The Women of Pemberley

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  Jonathan and Amelia-Jane arrived early, and as Josie had predicted, their daughter Anne-Marie was so fashionably gowned and adorned with jewels that she looked much older than her seventeen years. While she was very much admired and did not lack for partners, Julian Darcy was not immediately one of them.

  Indeed, when the dancers took the floor, Josie was proved right again, for it was his lovely cousin, Louisa Bingley, whom Julian led into the dance. Josie herself had been claimed by another gentleman and proceeded to enjoy herself, giving little thought to either Louisa or Julian.

  She was, therefore, pleasantly surprised when he appeared beside her and applied for her hand for the next two dances. Though taken aback by his unexpected approach, so early in the evening, Josie accepted with pleasure and turned with a delighted smile to her partner.

  Their debut on the floor did not go unnoticed. They made a handsome couple and danced well together. Jane, who was watching the dancers with Darcy and Elizabeth, commented that they seemed to have no problem making conversation.

  Soon afterwards, Bingley arrived to claim his wife for a dance and, left alone with Darcy, Lizzie mischievously reminded her husband of the difficulties they had experienced when she had attempted to engage him in conversation on the occasion of their first dance together at Netherfield.

  It was not an occasion Darcy cared to recall, but he smiled, knowing she was teasing him, and could not resist indulging her. “I am afraid I remember very little of that dance, Lizzie, except how completely lost I was in admiration for my partner. Perhaps that might account for any difficulty we might have had in maintaining a conversation. After all, we have no such problem now.”

  Elizabeth laughed out loud. “Now, you are trying to tease me!” she declared and was about to take him to task when Cassandra and Richard joined them.

  “Are you determined not to dance, Papa?” asked Cassandra, who knew that dancing was not her father’s favourite pastime; indeed, he would only dance with her, her mother, or, on the very rare occasion, Aunt Jane.

  Darcy immediately denied that he had made any such resolution. “Certainly not; indeed, we intend to take the floor very soon. We were indulging ourselves a little, observing your brother and Miss Tate, who are a pleasure to watch,” he said, quite calmly.

  “They certainly are,” said Cassy. “Doesn’t Julian look handsome? And Josie is delightful, so light on her feet!”

  As they went down to the dance floor, Elizabeth took her husband’s arm and said, “They certainly look very much at ease with each other.”

  Something in the tone of her voice caused Darcy to smile and say, “Lizzie, I do believe you are indulging in that very dangerous pastime again,” and she protested immediately that she was not matchmaking!

  “No, indeed, I am not. Pray do not misunderstand me, I do like young Josie but I do not know that she will suit Julian. She is very clever, independent, knows her own mind, and will not be led by him.”

  “And if all those qualities have not impaired our marriage, why do you suppose they may cause Julian any concern? Being a modern, self-assured young man, with far less baggage than I carried at the time we met, I cannot imagine why they would do so.”

  “Can you not?” she asked, softly, understanding the point he was making.

  Darcy shrugged his shoulders. “Not if he loves her. All such associations involve something of a risk. But then, what human activity does not? And surely, the rewards are worth the effort. Do you not agree, Lizzie?” he asked.

  Elizabeth, moving onto the floor and into the dance, smiled and said softly, “Oh, indeed I do, and I would not have it any different for the world.”

  Had Elizabeth and Darcy been able to hear the conversation between their son and Josie Tate, they may have been rather puzzled, for it was hardly the stuff of romance. Josie had long been what her mother used to call “an incorrigible scribbler:” as a little girl, she had produced little scraps of writing which her father had liked well enough to have printed on the end of a galley proof for her entertainment. Occasionally, when they were particularly good, he would have them typeset in a special font and printed on a separate sheet under the banner of The Review, her own special edition to pin up on the wall of her room.

  As she had grown older, she had become increasingly interested in writing for the newspapers and every so often a short piece would appear in The Pioneer or The Review under the pen name of one Jane Collins. But what she dearly wanted was to be published in the metropolitan press.

  “I know I can get articles into Papa’s newspapers,” she told Julian as they danced, “but that is not good enough. I must get accepted by one of the London dailies—The Times, The Chronicle, or The Herald or at the very least The Guardian. If I do not, no one will take me seriously.”

  Surprisingly, he neither laughed nor appeared astonished at her ambition—he was in fact the first person who had not advised her to temper her goals with some common sense. “Of course, that would be absolutely splendid, but while you keep that worthy goal, there is nothing wrong in trying for the journals or the provincial weeklies, is there?” he asked, quite reasonably.

  Josie was taken aback. “Then you think I should keep trying?”

  “Of course, there is no question of that. But, not having read any of your writing, Josie, I am at a disadvantage. Perhaps when I have seen some of it, I could speak with greater conviction,” he said, a little tentatively, half expecting her to withdraw, as many young ladies would have done, and declare that she could not possibly let him read her work. He was pleasantly surprised when she agreed, and they arranged that some time would be found for him to read some of her work before he returned to Cambridge.

  As the dance concluded, he escorted her to her seat and left, but not before extracting a promise of another dance later in the program.

  ***

  Two days later, Josie was upstairs, when her mother’s maid appeared at the door of her room. “Miss Josie,” she said, “Mr Julian Darcy is here to see you.”

  Josie brightened somewhat, but not even Julian’s arrival could restore her spirits. She had received another rejection, this time from the editor of The Times, of London, returning what she regarded as the most worthwhile piece of writing she had yet undertaken. It was a piece on the mine collapse at Whitfield, and she had written of the consequences of the disaster for the miners’ families and the small community in which they lived. Inspired by the courage and dedication of the volunteers from the Pemberley and Camden estates, who had turned out to help their neighbours in the Whitfield mining community, Josie had spent a good deal of time discovering all the facts and talking to several people, including some of the miners’ wives, before putting pen to paper. She was clearly upset by the rejection, couched as it was in very bland terms.

  When she went downstairs, taking her article and the offending letter with her, she found a patient Julian Darcy taking afternoon tea with her mother. “I have told Julian you’ve been fretting since The Times rejected your piece on the mine disaster,” said Mrs Tate, by way of introduction.

  Seeing dejection written upon her face, Julian was immediately sympathetic. “I am sorry Josie, what reason have they given?”

  Josie’s eyes filled with tears, as she said, “No reason at all. That’s what hurts; it is not that my work is bad, they are just not interested in it,” she said as she tossed the letter and article onto the table and sank into a sofa, looking truly miserable.

  Julian picked them up and sat down to read them while Josie was persuaded to take a cup of tea. She watched him as he read, turning over the pages of her neatly written manuscript, and his expression changed from interest to concern and finally to exasperation. As he finished reading, he stood up, and walked away towards the window, standing silent, looking out across the river for several minutes, before returning to say, “Josie, I am at a complete loss to understand why this piece of
writing has been rejected. It is an important subject, carefully researched, and well written. I cannot imagine what the editor could find wrong with it,” he said, his voice betraying the frustration he felt.

  “Would you like me to tell you?” she said, a touch of sarcasm sharpening her tone. When he turned and looked at her, she continued, “The writer is a woman. Jane Collins is not acceptable, but I can wager anything that if I had called myself John Collins, there would have been no rejection.”

  Julian, who had never had to confront such an issue before, seemed quite shocked at her blunt statement. “Do you really believe that to be true?” he asked, incredulous.

  “I certainly do. A year ago, tired of being rejected, I sent in an article using Walter’s name. It was accepted and what is more, I was invited—or rather, Walter was—to submit another piece in the same vein.”

  “And did you?” he asked, astonished at her revelation.

  “No, I did not. Why should I? It’s my work, why should I have to pretend it is not, in order to get published?”

  Her mother had returned and, having overheard the exchange between them, she said gently, “Josie, Walter wouldn’t mind.”

  Josie’s eyes flashed. “I am sure he would not. But that is hardly the point, Mother. If they found my work acceptable, it should not matter if I am a man or a woman. Can you not see that?”

  Julian understood and came to her rescue. “Mrs Tate, Josie is quite right. It should not matter who she is if the work is good enough to be published.”

  Rebecca Tate felt for her young daughter; she was a regular writer to the papers herself, but she had had the good fortune to marry her publisher, which had made her path a good deal smoother. Now she had a modest reputation as a writer, and she certainly did not mind that it was almost entirely sustained by publication in her husband’s journals. “You know you will always find space in any of your father’s newspapers, and if you want me to ask him about this article…”

  Josie shook her head, “No, Mama, though it is very kind of you, and yes, I do know I can get it into The Review or The Pioneer or any of Papa’s provincial papers; but that would not be the same.”

  Julian agreed, adding that the article on the mine disaster deserved to be more widely read. “I cannot believe that it is not in our interest to be better informed about these catastrophes and how they affect people in our towns and villages—what it does to a family to lose its breadwinner or its only son. If we are to understand what is happening to our society, we need to read the type of story that Josie has written.”

  Rebecca Tate pointed out that if Josie had been writing “real stories,” by which she actually meant fiction, she would have much less difficulty finding a publisher. “The writing of novels and novellas has become quite a pastime with the ladies—of course, some prefer to use a gentleman’s name—but the telling of stories is popular today,” she explained.

  Josie was adamant. “I don’t need to concoct stories, Mama—there are a million stories to be told, true stories of ordinary people that I could tell, but no one wants to publish them. They are not interested in ordinary people, nor do they pay attention to matters like health, sanitation, and education for the poor. They would rather I wrote rubbish—romantic melodramas about desperate maidens in crumbling castles!”

  Julian could hear the passion in her voice; he knew she would get little satisfaction from writing romantic “penny dreadfuls” for the circulating libraries. On an impulse, he asked, “Josie, may I take this copy with me?”

  She agreed at once. “Certainly, I have two other copies, but what will you do with it?” she asked, intrigued and a little flattered by his interest.

  “I should like to show it to a couple of friends of mine at Cambridge. They are not publishers, but I think they would be interested to read your article,” he explained. Josie was clearly pleased and thanked him for his interest.

  It was getting late, and as Julian prepared to leave, Mrs Tate invited him to return the following day and dine with them when Mr Tate would be home from Liverpool. He accepted with pleasure. As they walked to the door, Josie thanked him again. She was sensible enough to know that Julian could not influence the editors of newspapers, but that he had shown sufficient interest in her work to want to show it to his friends at Cambridge was a kindness and a compliment for which she was grateful.

  At dinner on the morrow, he found himself talking mostly to Mrs Tate and Josie, while Josie’s father was monopolised by another guest, a banker from Birmingham. He gathered enough from the conversation, however, to realise that Josie had probably inherited her strong opinions and determination to succeed from her father. Anthony Tate was clearly a man of ideas and influence.

  Before returning to Cambridge for the rest of Michaelmas term, Julian went to see his sister Cassandra.

  She was sitting with her youngest child, Laura Ann, when he arrived; he had ridden over from Pemberley after breakfast.

  Cassy was delighted to see him. He sat with her awhile until she sent for the nurse and surrendered her daughter. She was about to order some tea when he said, “Cassy, could we take a walk in your garden?”

  She was surprised, but agreed at once, waiting only to get a light wrap before joining him and taking his arm as they walked down towards the sloping flower-filled garden beside the river. Well away from the house and anyone who could have overheard them, she did not have long to wait before he asked, “Cassy, how well do you know the Tates?” Seeing the puzzled expression on her face, he added quickly, “Oh, I don’t mean Josie, but Mr Tate and Walter. I’ve never had a great deal to do with them. Do you know them well?”

  His sister smiled. “Am I allowed to know the reason behind these inquiries?” she asked, a little archness creeping into her voice.

  Julian seemed a little embarrassed. “I would certainly tell you if I knew myself, but right at this moment, there is not a great deal to tell,” he said.

  “Would this have anything to do with Josie Tate?” she asked.

  He was quick to reply, “Yes, but not as you might imagine it.”

  “No? There, you have me completely confused now,” she said. “Only a moment ago I thought I had an answer.”

  Julian laughed and, sitting down, leaned back with his hands behind his head and sighed, “This is such a perfect place, Cassy. I wish I did not have to return to Cambridge.”

  Cassandra laughed. “Oh, dear, it cannot be as bad as that already,” she teased, but he would not let her continue.

  “Cassy, be serious, please. I am not concealing anything from you; I am happy to tell you everything, but I cannot reveal what I do not know myself.”

  Cassandra apologised, feeling sorry for her brother, whom she, being close to twenty years older, had always regarded as a boy, until he had turned up at Sophie’s wedding looking so grown up and grand that even his sister had to take him seriously. “I’m sorry Julian. I promise I will be serious. But you must tell me where this is leading, or I shall not know what I am to be serious about.”

  This time it was his turn to be contrite. “Forgive me, I did not mean to be difficult or deliberately obscure. You shall judge my predicament for yourself,” he said and proceeded to explain, “While I have known Josie Tate quite well for a number of years, I have very little knowledge of the rest of the family. I have met both her parents but not enough to be at all familiar. As for her brother Walter, he has been away at boarding school and now at Oxford for most of the last few years. I have had little contact with him or Mr Tate, who is often away on business.”

  Cassandra was beginning to wonder where this was leading when quite suddenly he said, “I should like very much to know how you think they would respond were I to ask for Josie’s hand in marriage.”

  Cassandra was so surprised that she was unable to say anything for several minutes, and, seeing her expression, Julian looked alarmed. “Cassy, th
is is terrible. Why do you appear so astonished? Is it such an improbable idea? If I cannot convince you that I am serious, how can I hope to persuade them, who know me far less well?”

  He sounded depressed, and Cassy was immediately remorseful and spoke up quickly. “I am sorry, Julian, I was more surprised than I have the right to be. Indeed, I have noticed your interest in Josie, and the other night at the ball, it was quite clear to us that you were more than friends.”

  Julian shook his head and seemed confused. “That is just the problem. While I am certain of my feelings for her, I am not at all sure that she regards me as anything more than a friend whose company she enjoys. We have a lot in common and are attracted to similar pursuits and ideas, but we have never spoken of love. Josie is only nineteen, and I would be reluctant to say anything to her without being sure I had her parents’ approval,” he said by way of explanation.

  Cassandra was smiling. “My dear brother, I am sure I can reassure you on both counts. While I do not know Josie’s parents intimately, I do know them to be intelligent and sensible people, well regarded in the community. And, being intelligent and sensible, I cannot imagine that they will have any objection to you, the heir to the Pemberley Estate, applying to marry their daughter.” Holding up a hand to stop his protest before he had expressed it, she continued, “I do not mean that in any mercenary sense, but it stands to reason, Julian you are a very good match for any young woman, quite apart from the fact you are my dear brother and the best looking gentleman in the district.” She went on, ignoring his embarrassment, “As for Josie, I do know her better than I know her parents, and she is probably quite unaware of your interest in her. However, if she were to care for you, Julian, I know her well enough to tell you that she would not be ruled by her parents or anyone else. Josie, you will have noticed, is rather like Mama; she is open and forthright and will not be put upon. If you are unsure of her feelings, ask her first, but be advised she will tell you the truth, however painful.”