?”

  “I always try to spare the feelings of those I hold dear, but I am not much given to telling stories.”

  “How glad I am to hear that. I feel much less like a spoilt little Miss now. I can forget my childish petulance and blame all the consequences on you, which is much more satisfactory.”

  “Satisfaction is always the aim of my endeavours, my dear.”

  “Now, there are a dozen properties on my list, which would be far too much of a fag to inspect. It may be that we shall have to go the rounds in the end, until we find somewhere satisfactory, but for the time being I suggest we confine our activity to the three nearest. By walking around between them we may combine healthful exercise and taking in a few of the sights of London with the pleasant sensation of a task well done. What say you to that?”

  “I say ‘lead on, Big Brother.’ I am all agog.”

  I had rather hoped that we would be going back towards Bond Street, but we turned right after leaving Mr Bingley’s residence, and passing along the street, came out onto a broad square. There was a garden in the middle with a formal arrangement of shrubs around a central, square grass plot, with an equestrian statue gleaming golden in its centre and surrounded by flower beds.

  “This is not at all as I had imagined London,” I exclaimed. “I was expecting narrow streets, crammed with costers and … and all sorts of tradesmen, and a great deal of filth and smoke. Instead I find broad thoroughfares and something that could almost be the garden of a gentleman’s country house.

  “Which is exactly what it is meant to substitute,” said Fitzwilliam. “I will leave it to you to determine how well it succeeds. These squares and gardens are quite the thing in the part of London that is frequented by society, although none of them can rival St James’s.”

  “You do not have to go much further towards the City – towards the Far East, as I have heard Miss Bingley call it – to find quite enough squalor and filth to satisfy your expectations, however. But we must pass on.”

  “I take it that we are not to inspect any of these impressive looking houses here, then?”

  “Good Lord, no. This square is the preserve of dukes and earls, and lesser
mortals must take care how they conduct themselves. That house over there, however, is the residence of the ambassador of the American republic, which must give her Grace of Kendal some concern about her neighbours. No we must look further for our humble abode.”

  But not very much further, it appeared, for crossing the square we turned into another such street as Grosvenor Street, with modern, terraced houses on either side. We were disappointed in our purpose, however, for the house in front of which we halted was clearly occupied.

  We thought at first that we might have mistaken the number, but there was no other property on the street that appeared to be vacant.

  “Perhaps there has been some mistake,” said Fitzwilliam, “or the tenants are just about to remove. I will knock and enquire.”

  The door was opened by a liveried manservant, who proved quite as helpful as I was to find most London domestics to be. He knew nothing of any appointment to view. His master had taken the house but a week before, and was unlikely to be removing before the end of the season. He could not help us any further. His master was not at home.

  “But hold on,” he cried as we were turning away. “Darcy, did you say your name was? We’ve had a letter waiting here since we moved in, addressed to a Mr Darcy of somewhere in Derbyshire. Pemberton was it?”

  “I am Mr Darcy of Pemberley,” replied Fitzwilliam.

  “Pemberley, like I said. You’d better take it, then.”

  So saying, he handed over a folded sheet of paper and closed the door in our faces.

  Fitzwilliam scanned its lines and shrugged.

  “A pretty fair indication of London manners and the London way of doing business,” he said. “This was left for me to read in case the letter from the agents did not reach me before I set out from Derbyshire. They have let it on favourable terms to a satisfactory gentleman and beg I will not trouble myself to make the journey to view. I hope this experience will not also prove a fair indication of the state of the London property market.”