Leaving Nothing to Chance

              Standing in his bedchamber, Mr. Darcy touched his cravat with fastidious fingers. His eyes shifted to meet his cousin’s in the mirror. “You know what you are to do tonight?”

                “Yes, of course I know. But are you sure you wouldn’t rather do this on one of those blasted walks you’re always meeting her for? A room full of… well, Aunt Catherine and Mr. Collins isn’t exactly the ideal setting for a conversation of this sort.”

 

                “She doesn’t always walk at the same time, Fitzwilliam. I’ve missed her as often as I’ve encountered her, and as we’ll be leaving early Saturday, there’s only one morning left. Tonight”—he straightened a cuff— “I mean to leave nothing to chance.”

                “I cannot guarantee you more than a few minutes.”

                “It is all I need. While I may not be able to say everything I could wish, the essential words will not take very long.”

                “I must admit, Darcy, that once you form a resolution, you carry it through with more determination than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

                “It’s true.” He smiled slightly as he turned around. “And tonight it is my determination to become engaged to Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

~%~ 

                She should not have come. That was Elizabeth’s main thought as she sat on the hard settee in the Rosings parlor, trying to ignore the pain between her ears. Why hadn’t she begged off?

                It only made it worse that he was there, glaring at her in his insufferable way, the very cut of his coat taunting her with the wealth and influence that allowed him to crush the lives of others at his whim. Her only recourse was to glare furiously back at him, willing all her contempt and fury to show in her eyes.

                “Miss Bennet,” said a voice near her, “would you give us the very great pleasure of hearing you play again tonight?”

                She refocused her gaze with difficulty. “I am sorry, Colonel, but I’m afraid I have a bit of a headache and really do not feel up to playing.”

                His reaction puzzled her exceedingly. He looked comically dismayed for just a moment and shot a quick glance at Mr. Darcy. Why should the colonel care so much whether she played the piano or not? And what did it have to do with Darcy?

“I should hate to appear ungentlemanly by importuning you,” he said after a moment, “but are you sure you will not reconsider? It will be our last opportunity to hear you before we leave. Come now, won’t you indulge us? Darcy adds his entreaties to mine, don’t you?”

“Certainly Miss Bennet must play,” he confirmed coolly.

Elizabeth looked back and forth between them. “Gentlemen, I am sorry to disappoint you, but—”

“Miss Bennet,” interrupted Lady Catherine, “what are you saying to my nephews?”

“Only that I do not care to play tonight, ma’am.”

“What? Certainly not! Fitzwilliam, Darcy, if Miss Bennet does not wish to play, then she shall not.”

“My apologies, Miss Bennet,” muttered the colonel. Darcy just bowed slightly.

~%~

Darcy was glaring at him like it was his fault that Miss Bennet didn’t want to play. He could only suppose it was up to him to arrange something else, though why Darcy refused to take the initiative he didn’t know. In the awkward pause that followed his last attempt Fitzwilliam thought hard, then finally ventured, “It’s a very fine night out. Perhaps you would care for a stroll in the rose garden, Miss Bennet? The fresh air might help alleviate your headache.”

He glanced at Darcy as he spoke, and received a slight nod of approval. In fact, it was a dashed sight better plan than proposing by the pianoforte, if he did say so himself. Looking back at Miss Bennet, though, he realized that she had completely misunderstood him: from the expression on her face she thought he was asking for a private tête-à-tête. He blushed deeply. “Miss Lucas may wish to take the air too, and perhaps Mrs. Collins.” He cleared his throat. “Darcy?”

“I will speak to my aunt about it.”

~%~

Somehow, Darcy wasn’t sure how, the plan to take a small party to view the roses by moonlight went wrong. First his aunt declared she would not object to an evening stroll, then she was saying how even Anne, if properly bundled up, would not be harmed by a few minutes outside, and before he knew it he was escorting his languid cousin down the hall while Fitzwilliam was commandeered for Lady Catherine. The Collinses walked together, and Elizabeth twined her arm with Miss Lucas’s. He watched her graceful figure in front of him with longing and annoyance. If only she had agreed to play, they would be engaged already.

The garden was fragrant and peaceful in the bright moonlight—that is, until their intrusion. No amount of natural beauty was sufficient to keep Lady Catherine’s opinions and Mr. Collins’s compliments at bay.

What followed rather resembled some sort of peculiar country dance. Fitzwilliam, prompted by many varied jerks of the head from Darcy, first managed to hand off his aunt to a delighted Mr. Collins, who had not been able to stay distant for long before drawing eagerly near again. That left the colonel with Mrs. Collins on his arm. Though ordinarily an agreeable conversation partner, she was, on this night, only a means to an end. A little skillful leading in the manner of the excellent dancer he was, and he was able to walk her back to the level of Darcy and Miss de Bourgh. His next undertaking was even more difficult, as it involved getting Anne to talk. Mrs. Collins was too polite not to join his efforts (Darcy, blast him, was singularly silent), and when he suggested his cousin might like to sit on a bench for a little, she agreed.

With Anne sitting and the colonel and Mrs. Collins to keep her company, Darcy was finally free. That still left the problem of Miss Lucas, though. He could see the two ladies, just up ahead on the path, about to enter a protected walkway. Checking to be sure his aunt was listening complacently to Mr. Collins praise the design of the garden, he made his way swiftly toward them.

~%~

The cool night air was doing her good, Elizabeth had to admit, and Maria’s harmless prattle was just the thing to settle her overwrought feelings. She had laughed to see Mr. Darcy trailing behind, obviously unhappy with his designated companion, and was glad that she would not have to be near him. As long as they remained distant she really felt she could retain her serenity.

They came to a divergence in the graveled walk. One path wound back around the rose garden, towards the house; the other slanted off between two hedges. The moonlight was very bright tonight, assisted with lights from the house, but there was no doubt the second path would be dark. “Well, Maria,” she asked, gripping her arm, “how intrepid are you tonight? Shall we brave it?”

Maria giggled. “You don’t suppose there’s anyone lying in wait in there, do you? Or maybe a horrible creature like a vampyre?”

“Oh no, I feel certain that Lady Catherine would never allow such disreputable beings within her garden! Why, the force of her displeasure alone would be enough to terrify the most hardened villain.”

“Even the undead, Miss Bennet?” came a voice behind them.  Maria jumped and stifled a shriek and Elizabeth, torn between laughter and annoyance, could only cling more firmly to her.

“My apologies for startling you, Miss Lucas,” said Darcy. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw that the noise had temporarily drawn the attention of the rest of their party.  Praying that his aunt allowed herself to be distracted once again, he refocused on the woman in front of him.

“I would not suggest you enter that section of shrubbery in the dark without someone who is familiar with it. It is easy to become lost, even in the daytime.”

“Well, in that case we will take the open path,” She tugged Maria in that direction.
 

“I do not object to escorting you if you wish to explore it.” His mind was quickly searching for a way to send the girl off.

“You need not trouble yourself,” Elizabeth replied coldly. Before Darcy could say anything further she had turned her back and was walking off, taking the other with her.

He stared after her, dumbfounded. What the blazes did she mean by walking away from him like that? Hadn’t she understood the purpose behind his offer? Elizabeth was a very quick, very perceptive young woman—hadn’t she guessed his meaning? 

~%~

                The colonel choked back a laugh to see Darcy trailing almost forlornly behind the two young women. Miss Bennet was leading him a merry chase, from the look of things. The man half the eligible women in London pined for was at the feet of a pretty country chit. He wondered if she even knew what she was doing to the poor fellow; was she playing coy on purpose, or was she really oblivious to his interest?

                “I don’t see why my cousin must always be talking to her,” muttered Anne fretfully, worrying the fringe on her outermost shawl. “We’re betrothed.”

                Both Mrs. Collins and Colonel Fitzwilliam froze, staring at each other in awkward dismay. “Err… Anne…” began the officer with great intrepidity.

~%~

“Do you think your sister might wish for you, Miss Lucas?” tried Darcy rather desperately.

Her head jerked around and she stared at him as if she’d seen a ghost.

“I believe Mrs. Collins seems quite well accompanied,” answered Elizabeth for her, annoyed at his officiousness. On second thought… “But perhaps you are right! Come, Maria!” There was a path that cut across the center of the garden, passing a rather grotesque dry fountain, and it was along there that she dragged her, as quickly as she could with reasonable dignity.

“Lizzy!” hissed Maria in her ear. “You’re hurting my arm!”

She loosened her grip. “I’m sorry!”

“Do you think Charlotte really wants me? What could she want me for?”

“Oh dear, I don’t know. I just didn’t want to stay with Mr. Darcy.” She kept her voice low.

“Yes, but, Lizzy…” answered Maria, still in the same hiss, casting nervous glances over her shoulder. “He’s following us. What do you think it means?”

“I long ago gave up attempting to understand him, Maria. I recommend you do likewise.”

Maria let out a rather nervous giggle as they passed by the fountain. “It’s terribly ugly, isn’t it?” She felt safe enough to raise her voice a little—but just a little. Lady Catherine was just across the way, after all.

“Yes, terribly,” agreed Elizabeth. “Let us be glad that the water is no longer running, as I believe it might have proceeded from a rather… unfortunate spot.”

This made Maria giggle again, a little too loudly for propriety, and once again eyes turned in their direction. Behind them, a highly frustrated Darcy felt sure he was the object of their derision, and wondered what Elizabeth thought she was playing at. Strangely, his determination to propose to her was unaffected by these concerns.
 

As they drew near the group that was their target, it could be seen that Colonel Fitzwilliam was gesturing animatedly with his arms as he spoke earnestly to Miss de Bourgh. Charlotte was standing a little distance off, and when she noticed the two girls coming their way, she hurried to meet them. “You can’t go over there.”

“Why ever not?” demanded Elizabeth.

Charlotte glanced around and, seeing Mr. Darcy behind them, took each girl by the arm and led them off in another direction entirely. Pulling them close she whispered, “Colonel Fitzwilliam is breaking the news to Miss de Bourgh.”

“What news?” asked Maria.

“About Mr. Darcy. That they’re not engaged.”

Elizabeth put a hand to her mouth, stifling a laugh. “Do you mean to say that… Miss de Bourgh considers them betrothed, but Mr. Darcy doesn’t?”

“I believe it was Lady Catherine who led her to that belief. She does speak of it often, but apparently forgot that the bridegroom’s consent is also necessary.”

“And how did poor Colonel Fitzwilliam end up being the one to tell her the truth? I would think Mr. Darcy is perfectly capable of disappointing a lady’s hopes on his own.” She rolled her eyes. “He disappoints Miss Bingley’s hopes all the time.” Maria giggled again.

“He took it on himself—oh, look!” All three ladies turned to stare.

~%~

                When Mrs. Collins removed Elizabeth further out of his reach, Darcy looked around for Richard, determined to recruit his help again. Seeing him speaking with his other cousin just ahead, he began to walk that way. Just then Richard, who was already gesticulating, spotted him coming and began to repeatedly wave his hand in a decided fashion as he talked.

                Darcy paused. Was Richard waving him away? When head jerks got added to the waves he decided he was and began to back up. He backed up so far he nearly fell into the fountain.

~%~

“Darcy!” Lady Catherine called as he scrambled, red-faced in the moonlight, off the fountain rim and back onto his feet. “Darcy, what are you doing playing in the fountain? Come here immediately!”

A bout of laughter, hastily smothered, erupted from the small knot of ladies.

Completely mortified at having stumbled before the woman he meant to marry, Darcy made his way without further words toward his aunt. As he drew close her voice rose over the garden. “Darcy, did I not charge you with attending to Anne? What do you mean by going off and leaving her like that?”

                Darcy answered her quietly, but Lady Catherine was a stranger to discretion. “No, I do not consider your cousin an acceptable substitute. It is your duty to remain with her!” More low voiced remarks followed.

                Meanwhile, Anne de Bourgh sniffed and looked at her cousin the colonel triumphantly.

“Anne,” repeated Fitzwilliam wearily, “just because your mother believes Darcy intends to marry you doesn’t make it so.”

She looked at him as if he were speaking in a foreign language.

“Darcy is never going to marry you, Anne.”

She turned her attention back to her shawl.

“I can tell you with absolute certainty that he does not consider himself bound to you, and your mother has no power to compel him.”

At that she rolled her eyes, as if in derision of an obviously foolish remark.

“Oh, good heavens!” muttered the colonel. “Why can’t I let Darcy do his own dirty work?” He stalked off to where Darcy, Lady Catherine and Mr. Collins stood.

“… the perfectly circular shape of this pathway,” Mr. Collins was saying.

“… high time you stopped fooling around and did your duty,” said Lady Catherine, speaking over him.
 

“Get me out of here!” muttered Darcy, immediately moving near to him.

“I don’t think this will be as easy as you hope,” he returned in low tones. “Miss Bennet is well guarded.”

Darcy glanced over his shoulder toward the knot of women, stifling an exclamation.

“What’s that you say, Darcy?”

“Nothing, Aunt.”

“It’s an absolute disgrace that Anne is sitting over there alone—”

“Oh, Lady Catherine, I would be most happy, most honored—”

“Not you, Mr. Collins! It is my nephew Darcy who should be there, like a proper suitor—”

“Quite right, Aunt Catherine!” cut in Fitzwilliam, seeing that Darcy was about to say something rather unwise. “Darcy, why don’t you go over there at once?”

Darcy glared at him, but after a moment he bowed stiffly and turned. The colonel moved to follow him, but Lady Catherine stopped him. “Richard, you shall stay here with me.” He had no option but to obey.

~%~

                It was unnerving, making the quarter-circle walk back to Anne’s bench with his aunt watching him from behind and Elizabeth and her friends watching from the side.

Darcy noticed, in distracted fashion, that Anne had a rather odd smirk as he arrived, but his attention was focused on the group of women who stood about twenty feet away. “Cousin, why don’t we go speak to your friends?”
 

She sniffed. “Friends?”

“Yes, Mrs. Collins and her guests.”

“I don’t have friends.”

“Well, perhaps if you begin now you may make some. Come now, let us go over there.” He extended his arm, but she just looked at him. “Anne—”

“No.”

“I beg your pardon?” He drew back in surprise.

“I don’t have to.”

“W-well, no, but—”

“And since you’re going to marry me you have to stay too.”

Darcy’s eyes grew wide with dismay, and a dark color ran up the back of his neck. He sent a wild, panicked look at his other cousin, who shrugged eloquently. He could not deal with this. Not right now, not this night, when she stood such a short distance away watching, and all he wanted to do was walk over to where her light and pleasing figure and laughing eyes waited in the moonlight, and take her by the shoulders, and say—

He shook his head, casting off his reverie. He had to focus. Fitzwilliam was stuck with Lady Catherine for the moment, leaving him without help. Elizabeth was stuck with her friends and he was stuck with a cousin who erroneously, and against all evidence, believed that they were engaged. A wiser man might, perhaps, have admitted defeat and begun planning a new campaign for the morning, but Darcy had a stubbornness in him that always rose with any attempt to deter him. He had decided to propose to Elizabeth tonight, and propose to her he would.

He spoke in a low, firm voice. “We’re not engaged, Anne.”

She gave him the same disbelieving look she’d given Fitzwilliam.

“There has never been any sort of an agreement between us—you know there has not.” Some sort of movement caught his eye and he looked up to see Fitzwilliam walking across the grass toward the other ladies. “I am going over there; are you coming or not?”

There was a noise behind him; he looked back to see Lady Catherine and Mr. Collins walking their way. “Your mother is coming,” he said curtly to his cousin, who still had not spoken, “Perhaps you will enjoy her company.”

“Mother,” began Anne, raising her voice slightly, “Darcy says—”

He fled.

As quickly as his long strides could carry him, he moved towards his quarry.  By the time he arrived, the women were all struggling to hide grins, and Fitzwilliam guffawed openly. “Cousin,” he said, “you ran from her like Wickham before an angry husband!”

Small gasps (and Darcy’s foot treading heavily on his own) recalled him to his company. “Ahh... ladies! I beg your pardon. I should have said, ‘Darcy, you ran from her like Wickham before a debt collector!’ Ah!” Darcy trod on his foot again. “Oh, very well, no more Wickham jokes. Ladies, you must forgive me. I was simply referring to a certain scoundrel of our acquaintance. Oww, will you leave off?” For Darcy had stepped on his foot a third time.

“They know him,” muttered Darcy in his ear.

“They know what?”

“Wickham! They know Wickham!”

“Oh! A scoundrel of all our acquaintance then, and don’t,” he hopped away, “do that again!”

“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” said Elizabeth, attacking this startling new information with her customary directness, “do you know Mr. Wickham personally?”

“For many years now, Miss Bennet.”

“And you consider him a scoundrel?”

“Of the first order, ma’am. A very charming one, of course. He could charm any milkmaid into giving him far more than just mil—Darcy, blast it, I’m a soldier! I need that foot!”

“Colonel,” persisted Elizabeth, “did you have direct knowledge of his infamy, or was it merely,” her eyes shifted to his tall cousin, “hearsay?”

The question sobered him up a bit. “My knowledge is direct and incontrovertible, Miss Bennet. Although I jest now, he is, all jesting aside, a liar, a cheat, a seducer, and many other things I wouldn’t sully your ears with describing. My advice is to stay as far away from him as possible.”

All the women’s eyes grew very big at this, and they clutched each other rather tightly. Darcy, who had not missed Elizabeth’s questions but had bigger things to worry about, cast a harried glance over his shoulder. “Miss Bennet,” he said, “would you care for a stroll over there?” He nodded towards the corner of the garden furthest away from his female relatives.

This direct approach further unbalanced Elizabeth’s sensibilities. “I—well—” it was like when he had asked her to dance and she hadn’t been able to think of a reason to say no.

“Mrs. Collins, Miss Lucas,” contributed the colonel promptly, “there is a particularly lovely species of rose in that direction”—he gestured to a completely different corner—“which I believe you would enjoy viewing.”

“In the moonlight, Colonel?” asked Mrs. Collins as she accepted his arm.

“Of course. The best way.”

“Why, what’s it called?” asked Maria.

“I have no idea. I just know that it’s lovely.”

Elizabeth watched them go with alarm. Before she could think of a way to extract herself, Darcy had somehow claimed her hand and pulled it through his arm, and then he was leading her across the grass, towards the horrid fountain and away from the safety of the others. She couldn’t imagine what he wanted with her, but whatever it was, she had no intention of obliging.

“Mr. Darcy, I have just remembered—excuse me—” She slipped away and headed towards Mr. Collins and Lady Catherine, a truly last, desperate port in a storm.

Colonel Fitzwilliam swung around, a lady on each arm, blocking her way. “Going somewhere, Miss Bennet?”

“I have something I wish to say to my cousin.”

“You can tell him later, Lizzy.” Mrs. Collins was all agog at the current proceedings and eager to help them along. “He seems most engrossed with her ladyship right now and I am sure could not do justice to your request—or observation—or question.”

“But I wished most particularly—”

“Mrs. Collins is correct,” sounded Darcy’s deep voice behind her. “There could be little gained from seeking him out now.”

“But—”

“You have always wished to explore this garden; I know you have. Let Mr. Darcy take you.”

And once again she was on his arm, being steered inexplicably towards the remotest of rosy regions. Still flustered over the revelations about Mr. Wickham and still angry about his interference with Jane, she hardly knew what to say. Darcy, meanwhile, was mentally rehearsing the speech he meant to make—and calculating exactly which spot would be the most ideal for making it—when Lady Catherine’s voice boomed across the grass. “Darcy!”

Only the faintest hitch in Darcy’s pace indicated that he had heard her.

“Mr. Darcy!” Elizabeth tugged on his arm.

“Mmm?”
 

“Your aunt is calling you!”

“Is she?”

“Darcy!”

“Yes, do you not hear her?”

“Ah, well…” He was still trying to pull her in the other direction, but she refused to go.

“You cannot ignore your aunt, Mr. Darcy! You must go speak with her.”

He stood perfectly still for several moments, and turned. They trod the distance in silence, although Elizabeth was surprised by how tightly he pressed her hand against his side. The contact made her uncomfortable and she withdrew before they reached his aunt.

“Darcy, your cousin is feeling fatigued. Take her into the house.”

“I don’t think—”

“She cannot remain out here or she might become ill. She requires an escort immediately.”

“Oh, Lady Catherine, it would be my delight—”

“Not you, Collins! My daughter requires more exalted company.”

“I am sure that Mr. Collins would provide a perfectly adequate—”

“I don’t want adequate!” announced Miss de Bourgh.

“Neither shall you have it, my pet. Darcy, I insist that you take her inside at once.”

Darcy had no choice but to acquiesce.  He cast a single imploring look at Elizabeth, which she did not seem to see. Anne, Anne, Anne! He was always doomed to have Anne on his arm and never Elizabeth. Why couldn’t Elizabeth have been Lady Catherine’s daughter instead?

~%~

Finally set free from Darcy’s strange and irritating presence, Elizabeth attempted for a time to seem interested in a discussion of the feasibility of a topiary at the parsonage. When asked, she affirmed without a blush that a bush in the shape of a duck would make a very becoming tribute to Lady Catherine’s magnificent duck pond, and that one formed into the likeness of a honeybee might honor Mr. Collins’s own modest efforts in the way of apiculture. Yet the evening’s events were leaving her unsettled in a way she could not explain. Perhaps it was the colonel’s description of Mr. Wickham, perhaps something else. Before long, she saw the other three moving back their way and breathed a sigh of relief.

~%~

                Inside the house, Darcy escorted Anne to the parlor where Mrs. Jenkinson sat in the exact same place and in the exact same posture as he had seen her last. He felt a moment’s pity for the woman, who had been denied even the simple pleasure of a moonlit stroll by her employer, who considered her unnecessary at the moment. “See, I have brought you your charge back,” he said. “Doubtless she will wish to go upstairs now.”

                “I won’t need Mrs. Jenkinson anymore when we are married,” announced Anne, as that woman came to fuss over her. “It will be your job to do it. Mother said.”

                Darcy shut his eyes. “I meant what I said in the garden, Anne.”

                “Mother said,” she repeated, as if that were the clinching argument in any situation.

                Desperately aware of how inappropriate it was to have this conversation in front of an employee, he tried one last time. “I respect your mother, but she has no power over me.”

                Anne gave him a faint, tolerant smile. “We’ll have two children, a son and a daughter, and the daughter will inherit Rosings just as I will—”

                Darcy fled again.
 

~%~

After the colonel deposited Mrs. Collins and Miss Lucas with the others, he headed for the house, where he met Darcy in the hallway. “Look here, Darcy,” he said without preamble, “I hate to say it, but it looks to me like your Miss Bennet doesn’t particularly want to be private with you. Every time you come near her she heads in the other direction.”

“She is teasing,” said Darcy, “or else shy. I begin to think it possible that she doesn’t even realize why I wish to speak to her, which would just prove how modest and unpretentious she is.”

The colonel muttered something under his breath that sounded like stubborn. “If I were you I would rally my troops and try again in the morning.”

“Absolutely not. Lady Catherine will have me engaged to Anne by the morning if I don’t preempt her.”

“Yes, about that… I tried to tell Anne, but she wouldn’t believe me.”

“She wouldn’t believe me either.”

“And Miss Bennet is being elusive.”

“Yet I would have managed it if it weren’t for our aunt. I need you to distract her.”

“Yes, but how? She has little interest in me next to you.”

“Ask her permission to marry her daughter,” Darcy suggested.

“What? Are you out of your senses?”

He shrugged. “She will never grant it, but the subject would keep her occupied for quite some time, probably creating enough spectacle to divert the others as well.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” Fitzwilliam threw his hands up. “There is much I would do out of loyalty and friendship for you, cousin, but I draw the line at false proposals of marriage!”

“Oh, very well.” He shook his cuffs out. “Just keep her talking. Ask her the value of her paintings or the history of the east wing, or how Sir Lewis was recognized by the king. Just don’t let her come near me!”

“You’ll catch cold, I tell you. You’ll never extract her from her lady friends without my help.”

“Then I shall rely on receiving it.”

“You’re going to stand so deeply in my debt you may never pay me off.”

“I shall not even try,” assured Mr. Darcy.

The colonel’s gaze turned indignant just as they stepped outside. Sure enough, Miss Bennet, Miss Lucas, Mr. Collins, Mrs. Collins and Lady Catherine were all standing in a knot. Lady Catherine was holding forth on some subject or other, seemingly pleased at the size of her audience. Darcy stalked his target strategically. He eyed Elizabeth’s position, calculated the best way to approach her, and plotted the quickest route of escape. He waited until Fitzwilliam had insinuated himself into the group and was telling whoppers for war stories, and then, just as his cousin said, “I had had three horses shot out from beneath me already, but—” he touched her arm lightly.

                ~%~

                Elizabeth wanted to scream with frustration at Mr. Darcy’s inexplicable persistence. Really, the most devoted lover could not be more stubborn, and he certainly was not that! Was he trying to drive her mad on purpose—to mock her hatred of him by torturing her with his presence? Determinedly she ignored him.

                He touched her arm again.

                She put her chin up.

                He leaned towards her, unsettlingly close, and whispered in her ear. “Miss Bennet.”

                She looked at him only long enough to narrow her eyes, and turned away again.

                He shifted uneasily beside her, and she hoped triumphantly that he was about to leave.

                “Miss Bennet!” he whispered again, more urgently this time. “I must speak to you!” His hand was under her elbow now, still light but insistent.

                Elizabeth was about to pull her arm away and deliver a piece of her mind when she became uncomfortably aware that one or two members of the group were looking at them. Even Lady Catherine was turning her face in their direction.

                Sounding suddenly louder, Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “Aunt Catherine, don’t you have a capital sabre over the mantle in the library? Do you remember what battles it was carried in?”

                Momentarily attention was diverted away from them, but when Darcy tried to draw her away again she felt that she had no choice but to go with him—either that, or make a scene. Her anger at this new proof of his arrogance—at his audacity in compelling her, and his general disregard for her feelings—overflowed, and she could hardly contain the bitter words which sprang to her tongue. The original source of her anger for this evening—the terrible wrong he had done to Jane—rose in her feelings as strongly as it had earlier, and the very moment they were a tolerable distance from the others she turned to him, her eyes flashing.

                “Actually, I am glad you have called me away, Mr. Darcy. I have a question to ask you.”
 

                He smiled insufferably. “Oh?”

                “Yes. I wish for your opinion on a matter that has been troubling me lately. Tell me,” her voice took on an edge, “what do you think of a man who pays a lady particular attentions, sufficient to engage her affections and raise her expectations, and then leaves her without a word? Would you call such a man a cad?”

                He stopped so abruptly that she moved ahead, and he put a hand under her elbow, swinging her around. “Perhaps,” he said, looking at her very intensely, “perhaps the man in question has every intention of speaking, and is merely seeking opportunity.”

                “That is not the case in the situation I am thinking of.”

                He crossed his arms. “Are you certain?”

                “Yes, and you haven’t answered my question. Would you consider a man who raises a woman’s expectations and then abandons her a cad?”

                “Yes, and a fool. But I, Miss Bennet,” he seemed to loom closer, “am neither a cad nor a fool.”

                Infuriated by his assumption that everything was about him, she snapped, “No, you are content to make your friends fools and cads!”

                He drew back as if slapped, and watched her storm off. His friends? With a smothered exclamation he went after her. “Let us be very clear, Miss Bennet,” he said, easily keeping pace with her quick step. “I do not believe your question to be hypothetical only, so just exactly whom are you speaking of?”

                “Why, do you have many friends whom you have persuaded to abandon the women they love?” she asked sarcastically.

                Again he halted mid-stride for several moments before hurrying after her. “This is about Bingley?”

                “Mr. Bingley and my sister! Or have you forgotten her existence, as you forgot her feelings?”

                Elizabeth had been headed towards the entrance to the house, but just before she reached the steps he managed to somehow seize her hand and pull her into a shadowed nook by the high stone balustrade. “How dare you!” she hissed at him, jerking her hand out of his grasp.

                “I have a hard time believing that you are really so angry simply because I persuaded Bingley not to return to Netherfield.”

                “Really?”

                “Yes. I think, Miss Bennet, that there is another reason for your anger—and that you will quickly find it to be unfounded. Just like you are not like your sister, I am not like—”

                As he spoke, Darcy had been leaning closer to Elizabeth, and he put one hand out to the wall to steady himself, but instead of meeting stone it closed around a trailing rose with very sharp thorns. Although he was too manly to cry out at something so minor as four long thorns stuck deep into the meat of his hand, he did make a strangled sort of sound, and jumped back.

                This was the moment for Elizabeth to make good her escape, but a combination of surprise and curiosity stayed her, and once she realized what he had done, she was so hard pressed not to laugh that even her righteous anger lessened.

                Darcy, as he wound his handkerchief around his hand, said without looking up, “You may laugh if you like, Miss Bennet.”

                One giggle escaped her, and then two, and she saw to her surprise that he was grinning ruefully in the near-darkness. She had thought that above all things he despised being laughed at. “You ought to go inside and have that cleaned,” she told him. “It could become infected otherwise.”

                “In a moment. But first—”

                Once again they were interrupted, this time by the sound of his Aunt Catherine’s voice raised in anger.

~%~

Across the garden, Fitzwilliam had been having a difficult time of it. Although Lady Catherine’s ability to wax eloquent on the value of her treasures was almost unlimited—as was Mr. Collins’s willingness to reverentially repeat everything she said—Darcy and Miss Bennet’s erratic progress across the circle had inevitably caught her attention. No matter how wildly he talked, or how many questions he asked, she became more and more preoccupied with watching them.

“Fitzwilliam—”

“And then a cannon ball landed within two feet of where I was standing, and the dirt—”

“Why is Miss Bennet—”

“—was exactly like the dirt they have in gardens here at Rosings! What kind of soil do you have here, Aunt Catherine?”

“Only the best, of course, none of that nasty chalk! But do you see how Darcy—”

“Yes, Darcy insisted it was all sandstone and that green stuff, but I told him you’d never have anything less than loam beneath your trees. But that cannon ball, it nearly killed me, you know, and—”

“Oh, be quiet, Fitzwilliam. Mr. Collins! What does your cousin mean by running across the grass like that?”

“Oh, my dearest Lady Catherine, I wish I could say that this is the first time I have ever known her to run, but I am afraid that it is not. She has a most indelicate love of rapid motion. I shall speak to her about it immediately!”

“But Mr. Collins—” His wife put her hand on his arm.

Lady Catherine gasped loudly as Darcy and Miss Bennet suddenly vanished into the shadows by the steps. “What is the meaning of—”

“Lady Catherine!” cried Colonel Fitzwilliam desperately.

“Well, what is it?” she snapped, her eyes never moving.

“Lady Catherine, I—that is—” He saw Mr. Collins turn to set off in the direction of the potential lovers. “Lady Catherine, I wish to marry your daughter!” he blurted out.

Everyone froze, and all heads swiveled slowly in his direction.

“What did you say?” Lady Catherine seemed unable to believe her ears.

A glance towards the steps showed that they were still hidden away. “I said,” he repeated loudly, with considerable courage, “that I, a lowly soldier, would like your permission to marry Anne. My cousin. Your daughter.” You owe me an estate, Darcy, he thought.

It was hard to tell, but Lady Catherine’s face seemed like it was turning darker. She took a deep breath. “Why you impudent, foolhardy…” she began, her voice rising like a flock of birds at daybreak.

Hurry it up, old man. Hurry it up!

~%~

                “I’m sure it is nothing,” said Darcy.

                “You said that last time.”

                “Yes, but she was calling my name then. She’s not now.”

                Elizabeth stared at him in astonishment. “No, but she’s obviously very upset. Don’t you think you ought to go see what the matter is?”
 

                “Not really. Miss Bennet, I have been seeking an opportunity all evening to tell you…” unconsciously he clenched his hand, just to wince and look down, “… that these last weeks I have not failed to notice…” he tugged the thicker part of the handkerchief back over the area that was bleeding, and it unraveled, forcing him to try to wind it back on again, “… and noticed back in Hertfordshire, of course, but was unable to act at the time, for reasons that I am sure you can appreciate, because you are sensible, and my objections were after all entirely….” He looked up to suddenly realize that Elizabeth had already stepped back out from under the tree and was standing in the moonlight, staring in the direction of the others. “Miss Bennet!”

                “What?” answered Elizabeth absently, her whole attention focused on the sight of Lady Catherine ramming her walking stick into her older nephew’s chest. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Darcy, but really—oh, there’s Charlotte. You must excuse me, sir. Do get your hand looked after.”

                With that she flitted away like some sort of rare and elusive butterfly. Cursing his hand, his ineptness, Colonel Fitzwilliam, Lady Catherine, that blasted rose, and most of all Elizabeth’s apparent incognizance of his purpose, he watched while she reattached herself to her party, all of whom were beating a strategic retreat before the wrath of his aunt. What his cousin had done to deserve it he couldn’t imagine, but whatever it was, Darcy found himself taking some grim enjoyment from watching it.  Then his smarting hand drew his attention again, and he knew that he would have to have it properly bandaged before he could do anything further. With a last regretful glance in Elizabeth’s direction he started up the stairs, even as Colonel Fitzwilliam, driven back before the walking stick, tripped and fell into the fountain.

~%~

                It was about half an hour later by the time everything had settled down again and they had all returned to the parlor. The colonel had humbly apologized and withdrawn his petition for Miss de Bourgh’s hand. Lady Catherine had been so energized by the experience of browbeating him that she walked three times around the whole circle of the garden, with the rest of the group trailing behind her like some sort of entourage. If she remembered what she had seen passing between her younger nephew and Miss Bennet she did not say so, apparently content to see that it was over now. Elizabeth had been so divided between awe and laughter that she had very nearly forgotten her upset in mentally composing a letter to her father describing the scene. Mr. Collins had attempted to speak to the great lady about every two minutes, the exchange going something like this:

                “Lady Catherine—”

                “Not now, Collins!”

                “Yes, your ladyship!”

Charlotte had looked suitably insensible, and Maria just spent the entire time gaping.

By the time they all went back inside Darcy had finished having his palm bandaged by his valet, and he came downstairs just in time to follow them into the parlor. He and his cousin exchanged a couple of interrogating, exasperated and (in the colonel’s case) incredulous looks before the latter heaved a big sigh, downed a large brandy from the sideboard, and advanced back into the fray.

“Miss Bennet?”

Elizabeth turned an amused smile on him. “Yes, Colonel?”

“You must forgive me if I seem repetitious, but I would still enjoy hearing you play the pianoforte, that is if your headache is better now. It might—” he coughed into his hand, “help me settle my nerves.”

“You know, I believe my headache is gone. Perhaps it was frightened away.”

“It would not be the only one. I’ve faced firing lines less daunting.”

“Yes, well… oh, very well. If you really wish it, I will play.”

“Thank you. I would be very grateful,” he said with full sincerity. A sigh of relief escaped him as she rose to go, and he looked victoriously at his cousin. Darcy, who had managed to remain inconspicuously by the side of the room, nodded and tugged on the front of his coat.

Colonel Fitzwilliam escorted Miss Bennet to the piano bench, and for appearance’s sake remained near while she chose some music and began to play. After a minute or two, Darcy joined them and, at the first pause in the music, Fitzwilliam murmured something about needing to rest his feet, and excused himself before Elizabeth could think of a way to stop him.

She had to suppress a roll of her eyes at finding herself, yet again, alone with Mr. Darcy ( or as alone as one can be in a room full of people). “We seem to have had an eventful evening, Mr. Darcy,” she observed.

“It has been… unexpected.”

“That’s one way to put it,” she muttered.

“What did you say, Miss Bennet?”

“I said I hope your cousin is not too disappointed.”
 

“Disappointed?”

“At having an offer of marriage refused.”

“Ah.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Well, she might think she is, once she accepts it, but I am confident that she feels no true affection, and with reflection she must realize that I never—” He paused uncertainly at the expression on her face. “What is it?”

“I meant your cousin Fitzwilliam, Mr. Darcy.”

“Fitzwilliam?” He stared at her blankly for a moment before comprehension came. “You mean he actually… so that was why…” He colored at his mistake.

Still playing her piece, Elizabeth bit her lip, her cheeks growing pink with mirth, and her eyes dancing in the most bewitching fashion. “Quite so,” she said cheekily.

That was it. With a swift glance over his shoulder, he shifted his body to come between the people around the fireplace and Elizabeth. Leaning forward he said, in a low voice and rather rapidly, “Miss Bennet, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Her hands came down with a crash on the keys, and she stared at him wide-eyed. Hearing the conversation go silent behind him he raised his brows, urging her to answer. The next moment Elizabeth was standing up and hastily gathering the sheet music with trembling hands. “I don’t find your attempt at humor amusing, sir!” she hissed.

“Humor!” It came out louder than he intended, and he glanced over his shoulder again to find his Aunt Catherine’s eyes boring into him. He lowered his voice again. “I was not being humorous!”

“No,” she agreed, placing the music on the piano lid and turning away, “you weren’t!”

His hands clenched with frustration, and he had to physically restrain himself from catching her arm as she swept past him. Fitzwilliam was looking at him inquiringly, and he just shook his head slightly, turning away as he tried to compose himself. Not only his frustration but his disappointment was tremendous. What did the infuriating woman want? Why wouldn’t she answer him?

Her suspicions aroused again, Lady Catherine demanded to know what had caused Miss Bennet to end her playing in such a disgraceful manner. Elizabeth replied that her headache was bothering her again—that it had in fact gotten worse. “You must go home at once!” proclaimed her ladyship. “I will have the carriage called, and you shall leave this instant!”

Darcy shot a look of extreme alarm at his cousin, who immediately said, “Miss Bennet cannot go yet!”

“Yes, I can, Colonel,” replied Elizabeth. “I thank you, but I am most grateful to accept Lady Catherine’s offer.”

A servant was summoned immediately, and Elizabeth went to collect her wraps. “Mr. Collins, you and Mrs. Collins shall stay for another hour,” decreed the dictator of the drawing room. “Darcy, come sit by me.”

But Darcy was truly desperate now, and even his desire for concealment was not strong enough to make him obey her. He muttered some apology about a letter he’d forgotten and almost bolted from the room. Lady Catherine, after satisfying herself that he had not gone to stand in the entry with Miss Bennet, returned to instructing Mr. Collins on the proper organization of his apiary.

~%~

Elizabeth watched the carriage rumble off around the corner and turned to walk the short path to the parsonage door. When a certain tall shadow suddenly moved from its surrounding shadows, she could not even bring herself to be surprised, nor to wonder how he got there before her.

Speaking before she had a chance to, Darcy advanced towards her.  “You, Miss Bennet, are the most exasperating woman of my entire acquaintance!”

“Then I must wonder why on earth you should choose to follow me here,” she answered crossly.

“You have yet to answer my question.”

“Because you weren’t really asking one!”

“Is that what you believe?” he demanded, staring down into her moonlit face. He was close enough now to touch her. “Do you really think I would utter such words as that in jest?”
 

“The entire evening seems like a jest to me,” she muttered, rubbing her temples. “One long, absurd jest contrived between you and your cousin as a way of making sport of me.”

For a moment he was silent. “This, then, is your estimation of my character,” he said at last, and even Elizabeth couldn’t miss the hurt behind the anger in his tone. Momentarily, she felt a wave of remorse.

“It’s not what I would have expected,” she admitted quietly. “But I could imagine no other explanation.”
 

His silence spoke volumes.

“You… you can’t expect me to believe that you actually want to marry me.”

More silence.

“You’ve always disliked me!”

That did startle him into speech. “Disliked you! Indeed, I have not!”

“Oh.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

After a long pause he sighed. “I have not courted you well, have I?”

She couldn’t lie. “No.”

“I suppose you think I should take my leave now.” His voice sounded bitter.

She opened her mouth to say yes, but found herself suddenly pausing. It had been… such a strange night, filled with startling revelations, and somehow the fierce antagonism she had felt against Mr. Darcy at the beginning of it had ebbed away. He remained strange, frustrating and high-handed, and yet, somehow… compelling.  “Mr. Darcy,” she said slowly, “I think we have both misunderstood the other.”

“Obviously.”
 

“You… you really intended to propose to me tonight?”

“I did propose to you tonight.”

“All of that—the piano playing, the walking in the garden—it was all an attempt to get me alone so that you could propose?”

He looked away.

“But why?”

“Can you not guess?”

After several long, pregnant moments she said, “You—it is not possible that you could—that you might possibly—”

“Love you?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

~%~

Darcy contemplated her face in the moonlight. “It seems neither of us is very good at judging the other’s feelings,” he said at last, choosing his words carefully, “but I can judge my own, and I can assure you… I am in love with you.”

Elizabeth’s eyes grew larger than ever, and standing there, looking at her startled, uncertain, overwhelmed countenance, Darcy at last gave up his evening’s determined purpose. He would not become an engaged man tonight; he would not demand an answer from this girl who was so obviously unready to give it. With a long sigh he stepped back from her a pace. “If I were to come to Longbourn,” he said, “—with my friend Bingley, of course—would you receive me?”

For a long moment he thought she was going to answer, then finally she nodded slowly. “Yes,” she said. “I think I would. I can make no promises,” she added hurriedly, as he smiled. “I don’t know—that is, I have never considered—”

“I understand. I began this evening, Miss Bennet, believing that I was about to obtain the prize, but the truth is that I have not yet entered the race, isn’t it?”

There another pause. “I think,” she almost whispered, “I think, Mr. Darcy, you have entered it now.”

“I wish most ardently to win it.”

Then she looked away, placing her hand on her cheek in a self-conscious gesture that told him she was blushing. It was not the first time he had seen her blush, but this blush seemed significant somehow, and he found himself reaching to brush the free cheek that was turned to him. Her head jerked around.

“Forgive me, I did not mean to…”

“Perhaps I had better go in, Mr. Darcy.”

“Yes.” He sighed and stepped aside. “But I may call on you at Longbourn?”

“With your friend, Mr. Bingley, you said?”

“Yes. If he has really engaged your sister’s affections—”

“Of course he has!”

“—then he will be all too pleased to come.”

“And we shall be pleased to receive you.”

“I hope so,” he said softly.

“Somehow, Mr. Darcy,” she answered, offering her hand in a sudden bold gesture, “I really think we will.”

He grasped it eagerly. “Both of us?”

“Both of you.” She smiled a quizzical smile and turned, but before she went inside he kissed her hand, and had the satisfaction of watching her blush again in the light of the door lamp.

~%~

                “Well?” demanded Fitzwilliam, pouncing on Darcy the moment he walked in the door. “Well, man? Please tell me you got it done this time!”

                “I asked the question, if that’s what you mean.”

                “Then you’re engaged!”

  “No.” He sighed. “I am not.”

                “Don’t tell me she refused you!”

                “If I had pressed her for an answer I think she probably would have. But I did not.”

                The colonel’s jaw dropped open. “Then all of this was for nothing? All of this parading—I should say my parading, and humiliation, and endless contrivances, were for naught? I bled for you, Darcy! I covered for you and worked for you and made a public spectacle of myself; I,” he shuddered, “offered to marry Anne for you, and the end result is that you do not press her for an answer?”

                “I’m sorry,” said Darcy remorsefully. “You were right. Proposing to her at Rosings was not a good plan. If only she had chosen to stay home tonight! If only I could have spoken to her alone, without my aunt present. Perhaps then it would have gone better.”

                “Well one thing’s for sure,” said Fitzwilliam, as they turned to ascend the stairs. “It could not have gone worse.”

 

The End

Reflections on Writing Historical Fiction

I have been thinking a lot lately about why I, along with thousands of other writers, feel so driven to write stories set in another time. Historical fiction, particularly historical romance, gets a lot of flak, and is often derided by other writers as being at the bottom of the fiction barrel. While a measure of that derision is deserved—I cringe as much as anyone at poorly written "bodice-rippers" that are all heaving bosoms and rakes who reform at the end but in the meantime behave very rakishly—but many historical novelists deserve a lot more credit than they get. In fact, I think that as a group, historical fiction authors are probably some of the hardest working writers out there.

This is because writing decent historical fiction poses some unique challenges. First, there is the enormous amount of historical research that can go into writing about the most mundane aspects of life. It is not uncommon for authors to spend hours or even days researching something that ultimately earns no more than a passing mention in the text. So many things we that we naturally understand and take for granted in our own time are simply not true for another—everything from hygiene, meals and family relationships to inheritance laws, medicine, etiquette—the list goes on and on.

We also have to research the very language that we use—as a writer of historical fiction, I am always on a quest to further refine and purify my language, to cut out not only words that didn't exist, but multitudes of everyday idioms and expressions which aren't authentic to the era I'm writing about. The Online Etymology Dictionary is a beloved resource. Since I'm American, I sometimes will unintentionally insert Americanisms into my writing too (I'm very grateful to have a beta reader who's not American and always points these out for me).

It's not just a matter of what words not to use, but which words to use, and in which way, to closely replicate and recall that era. We seek to write in a manner that is intelligible for modern audiences, while connecting them to the past through the art of language.

So why do we do this? Why do we make already difficult process of writing a story even harder by adding a (literally) whole world of constraints and demands?

The answer, I think, is not in a false romanticized ideal of the past. Many people hold such ideas, of course, but they're much more likely to be readers than writers. Really, no one (especially no woman) who really knows very much about the nineteenth century could seriously wish to live in it. And while I don't deny that most of us admire the clothing of that day and age, it's certainly not all about the clothes (I don't even write about clothes if I can help it). Or the carriages.

Part of it, I'm sure, does have to do with an interest in the "other"—in a setting and reality different from our own. Some writers go around the world to find this, and write tales of foreign lands. We go backwards in time. Speaking for myself, I don't do this because I'm unhappy in my life. I love my husband and my children, I love indoor plumbing and blue jeans and skilled anesthesiologists. I really love my washing machine. However, like all people with active imaginations, I have the strongest desire to look beyond.

Another Way of Living

The first reason that I see writers writing about the past has to do with the aforementioned historical research. This is not seen as a burden, but is one of the chief delights of our lives. People who write historical fiction write it because they love history. They are intensely interested in the past, in how we used to live and who we used to be. Those minute details of life are points of absolute fascination, and I've found that longer I spend writing, the more obsessed I become with accuracy. Our interest is not merely academic or idle, it is real and immediate—for this is the world that we inhabit in our imaginations and in our stories, and we long to understand it better.

And yet those historical details are not in themselves the point; the point is always people. Perhaps what separates the writer of historical fiction from the writer of histories is our desire to not only observe, but to explore for ourselves how the constraints and pressures and realities of this time period must affect the people in it. This helps us understand how our current world came to be as it is, to question our currently commonly-received wisdom, and to appreciate just what struggles and feelings unite people across different cultures and times. In other words, we are fascinated with the both the spectacle of another era, and that of people just like ourselves within it.

The Forgotten Art of Conversation

For me personally, when I ask myself why I seem to feel so much more comfortable writing about people living two hundred years ago than today, the answer that comes immediately to my mind is language. I love the language of that time. As a writer, how can I not prefer characters who speak in long, complex, elegant sentences? If I tried to write such dialogue in a modern story people would justly say, "No one talks like that anymore!" I want to reply, "No, but they should." I am among those who lament the ways that our wonderful, complex language is being cut-up and truncated through visual media, twitter, text messages and (shudder) "text speak." I am a part-time writing tutor, and often encounter teenagers who seem unable to write a complex sentence, or express a complex thought. They've learned to do all their communication through a series of abbreviations designed to do more than convey simple ideas and essential information.

I believe that language and thought are irretrievably connected to each other. When you dumb-down and simplify language, you dumb-down and simplify thought. Our very ability to reason clearly, think precisely, and understand deeply is put at stake by the reduction of our language. I do not mean to suggest by this that contemporary fiction is all simplistic, but it is different, less formal, often abrupt or pared down, with the same sleek, economical lines as modern furniture. The rhythms and patterns of nineteenth century prose appeal to me much more, and that I find it so fulfilling to write about a time period where conversation was a highly cultivated skill, an art form, and a major past time.

A World of Constraints

I'm what you might call a "small history" writer. People I think of as writing "large history" write about the great, dramatic events of the past, of world leaders and wars and uprisings. They are undoubtedly the greatest writers of historical fiction. Myself, though, I must admit that my interest is not in those sorts of events so much as it is in everyday life. Small history. I like to write about people in settled situations within an established society. (As a side note, I think this is why I would rather write about early nineteenth century England than America. America was a new country, in a state of perpetual turmoil and change. England was the established nation, and while it was changing too, it was a different sort of upheaval.)

When we look around ourselves now, we live in a society where there are very few constraints of any sort left. When we look in the past, we see highly structured societies that had constraints of all kinds, social, legal, and economic, controlling how people could act and what they could do with their lives. Women were especially constrained, but even men did not have the freedoms they do in this day and age, not unless you were extremely wealthy and important indeed. To me, these constraints create interesting challenges for my characters that simply would not exist in this day and age. Nowhere is this more true than in the areas of love and courtship.

For instance, in today's world, Mr. Darcy has no reason to abruptly propose marriage to Elizabeth Bennet. In fact, he would be considered rather scarily weird if he did. Today, if he finds he's attracted to her, he just asks her out on a date. In our egalitarian society no one much cares about class any more (at least not in America), and a good education is not limited to the wealthy, so he doesn't have many reasons to keep him from pursuing her. Plus, there are so many levels of romantic relationship between "acquaintance" and "engaged couple." Modern adaptations often struggle reproduce a "Hunsford" encounter with the same impact as the original, for these reasons.

In the world the nineteenth century, the need to marry was much stronger, especially for women, and because divorce was nearly impossible, the stakes were higher. A woman without a fortune really had no other way she could ensure her future and her children's and family's future, no other way to establish herself with respectability and a measure of independence in life, than to marry, and marry well. It was never more necessary to find a husband who could both provide for you and would treat you well.

At the same time, there was every kind of restriction in place to make it difficult to advance a courtship successfully. Men and women had to struggle to find opportunities to be alone, they could not correspond with each other, they could not talk of so many subjects of importance. Women could not initiate relationships, and they were often limited geographically, unable to travel, forced to wait for men to come to them. For a men, he had to decide whether he wanted to marry a woman quickly, because if he paid her too much attention, he could "raise her expectations," which might make him feel honor bound to offer, no matter what his latter feelings. Engagements, once entered into, were nearly as binding as marriage. These restrictions, none of which exist in modern times, create challenges and dilemmas which it is interesting to write about. Nowadays, the only challenges are really internal to the characters, to their personalities. For me, I get irritated with characters who keep behaving stupidly after a point, so as far as I'm concerned the story's going to be over really soon.

This theme of constraint carries over into every aspect of life. Travel was slow, communication limited, access to money was very limited. Commodities like education and jobs were parceled out according to social class. Someone trying to move down the social ladder might have almost as much trouble as someone trying to move up it, and nearly every decision affected their family and connections in some way. How do our characters deal with this? What decisions do they make, and how do they learn to live to find happiness within the lot they've been given? Does a poor gentlewoman choose marriage with a man she doesn't love, or an unknown future of potential poverty and hardship? Which really offers the greater security, and which represents the greater danger to the woman she is? (In Unequal Affections, Elizabeth spends much of the book struggling with these same questions.) What does a man do, who wants to work for a living, but who must disown his family to do so? How do you decide between society's expectations, financial needs, and the demands of your own conscience? I want to know, I want to know—and so I write.

All this might sound very high-flutin' for a woman who has only one novel, about three novellas and a number of comedic short stories under her belt (and most of those based on someone else's work), but as I ask myself why it is that I can't seem to write a simple modern-day story, these are the answers I find.

Bingley's Blunder, Epilogue

Miss Elizabeth Bennet had led her swain to the small wilderness where once she had defied his aunt. It was the first day of his return and, short as his absence had been, they both had felt it keenly.

They had come such a long way in the now two and one half weeks since their betrothal. It had been strange and sweet and awkward, after so many months apart and so many misunderstandings, to have it all settled so quickly, and to find themselves in a relationship of such unprecedented intimacy. Darcy, in particular, had walked very softly, not wanting to rush Elizabeth or make her uncomfortable in any way. He had loved her for so long, but her feelings were recent and untried. So he had tried not to hope for too much too soon, but his fears had quickly proved groundless. Elizabeth did little by halves, including loving. Through long walks and quiet talks in the parlor they had come to know each other, reestablishing the witty repartee that Darcy had loved so much—except that this time Elizabeth’s sallies had no hidden barbs. They talked of books, at long last, and of music and art and of Derbyshire and Hertfordshire, and even their childhoods, so that Elizabeth had never been entertained so well in any room at all before, nor Darcy either, and both were beautifully, bountifully, blissfully and even a bit beatifically (sorry, I couldn’t resist) in love.

“You have not yet said how your business in town went,” said Elizabeth.

Darcy grimaced briefly. “Everything was resolved satisfactorily, I think.”

“That sounds almost ominous.”

“More than you can know,” he muttered under his breath. When she glanced at him questioningly he raised his voice and said, “I had the opportunity to speak to my Aunt Fitzwilliam about our engagement. She was very surprised, but did not seem displeased. I believe she was quite impressed by the fact that you refused me initially.”

Elizabeth blinked. “I confess I had not expected you to relate that.”

“I had not planned to,” he admitted, “but it came out in the conversation and I cannot regret it. I want my family to know that I pursued you, not the other way around.” His hand caressed hers on his arm. “My cousin the colonel came in while we were speaking.”

“Dear Colonel Fitzwilliam,” she said warmly. “How is he?”

“He appeared well. He was also surprised to hear my news, but very pleased.”

“I shall like having him as a cousin. Will we see much of him?”

“When his military service does not require his absence, yes. He is a frequent guest at Pemberley.”

“I am glad.” She smiled up at him. “I must say I am surprised that Lady Catherine had not already written to your other aunt about me.”

“She most likely did, but Lady Matlock was ignoring her correspondence.” Seeing her surprised look he chuckled. “My two aunts are frequently at outs with each other. They are both very strong willed women, you see, and accustomed to having others defer to them.”

“Ah,” said Elizabeth. “I can see how that would make a mutually gratifying relationship difficult.”

“Yes it does.” They had come to a small bench. Darcy motioned for Elizabeth to sit and sat himself beside her. He was frowning now. “Elizabeth,” he began slowly, rubbing a hand across his forehead, “there is a matter I must speak to you of. I wish I could avoid the necessity, for it may well pain you, but if I do not you may hear of it from other sources instead.”

Elizabeth, growing rather alarmed, immediately implored him to explain himself. So, hesitantly, watching her face, Darcy began to relate the nature of the mistake that had just recently occurred in London. As he spoke her eyes grew wide and round, and her mouth fell gently open—then she shut it with a snap and bit down hard on her lower lip as her cheeks began turning pink.

Darcy, peering at her in concern, sat back with a roll of his eyes when he realized that she was shaking, not with rage or mortification, but with suppressed laughter. It would appear his anxiety over her reaction to the news had been somewhat excessive. “What a—” she choked— “horrible mistake!” Gasp. “Poor, poor,” a gurgle escaped and she swallowed hard, “Miss Bingley!” Snort. At that unfeminine sound she reigned herself in firmly and said in a calmer voice, “How very uncomfortable for her. I find I—” she choked again— “I hardly even have the heart to dislike her any more!” And then she couldn’t help it any more and broke out into trilling giggles.

Darcy saw her mirth with a sheepish grin, too relieved to be offended. Now that the matter was behind him he found it was growing rather funny to him too, and, encouraged by her amusement, he began to give an expansive description of the various strange conversations he had had upon arriving in London, even including a slightly edited version of his encounter with the Hon. George. Elizabeth laughed until the tears ran down her face, while Darcy watched her appreciatively.

“I suppose,” he said drily, when she had begun to calm, “that I should be grateful you are taking it so well.”

“I am sorry for Miss Bingley,” she answered, mopping her eyes with her handkerchief; “it was not, after all, her doing. And I am sorry for you because you had so much trouble, but really, what can one do but laugh?”

He kissed her hand. “You are a remarkable woman, my dear.”

“After all, I am the one who gets to lead you to the altar. Why should I care about the misapprehensions of a group of people I have never met?”

Darcy, who could not but think of how things might go once she did have occasion to meet them, remained silent.

“Perhaps I ought to write Miss Bingley a note to tell her she should be grateful she didn’t receive a visit from your Aunt Catherine at least,” she offered with a twinkle. “Although I am sure she would have given her rather more satisfaction than I did.”

“Somehow I doubt that would be of much comfort to her.” He clasped her hand more tightly. “The important thing is that by now everyone in London knows that I am engaged to you, and none other. If we are only mildly fortunate, by the time we make a stay there after our marriage, the local gossip will have moved on to other—er—victims.” He reached into his pocket. “Perhaps I ought also to clarify that I bought this for you before finding out about the rumors, so that it will not be regarded in light of a bribe.”

Elizabeth took the small case he held out to her with eyes again grown wide. “A gift for me?”

“The first of many, I expect,” he smiled at her.

She opened it gingerly, and he heard her delighted gasp as she saw the small flower-shaped pin set with pearls. “It’s perfect,” she breathed, lifting it. With nimble fingers she quickly pinned it on the shoulder of her gown, and raised shining eyes to Darcy’s. “Thank you.”

He swallowed, emotions unaccustomed and yet now accustomed filling him, and could only kiss her hand again. “You are welcome.” He looked away, cleared his throat, and then said, “There’s something else.”

“Something else?” she repeated. “On top of everything you’ve already recounted to me there’s something else?”

Now it was his turn to chuckle. “I meant there is something else I bought you. However—” he cleared his throat again, “I am not sure if it would be better to give it to you now, or after we are married.”

 “I see,” replied Elizabeth softly. “May I see it?”

Silently he handed her the larger case, produced from his other capacious pocket. Elizabeth looked at it a moment, tracing the leather with her fingertip. She did not gasp this time when she opened it, but her lips formed a soundless ‘o.’ She studied the brilliant gems respectfully, every now and then touching one gently.

             Darcy reached a finger and touched a curl on her cheek. “A worthy woman, who can find?” he murmured. “Her price is far above rubies.”*

            She smiled at him mistily. “They are the most beautiful jewels I’ve ever seen. I shall be delighted to wear them. However,” she drew a deep breath, “I do think it would be best if you were to keep them for now. Such ornaments may do for Mrs. Darcy, but not Miss Bennet.”

            He received them back without comment, and slipped them into his pocket. “I do hope that when next you see Bingley you will reassure him that you are not angry at him.”

“What? Oh!” She laughed. “His infamous blunder! Shall he ever be allowed to forget it?”

“I have no greater desire than to forget it… except,” he added thoughtfully, “when he requires a good reminder of the consequences of carelessness.”

Elizabeth shook her head at him, her eyes very merry. “You must be kind to him now. He is not only your friend, but soon my brother.”

“I’m always kind to him,” he protested. “It is he who is less than kind to me. Why, he mocked me relentlessly when he first found out I was in love with you.”

“I’m sure he found it good sport. Better than coveys, I daresay, and far more rare.”

“Well perhaps I deserved it,” he acknowledged. “He was certainly pleased to think so. You will see how forbearing I can really be in how little I will tease him about this escapade!”

            “I already know how forbearing you can be!” she retorted. “I, on the other hand, make no such claim, so I am free to tease Mr. Bingley as much as I please. I have always wanted a brother and now that I have one I intend to make full use of him.”

             “I think it is I who should beg you to be kind to him.”

            “I’m perfectly harmless.”

            “Are you?” He quirked his eyebrow at her sardonically and she blushed.

             “I have not always been, I know, but I hope I have since learned some lessons on the proper use of one’s wit.”

            Darcy leaned forward until their faces almost touched. “You do make proper use of your wit.”

            “I do?” she murmured, a bit breathless.

            “Yes. You use it…” he leaned forward even further so that his cheek brushed hers, “to make me even more in love with you than ever.”

            “Oh. Well, you are right. That is a very proper use for it.”

            And after that there was no more talking but only silence in the little wilderness outside of Longbourn.

In the great wilderness that was London, well, that’s another matter….

 

*Proverbs 31:10

Bingley's Blunder, Chapter 4

All I can say about the end of this is-- Oh, yes I did.

Chapter 4

In the Announcements section of a prominent London newspaper:

Engaged: Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, Derbyshire, to Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn, Hertfordshire. Also, Mr. Charles Bingley of Netherfield, Hertfordshire, to Miss Jane Bennet of Longbourn, Hertfordshire.

~%~

In the society section of the same prominent London newspaper:

            So the truth has come out at last! Those who care to peruse the Announcements of this paper will note that the rumors that the wealthy Mr. Darcy of Pemberley has at last cast his handkerchief at the feet of a maiden are true—but the Miss B in whose possession that handkerchief now resides is not the same Miss B of rumor! Instead of the fashionable sister of his longtime intimate friend, the gentleman has chosen an unknown gentlewoman from the beautiful county of Hertfordshire. Who could this mystery maiden be? All of society waits with bated breath to meet her!

~%~

In breakfast rooms across London:

[gasps]

[moans]

[very mean-spirited chortling]

 

~%~

       

“So you see, Mrs. Snitchwood,” concluded Bingley, “I am afraid that my careless remarks may have led you to an erroneous conclusion, but the truth is that Darcy is to marry the sister of my future bride, and that is how we shall be brothers.”

“Oh, Mr. Bingley,” breathed Mrs. Snitchwood, “I am honored by your confidence. Of course, I assure you that we were not the source of those rumors—were we, Lucy, dear?”

“Oh no, indeed, Mr. Bingley,” agreed Miss Lamb solemnly.

“But we are most gratified by your current explanation. What a marvelous thing for both of you! To be marrying sisters!”

“Yes, I assure you it is most marvelous. Would you do me the favor of relating this to all your acquaintance? My sister was quite distressed to be the subject of false speculation, and I know she—and Mr. Darcy—would be grateful for any assistance in making the truth known.”

“Oh, of course, Mr. Bingley!” She clasped her hands together. “We shall be delighted to assist you—and Mr. Darcy. Of course we would not breathe a word of it without your permission, but, in the cause of truth, we will do our best.”

“In the cause of truth,” nodded Bingley.

“Now, pray tell…” She scooted a little forward on her seat. “Miss Jane Bennet is the elder, you say? And Miss Elizabeth the second? What charming young ladies they must be, to be sure! Can you not tell us of them?”

~%~

            Miss Thane, when she read the paper, laughed for a long time before she put on her pelisse, bonnet and gloves, and called her carriage. Fifteen minutes later she was being put down at the Hurst townhouse. It took all of Miss Bingley’s resolution to not deny her immediately.

            Miss Thane walked into the room still smiling. “My dear Caro!” she exclaimed. Caroline, who disliked being called Caro as much as Elizabeth disliked being called Eliza, winced. “I have come to commiserate.”

            Miss Bingley drew herself up with as much dignity as she could muster. “I have no need of commiseration.”

“No?” Her lips curved mockingly. “A country chit, Caroline? How embarrassing!”

The other half-turned away. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“And I’m sure you do. Darcy, my dear! Darcy’s real engagement. You couldn’t bring yourself to say it, could you? You couldn’t bear to admit that he was actually promised to another!”

This was far too close to the truth. Caroline’s color rose, but she managed to retain her composure and gestured for the other to be seated. “It was not my secret to disclose,” she said as she sat herself, looking as cool as she could under the circumstances. “I did tell you it had been a mistake.”

“And what a mistake! No wonder you were so perturbed! What a mockery of your hopes!”

Miss Bingley stood up jerkily. “Diana—!”

“No, no, sit back down. You must tell me everything about this Miss Bennet! Of course it’s clear how the mistake came about. Darcy is getting married, but to Bingley’s sister-in-law, not his sister! So who are these charmers who have swept your men off their feet?”

Miss Bingley winced again, but answered faithfully. “They are—” she swallowed. “They are the daughters of a very respectable country gentleman. I believe the estate has been in their family for generations. They are—very highly thought of there. The preeminent family in the area! Until dear Charles arrived, of course.” She smiled a forced smile.

Miss Thane, who was not much deceived, eyed her with amusement. “Are they very rich?”

“I could not undertake to say the size of their dowries,” she replied with dignity. “It was quite enough to satisfy my brother and Mr. Darcy!”

~%~

“Twenty thousand pounds a piece, I heard!”

“Really? Ten thousand is the figure I’ve heard.”

“I heard they have nothing at all. Absolutely penniless, but great beauties!”

“Like the Gunning sisters!”

“Not at all. Mr. Darcy may be rich, but he’s hardly a duke.”

“Aye, he's far more fastidious. Ten thousand at least I say, and very beautiful.”

“I cannot agree. Darcy has seen the richest, most beautiful women in England for years, and never shown any sign of interest.”

“Well, she must have something special about her. After all, he did offer for her.”

“I wonder if it was a forced marriage. Perhaps she sought to entrap him somehow!”

“Posh! He’s far too clever for that! As if women haven’t tried that before on him!”

“Well, this one evidently succeeded. What a jab in the eye for all our London women, eh? Won’t they be furious!”

 

~%~

“Hertfordshire!” wailed Miss Wasson. “Hertfordshire? He chose a woman from Hertfordshire? Why not Ireland? Why not Yorkshire? Why not China, while he’s at it!”

~%~

 “Well, I for one wouldn’t have thought it of him,” grumbled Sir Edward Tristan over breakfast. “Darcy, of all men! I would have said he was a dashed sight too proud for an alliance of that sort.”

“And Miss Bennet? Who, pray, is Miss Bennet?” demanded his indignant wife. “Who is she, to take such an eligible man away from our girls? She should have stayed in Hampshire.”

“Hertfordshire.”

“What does it matter? Wherever it was, she has no business marrying a man of his stature.”

“Dashed suspicious, if you ask me. Never was such a proud fellow as young Mr. Darcy. Thought he was holding out for a duke’s daughter, or something of that sort.”

“It seems clear to me that he’s making a fool of himself. And over what? A country girl? The daughter of an insignificant squire? What can he have been thinking?”

“Well, I can tell you what he was thinking,” replied Sir Edward. “Humph. He was thinking like a man, that’s what. Wouldn’t have thought it of him. Darcy! Dashed odd. Dashed odd.”

~%~

“Ha! I knew it! I knew Caroline Bingley couldn’t have caught him! He doesn’t care two pins for her, I always said it!” crowed Miss Jurbish victoriously to her companion Mrs. Winterly. “Didn’t I always say it?”

“To be sure.”

“He would rather marry a country nobody than marry her. And who could wonder at it? I’m sure she drove him to it!”

“To be sure.”

“Oh, won’t I gloat over her over this one! And she had the gall to look at me in such a superior manner the other day, when all the while she wasn’t engaged to him at all. Why, everyone knows the Bingleys’ only claim to especial notice is their connection to Darcy. Ha! It’s almost worth losing him myself just to see her humiliated!”

~%~

            “If it wasn’t for the fact that the Hursts have apparently been trying for days to say it was all a mistake, well… you know what people would say.” Mrs. Hardcastle gave a knowing look to her spinster sister.

            “Very unamiable people I’m sure,” replied that lady primly.

            “I for one would never believe she was so desperate as to attempt to force his hand that way.”

            “Even though he had just offered for someone else.”

            “Even though, yes. Unless…” she pressed her lips together.

             “Yes, sister?” prompted Miss Prism eagerly.

            “Well, I would never be so uncharitable as to suggest it, but some people I know might even have insinuated that Mr. Darcy heard the rumors and then offered for Miss Bennet….”

            “To escape Miss Bingley, you mean? Why that would be a shocking suggestion!” She clucked her tongue. “It is fortunate none of those people will say such a thing now.”

             “Yes, poor dear creature, I feel for her keenly.” Mrs. Hardcastle sighed. “To be at the mercy of gossiping tongues is an unkind thing indeed. I am sure her disappointment is quite grievous even without such a fate.”

            “I am so pleased that none of those sorts of rumors can be spread about now.”

~%~

            “Well if you ask me young Bingley wasted a fine opportunity,” snorted the elderly Lord Guise. “The other engagement wasn’t announced yet; he could have pleaded honor, friendship, even breach of promise.”

            Mr. Wisner shook his head. “You forget he’s marrying the other one. I can’t imagine it would have gone down well in his marriage bed, eh, to have persuaded his friend to cast off her sister? Even such an arrogant fellow as Darcy would be wary of starting marriage on those terms.”

            “Well then if you ask me they’re both fools. Fools for love!” He snorted again. “In my day we did things differently, I can tell you that.”

~%~

In the society section of another prominent London newspaper:

            Who are the Bennet sisters? In news that is sure to leave society gasping, these young women of unknown origin have successfully attached two of England’s most Eligible Bachelors, including the inscrutable and much-sought Mr. F. D.  How did they do it? What secrets have they to impart to our incoming debutantes? Rumors are rampant as we speak.

~%~

“I do not like to boast, but he confided in me first,” said Miss Bingley impressively to her circle of guests. She was quickly discovering that whatever she had lost in consequence by not being the betrothed of Mr. Darcy she had gained in being the best source of information on his betrothed. “I believe I was aware of his attraction to her before anyone else was.”

The ladies gazed at her with bright, gleaming eyes. “Well?” prompted one. “What did he say?”

Miss Bingley appeared to consider whether she should impart such information. Then she leaned forward confidentially. “We were at a party,” she began, as four other heads inclined towards her in a ring, “and Mr. Darcy appeared most abstracted. So I asked him what he might be thinking of, and he said…” she paused for dramatic effect, “‘I was meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.’” Four ladies sighed in romantic pleasure. “So naturally I asked him whose eyes could have inspired such admiration, and he replied, as coolly as you please, ‘Miss Elizabeth Bennet.’ That was very early on in their acquaintance, you know.”

“Oh, Miss Bingley, he must have been in love with her already, to say such a thing,” breathed Miss Alice Simmons.

“Yes, I never heard him give a compliment to any woman in my life,” put in another. “Why, the nicest thing he’s ever said in my hearing is ‘Your playing was very tolerable, madam.’”

“That was to Miss Grey, and she preened like a peacock when he said it,” sniffed the third lady. “As if it were the equal to him declaring his regard!”

“She must be very handsome, Miss Bingley?”

“She is… quite pretty, I believe,” replied Miss Bingley, with credible sincerity. “Mr. Darcy… Mr. Darcy told me once that he thought her one of the handsomest women of his acquaintance! Her sister Jane, who is soon to be my sister, is a very handsome woman indeed, and very sweet. The dearest creature in the world, really! She and Eliza are very close.”

“And to think all these days we all thought it was you Mr. Darcy was engaged to. How you must have laughed!”

“Oh, of course. It was excessively entertaining. Mr. Darcy and I quite laughed about it together.”

“How did that story start, my dear Miss Bingley?” Miss Marlburg smirked. “I must admit to being very curious to hear it.”

All four ladies gazed at her expectantly, with an expression that told her that if her explanation was not sufficient, she would be heartily laughed at later.

“It was all my brother’s fault,” she said bitterly. “He came to town for little more than a day on business, and told an acquaintance in the street that he and Mr. Darcy were to be brothers by marriage! And then he ran after a man selling a horse before he could explain further.” Since Mr. Bingley had already cheerfully agreed to shoulder the blame publically, she felt no guilt at all about tossing him under the cart thus. “I would be extremely vexed if it weren’t so amusing!” she added, suddenly reverting to her society tone.

~%~

At Brooks’s, White’s, Boodle’s, and other Gentleman’s Clubs Which Shall Remain Nameless:

[curses]

[cheers]

[money changes hands]

~%~

 

“They say he’s madly in love with her,” whispered Miss Wishon to the soon-to-be Countess of Chesney.

“How vulgar,” she sniffed.

“But horridly romantic!”

“Horrid is right. Madly in love! I wouldn’t have Lord Chesney madly in love with me for the world.”

Miss Wishon, reflecting that Lord Chesney was fortyish, balding, and more than a little chubby (not to mention the fact that he stammered), snickered behind her fan.

“Only Commoners,” continued the other, “fall in love. My mama used to approve of the Darcys, but now she says they’ve become Common. We shall have nothing to do with them when he brings her to town.”

Miss Wishon, reflecting that the future Countess’s family was so desperately in debt that everyone knew the that jewels around her neck were really paste, and that her father courted the friendship of every rich person he could latch onto, snickered behind her fan a second time.

“I still think it’s romantic!” she declared. “Not that I would want him to fall in love with me—he’s far too serious, and do you know he wouldn’t dance with me when we were presented?—he hardly dances with anyone—but that just makes it more romantic, don’t you think? He was as cold as ice until he met her, and now he’s Abandoning All for Love.” She sighed.

Her companion sniffed again. “Love? Romance? Commoners!”

~%~

            Mr. Niven Tutor stood outside the Hurst townhouse. He had read the announcement in the paper along with everyone else, but it had taken him a full three days to work up the resolve to come. Miss Bingley was truly unattached now, but it did not follow that she would look at him any more than she had in the past. He was still not, and never would be, Fitzwilliam Darcy.

            He went up to the door, plied the knocker, and presented his card to the butler. A few minutes later he was being ushered into a sitting room. Miss Bingley was alone.

            “Mr. Tutor,” she said, coming forward, “how very nice to see you. It has been a long time since I have had the pleasure of your company.”

            He smiled. “I apologize, Miss Bingley. I am glad you have not forgotten me.”

            “Forgotten you? Oh sir, I assure you, I could never forget you.” She smiled at him. “Won’t you have a seat? My brother is in town, and will be back shortly. I know he would be most happy to see you.”

“And I him. In fact, since I have an appointment shortly, I brought a note for him.” He reached into his inner pocket. “Would you be so kind as to give this to him for me?”

“Why, of course, Mr. Tutor, I should be delighted.” She took the note and looked down at her brother’s name written across it. “What fine handwriting you have, Mr. Tutor.”

He took a seat and raised one eyebrow. “I know you have a great appreciation for good handwriting, ma’am.”

“Indeed I do.” She sat down next to him. “You must have occasion to write so many letters! Men always do. I wonder you do not find it tiresome.”

~%~

Seated next to the Dowager Viscountess Dalrymple at a dinner party, Lord Blatherworth let his opinions be known. “I don’t know what Matlock was thinking, to allow it!” he rumbled. “If it was my nephew I’d have a thing or two to say to the matter, I can tell you! It was bad enough when it was that Bingley woman, but now it’s a Bennet. Bennet, Bingley—what is it with all these ‘B’s? Well they all spell the same thing to me: Bad Blood, that’s what!

“Oh?” said the Dowager Viscountess.

On his other side the usually staid and shy Mr. Miniver had consumed a little too much of the pre-dinner refreshments. He smiled vacantly and repeated to himself, “Bennet, Bingley, what is it with all these ‘B’s?”

A little further down the table other sentiments were being aired. “Well, I think it’s a capital thing that the boy has found someone to suit him,” said Sir William Greenly staunchly.

“And it’s a fine thing that it’s not Caroline Bingley,” murmured Mrs. Corbin.

“Yes, poor girl. Never did think her hopes would come to anything.”

“No one thought her hopes would come to anything.”

“Bennet, Bingley, what is it with all these ‘B’s?” from down the table.

“I intend to stand by him, whatever Blatherworth and his ilk may say.”

“Well, it’s not like she’s a shopkeeper’s daughter, or a,” she lowered her voice, “chorus girl. He’s a gentleman, she’s a gentlewoman, why shouldn’t he marry her?”

“Yes, exactly, exactly my point. Capital! Capital!”

A little further up the table, on the other side, a Mrs. Corrine Brickle, a very imposing matron, was saying to Lord Valorous (who, whatever his name might imply, was a sickly and foppish young peer), “It doesn’t surprise me at all that Mr. Bingley is marrying the sister of Mr. Darcy’s bride. He always did follow him in everything!”

“Quite, quite,” chuckled Lord Valorous. “You are quite right, madam.”

“But who are these Bennet women? No one seems to know anything, except Miss Bingley, who of course is just trying to puff off her own consequence.”

“Bennet, Bingley, what is it with all these ‘B’s?”

“Well, I don’t know, but I have heard they are quite lovely, you know.”

“Which one is the elder? Is it the one Mr. Bingley is marrying, or the one Mr. Darcy is marrying?

“I believe the one Mr. Bingley is marrying.”

“Well, that doesn’t seem right. The elder girl ought to marry first, you know, but Mr. Darcy is first in consequence, there’s no denying that.

He simpered. “And both of them will be marrying before Miss Bingley.”

“Yes, and I daresay it serves her right, for dangling so shamelessly after the same man for all these years.”

“There are some who say the late mistaken rumors were all a plot on the part of Mr. Bingley to force Darcy to marry his sister instead.”

“One wonders, of course—a frightfully bold scheme, it would have been, of course—but it seems Mr. Darcy was simply too attached to his Miss Bennet to fall for it. Bingley has achieved his aim of alliance with that family in any case. It seems almost certain to me that Bingley will marry first; the older sister must marry first, you know.”

“SO WHAT YOU ARE SAYING, MADAM,” suddenly intruded Sir Oswald Pinterninton in a loud voice, leaning quite rudely across the table towards them, “WHAT YOU ARE SAYING is that the Bennet who becomes a Bingley will be a blushing bride before the Bennet who is Darcy’s darling bride, and both the beauteous Bennets will be brides before the Bingley who took Darcy as her darling—this despite the daring by which Bingley blundered brides!”

“Bennet, Bingley, what is it with all these ‘B’s?”