Miss Darcy's Diversions

by Ronald McGowan

  “Then their loss must be my gain, surely? Please tell me that you do, after all, have room for my name on your card, Miss Darcy.”

  “As to that, Mr Wicklow, you have yourself already declared it to be impossible. I fear you must turn up tonight and take your chance. It may be that the whim may take us to attend the Assembly, and, if we do, I might, possibly, be persuaded to find room on my card for a dance, or even two.”

  We had by now, however, reached the milliner’s for which we had set out, where the presence of a male escort would be seriously de trop, and therefore must part with the usual mutual assurances of soon meeting again.

  Once inside, I found I could not concentrate on the hats and ribbons that Mrs Younge kept offering for my admiration.

  This seems hardly surprising when I look back on it now, but at the time its effect was astonishing.

  I had just been asked to a dance by a handsome young gentleman! A handsome young gentleman who thought me beautiful, intelligent and charming! What young girl of my situation could think of anything else for at least the space of an afternoon?

  But other things, it was very soon impressed upon me, must be thought of, if we were to be ready to make our appearance at the assembly rooms that evening. Left to myself, I might have preferred to languish in our lodgings, musing incredulously upon my success of the morning, rather than risk all in trying to build upon it in the evening, but Mrs Younge would not hear of such craven passivity.

  “What!” she cried, when I suggested we might have a quiet evening in, “Sit sulking by the fireside when you have the smartest beau in Margate simply dying to meet you again? For shame, Georgiana! I thought you were made of sterner stuff than this. Where is the pride of the Darcies?”

  In vain did I plead disinclination, headache, lack of anything to wear. My duenna was adamant. The rest of the day was passed in such a whirl of milliner’s, dressmaker’s, jeweller’s and hairdressers that I scarce had time to eat, which was perhaps just as well, considering how closely-fitting was the gown which Mrs Younge selected for me to wear.

  Had I been writing this for anyone but myself to read, I should, perhaps, have been wary of the complaints of male readers at this point. “Oh, no!” they would cry, “No long descriptions of silks and satins, of muslins spotted and sprigged, of folderols and gewgaws! Spare us, spare us, we pray.”

  Since, however, I am merely writing this for my own amusement, I am sorely tempted to amuse myself, by wallowing in every last little detail of that frock, and of my first ball without my brother supervising my every move.

  Since, however, there is so much to write about the ball itself, I will selflessly refrain from dwelling upon how fine I was.

  The dress would be thought very old-fashioned and rather daring these days. I felt rather daring in it myself, but not at all old-fashioned. True to my word, however, I will make no mention of the flowered muslin, the Brussels lace, the shot-silk, netted surtout, and even spare all detail of the tasselled cashmere shawl that accompanied it. In fact, in my present mood of complaisant mercy to the male sex I will do no more than remark in passing that it was à la Recamier, and I felt very proud of myself in it, and not at all chilly, especially in the stuffy, crowded ballroom.

  The slippers and gloves were simply exquisite, although I suppose that in London they would be thought rather passé. For that matter, I suppose the dress would, too. Margate, even at its best, is not London, or even Brighton, after all. But I was easily pleased in those days, and felt quite the princess as I alighted from my chair outside the Rooms that night, certain that every gentleman’s eye in the vicinity would be upon me as I made my entrance.

  I wish I could say that that was what happened, but a regard for veracity compels me to admit that it was just like any other night at first. The same jostling, uncaring crowds, the same smoky atmosphere, the same gabble gabble, bustle bustle.

  But then we fought our way through to the ballroom. I must give Mrs Younge credit for the sharp elbows with which nature had endowed her. They proved most useful in circumstances of this nature.

  With one step into the ballroom, everything changed.

  I had scarce begun to look about me before I felt my hand taken, squeezed, and kissed, yes, positively kissed! It was, of course, Mr Wicklow, who had come up on my blind side, a tray of glasses in his hand.

  “Mr Wicklow!” I could not help exclaiming, “You are very familiar!”

  “Perhaps I am, Miss Darcy, but I must plead complete incapacity to do otherwise. What less could be fitting tribute to the most beautiful young lady in Margate, nay, in the entire kingdom? Here is hock and seltzer for you, for I am sure you will not wish to drink strong liquor.”

  “Has your friend always been such a rattle?” I asked Mrs Younge, turning towards her to hide my blushes.

  “Not at all,” she replied, “he is usually dumb as a..as a doornail, or whatever it is they say. You have obviously made quite an impression upon him.”

  “Well we must not encourage such behaviour. Perhaps I had better not find room for him on my card?”

  “Oh, but Miss Darcy!” cried the object of our discussion “Would you consign a poor, harmless enthusiast to perdition merely for being unable to resist the overwhelming admiration and respect he feels for you? My heart will quite break in two, you know, without the salutary exercise of dancing with you tonight.”

  “If it is salutary exercise you are looking for, Mr Wicklow, there is the sea just outside the window. You may find quite enough exercise by jumping in it, which will perhaps have the further salutary effect of cooling your excessive ardour.”

  “Ah, but there is not merely the health of the body to consider, but that of the heart, of the soul.”

  “I fear I have yet to meet a young man possessed of either of those items, Mr Wicklow.”

  “What, when you must be continually surrounded by hordes of such gentleman? How can you be so unobservant?”

  “It is perchance just as well that I have been so unobservant, Mr Wicklow, for it enables me to observe now that the band is about to strike up, and I have no gentleman’s name written on my card for the first two dances.”

  The consequences of such a remark were inevitable. The little slip of ivory, and its companion silver pencil were immediately in use. A few minutes, and several glasses of his excellent aperitif, later I found myself walking onto the floor with Mr Wicklow.

  He danced divinely, of course, and his conversation while on the floor was everything that a girl of fifteen could desire. He left me in so little doubt of my own beauty, wit and transcendent desirability that by the time the music stopped I must have been floating several feet above the floor, so elevated did I feel.

  I was brought down from this height when we returned to where Mrs Younge had found seats at the edge of the floor, and Mr Wicklow was immediately despatched for hock and seltzer.

  “You looked very well on the floor, my dear,” said Mrs Younge. “What a pity you have no other names on your card!”

  “But I dare say that will soon be remedied. You will by now have won the attention of all the young men of Margate, but should they all be so inexplicably bereft of taste as to ignore the most accomplished young lady in the room, I think I know of one young gentleman who will not fail to make the most of the opportunity.”

  With this, she leaned over towards me, hiding my face quite as much as hers with her fan.

  “He is here, my sweet!” she whispered, if a tone that could be heard all over the room can be called a whisper. It was evidently intended as such, however, so I will let the word stand.

  “Mr Kerr is here,” she continued, having observed my blank expression, “He has followed you from London! I saw him in the tea room just now, and he was particularly enquiring of the Master of Ceremonies if there was a Miss Darcy in the Rooms just at this moment.”

  “Oh, no. Not Begone Dull Kerr?”

  “The very person, although I am bound to say that I think it very wicked o
f you to call the poor young gentleman by such a name.”

  “Oh! This is too annoying! Just when things had started so well, too!”

  My last words, I blush to admit, were heard by Mr Wicklow, who had just returned with the drinks.

  “I am very sorry if I have been the cause of any annoyance to you, Miss Darcy,” he said. “Such a thing is the last thing I should have wished.”

  “Oh, it is nothing you have said or done, Mr Wicklow,” I told him. “I have only just had some unwelcome news, that is all.”

  “Unwelcome news, indeed!” remarked Mrs Younge, “And why should it be unwelcome news that a young gentleman of wealth and standing has followed you here all the way from London, and has been seen enquiring for you at these very rooms? Many a young lady would be well pleased at such proof of devotion.”

  “I quite understand,” said Mr Wicklow. “I have not the slightest wish to intrude if you are expecting the arrival of an old friend. With your permission, I shall withdraw and trouble you no more.”

  “Oh, please do not do that,” I found myself crying, “we were getting along so famously, and Mr Kerr is….”

  “Mr Kerr is just behind you now,” interrupted Mrs Younge.

  I turned with an “Oh!” on my lips, and there he was. He always did have this way of sneaking up on me silently.

  “Mr Kerr!” I was obliged to say, “What a surprise to see you here!”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “Have you been in Margate long?”

  “No.”

  “This is your first night, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you have a large acquaintance in Margate, Mr Kerr?”

  “No.”

  Silence on both sides, while the two onlookers smirked away. At length, Mr Dullness recollected himself, and bade Mrs Younge good evening.

  “I am very pleased to see you here, Mr Kerr,” she replied to his greeting, “and this is Mr Wicklow, a very old and dear friend of mine, and a very new friend of Miss Darcy. How dear he may be to her I cannot say.”

  “So, Mr Kerr,” Mr Wicklow addressed him, “you know Miss Darcy from London, I collect?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yet you have what might be described as a frown upon your face, Mr Kerr. Are you, after all, one of those gentlemen who consider public balls such as this to be deleterious to the morals of the young?”

  “No.”

  “Could it be, then, that you have come to solicit the favour of inscribing your name somewhere on Miss Darcy’s dance card?”

  “Yes.”

  Now there was a sell! There was nothing for it but to offer my card, and suffer the man for the next two country dances, when I had been so looking forward to a different partner.

  That partner, I observed, as Mr Kerr led me onto the floor, was now apparently deep in conversation with Mrs Younge. No doubt he had many past occasions to commemorate with her, and it was understandable that they should have much to say to each other, but it should have been me. How infuriating!

  Mr Kerr, to do him justice, danced tolerably well, although not a word passed his lips during the first measure.

  As we began our second round, however, some spirit of mischief made me determine to make him speak whatever his inclination. To this end I made some remark about the ball in general, which was met with his usual silence.

  This would not do.

  “Come, come,” I said, “It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Kerr.—I talked about the dance, and you ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples, or some such trifle.”

  “Oh!” he replied. “Yes.”

  Nothing more was forthcoming while we changed over.

  “I dare say that answer will serve for now,” I observed, as we touched wrists. “Perhaps by and by I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. Then you will have some eloquent observation to make in reply, will you not, Mr Kerr?”

  “No,” he replied.

  Well I suppose I must give him credit for honesty.

  At last, the ordeal ended, and we all made for the supper room, where I made sure that Mr Wicklow’s name was on my card for the next two dances after supper, although I could not avoid Mr Kerr for the two after that.

  Mr Wicklow, however, had other ideas.

  “Am I correct in my assumption,” he asked, as we crossed the floor, “that Mr Kerr is not your ideal choice of partner for the next set?”

  “I could emulate the gentleman,” I replied, “ and merely say ‘yes’. But I am moved almost to eloquence on the subject and must restrain myself enough simply to agree with you.”

  “Well, I have an idea. Perhaps you will think it wicked, but hear me out, I pray.”

  “Do you know, Mr Wicklow, I find it hard to credit that any idea of yours could be truly wicked? But please continue.”

  “Well, my dear Miss Darcy, should you really wish to avoid Mr Kerr, and should we just happen to find ourselves near the orchestra at the end of the set, I know of a convenient side door through which we could make our escape, and, perhaps, continue the evening more congenially.”

  It was certainly a most improper suggestion. These days it would be considered wicked indeed, and even then I had some notion that such goings on, if they got out, would do my reputation no good at all.

  Champagne, of course, was not to be had in those days, in public places, at least, the Corsican Tyrant having forbidden the supply of all such Gallic delights to Perfidious Albion, but we did very well with hock and seltzer. It was continually surprising, however, at how many private functions the Widow or the Dom made their way onto the table.

  By now I was in that giggly, light-hearted and even lighter-headed condition so often induced in young persons of the female sex by bright lights, music, rapid movement and even more rapid consumption of too much hock with too little seltzer, so I merely asked him to point out his escape route, and, with a last glance at Mr Kerr still resolutely engaged in his own version of conversation with Mrs Younge, we slipped out through it ere the last bars of the music had died away.

  I know, it is very shocking, is it not? But I was very young, and quite unused to society in spite of officially being out. And in fact all we did was look at the moon on the sea, and recite our life histories –or, rather, I recited mine – and cool off. Then, when we were quite cooled, and the wind from the sea was beginning to feel chilly, I was sick. I made rather a mess of his good coat, which he bore very well, although it would never be quite the same again.

  “Oh, my dear Miss Darcy!” he cried. “Had I known you were unwell I should never have suggested any thing as unwise as leaving a stuffy ballroom for the breezy sea shore. Come, we must find Mrs Younge, and take you home.”

  By now I was in tears, as much of vexation as embarrassment.

  “It is nothing,” I mumbled, “it does not signify. It is only the heat and then the sudden cold. And too much excitement.”

  “Too much hock, more likely. Tell me, my dear, have you ever drunk so many glasses in one night before?”

  “I don’t know. I never counted. But, oh, Mr Wicklow, your poor coat!”

  “Now that truly does not signify. Come, we must get you out of this wind.”

  I did not pay much attention to the rest of that evening, for I was too busy nursing my stomach, and my poor head, which had decided to join in the merriment by threatening to split in two.

  Mrs Younge did not seem very surprised, however, merely shaking her head in an exasperated way, and ushering me to a hackney as soon as Mr Wicklow could find one.

  Mr Kerr, mercifully, had already left after failing to find me for the dance he had requested. Mrs Younge said that he did not seem best pleased, but I was well past caring for anything like that by then.

  I will draw a veil over the events of the night that followed. I blame it all on the pound cake at the recess. I thought at the time that it smelt and tasted oddly. Or it might have been the oys
ters, although they were said to have been fresh brought from Whitstable that very evening. There was no ‘r’ in the month, after all.

  There was definitely something wrong with the sunlight the following morning. It had never streamed through my window quite so brightly before – either that or some fell malady had befallen my eyes, and they were strangely sensitive. At school, one of the older girls had been much given to belladonna eye drops to improve her looks. I had tried them, once, but did not much like the sensation. This glaring brightness was muchwhat like, but, looking in the glass showed my pupils no larger than usual. My ears, too, had become acutely sensitive, or else everyone had taken to bellowing their every word in my presence. From the maid’s first ‘Morning, Miss,” to Mrs Younge’s entrance with “Come along, young lady, it is high time you were up and about,” everyone was obviously conspiring to deafen me.

  When she continued with “Mr Wicklow has been waiting downstairs for you this past half hour,” I could not forbear groaning and burying my face in the pillow.

  Mrs Younge would have none of it, however. With an exquisite cruelty of which I would not have thought her capable, she positively tipped me out of my bed and bade the servants dress me and deliver me to the drawing room.

  Once delivered there, I could but dimly make out the form of Mr Wicklow, standing with a glass in his hand.

  “Oh, my poor, dear, Miss Darcy,” he said. “How my heart goes out to you. Here, drink this. It is my own sovereign cure, and will make you feel better, I promise you.”

  I was quite incapable as yet of thinking or acting for myself, and did as instructed, downing the draught in one, for I was quite thirsty.

  It tasted absolutely horrid, but it seemed to work, after the first few seconds when I thought I must rush again to my chamber. But that feeling passed before I had time to act upon it – perhaps my stomach was far too empty already – and I found that I could at least see more clearly, once I had wiped the tears from my eyes.