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

by Joana Starnes

  Darcy pursed his lips in grim displeasure at the man’s propensity to fawn over his patroness even in her absence, and his glance drifted well above the parson’s head, towards the vast stained-glass window. Light filtered in, fanning away from Mr. Collins—golden light, mellowed by the multicoloured patchwork into a glow that was almost surreally serene.

  With a sigh, Darcy closed his eyes and closed his ears to the officiant as well. Mr. Collins was no mediator between man and his Maker and, rejecting the first, Darcy bowed his head to the latter and silently prayed in his own words for the only blessings he could hope for now: strength and peace. For an end to the severest trial. For the anguished chaos that had become his life to cease swirling into unrelenting misery. For the jagged pieces to lose their painfully sharp edges and, since they could not possibly be mended, to at least fall into some sort of ordered pattern.

  The sound of many shuffling feet reawakened him to his surroundings and Darcy opened his eyes to find the congregation standing for the first hymn. He followed, took the book that Anne thrust into his hand, and thanked her with a nod for the kindness of opening it to the right page for him.

  Yet he had barely begun to add his baritone to the off-key chorus when he was struck afresh by mankind’s arrogance in general—and his in particular—in expecting the supreme power to pay heed to human woes and pitiful conundrums. For, at his left, the door quietly opened for a late arrival who might have hoped to come in unobserved, under the cover of rustle and singing. It was a fruitless hope. From his vantage point, Mr. Collins had already taken note, and taken offence too, judging by the scowl he aimed in that direction. For his part, Darcy knew precisely who the late arrival was without even looking. What subtle sense was responsible for it, he could not tell; yet there was no way of ignoring the staggering jolt that had forced his every known and unknown sense into almost unbearable alertness.

  He did not raise his eyes from the book. Pointless diligence, for he could not read a word, nor sing another note, acutely aware that her own diligence had been for naught. Presumably as keen as he to avoid a direct encounter, she had delayed her entrance so that she would not have to sit with Mrs. Collins and Miss Lucas near the Rosings party—near him. Yet this had served no one. The only vacant seat was in front of his, at the end of the wooden bench beneath the de Bourgh pew, less than a yard from where he was standing, gripping the hymn book till the pages were creased.

  The grim determination to keep his eyes down served no one either. More to the point, it did not serve him. The empty seat was far too close. Impossible to train his peripheral vision into failing to register the slender form that came to occupy it, for all her haste to lower herself in it as soon as the hymn had come to an end. Just as impossible to miss the slightest move of a straw bonnet trimmed with honey-coloured satin. The book might be raised by a fraction so that it blocked the line of sight towards the bonnet and its owner, but it had the most appalling way of sliding down, almost of its own volition. It was likewise impossible not to stay attuned to every modulation of her voice when the next hymns were sung, even if it was quieter than ever. And through the musty odour of damp fabric and old wood, the scent of lily-of-the-valley unerringly came to find him and drive him to distraction. It could not be rising from chestnut curls, they were firmly tucked under the honey-coloured bonnet. To his insurmountable vexation, Darcy found himself puzzling over its source … her dress … her kerchief … her skin … until he came to spot the small bouquet when she picked it up to either toy with it or seek some comfort in its refreshing scent.

  From his pulpit, Mr. Collins cast his cousin a withering stare. An hour and forty-three minutes from the tedious beginning, he was still droning, thus proving Anne woefully wrong. Even without Lady Catherine’s assistance, he was perfectly able to put together a long sermon.

  Gritting his teeth, Darcy shifted on his bed of nails. Across from him, Collins raised his eyes to the Gothic arch above the pulpit and spread his arms wide.

  “At this trying time for our parish, let us invoke the good Lord’s blessing upon the one whom we must thank for all our earthly comforts. Our generous benefactress is herself in need of the Lord’s beneficence. For her restoration to good health, dearly beloved, let us pray. I have chosen a most fitting prayer for the sick and—Hmm! Hmm! For the sick! If you would repeat after me…”

  The church filled with low murmurs interspersed with Collins’s pompously declamatory tones. A sigh escaped him, and it was only then that Darcy noted he was intently listening to pick out hers. He scowled once more at his shocking folly and belatedly added the rumble of his own voice to the general chorus—only to see her suddenly start at the distinct addition. His chest tightened. There was no way of knowing why the sound of his voice had made her jump, but now that his eyes had come to be fixed on the back of her neck, he could not force himself to look away. Head bowed in prayer as instructed, she was perfectly still—and the entire world seemed to grow still around them as he sat staring like the most pitifully besotted mooncalf. At least that was what reason claimed—the last shreds of reason growing quieter by the minute; drowned out, along with the real voices all around him. He could not even hear hers any longer. It might have been subsumed into the rushing sound faintly ringing in his ears, much like the so-called murmur of the ocean they had once told him as a boy that he could hear in a conch shell. Or perhaps she had ceased praying to puzzle over his reasons to grow silent. A very different sort of prayer—most certainly not for the sick and dying—rose within him as his gaze remained fixed on the delicate wisp of hair curling at her nape, just underneath her ear. Chestnut brown with auburn tints, in the sharpest contrast to the creamy skin around it. Silky-soft skin, no doubt, warm to the touch. Warm under searching lips dropping light kisses in a caressing trail to the delicate lobe of that perfectly shaped ear … along her jaw line to her chin, to find her full mouth and lose himself into her intoxicating sweetness. The perfect loveliness of her.

  His chest ached and his senses reeled. And before he could resume some tenuous control over the latter and ask himself what on earth he was doing, allowing himself to sink into this insanity—in a church, moreover!—her hand shot up to brush over the square inch of creamy skin and the enticing little curl. It was as if she could feel his burning gaze, as if it had already left a tangible mark there. She made an instinctive move to turn but instantly suppressed it, and sense finally gained the upper hand enough to make him tear his eyes away. Darcy leaned back, releasing a long breath into an incautiously loud rush; far too loud, upon reflection. To his renewed mortification, her shoulders tensed at the sudden sound, and so he was compelled to suppress the heavy sigh of exasperation at all the ways he seemed to find to make himself conspicuous.

  For the remaining minutes of the too-long service, he grew so taut with the strain of governing himself and his reactions that he verily jumped when Anne’s hand was laid upon his arm.

  “Yes?” he whispered, heartily tired of it all.

  “Peace be with you, Cousin.” She then cast him an odd look, as if she could guess his thoughts and know he scoffed “not likely,” even as he gave the habitual response: “And also with you.”

  From behind Anne, Fitzwilliam eyed him just as strangely, his left brow arched in a most vexing manner, but Darcy was in no humour to speculate on his cousin’s thoughts. It took every strength he still possessed to not look towards her bench, but could not help noticing out of the corner of his eye that she was extending the customary offer of peace to the elderly woman in modest garb who sat beside her. She did not turn to him with the same. The elevated situation of the de Bourgh pew made it well-nigh impossible even if she wished to, as it showed quite clearly that the occupants of the exalted spot were not meant to shake hands with those seated on the benches destined for the lesser sort. A stark reminder of his prejudices, but so be it. The touch of her hand would not have brought him peace in any case.

  Their eyes met at last when he stood to escor
t Anne out of the pew, and she to wait for her turn to leave. A bow and a restrained curtsy made the full extent of their exchanges, and Darcy stepped out of the small and very crowded building with Anne on his arm and a reaffirmed conviction there was no peace to be had.

  It was marginally better in the open air but not much. No matter. Not long now. A brief adieu and the Rosings party would be on its way. Anne had just released his arm to shake hands with the parson and his wife. Only a few more minutes of enduring Collins’s unctuous civilities and they would be off.

  But, to Darcy’s unmitigated horror, he was to discover that Anne was of a vastly different mind. He could only hope he had not started in shock when he heard her say:

  “Mr. Collins, I trust you and your family will join us at Rosings for tea as usual. And allow me to say it was an enlightening service, of which my mother would have certainly approved.”

  The vicar preened himself on what he took for praise but then was promptly overrun by conflicting emotions:

  “It is indeed an honour and deeply felt, but if I might be permitted to disagree with anyone from the great house of de Bourgh … that is, to observe that in the most unfortunate circumstance of Her Ladyship’s injury … Hmm! I thought I should say—”

  “Mr. Collins would like to ask if you would do us the honour of having tea at the parsonage instead.” Mrs. Collins smoothly intervened to curtail an effusion of civilities that threatened to keep them at the church’s door till dinnertime.

  At that, her husband beamed.

  “Indeed, I was. I thank you, my dear, for expressing more succinctly what I was hoping to convey—”

  Anne’s patience was as short as everybody’s, but to Darcy’s renewed shock, she beamed almost as readily as Mr. Collins.

  “What a splendid notion! I thank you for the thoughtful offer, sir, Mrs. Collins. We should be delighted,” she spoke up to accept for the whole of her party.

  Without taking the slightest trouble to ascertain their wishes, Darcy thought with an admixture of vexation and panic. No! He would not subject himself to more time in her company. Having tea at the parsonage, of all the cursed things—no doubt in the same wretched parlour where she had refused him! Beyond his control, his glance flashed towards her and their eyes met in a split second of shared dismay—no, not dismay but acute mortification—before she looked away, blushing to the hairline.

  Darcy’s jaw tightened to the point that it was a wonder how his teeth did not splinter. Across the path from him, Fitzwilliam’s teeth were faring a vast deal better. In fact, they were on full display in a wide grin as he offered an arm to Miss Lucas and the other to Elizabeth. Darcy failed to notice Anne turning her head to join him in glaring at the sight. Nor did he stop to ponder on how shockingly like her mother she sounded when she spoke to him.

  “Come, let us not dawdle. Your arm, if you please,” Anne enunciated in response to his blank stare, and he was finally jolted into speech and motion.

  “You will forgive me. I must return to Rosings,” he declared—and despised himself for the pitiful subterfuge when he felt compelled to add, “Someone ought to check on Lady Catherine.”

  Further up the path, Fitzwilliam glanced at him over his shoulder and rolled his eyes. She did not turn. Not when Anne observed that a brief delay would make no difference, and that her mother was very well looked after. Not even when Collins spoke at length to beg the privilege of attending Lady Catherine in his stead. She stopped and turned only when the ludicrous display made Darcy repeat tersely:

  “You will forgive me. I must leave you now.”

  He gave them a clipped bow, his glance hastily sweeping over everybody. It met Elizabeth’s for no longer than a second. Not long enough to tell what her eyes held. Relief, no doubt. He could vouch for that without taking the time to scrutinise her closely. Darcy gave an ill-tempered shrug. Of course, she was relieved he did not join them. So was he—to have avoided the continuation of the nightmare.

  Yet the mental picture he carried with him all the way to Rosings, as he covered the distance in long strides, was of Elizabeth looking upon his hasty retreat, not with relief, but ill-concealed regret and disappointment.

  The stone that found itself in his path was kicked right off the road into the grass as Darcy cursed under his breath, encompassing all wishful thinking in the oath, along with all the dunces who indulged it.

  * * *

  Mercifully Lady Catherine was asleep—the laudanum still performed its office—so he was not obliged to keep her company. Nor was he prepared to tolerate the others on their return from the parsonage. He had changed into riding clothes as soon as he had learnt he was not needed in Lady Catherine’s sickroom. In deference to her and truthful to his words earlier that morning, he remained at Rosings until Anne and Fitzwilliam could be seen approaching up the pebbled walk. He left the house then and headed to the stables before they could take him to task for his desertion or drive him to distraction by mentioning—or not mentioning—her.

  This time he did not return for dinner to be served lavish fare he could barely touch, along with a side dish of cousinly probing. He could not bear it. Not after this morning. Not tonight. Darcy returned from his ride at dusk, sent word he would not be joining them either in the dining room or the drawing room, and took himself for a long walk, safe in the knowledge that at such an hour she would not go rambling through the woods.

  Another sleepless night in his bedchamber was as unpalatable as could be. He had endured two such nights already. So, instead of making his way above stairs, Darcy bent his steps towards his aunt’s library. He scoffed as he walked in and made a beeline for the decanters to pour himself a brandy. Reading was not an option but, if nothing else, this would afford him substantially more room for pacing.

  As he was considering a refill, Darcy came to discover there were marked disadvantages to choosing the library: Richard’s company, to be precise. His cousin eventually wandered in to quietly remark, “Ah. So, you are not hiding above stairs for a change.”

  “Why should I be hiding?” Darcy snorted in what he thought was a convincing show of unconcern.

  Whether fooled or not, Fitzwilliam retorted pleasantly as he filled both glasses, “Shall we say, from my prodding?”

  Darcy took his and walked off to the fireplace.

  “I was rather hoping you would refrain from it,” he replied, in truth with little expectation of a respite.

  He was not mistaken; they knew each other far too well for that.

  “Might I ask why you have taken to surveying all the roads of Kent?” Fitzwilliam asked, settling into a nearby armchair.

  Darcy shrugged.

  “I thought it was fairly obvious. I cannot bear inaction.”

  “And people asking what is troubling you,” Fitzwilliam mildly supplied.

  “That too. I told you both, time and again—”

  “That you are fine and dandy,” his cousin interjected. “Yes, I heard. But why do I find it so deuced hard to believe you?”

  “Because you are an interfering busybody,” Darcy snapped, draining his glass. “There must be something in the air at Rosings.”

  “Oh, that I do not doubt! There is something in the air, I will give you that. Now, since you are well on the way to being foxed, would you be so kind as to clear a certain point that has me flummoxed?”

  “I imagine there are countless points that have you flummoxed. And in any case, I am not foxed.”

  “That is a matter of opinion. Now, that point I was speaking of—”

  “What would that be?”

  “Why have you not proposed? Anne cannot understand it either. We have spoken at great length about it.”

  “Have you now! Well, let me reassure you both. I shall.”

  “Praised be!” Fitzwilliam grinned. “So, you have regained your senses. When?”

  “When all this settles down,” Darcy replied with a vague gesture towards his aunt’s bedchamber, or at least in the direction wher
e he assumed it lay. “Before the year is out. I promised Lady Catherine.”

  Fitzwilliam stared.

  “You promised Lady Catherine you will offer for Miss Bennet?” he exclaimed. “And she is still alive? Good Lord, Darcy, have you set out to finish the poor old she-dragon off?”

  “Are you a complete blockhead or merely feigning it for effect? Of course, I was speaking of offering for Anne!”

  Fitzwilliam frowned.

  “So, my rejoicing was for naught. You have not regained your senses.”

  He ignored his cousin’s snort of exasperation and came to refill the glass Darcy had left on the mantelpiece, but forbore from being quite so conspicuous as to hand it to him outright. Instead, he walked back to set the decanter in its place and conversationally observed:

  “I hold great hopes that one of these days you will tell me why you would still consider offering for Anne when you love another.”

  With a tired sigh, Darcy spread a hand over his brow and rubbed his temples.

  “More fool me for hoping for a modicum of peace and quiet. Must I hide in my bedchamber to escape you after all?”

  Fitzwilliam picked up his glass but did not drink. Instead he leaned against the sideboard and gave a careless wave.

  “Rest easy, I know full well it will not be tonight. Pulling teeth is a vast deal easier than getting a full confession out of you. But speaking of fools and blockheads, you are a greater fool than you imagine if you have not seen she has no wish to marry you.”

  Darcy’s eyes shot up in shock bordering on horror.

  “You knew!” he burst out before he could help himself—not a question but an accusation. He reached for his refilled glass and downed a sizeable portion. “You might have said. Then why the devil are you goading me now?”