Miss Darcy's Diversions

by Ronald McGowan

  “I thank you so much for your good offices, my dear, dear Miss Bingley, but you need not trouble yourself. Your guidance is no doubt invaluable, but it will not be needed.”

  “I am already endowed with the best guide any young lady could desire, in the shape of my brother, and for occasions where female company is required, he has taken thought of that also. Let me introduce to you Mrs Younge, an old and valued acquaintance of my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who is so sweetly kind as to stay with me and be my companion and guide through the maze of conventions that surround a girl newly coming out.”

  The spectacle of verbal fencing which ensued, as dear Ethalia and darling Caroline each took the measure of each other was as entertaining and instructive as anything I had so far met with in London.

  This business of ‘out and not out” was beginning to grate, however, and I raised the subject with Fitzwilliam when he returned from his club.

  “I should not trouble yourself about all that, my pet,” he said. “Nobody pays these things much heed in London. Act as if you are out, and everybody will assume that you are.”

  “Except,” I pointed out, “those who have been kindly informed to the contrary by Miss Bingley.”

  “Miss Bingley is a very good sort of young lady, but anyone who relied upon her for a source of information would very soon find himself embarrassed.”

  “She seems to have other ideas.”

  “I have my own suspicions of Miss Bingley and her ideas, and I wish to make it very plain to you that they do not coincide with mine.”

  “As for the other little matter, why do you think we went to such trouble to find a house with a ballroom? Give me a week or two to make the arrangements, and you shall have your very own coming out ball, fit to astonish all the Bingleys of this world. Do you think you could possibly manage to find yourself a new gown in that sort of time?”

  This was a task in which Mrs Younge proved invaluable. Fitzwilliam had recommended Messrs Harding and Howell’s shop, in Pall Mall, but my watch dog would have none of it.

  “What, pay St James’s prices for something that will be just the same as everyone else will be wearing? For you must know that these fashionable seamstresses all do nothing but copy each other. What one is wearing today, everyone wears tomorrow.”

  “But are they not much patronised by ladies of the ton?”

  “Ladies of the….? Oh, I see. For a moment there I thought you had said ‘Ladies of the town’, which would not do at all. They are, indeed, a great deal patronised by ladies of the ton, but that will not do for us. This is to be your day, your occasion. You must not merely follow the ton, you must set it. You are lucky indeed to have a companion who knows exactly where to go for that sort of thing.”

  So we set off immediately after breakfast and must have reached Grafton House by half past eleven, but when we entered the shop, the whole counter was thronged and we waited a full half an hour before we could be attended to. When we were served however, I was very well satisfied with my purchases.

  Mr Wilding attended us himself, and was very good at his trade, so good that I bought far more than I should have, including some shirtings for my brother whose taste in such things, while not exactly deplorable, tends to the conservative, and I would have him look just so for my day.

  I had thought that we were well done, having had to walk no more than round the corner into Bond Street, but Mrs Younge had only begun her education.

  We took a hackney to the far North, quite the other side of Oxford Street, where, up three pair of stairs in a garret illumined only by skylights, I made the acquaintance of a young lady presented to me as ‘the best seamstress in London’.

  I dare say that there are as many ‘best seamstresses in London’ as there are counties which are ‘the garden of England’, but Miss Dobbs was certainly full of ideas and suggestions and was very assiduous in her measurements, and very profligate in her assurances that all would be ready in time. In fact she promised to bring the dress to Albemarle Street for the first fitting in three days time.

  Her charges were so reasonable and she seemed so desirous of my custom and eager to oblige that I almost began to wonder whether ‘dear Ethalia’ might not be of some use after all.

  I was still full of it all when we returned, and had much to report to Fitzwilliam when he enquired how we had been passing our time.

  “We took our walk,” I announced, to Grafton House, to Messrs Wilding and Kent’s and I have a good deal to say on that subject.”

  “I am sorry to tell you that I am getting very extravagant, and spending all my money, and, what is worse for you, I have been spending yours too; for at the linen draper's counter to which I went for checked muslin, and for which I was obliged to give seven shillings a yard, I was tempted by a pretty-coloured lawn, and bought ten yards of it on the chance of your liking it; but, at the same time, if it should not suit you, you must not think yourself at all obliged to take it; it is only 3s. 6d. per yard, and I should not in the least mind keeping the whole. In texture it is just what we prefer, but its resemblance to your favoured style, I must own, is not great, for the pattern is a small red spot.”

  “Then I dare say you may get your way, and have it for yourself, for it does not sound at all my sort of thing,” he replied, But I shall look it over, and listen to what you have to say. I have the greatest faith in your taste and discretion. But tell me of this ball gown you have commissioned. What is it to be like?”

  “You must exercise your faith in my taste and discretion,” I replied, “and. Like everyone else, be amazed and delighted on the night.”

  Meanwhile we had more than adequate amusement provided by the procession of callers who found their way to the door. Now that they were no longer restricted to old friends of Fitzwilliam’s, the mixture was far more entertaining.

  What was really remarkable was how difficult it appeared to be to meet a normal person in London.

  The females could mostly be divided into inquisitive harridans, eager to poke their noses into anyone new’s affairs, overbearing fashion-snobs all set to poke fun at newcomers’ outfits, or suspicious fiancées – or fiancées soon to be – anxious to check the competition. That is, after all, what the London Season is primarily for, a marriage market for the leisured classes.

  The males tended to be obvious fortune-hunters, mother’s boys or of the type for which the words ‘supercilious fop’ had been invented.

  The first type would say anything they thought would please, the second as little as they could get away with, and the third could talk of nothing but their own appearance, intelligence, and wit, even though every word they spoke provided further proof of their complete lack of the latter two qualities.

  One day we had the pleasure of the arrival of one example of each category at the same time.

  Mr King had called before, and, being disappointed of the continuous admiration without which he could not function, had brought his sister with him to provide the said admiration and encouragement- a function which she performed more than adequately.

  Mr Kerr seemed quite content to sit and sip tea, while all about him engaged in verbal fireworks.

  In an attempt to engage him directly in the conversation I asked him outright whether he did not think it a pity that the same people should always take the greatest part in any conversation, while others whose opinions were no doubt just as valuable, went unheard.

  “Some people like to talk,” he replied, “and some people like to listen.”

  Mr Kellogg I took, from his harsh, nasal, braying tone, to be American, and asked him whether he was not uneasy, considering the growing ill will between the two nations, to be travelling in England just at this time.

  “Oh, no,” he replied, “all this noise that President Madison is making is just politics. He is just trying to keep the War Hawks and the Federalists both happy. Nothing will come of it, you’ll see.”

  “I rejoice to hear it, Mr Kellogg, and wish the
– War Hawks, was it?- and the Federalists all the happiness in the world, and Mr Madison, too, of course.”

  “I don’t know as I agree with you there. Miss Darcy. Why….”

  At this point it appeared that he was about to embark upon a detailed and soporific explanation of American politics, but fortunately he was interrupted by the arrival of Fitzwilliam, which gave me the excuse to engage Miss King in conversation instead.

  Miss King proved to be even more odious than her brother. Her idea of conversation was a continuous monologue upon her ten thousand pounds, and of the attentions she had been receiving from a very elegant young officer of Militia somewhere in Hertfordshire.

  “I make no claim to beauty, or charm, or intelligence,” she said, positively oozing false modesty, “but young gentlemen must live on something, and I shall never lack for admirers as long as I have my ten thousand pounds. Should you not like to have ten thousand pounds of your own, Miss Darcy?”

  “I never think of such things,” I was beginning to reply, but Fitzwilliam, eager as ever to leap to my defence, saw fit to interrupt.

  “My sister need have no fears for her future well-being, Miss King,” he said. “She has thirty thousand pounds of her own and will inherit Pemberley should I never marry, an outcome which I begin to think increasingly likely when I survey the young ladies of today. I say this in the knowledge that my observation could not possibly refer to you, in view of your young gentleman in Hertfordshire.”

  “Oh!” was all that the young lady could think of to say. “Oh!”

  She continued nonplussed for the rest of her fifteen minutes, but I could see her signalling to her brother with her eyes.

  It was after this visit that the calls and invitations really began, and very soon I was quite surrounded by acquaintances, especially gentlemen; and what with Mr. Hampson, Mr. Seymour, Mr. W. Knatchbull, Mr. Guillemarde, Mr. Cure, a Captain Simpson, brother to the Captain Simpson, besides Mr. Walter and Mr. Egerton, in addition to the Cookes, and Miss Beckford, and Miss Middleton, I had quite as much upon my hands as I could do.

  Dear Ethalia gloried in it all. She had a way of implying, by her conduct, that she was a favoured guest rather than a hired companion, and it amused me to see how far she could go with this imposture. Our visitors, I could not help observing, were, for the most part, quite as gullible as they were fashionable.

  I made a remark to this effect to Fitzwilliam one evening.

  “I should prefer to call them innocent,” he replied. “They have no reason to doubt anything Mrs Younge says, and so they give her credit for veracity. You could enlighten them, but choose not to do so. I make no implied criticism of either of you, however.”

  “I could, as you say, enlighten them. In principle, I should enlighten them. But how could I do so without exposing Mrs Younge’s imposture, and destroying her credit forever? Not to mention any trust there may be between her and me?”

  “I make no criticisms, my love, nor do I make recommendations. I merely observe that the longer this state of affairs persists the more difficult it will be to reveal the truth.”

  “We can all observe. Observing is easy. I do a lot of it myself. Acting is something else, and it amuses me to watch her.”

  “Well, remember that she is, after all, your employee, and you may dismiss if she fails to give satisfaction, or oversteps the bounds.”

  “I am quite aware of that, thank you. I am also perfectly aware that to do so would immediately give me the trouble of finding a substitute acceptable to you, to Aunt Catherine, to Cousin Ned, and, for all I know, to old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh, and I decline the endeavour.”

  “Besides, how could I bear to part with ‘darling Ethalia’?”

  “Mrs Younge will hear you talking like that one of these days, you know.”

  “I dare say she might, but I am, as you have just reminded me, her employer.”

  Whatever else ‘darling Ethalia’ might have overreached herself in, it was not in her choice of dressmaker. Miss Dobbs proved to be a veritable Raphael of the needle. The ball gown she produced for me was just as I had envisaged it to be – pure, ethereal, an assemblage of draperies that might have been worn by Venus herself on the heights of Olympus. It certainly made me feel like a goddess.

  It was all kept a strict and solemn secret until the evening of the ball itself, when I made a perfectly satisfying entrance into the drawing room, where Fitzwilliam was awaiting the arrival of the first guests.

  “Well?” I enquired.

  “Well,” he replied. “In fact, very well. Very well indeed! To think that I have known you all these years and never realised how truly beautiful you are. But, do you not think, my dear, that, perhaps, you ought to tuck a little lace?”

  “Darling Georgiana will do very well just as she is, Mr Darcy,” objected Dear Ethalia, “she will be the most beautiful girl in the room, and it is well that all should know it.”

  “In the face of such united female opposition, I can only yield,” was his reply. “But perhaps this may make up somewhat for the lack of lace.”

  So saying, he produced a shagreen –covered case from his pocket, and presented it to me.

  “Go on, then,” he insisted. “Open it.”

  I gasped out loud when I saw what was inside. It was a great necklace, a positive rivière of alternate diamonds and sapphires, each one bigger than my fingernails.

  “Oh!” I cried, “Oh! How beautiful! But how did you know to choose something that would go so perfectly with my dress, with its blue and white tones? And why give it to me now? It is not even my birthday.”

  “Birthdays come but once a year,” he replied, “but today is even more special. It is not every day, after all, nor even every year, that Miss Darcy comes out.”

  Chapter Fourteen: Coming Out

  I will not trouble posterity with a blow by blow account of my coming out ball. I remember only too well how it felt, to be young, and eager, and to be dipping my toe into the waters of the future, and finding that I needed neither lifeline nor cork jacket. I remember the feeling, but my powers are quite inadequate to describe it. The pen of Shakespeare himself would scarcely suffice, and any effort I might make would be far too wanting in effect.

  I fear I very soon developed a taste for the high life. My experiences of that night gave me a confidence in myself, and a faith in my own judgement that played, I think, a major part in what was to follow.

  Everything was so new, and exciting. Even standing for what at least seemed like hours on end to receive the guests as they filed past us and the major domo announced their names and ranks had a charm that quite overlaid the tedium, and, as for what followed, I defy the world to produce a fifteen year old girl who does not like to dance.

  Not that the evening was without its little difficulties, however. I had counted on dancing the first measure with Fitzwilliam, but this was not to be.

  “It cannot be so, my sweet,” he replied, when I enquired when we were to open the dance. You are the hostess. You must walk through the first dance with the gentleman of highest rank and consequence in the room, just as I, as host, must dance with the highest ranking lady. It is only when all the company are engaged that we may please ourselves.”

  The words “Whose party is this?” formed themselves in my mind, but, fortunately, failed to get past my lips before I realised how childish they sounded, and resolved to play my part as an adult and make my brother proud of me.

  So it was that I first stepped out on the floor with the old Duke of Bedlington, our landlord. While all eyes were upon us he proved an unobjectionable partner, but as soon as the dancing became general I found that the octogenarian was quite as inclined to take liberties as the septuagenarian had been. I had to remind him several times that I was no longer two years old, that I was not a wax doll, and that I was still perfectly capable of poking him in the eye. The threat brought him back to his senses, and very soon afterwards the set ended and I was able, as Fitzwilliam had said, to �
�please myself.’

  The pleasure, I must say, was very varied. Fitzwilliam could not escape the next set, and dancing with him was no burden. I have never wanted to be talked to, much, especially when I am concentrating, and this particular measure was new to me. It did not take many words, however, to express the joy we each felt in the other’s delight.

  The very first young man I danced with who could in any way be described as eligible was Fitzwilliam’s friend, Mr Bingley.

  His “Oh, but I swear that you are the most beautiful creature I ever beheld, Miss Darcy!” I took for what it was worth, while giving him credit for rather more sincerity than his successors, who all repeated much the same thing in one variation or another but in much less believable tones.

  They say that repetition dulls the senses, but I find I do not mind it in the least, while such are the sentiments expressed. I mentioned this to Fitzwilliam after the throngs had left.

  “And are you, perhaps, convinced, that an opinion expressed by so many young gentlemen in the course of the same night must be the truth?” he enquired.

  “Oh, it goes without saying that it is the truth. My surpassing beauty, wit, charm, elegance, intelligence and so forth must inevitably be a given in any conversation. But I do not flatter myself by assuming that my admirers of this evening do not say much the same thing to every young lady they encounter – or at least to every one with thirty thousand pounds.”

  “You are quite right there, I think. I can vouch for it as far as Bingley is concerned, at any rate. I do not believe he has ever met a young, unmarried lady who is not the most superlative in every quality, even if she does not possess thirty thousand pounds.”

  “Oh! I am sorry to hear that, as I was a little inclined to credit the sincerity of Mr Bingley. Still, at least we may acquit him of fortune-hunting.”