Mrs. Darcy's Dilemma: A Sequel to Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice

by Diana Birchall

  MRS

  DARCY'S

  DILEMMA

  A Sequel to Jane Austen’s

  Pride and Prejudice

  Diana Birchall

  Copyright © 2004 by Diana Birchall

  Cover illustration: © The National Portrait Gallery,

  London. Sitters:

  Florence Nightingale and Frances Parthenope, Lady Verney. Artist: William White ca. 1836

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems-except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews-without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc. ISBN: 978-1-4022-3486-6

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Content

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  "She began now to comprehend that he was

  exactly the man, who, in disposition and

  talents , would most suit her."

  JANE AUSTEN – PRIDE AND

  PREJUDICE

  This book is for my dear husband,

  Peter Birchall, who is that man.

  Diana

  CHAPTER I

  Mrs. Darcy was one of the happiest women in the world. She had, before reaching the age of two and twenty, married a Mrespectable and benevolent gentleman, of the county of Derbyshire, who was possessed not only of a noble estate but a proportionately fine fortune, of ten thousand pounds a year. Miss Elizabeth Bennet (as she then was) had only a small portion herself, and even that was threatened by an unhappy event: the elopement of her youngest sister, at the age of sixteen, with a young man of exceptional worthlessness, whose debts might nearly have swallowed the whole of her family's resources. But by Mr. Darcy's kind interference, they were saved from disgrace. By making up the match, settling money on the undeserving youngest sister, and then making proposals for Elizabeth, he had happily brought prosperity instead of ruin upon the anxious Bennets. Elizabeth was grateful, and being assured of his own strong attachment to her, and as deeply in love as a girl of sense and spirit could well be, she most thankfully accepted his hand.

  Nearly five and twenty years had passed since that halcyon year, 1812, which saw three of the five Bennet girls given in marriage: for Elizabeth's eldest and handsomest sister Jane married Mr. Darcy's amiable friend Mr. Bingley, on the same day and in the same church as the young Darcys were themselves united.

  At Pemberley, then, Elizabeth found her true happiness and calling in life: as chatelaine of one of the finest houses in the country, wife to a clever, well-informed man who loved her devotedly, admirable patroness and lady of society, who opened a most desirable house in town, in the season. In time, too, she was a mother; but years and maternity had done less to dull her beauty and vivacity than usually happens. Although she was now between forty and fifty years old, Mrs. Darcy was still a handsome woman, known for her wit and good humour; still slender, light of foot, with sparkling eyes and hair that, under her matron's lace caps, was still smooth and abundant. She was as much as ever the delight of Mr. Darcy's mind and the beloved of his heart, and if she had acquired something of an air of authority with her years at Pemberley, it was no more than was becoming and proper to her position.

  Mr. Darcy was, at fifty, very much as might have been expected from a knowledge of him at eight and twenty: a noble man indeed, his tall person, magisterial bearing and dignified manner, were more impressive than ever, as befit a man of great influence in Derbyshire, sometime Member of Parliament and Justice of the Peace. Yet his lips would relax in an indulgent smile that was good to see, his eyes would gleam with enjoyment, and his face would look really handsome still, when he looked upon his wife, or upon his only daughter, who greatly resembled her.

  This only daughter, Jane, was now seventeen, a girl of quick comprehension and movement: light, and airily formed, like her mother, and given to a style of impulsive wit that sometimes, it must be admitted, went too far, as she was well aware that she could beguile smiles from her stern father that he never would bestow on either of his sons.

  Elizabeth was too wise to take either her husband's love or his wealth for granted, and she never forgot to exult in all her manifold sources of happiness. It is impossible for human nature to be altogether without worry or pain, however, and Elizabeth's anxieties were all reserved for her children.

  The eldest of her sons, Fitzwilliam, the heir to Pemberley, provided sufficient concern to make any anxious mother happy. A tall, heavy young man, not uncomely, with well-cut features and dark hair, he had little of his mother's liveliness or his father's cleverness, and would sit of an evening, not saying much, but turning over sporting papers. Horses were his great love, and, some thought, his only interest in the world. He admired his father greatly, and thought he desired to be what Mr. Darcy himself was; but he had spent two years at Oxford, with very little learning adhering to him, and he was in no danger of equalling his father's wisdom at a similar time of life. He had not yet, however, lost more money at racing than was reasonable, and his awe of his father and his own future position kept his behaviour and deportment in check and prevented him from partaking too objectionably of the racecourse.

  The Darcys' second son, Henry, was more promising and quick-minded than Fitzwilliam; Elizabeth often thought it a pity that Henry were not the elder, for what would he not have done with Pemberley? Whereas, she fully expected Fitzwilliam to turn it into a mere breeding-farm. With his cleverness, his balanced mind and generous nature, Henry would have made a fine squire indeed...but as was the way with second sons, the bulk of the estate must go to the elder, and Henry was intended for the Church. He did not repine, but looked forward to ordination eagerly as a situation that would open a field of useful endeavour to him.

  With her two youngest children, Elizabeth felt much more comfortable than with the unsatisfactory eldest. Their tempers were more sympathetic, their minds more developed and like her own. Her fears for them derived not from their characters, as was the way with Fitzwilliam, but from situation: where they would settle, and with what partners, was all her anxiety. A husband for Jane, a parish for Henry, were subjects that occupied many of her thoughts.

  On a fine autumn morning, the Darcy family dispersed, as usual, after breakfast. Henry had something to tell Jane and hurried her out for a walk. Mrs. Darcy lingered at the table to hear what would be the arrangements of her husband and eldest son for the day.

  "There is no press of business this morning, my dear, only some farm matters, and I may ride over to Lambton on the new mare - unless you would like to try her, Fitzwilliam? It is a commission you unde
rstand."

  "I should like nothing better, sir, only I am at this moment going out hunting - 'tis Friday you know."

  "And if it were Tuesday itself, what then? You have been hunting every day this week."

  "But you will acknowledge yourself, sir, that there is nothing else for a fellow to do in this country. Derbyshire is for hunting. And at this time of year one must do one's best. I did not think you could object."

  "To be sure not. Only there is such a thing as moderation, and your time might be better spent giving some attention to the farm and plantations; you never yet have learnt much of their management, and it is time you did."

  "Very true, sir, upon my word, very true, and I shall stay at home and take a lesson the next day you name; only this morning, don't you see, Hartley and Davis are waiting, and you would not have me disappoint them?"

  Mr. Darcy gave only a slight shake of his head in response, and Fitzwilliam lumbered to his feet and, with an awkward bow to his mother, was out of the room in a surprisingly short space of time.

  "The old story again," Mr. Darcy said to his wife. "I begin to think we will never be able to fix Fitzwilliam's mind upon his duties, or to make him understand that he has them."

  "Ought I to have said anything?" inquired Elizabeth. "To stand between Fitzwilliam and his hunting can only result in being trampled, and I prefer to keep his good will."

  The husband's eyes met his wife's, and they both sighed. "I do not know what is to become of him, nor of Pemberley, if he does not learn to consider serious matters," he said, "but it is something, at any rate, that there is no such difficulty with our younger son. I have had a talk with Henry."

  "Have you?"

  "Yes. He has made his plans, I have approved them, and I believe he is telling the result of this discussion to his sister at this moment."

  "That is the function of sisters. Well, Mr. Darcy, do not sport with me. You must know my suspense."

  "I had no intention of being cruel, Elizabeth. Henry has decided upon Manygrove, and his ordination will take place in Ember-week. I hope you approve?"

  "Manygrove! That is exactly as I hoped. He will not be divided from us. Oh, I am happy, indeed," she said with a bright smile. "Now, Mr. Darcy, you need not stay and tell me all the particulars, I will hear them all from Henry and Jane, when they have done being confidential with each other; and you had much better go and see about your mare."

  "And you, Elizabeth? How will you occupy yourself today?"

  "Stay until you hear," she said archly, "it will provide us food for our dinner-table talk tonight. I can make a narrative of my doings go pretty far, you know, but not, perhaps, on this occasion; as I only mean to attend to my correspondence."

  Henry and Jane had by this time reached the lime tree walk, where a scattering of leaves underfoot were pleasingly crunched by her slippers and his boots, while the brother and sister enjoyed their confidential conversation to the full.

  "I am rejoiced that every thing is settled for you, Henry. I knew your mind could not be at ease until then," said Jane.

  "Yes. My father is kindness itself. He falls in with my plans, with such sympathy. I look forward to Ember-week very much, Jane, as fixing my destiny."

  "Really, Henry? Will not you mind being a clergyman? Shouldn't you rather just be a gentleman, and do nothing at all?"

  Her brother laughed. "Surely that is not your notion of a gentleman, Jane? Such a life would be very stupid indeed."

  "Why would it? If you were of no profession, you could spend all the days fishing and hunting, and all the nights reading; you never have time enough for those pursuits, I have heard you say."

  "You paint an alluring picture indeed, but you must know that a life devoted to pleasure only, will soon lose its savour. I have energy; I must be doing; and I want to be useful. You talk as if you had not the example of my father, always doing good works, before you."

  "Oh, yes! I only want you to be happy, and not have a dreary life."

  "Upon my word, Jane, you are more solicitous for my enjoyment than I am myself. Depend on it, a man wants work."

  "Well! I am glad I am not a man, and have to have a profession. I should not like it at all."

  "But you will have a profession, Jane, surely; you will marry."

  "Marry! I suppose I must; but I should much rather live in your parsonage and keep house for you. I cannot care about any man more than I do you, Henry; and I am sure I do not want any lovers. They will only be interested in my fortune."

  "That is a consideration, to be sure," said Henry seriously, "but my father and my mother will introduce you only to young men whose intentions and ambitions cannot be suspected. Now that you are home from school, you will soon be out; and I promise to waive a brother's right to quiz his sister, and not expose you to unfeeling raillery about how many hearts you will break."

  "Thank you, Henry. Yes, Papa is to give us a ball at Pemberley, and then we will have the season in London. Only think, I am to be presented at Court. I wonder if I will see the Princess Victoria."

  "She is only about your age," said Henry thoughtfully, "and with such a burdensome prospect before her, for so young a woman. How should you like to be in her place?"

  "Not at all. But I should like to see her, very much indeed. Well, Henry, do say you will go to London with us. Even if you are in orders, you will dance, won't you?"

  "With the greatest of pleasure. Indeed, being a clergyman shall not prevent me from dancing, I am determined; I do not think I should be one if I could not dance. I have often heard our cousin, Mr. Collins, name dancing as a harmless activity, not incompatible with a clergyman's duty. Have you heard him, Jane? It is too bad to make fun, but really my cousin Collins is priceless."

  "Oh, yes! So great and so fat as he is, to think of him dancing is very ridiculous. It is tiresome when he comes to Pemberley. I am fond of Cousin Charlotte, though, and the young cousins."

  "They are a very respectable family."

  "It is so absurd, the way Cousin Collins is for ever sermonizing about my aunts. I wonder what he means by it. When I was a little girl, he used to tell me to attend to my book, and not be like my Aunt Lydia. And last time we visited in Kent, he preached about purity in young ladies, and he took as his text Aunt Mary's favourite saying - oh! how often I have heard her say it! - that 'the loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable, and one false step involves her in endless ruin.' Goodness, I nearly gaped, I wanted to laugh so much."

  "That does sound like dear Aunt Mary," said Henry, smiling.

  "Oh, yes. I am so glad she lives at Longbourn with Grandpapa and we only see her at Christmas. That's quite bad enough; it's a horrid season to have to listen to her gloomy prosing. Oh! I hope she won't come this Christmas."

  "Now, now, have compassion, my dear Jane," said Henry mildly. "Aunt Mary is a poor old widow, and probably looks forward to coming to Pemberley all year. And she is very good to our grandfather."

  "Oh, I know. But now, do tell me what our Aunt Lydia is like. I have never seen her since I was a baby, and don't remember. She cannot resemble Aunt Mary and Aunt Kitty at all. Is she so very wicked? Is that why Mama and Papa never have her to Pemberley?"

  "What, now you are a young lady, you expect to be told all the family secrets, do you?"

  "Oh, are you going to be a prig, Henry, since you are to be a clergyman? I should think you might tell me, if it is not very indelicate. And I do have a reason for asking, indeed I have."

  "Have you? Very well, then, I shall not insult you by dissembling. And I will make you a confidence, though I hope you will not distress my mother and father by speaking of it. You are grown up enough now to know, I think, that my aunt eloped as a girl with Uncle Wickham, and the family disapproved of it very much."

  "Why? I know he was not rich."

  "No, quite poor; and what is worse, profligate. A very bad sort of man, Jane, gaming, playing, spending... and I believe he has been unkind to poor Aunt Lydia."

  "Oh!
Then, I am sorry I spoke lightly. But it makes me more curious than ever about what my mother meant, when she asked me if I should like to see some of my cousins. Do you know, I think she intends to ask one or another of them here, on a visit."

  "Are you sure, Jane? Aunt Lydia has a large family - eight children, you know - and she has never brought them to Pemberley. I believe my father thinks it best that we not be mixed in with any of that set."

  "Perhaps he has changed his mind, now that we are older. I am sure I hope so, I should like to see my wicked cousins. Do you think they are as wicked as their parents? Oh, I should so like to see somebody wicked, somebody really wicked."

  "Now, Jane, you know you don't mean it. You would not like it at all, believe me. Wickedness is not a virtue. But has anything definite been said, about a visit?"

  "No, but I shall tease my father and find out."

  "What an indiscreet girl you are growing. Consider; my dear parents do not keep secrets for their own amusement."

  Mr. Darcy and his wife had indeed been contemplating, for some time, the question of a visit from some of the young Wickhams. The event that had precipitated this discussion was a letter from poor Lydia. She often wrote to Mrs. Darcy, generally in a baldly begging strain; and her sister usually obliged by sending money or clothing, for she knew well the desperate want and misery, the poverty, in which Lydia spent her life. Mr. Wickham, once a remarkably handsome, prepossessing young man, was lost to drink; he had coarsened, grown careless of appearance and manners, and Elizabeth even thought, from the number of times Lydia had written of illnesses and injuries, that he might be suspected of doing her some harm. This latest letter, however, had no such catalogue of griefs to report. It was in a different strain entirely, for it described her elder children, and pleaded their case, to her great sister and brother.

  "My dear Lizzy will, Iknow, feel pity, when she knows how worried to death Iam about all my dear children. Iam sure Iam quite ill from thinking about them. Life has gone very hard with me, but it always is so for mothers, Ido believe. Since our eldest boy, George, went into the shipping office in Southhampton, he never sends afarthing home from one year's end to another, the ungrateful wretch. I write him very constantly and order him to do so, but it is all parties and pleasure with him, Idare say.