Page 19 of Mrs Darcy’s Dilemma

There are times when familiar pleasures become wearisome, though it is always a surprise to good-natured people to find that it can ever be so.

It was with a heavy heart that Mrs. Darcy began her annual preparations for the winter migration to London, the opening of the beautiful house in Portland Square, and the commencement of another social season.

The spectacle of her fellow beings in the drawing-rooms, salons, and ballrooms of the fashionable world was ordinarily meat and drink to her; she delighted in the political conversation of the day, the raillery, the quizzing, the nonsense, the gossip, and the follies, but this winter she almost dreaded the peregrination, especially leaving the peacefulness of Pemberley.

“My father used to say,” she told her husband, “that we live to make sport for our neighbours and to laugh at them in our turn, but I confess that this year, at least, I feel that we would be the laughed-at ones, and I have no taste for it.”

Mr. Darcy was writing in his account book, but he looked up and met his wife’s half-laughing, half-troubled eyes.

“Dearest Elizabeth,” he said affectionately, “we need not go to town, you know.

Only say the word, and we will not. Because we have been delighting the fashionable world with the appearance of their country visitors every winter for a quarter of a century, it does not follow that we must do it forever.

“I have always made but a poor figure in a drawing-room myself. However, many things may go on in London, without us. The great hostesses will be forced to find other people to invite them; the poor old King may sicken and perhaps die, and we will miss the spectacle of a new young Queen; and then Jane in her eighteenth year will not come out as she ought. But it will not matter to the world, or, what is much more to the purpose, to me. I shall be perfectly happy in the country. There are improvements to the house that can very well be done in this quiet season, and there is another consideration. You may perhaps not like to leave Henry alone in Derbyshire in his first winter’s curacy. But it is for you to decide.”

“Oh,” cried Elizabeth, “you are no help at all, leaving it to me, as the excellent husband I have taught you to be. A good wife, you know, makes a good husband. But I am torn a thousand ways. I confess that even with all the delights of London to which you so feelingly allude, I could take no pleasure in them while we are where reports of Fitzwilliam’s behaviour will reach us daily, and there are innumerable kind friends to be very sure that they do and to cunningly savour our reaction.

I know how it will be. The young couple will have been seen at the opera—or Lady So-and-So will receive them—or we will have only just missed them riding in Hyde Park.

Fitzwilliam will visit us alone and talk about her!

—and that will be painful. No, I cannot like it, and even if I could harden myself and recollect that he is not laughed at who laughs at himself first, it is hardly decent to be in such a position.

I used to think I wished to attract the attention of the fashionable world, to be the center of all eyes, but now that I am in a position to achieve such glory, I see that it is not what I want at all or what I could endure. ”

“I agree with you perfectly,” said her husband, “about London; it is as your favourite, Cowper, says, ‘God made the country, and man made the town.’ But what about my little Jane? I do not like that she should miss her gaiety, her presentation at Court.”

“I think,” said Elizabeth, considering, “that to introduce a young lady into society in such circumstances is hardly fair. People will be talking about her brother forever; and there could be nothing worse for a girl in her first season than to be so constantly canvassed on such a subject. Perhaps she might have faced it out, with Cloe by her; having a friend, a cousin, would take away the awkwardness—but as it is, perhaps we had better not venture.”

“You might take her to Bath for a time.”

“I—not we? You, who are alive to all the multifarious pleasures of Bath in midwinter? That is chopped logic.”

“Yes—you know I hate Bath of all places. A centre for trifling individuals, on the watch to meet others of their kind. But a trip there might be gay enough for Jane. And if we bring her to London next winter, she will not be nineteen; that is full young enough.”

Elizabeth smiled in relief. “You are always right; it is a rule with me to think so at any rate. I only hope Jane will not be disappointed.”

Whether she was disappointed or not at the loss of her London season, Jane submitted so quietly that her parents suspected that she was talked into bearing the circumstance with philosophy by her brother.

No more than a week later, she was able to be tolerably cheerful, appearing before her mother and aunts with letters in her hand.

Mrs. Darcy was in the sitting room she generally favoured in the mornings, for it faced east and caught the faint gleams of winter sun.

The colours in this room were pale, light chintzes with berry patterns, and an elegant full-length painting of Lady Neville, beautiful in billowing grey satin, matched the clouds outside the long windows.

Mrs. Clarke and Mrs. Wickham were working while Mrs. Darcy read to them from the latest number of “Pickwick,” of which it is doubtful they heard much, though her spirited style did full justice to it.

“There you are, my dear. I have started ‘Pickwick’ but do not believe I am much beyond the place where we left off last time. Shall I go back a little? Your aunts will not mind.”

“Oh dear, no. I could listen to dear Walter Scott forever,” said Lydia with a great gape, laying down her stitchery.

“It is Dickens, Boz, you know,” said Mrs. Clarke tartly.

“Oh yes, to be sure; he is so coarse. I declare I can hardly work.”

“You can hardly work at any time,” retorted Mrs. Clarke. “That hem is wrong side out on that child’s pinny, and why you think the poor mites need such frippery in winter I do not know.”

“Excuse me, Mama, but if you and Mr. Dickens will wait a little, I have letters,” said Jane. “One from Cloe, and one from Aunt Georgiana.”

“From Lady Neville! What can she want?” exclaimed Lydia.

“I should think you would be more interested in your own daughter,” said Mrs. Clarke sharply. “If I had any children, I am sure I would always ask after them first. Well, and what does Lady Neville say, my dear?”

Looking at her daughter’s pretty, flushed face, Elizabeth said gently, “Is Cloe well? Do the Collinses suit her?”

“It is hard to tell, Mama,” Jane confessed, handing over the letter.

“You see she writes cheerfully, says that the Collinses have made her as comfortable as possible, considering the smallness of their house. Mrs. Collins is very kind, the little girls are well-behaved, and they do not see Lady Catherine above twice a week. But it must be a very confined life.”

Elizabeth read the letter thoughtfully and passed it to Lydia.

“Yes—I see she does not complain, but it must be hard to be in a small house with Mr. Collins through a whole winter. A man who believes that a pin saved a day is a groat in a year, to direct all one’s activities and teachings!

No pleasure parties, no trips, no visitors, very few books …

Yet we must remember that she is not in want, and we can depend upon Charlotte to see that she is not positively ill-treated.

We might wish her situation otherwise—she deserves better—but it is not a very hard case. ”

Lydia finished reading. “What do you mean, she deserves better? She seems vastly contented, upon my word. Only hear what she says. ‘This house is so small that I must share a room with the two little girls, but they are sweet and docile, and we are quite comfortable together. Happily, there is some freedom in a country rectory of this sort, for it is really a farmhouse; there are delightful walks round about, and Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my using the paths at Rosings on my half-day off, though in this cold weather it is not enticing.’”

Lydia looked up. “I have never seen Rosings, but you have, Lizzy; is not it a beautiful place? Are the garden walks she speaks of not very fine?”

Jane was surprised to see a colour rise to her mother’s quietly pale face, under her lace cap, making her look quite young.

“It is very grand indeed, of a style more elaborate in its ornamentation than Pemberley,” she said.

“It was at Rosings—I used to meet your father in the walk there,” she murmured, turning to Jane.

“Ah! The place holds memories for you. How lucky Cloe is to be there,” said Lydia.

“Who is to inherit Rosings?” asked Mrs. Clarke. “Since the death of Lady Catherine’s daughter, I always thought that Mr. Darcy must be the next heir, himself. Is it not so?”

“What a fine thing if it was,” said Lydia. “Why then—when Fitzwilliam inherits Pemberley, his younger brother would have Rosings. And with Mr. Henry established there—what amazing luck for his wife! Oh, I always said it was lucky that Cloe is established so near. I am quite in raptures.”

“There is no necessity for that, ma’am,” said Mrs. Darcy, “for Mr. Darcy does not inherit Rosings. It is not entailed, and Lady Catherine has the right to dispose of it as she pleases.”

“She is getting on, indeed,” said Mrs. Clarke thoughtfully, “though to be sure she is very stout. I have always observed that such people do frequently live forever, but even she must go, sooner or later.”

“But it is no concern to us if she does, Sister,” put in Mrs. Darcy hastily, “for I know quite well that she means to leave Rosings to her other nephew, Lord Osmington.”

“Has he not enough fine places of his own, I vow,” said Lydia crossly. “Why should he inherit Rosings?”

“Why indeed? You must know, that the Earl of Osmington was elder brother to Lady Catherine and to Lady Anne Darcy—Mr. Darcy’s mother,” explained Elizabeth patiently.

“He died many years ago, but he had two sons, the present Earl and General Fitzwilliam, who is in India. No doubt Rosings is intended for the General, and he will retire to his seat in due course.”

“An old bachelor like that,” fumed Lydia. “Well! Mr. Henry may get it in the end, after all, when he dies.”

“You are welcome to speculate,” said Elizabeth coldly, turning to Jane. “Well, Jane: do you like to tell us what Georgiana says?”

“Yes, do let us hear Lady Neville’s letter, my dear,” said Mrs. Clarke.

Jane, who had shrunk into her seat, dismayed at the talk of Rosings and Henry, brightened and gave the letter an important little flourish.

“It is an invitation, Mama. A bid to visit dearest Aunt Georgiana, that is all! She calls herself quite well now and says she could do with a bit of company and would like me to amuse her and play with the children—and only think, they are all going to Buxton! She thinks the waters will be good for her and baby, and the opera is there; we should have such a good time! May I go, Mama? At Buxton, you know, I should not be very far away, if you should want me.”

“Why, yes; the very thing, if your father thinks so.”

Lydia was struck by her niece’s good fortune.

“Well, you are in high luck indeed, to go to a gay place like that! People never took me to such places when I was young, I can assure you, but that is what comes of being Miss Darcy of Pemberley. Well, and what becomes of your London season then, Miss? You ought to be seen by the world. Lizzy, surely you don’t mean to let that fine house languish for want of use, all winter long? ”

“We do not go to town this year,” said Mrs. Darcy firmly, “and we may expect Pemberley to be a dull place indeed, with your children and mine scattered and dispersed. I daresay you will like to go somewhere gayer yourself—perhaps Newcastle.”

“Sure Jane will need a chaperone to Buxton? And who fitter than her aunt?”

“You are very kind to make the offer, but we will send her maid with her, of course; and then Georgiana will take care of her.”

“For shame, Lydia, cannot you tell that it is time for you to be off?” burst out Mrs. Clarke heatedly. “I am sure you are not wanted here, and you ought to go and look after your other children so they don’t turn out like your precious Betty.”

“As it happens,” said Lydia loftily, “I had already decided to go back to my dear Wickham and little ones; only I don’t know what may have befallen him, for he has sent me nothing in all these weeks to enable me to travel even so far as Manchester, never mind Newcastle; so I do not even know how I can return home. ”

She smiled fetchingly; and although Mrs. Darcy could not return the smile, she replied calmly, “Of course we will pay your fare, Lydia, as you know perfectly well. Here is ten pounds,” she withdrew a bill from her reticule, “I hope that will do. Our coach will take you as far as Derby. Will nine o’clock tomorrow morning suit you? I will tell Thomas.”