The Darcy Monologues: A romance anthology of Pride and Prejudice short stories in Mr. Darcy's own words

by Joana Starnes

  “Sir, this gown, which my mother insisted upon, has cost my papa a great deal of money. I fear it would be unfilial of me to keep covering it up.”

  “Then, the sooner I am allowed to bear the cost of clothing you, the better.”

  “Why? Shall you be buying me many shawls under which to hide myself?”

  He had sulked until she had leaned over, whispering—her lips tantalisingly close to his ear, her breath ruffling his neckcloth.

  “I am yours. I shall never love another.” There she had avowed herself to him as reverently as if they were already stood before the altar.

  An invitation to take tea with his uncle and aunt had marred her last day in London but had been issued in a manner that brooked no refusal. The earl and countess looked Elizabeth over and talked at her with some contempt. However, her polite detachment and her refusal to be ruffled or cowed seemed to impress them, and a gradual softening towards her followed. The countess had even promised at the end of the conference to hold a dinner for them when they next returned to London, in a manner which suggested she was bestowing a great favour and demanding their fervent thanks.

  Darcy had left Mayfair cross, offended, and all at odds with the world and his family. Yet, there was a shameful sense of relief too, for the approval of the countess, a doyenne in high society, would make Elizabeth’s entry into it far easier than first imagined. When they had retaken the carriage, Elizabeth had sensed his tension and laid her elegant, slim hand on his arm. “Am I not very fortunate to have secured her patronage? Now I might be disapproved of regularly in all the great drawing rooms of England.”

  “I cannot laugh at it. I cannot laugh at them because I was once the same.”

  “No, you were not. You were far more pompous. Now do not think of them. I demand all of your attention. Between here and Gracechurch Street, you must think only of me.”

  That journey had lasted fourteen minutes—perhaps the most delicious fourteen minutes he had ever spent in a carriage. He would not be treated to anything near fourteen minutes alone with Elizabeth again before they were married. Longbourn grew busier, and noisier, as their wedding drew near, and Darcy grew ever more reluctant to go near the place. Yet it was expected. He must.

  On entering, he was greeted first by Mr. Bennet, who was directing a servant in the movement of some trunks. “Ah, Mr. Darcy, leave your sanity on the table there—along with your coat and hat—everyone else has. You will have no need of it again until you leave.”

  The trunks were Elizabeth’s and had been stationed in the hallway since her return from London. They were frequently moved from one corner to another under Mr. Bennet’s instructions, and their presence seemed to bother him unduly. He would fuss about them frequently and tut often.

  “I have arranged for their removal tomorrow, sir, and am sorry for the inconvenience,” Darcy said. “I am remiss and ought to have attended to it sooner.” They both looked at the brown wooden boxes, bound by thick leather straps. Some were old and simply bore her current initials, “E.B.” Others were newer, smarter—purchased by Darcy—and were embossed with what was to be her new title in elegant, gold script, “Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy.” They were all labelled with directions, winter clothes bound for London and summer ones for Pemberley.

  Mr. Bennet waved his apology away but frowned, particularly at the newer trunks. “No matter, my boy, no matter. Ladies require so much.” His wit might have been as sharp as ever but recent events seemed to have taken a toll upon Mr Bennet, and he had aged rapidly since the year before. He stooped a little now and had lost his vitality, looked weary. Darcy realised it was perhaps not the placement of the trunks that bothered his future father-in-law. Though they cluttered his entrance way, it was their very existence that brought him pain. Elizabeth was not just his favourite child, she was his friend too, and the only one of his daughters who could offer him a conversation of some intellectual value: his reading partner, his confidant.

  “Yes, ladies do come with a great deal of luggage. As my wife, your daughter will always travel thus with every frippery and luxury I can provide. I will take great pleasure in spoiling her, and do my utmost to ensure her continuing happiness. In this, you have my word.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet replied, emotion making his voice tremor.

  “No sir, it falls upon me to thank you. I know you are not overly fond of Town and would not expect to see you when we are there, but I hope you will visit us often at Pemberley. Elizabeth, I think, will miss you and your wise counsel.”

  “I think, young man, that it is I who will miss Elizabeth’s excellent, perspicacious advice, rather than the other way around.” He laughed. “And how are you bearing up, now that you cling to your bachelorhood by only the slimmest of edges? Will you mourn for it at all?”

  Darcy was considering his answer when they were interrupted by excited shouts, loud counting, and a thundering noise made by many small feet as they descended the stairs, and she was with them—his wise beyond her years betrothed, his normally sensible and calm, future wife. The Gardiner children scattered in every direction. Mr. Bennet was surprisingly faster across the hall than any of them, shutting himself in his study and slamming the door shut with an alacrity that belied his years.

  Darcy’s hand was caught, and he followed Elizabeth, not unwillingly, into an under-stairs cupboard. “We must hide,” she said, before shutting them in. His eyes were slow to adjust to the dark, but his other senses came alive. She smelt wonderful, of soap and flowers. Her fingers curled around his. He tightened his grip upon them.

  “Must we hide?”

  “I am sorry. Is it beneath your dignity?”

  “I find my dignity bears it well. ’Tis no bad thing to be confined to a small space with you.”

  “Is all your business done?” she whispered, after a few moments of silence.

  “Yes. I am sorry I was not here sooner.”

  “No matter. I am glad you are here now.”

  She understood, bless her dear heart, that there was only so much of Longbourn a sensible man could take.

  “You know, you might kiss me now,” she said, a tad breathless. “I should not wait for another opportunity today. It might not come.”

  “I fear if I were to start kissing you now, I might not stop.”

  “I might not want you to stop,” she said quickly.

  “I meant that I might not stop—at just kissing.”

  “Oh, well…” was all he heard before the door was flung open by a young Gardiner—a handsome, grinning boy of perhaps ten who pointed an accusing finger at them.

  “Found you, Cousin Lizzy and Mr. Darcy. You are not very good at hiding.”

  There was nothing to be done but leave the closet. Darcy did so reluctantly while behind him he heard Elizabeth sigh. She reached up to pluck a cobweb from his hair before they were parted by a shrill call of “Lizzy” from her mother that could not be ignored.

  Dinner passed off with great cacophony—everybody spoke at once, talking over one another. There were so many courses and dishes flowing by and over him, children running around, and aunts and uncles everywhere that Darcy was not sure what he had eaten nor how much. Elizabeth was very talkative—maybe too ebullient—perhaps in an effort to compensate for his reticence.

  There was a brief separation of the sexes. The gentlemen had drunk, smoked, and talked a great deal the previous evening when the Gardiners had first arrived, leaving the ladies alone too long—and had been told off for it by their hostess—so tonight they went in earlier. He was the last to leave the dining room and dallied in the hall until Elizabeth came to find him. She led him firmly by the hand—half proudly, half shyly—into the drawing room, ignoring the raised eyebrows of Mr. Bennet. Darcy said nothing but felt much as he took a seat beside her.

  Charles Bingley, across the room, sat beside his own future wife. Jane flipped through the pages of a fashion plate and spoke of lace and fabrics. Bingley nodded and feigned interest. Darc
y could picture them in twenty years’ time. Jane Bingley, her figure already Grecian, would have grown even more fulsome from numerous lying-ins. Yet she would never lose her classical features, her innate beauty. Charles would grow thin on top and spend years trying to cover it over while sucking in his stomach. He would shoot; his wife would sew. It would be a happy match, both blessed with the ability to be still and content.

  And what of him and his little nymph? Elizabeth, as different to her sister as day was to night. Such a curious creature: dark, lithe, and never still. Whatever else may happen, he would certainly never be bored. Occasionally, he would hear his mother speaking to him from beyond the grave. “She has nothing, Fitzwilliam. No name, no dowry, no connections, nothing to recommend her. What are you thinking? She is entirely wrong.” And he would sit and ponder his choice but never for very long and only while he was away from her. When she was near, the pull was too strong, his desire too great.

  “You are very quiet tonight,” she said.

  He answered only with a brief smile and found he had nothing to say. Elizabeth fidgeted, took up work and then put it down again. She spoke to those close to her but seemed unable to focus on any one conversation for long. Tea and coffee were brought in and she almost ran to offer assistance but upon taking hold of the coffee pot, jumped back immediately, having scalded her palm where it had touched the hot metal.

  Mr. Bennet was already halfway out of his chair with concern, but it was to Darcy she came for comfort, holding out her small hand for his inspection, her lips pursed into a pout so deep Darcy was tempted to laugh at it. Her father, with a look of defeat, sank quickly down again. Darcy wetted his handkerchief from the water jug on the table, folded it into a neat square, and pressed it against her hand. It was a minor injury, one that would be forgotten with the sunrise, but she blinked quickly and her lip quivered, as if she were fighting back tears. Understanding dawned, regarding the oddness of her mood. While it was Darcy’s nature to grow quiet when nervous, her anxiousness took on a different form, made her energetic and excitable. She was soon to leave her home, her family, all that was familiar, and place herself entirely under his care. Of course she was worried. This is what it means to be a married man: to offer her assurances, to lend her my strength when hers temporarily fails her.

  “It is not too late to change your mind about London,” he said quietly. “Would you prefer to stay at Netherfield for a few days after we are wed? With Jane?”

  She shook her head, making her curls bob and bounce delightfully about her neck.

  “Or you might bring Catherine or Mary with you to London?”

  “You are very kind, but no.”

  “It is not too late for me to send word to Pemberley, even, if you would like to go there instead. I think there is a great deal of snow on the way, but I would be willing to risk the trip if you so desired it. There are a great many closets to hide in.”

  She laughed. “I am pleased to hear it. You know, Fitzwilliam, I would not be hiding from you, I would be hiding with you.”

  “But we are braver than that, I think. Shall we remain steady to our original plans?”

  At her nod and more confident expression, he took his handkerchief away to examine her injury, and there, in the drawing room, with not a care as to who might be looking on, he raised her palm to his lips and kissed it better.

  “I shall not call tomorrow.”

  “I do not blame you. You have been very forbearing thus far.”

  “Nonsense, I am becoming accustomed to Longbourn. Fond of it even—and not just because it has sheltered you all these years. I thought to stay away so you might spend some time with your father. He has a very few days left with you now. He deserves a little of your attention.”

  “Which I have been remiss in not giving him. How am I to thank you for correcting my error?”

  “I can think of a hundred different ways but only one that would truly please me,” he said, fixing his gaze on her lips.

  She arched a brow at him. “Can you wait for your thanks then?”

  “I do not wish to but as you have pointed out, I have become forbearing of late.”

  The fire crackled and spat next to them, but its heat seemed insignificant compared to the warmth of her gaze, the sparkle in her eyes.

  In four days’ time, I will be a married man, he thought again but with far less trepidation than he had earlier. Now all that remained was a deep longing, a wish for the days to pass quicker.

  * * *

  “love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her, in sickness and in health”

  * * *

  As of five hours ago, I am a married man. He ought to be merry and blithe. In the quiet of his stately, comfortable carriage, his legs should be stretched out and crossed at the ankles. A hand ought to be firmly clasping the waist of his newly acquired wife. They ought to be sharing a bench seat, embracing, kissing, giddy with relief that the fuss and ceremony was over, and they no longer required permission to be alone together. Instead, he sat rigidly, his shoulder muscles knotted so tightly together that the collar of his shirt brushed his earlobes. His jaw twitched and his hands were tightly gripped around the pewter handle of his stick.

  And what of the aforementioned newly-acquired wife? She looked no happier than he felt. Elizabeth sat opposite him, absentmindedly turning her newly-acquired ring around the third finger of her left hand in slow circles, while gazing out of the window at the falling snow.

  “I hope Georgiana and the colonel have made it to London safely,” she said, at last breaking the tense silence.

  “They left quite some time before us. I am sure they are there already. The weather will not be so bad in Town as it is here,” he said, trying not to sound sharp.

  “My goodbyes should not have been so lengthy. We should not have stayed so long at the wedding breakfast. It snows so hard now.”

  “It is only right you said your goodbyes properly. It is only right you should enjoy your day with your family and friends. You were not to know the weather would turn so foul so quickly.” He forced a smile.

  They had come out of the church laughing, their feet slipping and sliding over the frosty ground, and Elizabeth wiping away the occasional flakes of snow which fell upon his lapels. It had felt perfect, as if they were in a painting. She, the beautiful bride, in front of the country church, surrounded by well-wishers, and everything about them covered in a white, wintry blanket, masking anything unpleasant.

  Yes, he had taken great pleasure in the scene and felt fit to burst with happiness, but upon their arrival back at Longbourn, his mood had quickly deteriorated. He had found himself trapped twice in a corner. On the first occasion by Sir William Lucas, who regaled him with tales of his adventures at St. James’s Court—most of which Darcy had heard already. Then by William Collins, who had the temerity to lecture him—felt fit to explain that Lady Catherine’s displeasure at his marriage to Elizabeth was only right and natural and advised him that he ought to offer his apologies for marrying so far beneath him! Furthermore, the parson had opined that perhaps if he were to visit Rosings without his wife—because Her Ladyship could not yet be expected to receive her—to show his contriteness, it might go some way towards healing the current breach in their relationship.

  “Desist, sir,” he had said. “I am a gentleman, but that would not prevent me from taking you by the seat of your cheap pantaloons and throwing you through the nearest window if you persist in speaking of Mrs. Darcy in that manner. Desist immediately. In fact, I bid you never to address me again unless there be an urgent matter of life or death.”

  “Sir—”

  “No, not a word more.”

  “But—”

  “I shall say it again very plainly, and then you will be quiet. Go away and do not speak to me again. Another word and I shall not be responsible for my own actions.”

  Mr. Collins had opened his mouth again but then thought better of it and slithered away through the crowds, as might a
snake through the grass.

  Even the remembrance of it caused Darcy to grip the handle of his stick tighter, imagining how very satisfying it would be to crack the pewter handle over the nasty little man’s head.

  However, Mr. Collins had not been the only source of vexation. There had been Kitty giving Georgiana flirting advice; Mr. Bennet, more sardonic than usual, struggling to be pleasant to anyone; Mary sulking, and with a face so solemn she looked more as if she were at a funeral than a wedding. And there was not one person in the room who was left in any doubt as to his worth, thanks to his new mother, who was heard frequently proclaiming that Lizzy had done “extremely well”—as if he had been won in a competition.

  He had grown used to them, liked them enough not to mind their eccentricities, for they all had good hearts. Yet seeing them anew through Georgiana’s and his cousin’s eyes was a different matter. The colonel had waggled his eyebrows and smirked. “Interesting lot, aren’t they, Darcy?”

  “What are you thinking of?” Elizabeth asked him, leaning across the carriage to brush a small hand over his.

  “I am thinking that I hope your father lives to be a hundred and one, in order that he might continue to frustrate Mr. Collins’ hopes of inheriting Longbourn for the next fifty years. My dislike is profound.”

  “I have not yet met with anyone who does truly like him. In that, I include his wife.”

  “Why in heaven’s name did she accept him?”

  Elizabeth shrugged. “What were her other options? To be the spinster of the parish? Pitied, ignored, living off the charity of her father and then her brothers, or more shamefully, her younger married sisters? Why not instead be mistress of Hunsford, and maybe later Longbourn, where she might run her own home, be of use to her tenants, perhaps raise a family? To be a gentlewoman is considered a position of privilege, but it comes with few frank choices.”