Page 10 of Mrs Darcy’s Dilemma
The ensuing days were painful ones for Mrs. Darcy and something not much less for Cloe and Jane.
The ladies were confined to the house by a storm of snow and sleet.
Theirs was not a congenial party, and Mrs. Wickham’s manners were a constant source of irritation.
Comfortable, nay luxurious as a house party at Pemberley must be, even in inclement weather, Mrs. Wickham could never sit still to enjoy the beauty and elegance of her surroundings but must always be in agitation over something.
She fretted about her girls’ toilettes for the ball—feared they could not be completed in time, owing to the snow, which made shopping excursions to Derby, or even Lambton, out of the question; she worried that the guests would never reach Pemberley at all and that there would be an insufficient number of gentlemen to dance and flirt with her daughters.
The ball was by no means her only concern, for whenever she left off talking about it, her alternate occupation was trying to persuade her sister that she, Mrs. Wickham, should be included in the party that would be going to London for the season, after Christmas.
Her wheedling, however, did no good, for Elizabeth never would consent and immediately changed the topic whenever Lydia approached it.
“Oh! Here it is, the twentieth of December, and so much still to be done. I wonder you are not concerned, Sister. I am afraid no one will come and that there will be nothing for them to eat if they do.”
“Then we will have nothing to worry about,” said Elizabeth, only half attending.
“Why, to be sure, Jane has all her clothes from London and will look a picture opening the ball, I know, but, dear Sister, only think a moment about my girls. Sure they will disgrace this house, dressed in any old thing. What gown do you wear, Betty, my love?”
“I have told you before, Mama. My aunt has given us both white tarlatans. I do wish I had fresh slippers, however. Those cannot be got now, I dare say.”
“Oh, I wish they could, for your sake, my dearest. Never mind, you could not afford real silk shoes anyhow, with dancing slippers only good for one time. At any rate, you’ll be handsomer than any one else, so I’m sure no one will notice your slippers aren’t made of silk.
And Cloe will look well enough, I dare say. ”
“Tell us if you require any thing, my dear cousin,” said Jane, gently. “It is a pity that we cannot get to town, but I have more finery than I ever use, and you must borrow any thing that takes your fancy; it is lucky that we are both of a size.”
“Very true. How convenient that is,” said Lydia jealously. “I only wish Betty could wear your things, too—only she is so tall. It is unlucky, as far as the clothes are concerned; but of course her height is the most elegant one there can be.”
“Thank you,” Cloe told her cousin, from her heart. “I am very much obliged to you. But I believe my toilette will be complete, thanks to Aunt Darcy’s kindness.”
“Not mine, however,” Miss Wickham observed. “It is a shame I have no ornaments and will have to dress my hair plain.”
“My dear, surely you can contrive something pretty, like a turban or some feathers in your headdress? Mrs. Darcy’s maid will assist you, I am sure. Else it will be a sad coming out for you.”
“The girls will have all the assistance they require,” said Mrs. Darcy calmly.
Lydia subsided but only for a moment. “But will they have partners enough—that’s the question. Can anybody arrive in this weather? Oh! I am sure my heart will break if the ball has to be cancelled because of it.”
“I do not expect that in the least, my dear Lydia,” said Mrs. Darcy patiently.
“The roads hereabouts are all good, and the neighbouring families that have been invited will have no difficulty in making the journey. And I am sure our guests from farther away will travel safely. The Pilchards—the Venables—the Fieldings—the Collinses—Lady Catherine—they all have excellent carriages, and the storm is really nothing out of the ordinary way.”
“I hope you are right. Oh, and are you engaged, as yet, for any dances, my love?”
“How could I be, Mama,” said Bettina in some annoyance, “when the guests have not arrived yet?”
“I am sure your cousin is engaged. To a lord I make no doubt. Is it not so, my dear?”
“Why, yes, Aunt; there is Lord Frederick; he is an old family connection, my Aunt Lady Neville’s brother.
We are very fond of him,” replied Jane patiently, “and he has promised that he will dance with me when I come out. He is to ride over for the ball, and he is so obliging that I know I can speak for his dancing with my cousins, too.”
“Well, we must be sure that he does. That is right. Plenty of high bred gentlemen for my girls! Is this Lord Frederick young? What is his estate?”
“He is five or six and twenty, ma’am, but I have no doubt that he is very well off. He has a very good estate just across the border, in Cheshire.”
“Oh! Then he is a lucky man. But my girls will not poach upon you, Miss Jane, I have not brought them up to that. No girl of mine will steal your beau.”
“He is not my beau, ma’am,” said Jane indignantly, “only a very old family friend, as I have said. I have known him all my life. He has often been here when my Aunt Georgiana and her family are visiting.”
“Oh—then he is fair game,” said Lydia. “Do you hear that, my girls? Well, I can see that I must be on hand as a chaperone to make sure that all turns out right. Do not you think I ought?”
Mrs. Darcy did not gainsay it, for as Lydia was the girls’ mother and was actually in the house, there would be no keeping her from the ballroom on the night, and it was useless to try.
She could not conceive of much pleasure from her guests’ knowing of this family connection, but she imagined to herself that the crushing of her pride on such a point would no doubt be a good lesson and keep her from over-conceit.
“Now that I no longer dance, I shall watch the young ladies with great pleasure, and when we are at London, it will be quite as good as being presented myself,” Lydia announced.
“Not so hasty, Mama. I did not comprehend that you were to go to London with us,” said Bettina.
“What! Of course I must and shall be there. Such unsteady young folk need us older ones about. Your mother must be on hand. And I can have a place in that great coach, as easy as not.”
“Excuse me, madam,” said Mrs. Darcy, since the subject was broached, “but I do not think there will be room. Our carriage party has been arranged beforehand, you know, and cannot now be changed. If you go to London, it must be at your own expense.”
Lydia could have said a great deal and would have, earlier in her life, but her years of unhappiness with Mr. Wickham, in dealing with creditors and landlords, had taught her some caution, and she knew that whatever she did, she must not offend her rich sister.
So she subsided for the moment, not daring to say more.
Two days before Christmas, warmer weather prevailed; the sun shone; the light casing of ice and snow melted; starlings and finches sang in the sunny brown fields, and very muddy coaches came rolling and jouncing cheerfully along the Pemberley road.
Among the earliest of the arrivals was Henry Darcy, come from being ordained with other young men in his situation, at York, and ready to preach his first sermon at Lambton Church, by gracious consent of Dr. Clarke, who was grateful to escape having to address such a large and distinguished gathering twice on Christmas Day.
The family party greeted Henry warmly and attended church with a pride that perhaps some might have thought improper in such a place, but it was impossible for the Darcys not to smile upon their son, as his words rang out, clear and sensible.
The morning after his ordeal, he walked out with his sister and Cloe, to talk it all over.
“So kind as my mother and father always are!” he exclaimed. “I was uneasy before I ascended to the pulpit, you may be sure, but when I saw them sitting there, looking so certain that I would do well, I was helped over the hard bits. But I am glad it is over.”
“Nonsense, Henry, there could not have been any hard bits. You are a natural born preacher. Everyone said so. Ever so much finer than poor old Uncle Clarke, who puts one to sleep when he preaches about flowers, and the unfolding of the soul; I have heard him so often that I fall into a doze when he says the word ‘plant.’ But your sermon was something else.”
“Thank you, Jane; but I hope there is not too much of the orator about me. That implies insincerity. Do not you think so, Miss Cloe?”
“No, indeed. And I am sure Jane did not mean to imply such a thing. She only meant that you spoke very eloquently, as you certainly did. You are sure to be a popular preacher.”
“That would be a misfortune, according to my ideas of usefulness—but I daresay I do have something of the noisy trumpet in my nature.”
“Henry wants a compliment, Cloe,” said Jane. “You had better oblige him by paying it.”
“I thought I had,” said Cloe, with a smile. “You should be quite gratified by your own performance. The object of your words is to make the congregation think about being good, and in that, I am sure you succeeded.”
“Kindly said—and kindly meant I am sure. But I think what my sister is hinting is that I may become too fond of the sound of my own voice. However, if yesterday is any example, that is not likely to happen; I was uncomfortable enough when it came to the point, and when I saw so many faces turned up to me, I felt all my unworthiness and my great responsibility and wondered that it should be such a lazy fellow as myself, telling people their duty.”
“But preaching is your duty.”
“It is a part of it, certainly, but not all. In my father’s young days, a clergyman might be content to do no more than to read a sermon aloud on Sunday and divide his services amongst several parishes, taking the livings of them all, but that will not do now.
A clergyman today cannot be a mere fine gentlemen.
There is more thought given to these matters nowadays, or at any rate, more talking about them.
Evangelism is much discussed in the great centers of learning.
But here I am giving you a veritable Collins-sermon.
I told you of my propensities. Perhaps I should take as my text, ‘earnestness is best out of sight.’”
“What you say is very true,” said Cloe, “but at Pemberley, there can be little work to do—so liberal as your father and mother have been. The model cottages are fine, and I have never seen anybody that looks very poor, hereabouts. I am sure it will be the same at Manygrove.”
“Yes; I could almost wish for a wider sphere. Pleasant parishes like Manygrove do not need my services to the same degree as the poor mining towns. The changes going on in the world, since the Reform Act, have thrown so many people out of work and distressed so many in the north, in regions much closer to this than you may be aware, that I almost do not think it right to be comfortable only five miles from Pemberley, as I shall be. Perhaps I shall look up some work in the coal fields.”
“I envy your undertaking,” said Cloe earnestly, “I only wish I could do as much.” Before she had spoken the words, she blushed to think how they could be construed and wished she could recall them.
“I am sure you can never help doing good, any more than a parson, or a parson’s wife,” said Henry, with an arch half-smile.
Cloe felt her heart beating, but she said calmly, “As I am to be a governess, I do not expect I will be in a position to do much for the poor—only for spoilt children, I imagine.”
“Why, you never know where your mission lies,” he said lightly, “either of you two young ladies. Perhaps you will even marry a clergyman—such as myself.”
He stopped walking, put his stick in the ground, and looked earnestly at Cloe. She blushed deeply and turned away.
“That won’t be my fate,” said Jane gaily. “If Aunt Kitty is an example, I cannot admire the lot of a clergyman’s wife!”
“I think we may depend on your not turning out much like poor Aunt Kitty, whatever your station,” said Henry with a laugh and turned the subject.
“Look, how the holly grows so thickly on this path: wonderful shiny green leaves, and the reddest of berries. Shall we gather some, for decorations? My mother will be pleased. Here is my penknife.”
They industriously fell to work, and the talk became desultory. At length, they looked up to discern a carriage at the top of the ridge, approaching Pemberley.
“There. Now my mother’s apprehension, and my father’s, will be answered. If I mistake not, that is Lady Catherine’s coach, with the Collinses,” said Henry, pulling down a branch.