Page 6 of Mrs Darcy’s Dilemma
“I should not think that it is necessary for a lady to be so very much occupied,” said Miss Wickham languidly. “I never am, and I am quite as modern a young lady as Jane, I believe.”
“Of course, Cousin Jane is right to be busy,” cried Cloe, “it is wrong not to want to improve yourself; and it is fine to have many pursuits.”
“I must occupy my time somehow,” said Jane with a laugh, “and my lessons are useful and pleasant. I should not like to dawdle about doing nothing as some ladies do.”
“I did not mean that a lady should do nothing,” said Miss Wickham. “That would not be very attractive. But to perpetually be a schoolgirl—faugh!”
“I am sure the time will come when Jane has no time for lessons,” said Henry fondly, “she will be married, and then she will have something else to think of. But you were telling us of the studies of your youth, now so long past, Cousin Cloe?”
“Oh! That is soon told. I was glad when my father’s regiment moved from Darlington to York; there was no school near our new quarters, but there was a circulating library, and when I had a few pence, I could borrow a book, though that was not very often, for I went out to service.”
“Sister! How can you tell such a thing!” cried Miss Wickham, falling back in her chair with real horror.
“A niece of mine, in service,” said Mr. Darcy gravely. “I should like to hear about that.”
“Oh, it was not anything remarkable. I was sewing-girl to a fine lady, that is all,” said Cloe in some embarrassment. “I could earn something, in that way, for clothes for myself and my sisters, and sometimes there was a little more—for books.”
“I thought your mother received an allowance,” said Mr. Darcy gravely. “It should have kept her family from such need. How old were you when you did this service?”
“From the time I was thirteen until we removed to Newcastle, last year. Then I was offered to become a regular maidservant, but my mother would not hear of it.”
“I should think not—the shame,” said Miss Wickham, with a toss of her head.
Cloe was silent, her face scarlet. Henry observed her with compassion but did not speak, and after a moment she bent her head and ran out of the room in confusion.
“Oh, Mr. Darcy,” said his wife, with compunction, “you have distressed her.”
“I would not, for the world,” he began, much disturbed.
“Miss Wickham, perhaps you will go after her, and make her understand that we meant no harm,” said Henry.
“I certainly shall not. My sister is a ninny. Everyone knows my father and my mother have no economy and never had a cross penny to bless themselves with. She need not act as if it had only just been found out.”
“Let me go to her,” said Jane.
“Yes, do,” said Henry, gratefully, and she left the room.
Miss Wickham turned to Fitzwilliam with eager attention, and in a few moments the two younger ladies appeared, their arms around each other’s waists. If Cloe had been crying, it had not hurt her looks; her delicate complexion was unmarred, and the shine of her eyes was becoming.
Henry moved to her side and considerately began talking of the language lessons in which he and Jane took such delight. Cloe could read but not speak French, and Italian was beyond her.
“It is such a pretty language,” said Jane, “and a knowledge of it improves one’s singing—or, rather, one’s understanding of music, for I am no singer.”
“My sister is being unjustifiably modest; her voice is not a large one, but it is sweet,” said Henry.
Cloe expressed an eager wish to hear her, and Jane was making her musical promises, when dinner was announced.
Henry gallantly led Cloe and Jane in the procession, following his parents, Miss Wickham, and Fitzwilliam, while Dr. Clarke, who had accepted an invitation to dine at Pemberley, tardily brought up the rear with his wife.
That lady did not cease complaining to him audibly until they were all seated.
“If you did not waste so much time in the garden, William, but spent more time in the drawing-room, as you should and ought, you would benefit from the society of your betters and not be such a rough old thing. You cut a very poor figure, that you do, by the side of real gentlemen, like Darcy, and you think nothing of shaming me before everybody with your lateness. That is why we are obliged to walk last, even behind the young people.”
“He who goes last on Earth, is first in Heaven,” he found spirit to murmur, though nobody else heard this but his wife.
“Well! That is very fine talking, and the way you end everything, by putting on your pulpit-hat,” she retorted, discomfited.
When Cloe entered the grand dining room, the glittering profusion of plate on the long table, the beautiful old wooden wainscotting, and the dignified dark portraits gazing down from the walls, so struck her that she halted for a moment in the doorway, in surprise.
“What a beautiful room! I have never seen such a one before.”
“It is a fine dining-room, seventeenth century, and one of the oldest in the house,” said Mrs. Darcy, pleased. “This table was built specially for the room’s peculiar shape, and you see the ornaments that Mr. Darcy’s father brought back from his world tour, 1790 I believe that was.”
“My dear, you know as much about the house after your five and twenty years’ residence, as the old housekeeper used to do. You must not overwhelm the Miss Wickhams,” said Mr. Darcy fondly.
“Oh, I declare, I can never hear too much about such elegant things,” said Miss Wickham. “I shall tire you by asking about them perpetually. I only hope I shall have a room like this for my own one day.”
No one answered this speech, though Fitzwilliam looked much struck by it.
They sat down to table, and Dr. Clarke, though the quietest of the party, was the first to speak.
“My dear young ladies, it is almost a pity you are here at this season,” he said, “for the gardens are nothing to see. But in spring and summer, it is a very different story. I am not ashamed of my own little garden at Lambton Parsonage—”
“I should think you are not, Brother, people come from all over the country to see it,” interposed Mrs. Darcy. He nodded gratefully at her and continued.
“I do have some very choice pears and peaches trained against the wall—and my borders in spring are very well worth seeing; the hollyhocks and delphiniums put on quite a show, and there are two quite beautiful lilacs, one violet, one white, but it is nothing to Pemberley. The rose gardens here! Well!” He stopped, dreamily.
“Dr. Clarke is a rosarian,” said Elizabeth kindly. “He takes especial care of our walled rose-garden and would be quite jealous, I believe, if the gardeners tried to interfere.”
“Oh! I hope I would not be jealous,” said Dr. Clarke, “not jealous, that would be a sin. But roses are so very delicate. They require more than common care. I am devoted to Flora, you will perceive.”
“Yes, I do believe you care more about them than anything,” said his wife disagreeably, and he lapsed into his ordinary silence.
Fitzwilliam began to talk about fox-hunting again, and before the berry-pies were brought in, Miss Wickham was treated to a great deal of information about the merits of his five and a half couple of hounds, the musculature of their legs, the wetness of their noses, and their ability to give tongue.