I suppose I had become something of a connoisseur of seaside resorts, after my experiences of South Port and Margate, and I found not much in the way of novelty in East Bourne. The beach was much larger than at Margate, and the town itself more elegantly laid out, but the beach was of hard, unyielding pebbles, and there was none of the animation given to the scene at Margate by the constant coming and going of boats of all kinds.
The end of the second week brought an addition to our party, however.
Cousin Edward’s arrival made a great difference to our daily activities. Previously, we had been content to idle through whatever the resort had to offer. The professed invalids, Cousin Anne and Mr Bingley, had their cures to take, of course, and their regimes to follow, but the rest of us had leisure to please ourselves. We all had our favourites, of course. A shingle beach is not so conducive to the activity as sand, and the water of the Channel is not of the warmest, but I enjoyed introducing my sisters to the pleasures of sea-bathing. Fitzwilliam and Mr Bennet preferred the library, naturally, and Mrs Bennet, ably seconded by Kitty, the shops. Mary found herself torn between the two camps, books or bonnets, and every day brought a harsh decision to be made.
Both the younger girls particularly delighted in walking on the promenade, I will not say ‘ogling’, but gazing very intently at the very fashionable young men to be found there. We were, however in the same position as Mrs Younge and I had been when first we went to Margate, quite bereft of any acquaintance in the town, so that nothing could come of this gazing, however intent it might be.
The same applied to the assemblies and theatres where we passed our evenings, with a deplorable shortage of partners for the young ladies. I did not mind so much myself. Assemblies at Margate had left an impression upon me that was still strong.
It would be true to say that we all enjoyed our stay at East Bourne, but in an indolent, almost passive fashion.
All that changed with the advent of Cousin Edward. Now we must perforce be more adventurous in making excursions, exploring the neighbourhood, visiting such great houses as were accessible, attending, and, if possible, sketching every noted beauty spot.
Elizabeth remarked upon this propensity after the first such outing.
“It is the difference between the two families,” she said. “You, having grown up with them probably do not notice, but to an outsider it is quite plain. The Darcies are content to be, secure in the conscience of their own grandeur. The Fitzwilliams must always be doing.”
“I hope you do not include me in your picture of the Darcy family glorying in their own consequence,” I replied.
“Oh, you can be quite as grand and forbidding as your brother, my dear, when the mood takes you. But, mostly, you are hardly a typical Darcy, are you, especially among the females. How many of them have been to school? How many of them have shown such character as you have?”
Trust Elizabeth to think of a kind way of referring to my misadventures. But there was no denying that she was right, at least as far as Cousin Edward was concerned. His energy quite wore upon the Bennets and the Bingleys, and when, at length, he suggested an outing to Birling Gap there were few takers.
Mr Bennet wished to look something up at the library. Mrs Bennet and the girls wanted Jane’s opinion on a pelisse they had seen, which must be spoken for today, while Anne and Bingley had their cure to take, which left but Elizabeth, Fitzwilliam, Cousin Edward, and me.
“So much the better, really,” cried the Colonel, ever optimistic, “We can all go in one coach, and send it back while we walk along the cliffs back to East Bourne. The exercise will set us all up nicely.”
It was a beautiful day for an outing, to be sure. I remember it well, bright and sunny, but not too hot, with a cooling breeze from the sea. The clean little village, or rather hamlet, set between the majestic white cliffs on either side, made a cool contrast to the dusty road, and the views from the cliff-top path were indeed splendid.
We had a light lunch there, picnicking on boiled ham and cheese before sending the coach away and setting off along the eastward path.
The path was none too wide, and we fell, naturally, into two couples. The climb up from the riverside was rather steep, and the drop to our left quite sheer, to a small strip of shingle separating the seemingly vertical cliffs from the sea below.
I had the misfortune to have a lace come undone, and had to stop to tie it up, thus allowing Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam to forge ahead. Cousin Edward’s arm was indeed an aid and a comfort on the ascent after them.
“How Darcy and Cousin Elizabeth do stride on,” he remarked. “They shall be entirely out of sight at this rate if we do not mend our pace.”
“I am sorry to delay you so, Cousin,” I replied.
Not at all, my dear, you were not to blame for your bootlace. Besides, I doubt if my gammy leg from Salamanca would let me keep up with them now.”
“What is this?” I cried, “You have a gammy leg from Salamanca? I always thought both of your legs were from Lincolnshire, and now you tell me one of them is Spanish? How so? That is to say, being Spanish would naturally explain its inferior condition, but not its provenance.”
“So they do, both come from Lincolnshire, that is, but one of them has never been quite the same since a horse fell on it at Salamanca.”
“And why, pray, have you never referred to this accident before?”
“My dear cousin, I am quite as averse to making an open appeal for sympathy as you are. I only mentioned it just now by way of consolation for you.”
“Then I must thank you for your sensibility, sir, but now you see they are quite beyond our sight, and we are, as who should say, alone here.”
“And what of it? You are my ward, and I am your guardian. What could be more proper?”
“I am your guardian,” he repeated, with a strange note in his voice that I could not quite make out. “I am your guardian.”
“Well, I doubt we will catch them now before we reach East Bourne. Elizabeth always was a great walker, and she has sorely infected my brother since their marriage. Good Lord! How many times have I had to listen to our host’s sister telling the tale of how Elizabeth walked from Longbourn to Netherfield when her sister was taken ill there, and was shown in ‘with all her shoes, and even the hem of her dress, quite drabbled in the mud, my dear, and her face all flushed from her exertions.’”
“I gather that you are not particularly fond of Miss Bingley.”
“Oh, Caroline Bingley is my great, particular friend. I detest her utterly and she despises me, but we are dear, dear friends, as such things are reckoned nowadays.”
“I had always considered myself your friend, but I did not know that to do so it was necessary to despise you and be detested in turn.”
“You will always be my dear, my very dear friend, Cousin Edward, whether you despise me or not. And I promise that I shall never, ever detest you, or at least not utterly.”
“That has lifted a great weight from my mind, my pet. But, seriously, I wish I could make you understand how much it has meant to me, these last few years, to have your letters to look forward to, to receive clean, sane news of home amid the filthy madness of war, and to have someone to write to, to whom could pour out my inmost thoughts. But that would require the eloquence of a Cicero, or a Demosthenes, and I am but plain Ned Fitzwilliam.”
“Cicero and Demosthenes are nothing to me, and I would take plain Ned Fitzwilliam’s words before theirs any day. But I must say that, if I did not know otherwise, I might almost be tempted to say that you have been making love to me in your letters.”
“Making love?”
“Yes, there are certain expressions you have taken to using, certain figures of speech, that might be taken, did I not know it to be impossible, as the sort of thing a suitor might say to his beloved. But I know what a sentimental set you soldiers are, especially when far away from home, and am quite persuaded that there can be no more to your letters than natural effusions of famil
ial affection.”
“Familial affection? Of course. What else could it be, after all?”
“But I am glad to have been a comfort to you in your trials, and hope always to be so, although surely this terrible war cannot go on much longer. We have been fighting the French almost all my life. I have grown up without knowing what it is to be at peace.”
“You have grown up. Indeed you have, and while we are talking of growing up, have you really forgotten that it is your birthday next week? Everyone else seems to have done so, or at least I cannot get anyone to talk about it. And such an important one, too.”
“One, two, three, four, I believe the number goes even higher, if anyone is counting. The original plan, I understand, was to have the celebration on the day at Longbourn, as being more convenient for the Hertfordshire and Kentish connexions than in Derbyshire. But all that fell by the wayside when we had this invitation to the seaside, and I am hardly the one to make a fuss about it, am I?”
“Someone certainly should, and I must say I am sorely disappointed in Cousin Darcy. I had thought to find you all at Pemberley, surrounded by adoring tenants and all the gentry of the county, not stuck in a rented house in a small town on the South Coast where nobody knows you. It is a particular anniversary, a very particular one, and should be made much of. I shall speak to Darcy about it myself.”
And he remained deaf to all my entreaties that he should make no great ado about such a minor matter until we reached the door of Trafalgar Cottage.
There, I found, to my surprise, that Cousin Anne was already back from her cure.
“Oh, I am tired of all that,” she replied, when I said as much, “How anyone can think that jumping up and down in cold seawater for hours on end, being hosed down with even colder seawater, and finally drinking gallons of the stuff tepid is good for the constitution I cannot think. I have decided to join Mr Bennet in the ‘spas are all humbug’ camp. And how did you get on with your outing?”
“We lost Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth somewhere along the way as we walked back, but Cousin Edward delivered me safely without their assistance.”
“Yes, Cousin Edward is inclined to be busy, just at the moment, but I dare say we can change all that after we are married.”
“After you are what?”
“You do not know, of course. Nobody knows, and I think it had best remain that way for now. But I trust you, Georgie, and I must tell someone. I called in at the Post Office on the way back this afternoon, and there was a letter from home waiting for me. My mother has decided that it is time that I was married, and has determined that Cousin Edward is to be the man. His elder brother has had a fall from his horse, you know, and is not thought likely to live.”
“I see,” I replied, “and is the gentleman aware of his destiny?”
“Not as yet. But Mama seems quite decided, and she usually gets her way, inside the family, at least. The Earl is her baby brother, after all, and is used to proving amenable. I never thought of Cousin Edward in that way, but I am sure he will be perfectly satisfactory. And I should rather like to be a countess.”
I made some mumbled excuse, and left her, my mind in a whirl. Anne and Cousin Edward? It could not be! They were quite unsuited. His nature was much finer than hers, more like my own. And if he were to marry, where should I go to for the sympathy and understanding that comes with so much difficulty to Fitzwilliam? Elizabeth is very good, but she does not share the same childhood memories the way my cousin does. I should miss his letters very much, and I should miss even more the opportunity to pour my heart out in my replies.
What was I to do? I was sure that he was completely unaware of this conspiracy, and determined to put him on his guard the next time I saw him. Enquiries established that he had already left the house, however, and I should have to wait till the morrow, for we were not to go out in the evening after our day’s exertions.
In the morning I was ready with my revelations, but he did not come, nor was he likely to come again, as I discovered when I enquired after him.
“He has received an urgent summons home,” said Fitzwilliam. “Our Cousin George is very ill, and the family are gathering around him.”
“Oh! Should we not go too, then?”
“It is not thought to be quite so serious as that, not yet at any rate. The Colonel promised to keep me informed and to let us know if there is any deterioration.”
“Then we shall just have to hope for the best, shall we not?”
At least Aunt Catherine could scarcely begin her matrimonial manoeuvres while the heir to the earldom lay on what might be his deathbed. But how annoying to be deprived of Cousin Edward’s presence just when I need to talk to him!
Chapter Twenty-eight :A Particular Anniversary
The following week passed in a remarkably, disappointingly, normal manner. No mention was made of any special significance to be accorded to the Friday, and even on the day itself there was not so much as a ‘congratulations’ or a ‘good wishes’ from anyone, while as for presents, we might as well have been upon a desert island.
I refused to give them the satisfaction of openly noticing their dereliction, and retired to my boudoir for an appropriate sulk. I determined to stay there all day, but was rousted out by the arrival of my new ball gown, for we were to attend the assembly in the evening.
It was certainly splendid enough, and in every way satisfactory, except for the absence of tissue papers and cards saying ‘many happy returns’ and suchlike. It would certainly have made an acceptable birthday present, for it was a gift from Fitzwilliam, and the accompanying baubles and fripperies were all gifts from the rest of the family, but there was no mention of anything out of the ordinary with them, or indeed, throughout the day. It was obvious that not a soul had taken the trouble to remember, and I scorned to remind them. Perhaps tomorrow I should remark, casually, “Oh, yesterday was my birthday, how could we have forgot?” and leave them to their remorse.
So, at the end of the day, we tramped down the street to the Assembly Rooms. Everyone else was chatting animatedly, while I struggled to keep my upper lip from protruding, and gazed listlessly at my shoes.
We left our wraps in the vestibule and made our way to the ballroom, which was strangely dark and silent.
“Are we out in our reckoning?” I asked, intrigued in spite of my resolution to take no interest in the evening whatever. “Are we come on the wrong night? I do not remember seeing any bills for tonight, now that I think of it.”
The there was suddenly a blaze of light, a great cheering, and the band struck up ‘See the Conquering Hero Comes.’
Fitzwilliam turned to me with a kiss on both cheeks and a hearty embrace.
“Happy birthday, my sweet,” he said. “How do you like our little surprise?”
I liked it fine, once I had recovered my wits. Everyone was there, all our party, of course, but also the Gardners, the Lucases, the Phillipses, the Coles, the Collinses, the Hursts with Caroline Bingley, even dear old dull Mr Kerr. Fitzwilliam had even imported Harriet Martin, Harriet Smith as was, and her husband from Highbury. There were notable exceptions, of course. Lady Catherine was far too grand to attend, and the Wickhams too far removed geographically, while the Fitzwilliams had other things on their minds.
My conniving brother had hired the Assembly Rooms for a private function. That is why there had been no advertising bills on view for a ball tonight. The cost must have been tremendous, not just the venue, and the music and the catering, but the secret accommodation of so many guests from so many different places. It quite took my breath away, which was unfortunate, since, as guest of honour, I was obliged to dance with every gentleman there, an honour calling for some stamina and a plentiful sufficiency of breath.
I enjoyed it tremendously, of course, but there are only so many variations of ‘Happy Birthday’, ‘Many Happy Returns’ and ‘Thank you so much, it was so good of you to come’ that by the time Mr Kerr’s turn came around I was quite looking forward to no
t making conversation.
It was a strange dialogue that took place during our gavotte. I was used to being the garrulous one, while he was silent, but he had changed completely since our last encounter.
“Tell me, Miss Darcy, are you enjoying your party?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like surprise parties, then? Do you think them a good idea?”
“No.”
“I dare say all this took a deal of trouble arranging?”
“Yes.”
“And you truly had no idea of what was going on?”
“No.”
“I always thought your brother to be a very clever man, but this must be a triumph as much for him as it is for you.”
“Yes.”
But all of this was as nothing compared to when the dance ended and he led me towards a table under the colonnade, saying,
“Miss Darcy, you must permit me to introduce you to Mrs Kerr.”
“Of course, Mr Kerr, I should be very glad to meet your mother.”
“Oh, my mother never leaves Scotland. The Mrs Kerr to which I refer is my wife.”
And with this he brought forward a fresh-faced young lady whose smile quite filled her countenance. The words ‘strapping’, ‘buxom’, ‘robust’ fought in my mind for precedence, but there was no doubt of the affection in her eyes for her husband.
“I am delighted to meet you, Mrs Kerr,” I cried, kissing and embracing her warmly before turning to bestow the same treatment upon her husband.
What she said in reply was quite lost in my confusion when I heard a cough behind me, sand turned from releasing Mr Kerr to behold Cousin Edward standing there, looking not at all pleased.
“Why, Cousin Edward,” I cried. “I quite despaired of your coming. Your presence is all that was wanting to make my delight complete. But why do you lower so? You know Mr Kerr, of course, but let me introduce Mrs Kerr. Mr and Mrs Kerr are but newly married, and I was congratulating them upon their happiness.”
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