Miss Darcy's Diversions Read online

  Miss Darcy’s Diversions

  Being the Adventures of Miss Georgiana Darcy at divers Watering Places

  By

  Ronald McGowan

  Copyright 2017 by Ronald McGowan

  All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One : Gossip

  Chapter Two :Early Days

  Chapter Three: Pemberley Summer

  Chapter Four :School Inspection

  Chapter Five: Donwell Abbey

  Chapter Six :School days

  Chapter Seven :A Village Romance

  Chapter Eight :Leaving School

  Chapter Nine :A Rescue

  Chapter Ten :Out or not Out?

  Chapter Eleven :London

  Chapter Twelve:An Establishment

  Chapter Thirteen : A London Season

  Chapter Fourteen: Coming Out

  Chapter Fifteen: Summer in London

  Chapter Sixteen:A Surprise

  Chapter Seventeen:One Foot on Sea and one on Shore

  Chapter Eighteen:The Marvels of Margate

  Chapter Nineteen :New Friends and Old Faces

  Chapter Twenty:Counsel and Consideration

  Chapter Twenty-one :Encounters

  Chapter Twenty-two : Interviews

  Chapter Twenty-three :Developments

  Chapter Twenty-four :A New Connexion

  Chapter Twenty-Five :Meryton

  Chapter Twenty-five :Correspondence

  Chapter Twenty-six :Hunsford

  Chapter Twenty-seven :East Bourne

  Chapter Twenty-eight :A Particular Anniversary

  Chapter Twenty-nine :Manumission

  Chapter Thirty : Prothalamion

  To Andrew and Julia

  A fine Romance

  Chapter One :Gossip

  “Oh, Georgie!” cried Cousin Anne, “What a hopeless optimist you are! You are very nearly as incapable of seeing anything but good as your sister Mrs. Bingley.”

  “I thank you for the compliment,” I replied, “but I fear my own nature is not half so sweet.”

  “Well, just look at you now, so full of enthusiasm, of good intentions and good predictions at this news about your sister Lydia – whom, by the way, I might just mention that you have never even met. I should not have thought being packed off to the antipodes to be such a very charming fate, even if it does come with promotion for her husband.”

  “Oh, but my brother explains it all so well in his letter. The post comes with almost certain prospects of further promotion very soon.”

  “And even more certain prospects of some beastly foreign ailment even sooner,” Cousin Anne interrupted. “Ten to one but that they are both dead of a malignant fever within a twelvemonth, and their infant child with them.”

  I fear some change in my complexion must have betrayed me, for she laid down her embroidery and took me by the arm.

  “But, forgive me, my dear, for now that I recollect, you nurtured a tendre at one time for that officer who married Miss Lydia Bennet, did you not, for –what was his name? For Mr. Wickham?”

  I thought that I had kept my countenance very well so far, but now I felt the blush spreading over my face. Why does Wickham always plague me so? Wherever I go he is there, even when he is not, if that makes any kind of sense, lurking in the background like a shadow. At home he is never to be spoken of, his name, particularly, must never be mentioned. Fitzwilliam is far more jealous of my reputation than I have ever been myself, and is perfectly convinced of the efficacy of his cover up, but these things have a way of seeping out into common knowledge, and here was Anne de Bourgh, of all people, who never goes to town, in fact never goes anywhere, spends all her time shut up at Rosings with her dragon of a mother, even she had got hold of some part of the story.

  Not all, however, for now she was wheedling me for details.

  “Oh, Georgie, you know I am your best friend. My mother has dropped hints about something – I do not say disreputable, but something out of the ordinary and now long past between you and Mr. Wickham, but it is all very mysterious. Can you not confide in me? I shall think you very wicked if you do not.”

  Fortunately, I was saved from the necessity of replying by the entry of my Aunt. Lady Catherine de Bourgh may have mellowed slightly since my brother’s marriage, but she still rules Rosings with the proverbial rod of iron, even if it has become a trifle rusty since her pet project of marrying off her daughter to Lord Osborne fell through.

  “Georgiana, my dear,” she said, “perhaps you would care to take a turn about the Wilderness? I have something I particularly wish to say to dear Anne.”

  I complied, of course. I know of only two people who can say ‘no’ to Lady Catherine, and they are both still at Pemberley. Dear Anne is quite smothered by her presence, although out of it she can be almost human. Anne is the only person who ever calls me ‘Georgie’, and I am sure she only does it as a little act of defiance against her mother, though she is careful to use all four syllables in the presence.

  To marry off her daughter to a suitable young man is all Lady Catherine’s business now. For many years the lucky man was to be my brother, Fitzwilliam, and when that proved impossible, Lord Osborne came into favour. Unfortunately he also came into Rosings on his last visit with a young lady on his arm whom he announced as his fiancée. The young lady in question was, naturally, hideous, coarse, common and disgustingly fat, but she was also disgustingly rich, and while money may be coarse and common, it is never hideous. Aunt Catherine, meanwhile, has always been very reluctant to be specific about settling money on her daughter or on anyone else.

  No doubt the present interview was on this subject, for Lady Catherine, while quite capable of having her own way in public, always prefers to have her victims to herself, bereft of any aid or counsel.

  For my own part, I was grateful for the opportunity to think uninterrupted, for my cousin’s comment had given me cause to do so. Cousin Anne was right, in her way. No matter of confidence remains safe for ever. Mine had always been known to four persons, two of them not particularly trustworthy, and since Fitzwilliam’s understanding with my sister Elizabeth the number of those in the secret has risen considerably.

  I have complete faith in both Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth, of course, but I believe Elizabeth has no secrets from her sister Jane, and very few from her father. Mr. Bennet, of course, has spent his life keeping his own counsel, and is not inclined to gossip in any form. Nor is Jane, but I should be surprised if she did not confide in her husband. I have a high regard for Mr. Bingley’s goodwill, but rather less for his discretion, and they do spend the season in town, and frequent all the fashionable resorts.

  But however, I have no particular reason to suspect anyone, although somehow the story, or hints of it, has got out. Would it not be preferable to have the true version more widely known, rather than any distorted travesty that the world might concoct?

  I believe the only way for me to be at ease is to remember everything I can about that pernicious summer, and write it all down, the better to forget it.

  Chapter Two :Early Days

  “Get it all out of your system” is what Elizabeth would say, I am sure, and I shall at least try. Elizabeth is not always right, but she is always prepared to try.

  Where to start, though, that is the question? A bald narrative of events is one thing. The discovery of causes and motives is quite another, and without such a revelation the whole exercise will be a waste of time.

  The circumstances in which I found myself four summers ago were somewhat unusual. For me, in fact, they were very unusual, and to explain just how uncommon they were I fear I must start at the very beginning.

  My mother died in bringing me in
to the world, and my father, I believe, never recovered from that loss. As a child I saw him very little, and then on only the most formal of terms.

  Before I was even aware, and long before any time I can recollect, he had packed me off to the care of my Aunt Catherine, who herself had recently given birth to a daughter. This was an experience which my Aunt never cared to repeat, so that my earliest memories are of Rosings, and my cousin Anne.

  Lady Catherine de Bourgh is a very worthy lady, a pillar of society. All the world is agreed on that point, and the judgment of all the world cannot be denied. I fear, however, that she may not prove the very best choice of a mother for a young girl, and still less for a mother substitute.

  I remember nothing at all of Sir Lewis de Bourgh. He had, apparently, always been of a sickly disposition, and having failed, by engendering a mere girl instead of an heir, to perform his duty to his ancestors, and being faced with adamant opposition to further attempts, he did not linger on the scene, but joined those same ancestors in the family vault in Hunsford churchyard at about the time I was beginning to attempt the arduous task of walking on two limbs only.

  Lady Catherine’s idea of bringing up two young girls was to make them (or, rather, to have them made, for her ladyship would do nothing so vulgar as take a hand in their education herself – for what, after all, did God create governesses?) into miniature little adults as soon as might be. Deportment, appearance, and, above all, manners were of real importance, knowledge, real accomplishments, and such minor matters as health and happiness much less so.

  Under this regime, Anne grew up biddable and sickly, while all the time looking for little ways to avoid or disoblige her mother. I think her sickliness was her main protest in that direction, Lady Catherine being notoriously averse to ill health of any description.

  Anne, of course, was effectively confined to Rosings, while I had the advantage of being translated to Pemberley during the school holidays.

  This delight I owed to my brother, Fitzwilliam, who was ten years old when I was born. His visits to Rosings were a delight in themselves. He was quite fearless in standing up to my Aunt. All the treats came out for him, and any games we were allowed to play we owed to him. And then at the end of his visit, he would take me away with him to the paradise that was Pemberley! He terrified me, but I worshipped him from the start.

  Occasionally, too, when it suited Lady Catherine to go to Town, I would be allowed to stay with my Fitzwilliam cousins. The Fitzwilliam household was quite different from Rosings. The countess was kind and indulgent to all her children, and to me in particular, her ‘poor little orphan’, and my cousins made no bones about including me in all their games. I always came back sunburned and boisterous, and took some time to turn back into the little mouse that Lady Catherine required. On one of these returns, I made so bold as to ask my Aunt why I could not live with the Fitzwilliams instead of with her, and was soundly scolded for my impertinence and told that it would never do, with all those boys looking for an inheritance.

  I had to look the long word up in the dictionary, and could not see that it had anything to do with me. I never had any money, nor did Anne, Lady Catherine being of a careful nature when not expressly putting on a show.

  I was rising ten when all this changed. The first I knew of it was when Fitzwilliam arrived unexpectedly one afternoon.

  He drew up to Rosings in a big, black coach, and he too was dressed all in black, and looking even more serious than usual. Anne and I watched from the landing as he went into the drawing room.

  Shortly afterwards, we were summoned to the presence ourselves.

  “Anne, my dear,” said Aunt Catherine, “come walk with me a while in the garden. Your cousin Mr. Darcy has something he particularly wishes to say to dear Georgiana.”

  Fitzwilliam took me by the hand.

  “Sit down, my dear”, he said, selecting a particularly comfortable chair while continuing to pace the carpet himself, “I fear I have some bad news for you.”

  “You are not going abroad?” I blurted out. “You have not joined the army?”

  Our lessons with Miss Fishwick had of late been much taken up with the news of the fighting on the continent, and the expected arrival of the Corsican Tyrant.

  A smile crossed his face for a moment.

  “You need not fear for that, little goose. But I do have bad news. Our father is dead. You must come back to Pemberley with me for the funeral.”

  I am sure I said something suitable. I had been properly brought up, after all, but I have no recollection of the words I used, or the demeanour I adopted. What I do remember is my delight at the thought of getting away from Rosings and the prospect of an extra visit to Pemberley.

  But what a different Pemberley! I hardly recognized it at the end of a long – a very long -journey the next day. I had never seen it like this before, with all the windows shuttered and black curtains drawn across them, and the great Darcy mourning hatchment above the great door. Inside all was dark and melancholy. The thick curtains blocked out all the light that escaped the shutters and the single candles flickering in the sconces served only to underline the gloom. I had never seen black candles before, and asked my brother where he had found them.

  “I told the undertaker everything was to be just so, and no expense spared,” he replied. “He provided the candles. He must have a store of them, or know a chandler who makes them. But we have had a long day, and you had best get to bed. I will see you in the morning, my sweet.”

  “Good morning, my dear. I trust you slept well?” was his greeting as I walked into the breakfast room the following day, marveling at the black tablecloth and napkins.

  “Very well, thank you,” I replied. I have been properly brought up, after all. “Although the black silk sheets and black lace nightgown laid out for me struck me as rather exotic.”

  “I dare say they did,” he grimaced in reply. “I must be more careful in future about the instructions I give and avoid expressions like ‘no expense to be spared’. Mr. Undertaker has been making hay in my absence, and I may expect no end of extras on his bill, I collect. And we shall scarce have a use for black silk sheets, certainly, for some while to come, I hope. But we must get you a mourning gown made. I dare say that was one thing he could not venture upon without your measurements, or we should have found a silk mantua waiting for you in your wardrobe.”

  We were not long left in peace, for, with news of my brother’s return having spread, we were soon assailed by neighbours and tenants come to ‘pay their respects’, and I must play my part in receiving them. My part appeared to be to sit beside my brother and try to stay awake and even look interested while a succession of people, most of whom I had never seem before took their turns at saying much the same thing. De mortuis nil nisi bonum is all very well, but the person they were eulogising was, to all intents and purposes, a stranger to me, and I found the time passed slowly.

  I was greatly relieved when the arrival of the dressmaker allowed me to withdraw. I had rather liked the sound of a silk mantua, even a black one, and looked forward to choosing my material, discussing the cut and so forth. However, it was all a take-in in the end, for she had already had her instructions from my brother, and came provided only with plain black cotton lawn. I held out for lace at the collar and cuffs, however, although that had to be black, too. It was just as well, really, I told myself. With a white lace collar on a black frock, I should look just like one of the ladies in the ancestral portraits from King James’s time.

  Later in the day, the guests began to arrive who would be staying. Chief among these were the Earl and Captain Fitzwilliam. Viscount Fitzwilliam, as is well known, is at odds with his father, and never appears with him, but I was far happier to see his younger brother in any case. The Earl patted me on the head, as he always does. He treats all children the way he treats his favourite pointer, patting them on seeing them, murmuring nonsense at them, and feeding them with treats.

  “Still keep
ing a straight bat, eh, Miss Georgiana?” he said. “That’s the spirit. But here’s our Ned, as was your favourite playmate. He’s getting a bit too old for hide and seek now, but why don’t you walk about with him while I have a word with your brother?”

  ‘Ned’ is the Honourable Edward Darcy Fitzwilliam, the Earl’s second son. He is three years younger than my brother, but still vastly older than I.

  He has always been kind to me, protecting me from the excessive rowdiness of his younger brothers on my stays at Fitzwilliam Towers. He had recently taken out his colours as a captain in the Dragoon Guards. I had been looking forward to seeing him in his regimentals, but he came all in black, just like everyone else.

  He entertained me with comical tales of barracks life – of which I doubt a tenth were based on truth – while more and more people arrived.

  Eventually, Lady Catherine’s great coach drew up.

  I advanced to greet her myself, Fitzwilliam being still occupied indoors.

  “How delighted I am to see you, Aunt,” I said, as she stepped down from the carriage, alone. “But where is Miss de Bourgh? Where is dear Anne.”

  “Your cousin is at home, at Rosings, where you should be,” she replied. “Young ladies have nothing to do with funerals. Nor older ladies, neither, but Sir Lewis de Bourgh is no more with us, and the connection is so close that I could not just send my carriage. Besides, I will be needed to take you back to Kent when your brother comes to his senses.”

  Lady Catherine’s arrival was the signal for most of the visitors to take their leave. She was not unknown in the vicinity of Pemberley, and many a guest took the opportunity to recollect a subsequent engagement and make a timely departure.

  Soon we were left to ourselves in the empty house.

  The following day the great black hearse came, drawn by six great black horses, and the ebony coffin, which had lain in the hall for a week now, was put into it and taken away.