Miss Darcy's Diversions

by Ronald McGowan

  “Now what you need to complete the cure,” he announced, in a disgustingly cheerful manner, “is fresh, sea air. Come, let us walk along the strand. I see Mrs Younge has your spencer ready.”

  “Indeed, I think it a splendid idea,” agreed Mrs Younge, but I find my legs a trifle rheumatical this morning, so pray take no heed if I fail at times to keep up with you young people.”

  “Mrs Younge,” replied Wicklow, “how could you believe me to be so neglectful. I have two arms, you know, and a beautiful young lady on each one will be no burden at all for me.”

  Two arms he most definitely had, but he seemed quite soon to forget one of them, and for most of the morning there was but one in use, for Mrs Younge did, indeed, keep falling behind, whether it were to look longer in a shop window, to adjust her laces, or through mere age and infirmity.

  “Oh, Mr Wicklow,” I took the opportunity of the first of these pauses to address him, “I must apologise for last night. I do not know what came over me.”

  “Say no more of it, my dear,” he replied.

  “But your poor coat! You must let me buy you a replacement.”

  “Say no more of it, I beg you. What are such things between friends? I hope we are friends, are we not?”

  “Mr Wicklow, at this moment, I believe you are the dearest friend I possess in the entire world, apart from my own family, of course.”

  “Your family goes without saying, of course, but I cannot tell you how much I am affected by the thought that I might be dear to you.”

  “Oh, Mr Wicklow!”

  “Oh, Miss Darcy! Now, what do you say to that very outré hat that lady over there is wearing? Is it not a quiz?”

  After this, he kept up a constant flow of conversation, and all in all was so amusing that I soon found my headache abating. But was it the influence of the sea air, after all, or of the strangely comfortable and comforting effect of the arm twined in mine?

  For the next two weeks we were constant companions; I might almost say inseparable. His company was so very convenient, and so very congenial. He never tired of accommodating my slightest suggestion, and he had such a fund of stories about everything and everyone we saw that I found myself hanging on his every word. I believe he made up rather more than half of them himself, but that did not alter the amusement to be derived from them, especially those that were slightly wicked.

  Our days settled into pattern. Mr Wicklow would call in the morning, and we would walk along the promenade, or among the shops, and perhaps take tea by the shore. In the afternoon we would take turns playing the piano, and he would sing along, or accompany me on his German flute, or merely sit and admire. And admire he did, making no effort at all to disguise his admiration, and not merely, I think, of the music.

  Mrs Younge often excused herself on these occasions, pleading no taste for modern music such as Herr Beethoven.

  Sometimes our afternoons were spoiled by the presence of Mr Kerr. He could hardly be forbidden the house, but his presence did nothing to improve our joy. Fortunately, he could not refer to the conversation he had had with Fitzwilliam in the presence of a third person, and I blessed Mr Wicklow with all my heart, but silently, for sitting out his stay.

  He would sit there and say as much as usual, which is to say, nothing.

  His presence would strike the two of us strangely dumb, too, and we would all sit staring at each other, taking sips of tea, and waiting for the customary fifteen minutes to be over. He never stayed longer than his time, but his departure always made us feel like two children let out of school, and authorised to play at last.

  It was on one of these afternoons, when Mr Kerr had been and gone that we had a great surprise.

  I was trying a new set of sonatas, and was finding them quite difficult, and, concentrating on them, quite failed to notice how quiet the house had become. There was usually some noise of servants bustling about, but now all that was to be heard was my strained efforts at these long chords, and the extravagant applause of my audience.

  Mr Wicklow, meanwhile, while never ceasing in his praise for my playing, was growing quite bold, insisting that I could not possibly turn over for myself, and he must sit next to me and perform that service himself.

  Alas, I lacked both the courage and the inclination to object too strongly, even when it became perfectly clear that there was not really room for two full-grown persons on the stool.

  Where this all might have led to there is no saying, but we had scarce sat down together when the door opened and my Cousin Edward walked in, with an anxious look upon his face.

  “Where are all the servants?” he demanded. The street door was open. I had but to walk in, and there was no sign of anyone about. Had it not been for the music, I should have thought the place deserted.”

  I could scarce believe my eyes.

  “Cousin Edward,” I cried, running to embrace him, “I thought you were in Spain.”

  “So did I, when I got out of the coach and felt the heat in the streets. But I am not. I am in Margate.”

  “So you are, to be sure, but how came you here?”

  “Oh, I was sent home on sick leave. Never fret, my love, it is nothing to speak of. I still have all my limbs, eyes, ears and even teeth. A touch of fever, that is all. We supernumerary staff colonels may be disposed of very conveniently, you know, not like real colonels, with regiments of their own. I fell in with your brother in London, of course, and, naturally, he told me you were here, so I thought ‘What could be better for a spot of convalescing?’ So here I am. But where are the servants, by the way?”

  “I confess I do not know. Mrs Younge left us but a few minutes ago, to see why no-one had answered the bell.”

  “Well, I saw nor hide nor hair of her, either, if such an expression may be used of a lady. I sometimes wonder about Darcy’s friend’s recommendations, you know…”

  At this point he was interrupted by a cough from the direction of the piano, where Mr Wicklow was still seated.

  “Oh, I beg your pardon, I had not realised you had company,” said Cousin Edward.

  Mr Wicklow merely bowed.

  “This is my Cousin Edward,” I said, quickly, to avoid any awkwardness. “Cousin, may I introduce Mr Wicklow, an old friend of Mrs Younge’s, who is so sweetly kind as to show us about Margate?”

  After the bobs and ‘servants’ on both sides, my cousin took the lead.

  “I do beg your pardon, sir, I interrupted you in your playing. I take great delight in music myself. Pray continue.”

  “But you and your cousin must have much to say to each other if you have been apart for so long, and the presence of a stranger must be an intrusion, sir. I beg you to permit me to take my leave.”

  There followed such a parade of equally meticulous and meaningless politeness as would have been envied by Susanna and Marcellina, which ended with our all settling for one performance from Mr Wicklow before he left.

  We all then took our seats, and listened to Mr Wicklow as he played a tune I had never heard before, and had certainly not set out the score for it. It was a strange, haunting melody, rather slow and sad, I thought, but it certainly made Cousin Edward sit up.

  “Tell me, sir,” he asked, after an appropriate amount of the compulsory rapturous applause, “was there any particular reason for your choosing that piece?”

  “None at all, sir. I fear I merely played the first thing that came into my head. Are you familiar with the tune, then?’

  “I believe I may have heard it, in Ireland.”

  “It is an Irish air, to be sure. But now I must leave you both to your family conference. Miss Darcy, I hope to see you at the Rooms tonight. Mr Darcy, your servant, sir.”

  And with that he was gone, humming to himself the refrain he had just played.

  “A strange, quizzical fellow,” said Cousin Edward. “I have a feeling I may have met him before, but cannot think where. But fancy calling me Mr Darcy! But, of course, you never did introduce me properly. Tell me,
by the way, have you ever mentioned to him your brother’s Christian name?”

  “I have never had occasion to do so. But why do you ask?”

  “A strange coincidence, that is all, for coincidence it must be. But strange, for all that. Do you know the words to that Irish Air he played?”

  “I do not believe I ever heard it before in my life.”

  “I have heard it, many a time, but never played to my face. I heard it whistled behind my back a lot, in Ireland, when I was at Dublin Castle. It is a Fenian song, about an Irish rebel in Queen Elizabeth’s time, I believe. Those who found such things amusing were particularly fond of the chorus, which you will note your Mr Wicklow was humming as he left us. It goes like this, but you will forgive me if I spare you the benefit of my light tenor and content myself with normal speech.

  “Curse and swear, Lord Kildare.

  They will do what they will dare.

  Black Fitzwilliam, have a care,

  Fallen is your star low.

  Raise the halberd, raise the sword,

  Follow me, for, by the Lord,

  Fiach McHugh has given the word,

  Follow me on to Carlow.”

  Coincidence it must be, but it is odd, is it not, that your visitor should warn Fitzwilliam to have a care immediately after I walk into your house?

  Apart from concurring in the peculiarity of the coincidence, there was really no more to be said on that particular subject, but a great deal to be said on others. It was while we were saying that great deal that Mrs Younge crept in with a tale of some misunderstanding in the servant’s hall to which I did not much attend.

  Cousin Edward was with us only one day, having merely come to Margate to secure lodgings for himself and my brother.

  “We both have business which will detain us in London for a while yet,” he announced the following morning, “but hope to join you here in two weeks time, and stay for the rest of the summer. I hope our presence will not be too inconvenient.”

  There could be only one answer to that, of course, and my expressions of delight were truly as heartfelt as they were conventional.

  Mr Wicklow did not seem quite so delighted when I told him.

  “I had hoped to have you all to myself for a little longer,” he said, “but I shall just have to make the most of my opportunities before you are snatched away from me, shall I not?”

  He seemed quite pleased when I made haste to assure him that I should never suffer myself to be snatched away from him.

  The following day he appeared to be quite agitated, however.

  “Miss Darcy,” he addressed me, the very second Mrs Younge had gone to see about some yarn she had mislaid, saying she would return directly, “Miss Darcy I beg you to bear with me for a few moments, for I have something of great, of supreme import which I wish to say to you.”

  “Miss Darcy, from the very moment I first laid eyes upon you I believe that there was something about you that I had never seen before, such sweet innocence, such pure virtue combined with all the powers of wit, charm and intelligence I had never encountered before in a person of either sex. The past few weeks, in your company, have been the happiest time of my life, and I cannot bear to think of passing the rest of my days without such happiness.”

  “I am all too aware of how unworthy I am, of how presumptuous it is in me even to consider the possibility, but I can no longer deny myself the hope.”

  “If I am to be denied, it is you who must pronounce my doom, but I must know. I must know or die, for I can bear my ignorance no longer. Miss Darcy, you are too sweet and kind to prolong that ignorance. Tell me, Miss Darcy, I beg you, is there any hope for me?”

  I could not make out what he was after.

  “I do not have the pleasure of understanding you, Mr Wicklow,” I replied. “To what hope do you refer?”

  “To all my hopes of future felicity, Miss Darcy. To all the future felicity which your husband must be supposed to enjoy. Miss Darcy, I love you. I love you more than anything in the whole wide world, more than life itself. Say the word, I beg you, make me the happiest man in creation and say you will be my wife.”

  Well! There could be no more doubt now.

  A proposal of marriage, in theory, is something which can be considered on its merits, after the pros and cons have been weighed and evaluated, and the views of one’s family and friends considered.

  In real life it is a much less measured experience, especially when coming from a young man for whom one’s feelings are unaccustomedly favourable. Mr Kerr’s offer I had scarcely noticed, indeed, I had hardly considered it a proposal at all. It had been made to my brother, not to me, and the gentleman had not ventured to repeat it face to face (I had taken care that he should not have the opportunity, after all), but now I was obliged to confront such a fundamental choice in the flesh, so to speak.

  I had scarce considered such an event to be possible, indeed, I had scarce considered it at all. And yet….

  And yet, it was true! I had seen many marvels in Margate, but none more marvellous than this.

  Mr Wicklow had asked me to marry him! This charming, handsome, fashionable, popular young man, who might have had any lady in the land for the asking, had chosen me! I was, as they say, ‘off the shelf’.

  I was a shy, inexperienced, naïve young girl of fifteen, in my first summer out in the world, with no-one to advise me. My answer need hardly be in doubt.

  “I cannot wait to tell my brother!” I cried. “He will be here next week, as will my cousin Edward. What news we shall have to tell them, and to carry on to my aunt at Rosings!”

  “I think not,” was his unexpected response. “Let it be a secret, for a while, until we are sure that there may be no opposition.”

  “But what opposition could there possibly be? You are a gentleman; I am a gentleman’s daughter. You love me; I love you. You are perfectly capable of supporting a wife, are you not? And even if that were not the case, I have plenty of money of my own, or I will have, when I am married.”

  “And, in any case, I am under age. We cannot get married without my brother’s consent. He is also my guardian, you know.”

  “That is just the difficulty. I have heard you mention your brother so many times that I am become rather afraid of him. He sounds such a sternly moral paragon of virtue that I fear I may not be good enough for him.”

  “I also fear that he may impute mercenary motives to me, and I have a positive horror of being considered anything of the kind.”

  “Besides, I love you far too much to risk losing you at the whim of another man, though he may be your brother. I love you far too much to wait upon any man or any thing. I would go round to the parson with you this minute and bid him marry us, were such a thing possible.”

  “Alas,” I replied, “it is not possible, and, truly, I think you underestimate my brother. He has never denied me anything I truly desired.”

  “Has he not? Did he not deny you your home? Did he not deny you his company when he sent you away to that school, which, I must say, I think was totally unsuitable?”

  “I dare say one school is much like another. A girl who wishes to will scramble herself into some learning despite, rather than because of the best efforts of her teachers, Besides, I am sure my brother had his reasons for that.”

  “And no doubt he will have his reasons for denying your marriage. But, as you say, there is no marrying without his consent. We cannot just go round to the parson and have him perform the ceremony.”

  His face proclaimed his black despair and thwarted longing, but suddenly cleared.

  “Or, rather,” he continued, “we cannot do that in Margate, or anywhere else in England, but in Scotland we could.”

  “Mr Wicklow!” I could not help exclaiming, “Are you proposing an elopement?”

  “Why not?” he replied, “Do we not love each other? Do we not each know our own minds? Are we not made for each other, and shall we let others deny us the perfect happiness which is i
n our power?”

  “But, but, it is all so sudden. I need time to consider. I am so stirred up by surprise and by sensations that I have never felt before that I do not know what to think. Could I but talk it through with someone, but you say it must be a secret…..”

  “I dare not risk anything which would imperil our happiness, my love. I am foolish, I know, but I cannot share your confidence in your brother. What if the news should reach him? Do you not think that he would do everything in his power to prevent our marriage, at least for a while?”

  “But, wait! Would Mrs Younge serve for a confidante? I know Mrs Younge, I trust in her discretion. Talk it over with her, if you wish, but whatever you decide, I beg you, let it be the wish of your own heart only that guides you. Your happiness, your delight is everything to me, and I would not wish to ensure my own at the expense of yours.”

  As if on cue, Mrs Younge re-entered the room at this very moment.

  Mr Wicklow greeted her very heartily.

  “My dear old friend, I beg you to do what you can to calm Miss Darcy’s nervous apprehensions and convince her that I am in earnest. If at the same time you can persuade her to accept happiness rather than condemn herself and me to eternal misery, I shall be infinitely obliged.”

  He turned to me and grasped my hands. Almost, I thought, he was about to kiss me, and there was something in me that welcomed the thought.

  “I will leave you now, my sweet,” he said, “but I shall return soon. You may speak freely to Mrs Younge. I have every confidence in her judgement, and, above all, in yours.”

  And he was gone, leaving us both blinking.

  “What was all that about?” asked my companion. “Can Mr Wicklow possibly mean what he appears to mean?”

  “Yes,” was all I could say at first. “Yes. He has asked me to marry him.”

  Instantly she flung her arms about me and kissed me on both cheeks.

  “Oh, my dear,” she cried, “I give you joy! What a triumph! To be married at fifteen! And to such a bridegroom! How well you will look in church together. Think of the clothes you shall have, the wedding clothes, and the party, and the honeymoon! How jealous everyone will be! How desolate all your old admirers will find themselves! This is far better than Mr Kerr. And to have succeeded in your first season! How happy your brother will be!”