Miss Darcy's Diversions Read online

  “Oh, you may acquit him of insincerity, too. He believes everything he says, at the moment he says it. It is not sincerity he lacks, merely discernment.”

  “Meaning that the beauty he attributed to me would be just the same if I had a squint or a hump, or both? Or, perhaps, that I do have both, and am fundamentally hideous to boot? I must say, Fitzwilliam, you do have a way of making a girl feel valued.”

  There could be no doubt now that I was officially out, and even Miss Bingley was forced to acknowledge it by sending me an invitation to her next soirée.

  Her invitation was merely the first of many, for really there is nothing else to do during the season in London than to go out to parties with comparative strangers. Except for calling on comparative strangers, that is, and receiving their calls. And riding in the Park with comparative strangers, going to theatres and opera houses with comparative strangers, and even shopping with comparative strangers.

  All of these activities were conducted under the watchful eye of Mrs Younge, for Fitzwilliam, having played his part by arranging the ball at which I was presented to the astonished world, obstinately declined to take any further part in my activities except for the odd theatre visit, or a concert or opera that appealed.

  “I am here if you need me,” was all he would say to my entreaties to join in. “But you had best sink or swim on your own, remember? I should only spoil your pleasure with my disgust at the follies of the fashionable world.”

  “You know me, my dear. My temper in such circumstances I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding—certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them.”

  “Do you mean, then, to imply that mine are?”

  “I do not believe so, and if I gave that impression, I apologise. Be wary, is all I say. Not everyone you will meet has your best interests at heart, whatever they may say.”

  “Dear me! How is it that I never came to think of that? And what do I have to fear with a big, grizzly bear like you to watch over me. But you stay and enjoy your book, Big Brother. I shall be late back.”

  If the truth be told, I loved it all. I was fifteen years old, and people were taking notice of me for the first time in my life. Fashionable, witty, sophisticated people, years older than me, were suddenly interested in my company, asking my opinion, and what is more, apparently listening when I replied. They were including me in their parties, flocking to mine, laughing at my jokes, praising my taste, my wit, my intelligence. It was a heady mixture.

  Of course, even then I was not quite so naïve as to think it all completely disinterested. Thirty thousand pounds buys a lot of laughs. But these were, for the most part, people of standing in London society, people who needed my money no more than they needed my presence. They never seemed to tire of telling me that I was the most celebrated, the most accomplished, the most sought-after young lady in London, and I certainly never tired of hearing them say so.

  I am sure I became quite insufferable with so much adulation. My hordes of admirers quite crowded out our Marlborough Street establishment, elbowing out Fitzwilliam’s old friends of a more sober disposition. Even the Bingleys called less often than before.

  And then, one day, they were all gone, or as near one day, and as near all as makes no difference. Not only were calls greeted with ‘not at home’, but houses were obviously shut up and no longer inhabited. Suddenly, London was uninhabited, except for shopkeepers, lawyers, government men and mere Londoners, none of which really counted.

  “Where has everybody gone?” I enquired of Fitzwilliam.

  “Look at your calendar,” he replied. “It is August. Nobody stays in London in August. The Bingleys will be gone soon, and we ought to be away too. I must stay on a while, as I have business to attend to, but you and Mrs Younge ought to decamp for some fashionable bathing place if ever you are to hold your head high among your bright young friends again.”

  “I advise you to consult Mr Carey’s Guide, or perhaps the new one from Mr Feltham might be better, and make your choice among the convenient resorts. It is time you improved the education you began all those years ago at South Port.”

  “But can we not just go back home to Pemberley?”

  “We shall do so, when my business in town is finished, or shortly afterwards, but I advise you to take advantage of the sea air while you can. London is by now almost bereft of society, and the summer fevers have already started in the rookeries. The capital is really a most unhealthy place and young ladies are delicate plants, you know.”

  “And what of young gentlemen? Or, at least, not so very old gentlemen? Are they immune to infection?”

  “No, but I may take risks for myself that I do not choose to take for you. I shall do well enough on my own for a few weeks, and even better without concern over your welfare, and better still if I know that you are enjoying your holiday. Besides, leaving town may give you the opportunity of casting of the train of unwelcome admirers you have been collecting. Or am I mistaken?”

  “Dear Fitzwilliam, when have you ever been mistaken?”

  Chapter Fifteen: Summer in London

  Fitzwilliam, as ever, was quite right. Summer in London is perfectly insupportable. The heat and the smells together are more than enough reason to decamp. Most people who can afford to shun the town once the atmosphere begins to ripen.

  In fact, everyone who possibly can deserts London in August. This is quite de rigeur, and not to do so marks one as a total outcast from society. There is no choice about the absence. The only choice is the venue of that absence. Once upon a time the answer was obvious. One retired to one’s country estates. Lately, however, there had grown up a fashion for visiting watering places, preferably at the sea side, and this was the course now advocated by Fitzwilliam.

  Had the head upon them been older than my fifteen-year-old shoulders, I should have taken note of the possible alternatives myself.

  However, still trying to prolong my summer of success and excess, I reasoned that Mrs Younge had so far done very little by way of earning her money, and summarily instructed her to engage suitable lodgings at the most fashionable bathing place within a convenient distance.

  We had already stayed on longer than most of the fashionable set, who had deserted the metropolis in favour of their country estates or their coastal resort of choice. We ran a real risk of being classed with those who remained because they had nowhere else to go, or else were truly desperate.

  Among these were a large proportion of my accustomed admirers. Not all of them had mercenary motives, but a large proportion were certainly accomplished parasites, and the continued availability of a soirée to frequent was for them a godsend. Among all the fortune hunters, however, there was one notable exception

  Mr Kerr was neither a professional hanger-on nor devoid of a country estate, but he hung on in an amateur capacity, and seemed to be everywhere I went.

  At Bond Street he would be assiduously window-shopping; at the theatre he would be in the lobby; in the park he would appear, magically, riding by my carriage. He said no more than usual on these occasions, but could never be shaken off, and would somehow attach himself to us for the rest of the day, proving about as useful an addition to our party as a one-legged man at a ball.

  At our own evening parties he might as well have taken up residence. I suggested to him one night that at least he ought to rent the house next door, to save himself the walk from Wigmore Street, but elicited from him no more than that he did not mind the exercise.

  I determined, at length, to have a musical evening, in the hope that Mr Kerr would be deterred by being unable to contribute.

  He turned up, however, carrying a large case of a mysterious shape. I did not gratify him by asking about it, although he was obviously longing to be questioned.

  It was the usual sort of thing: young gen
tlemen tootling hopelessly on their German flutes, young ladies twangling on harps and mandolins, the more ambitious adding their singing to the general cacophony.

  It was quite a relief to take my turn at the piano.

  The Mozart and Haydn with which I opened were quite wasted on the company, I fear, and it was not until I started on the country airs that I received any real attention. The calls for encores then grew so tedious and embarrassing that I was constrained to refuse to continue.

  “This shall be my last one, then,” I announced, “and I dedicate it to the chief of my supporters here. This, then, is specially for you, Mr Kerr.”

  And with a significant glance at the gentleman, I began.

  Both the tune and the words that accompanied it were well known to everyone in the room, and, although I did not sing myself, their significance could not have been lost on any hearer.

  Or so I thought. I might have spared myself the effort, however, for Mr Kerr sat on, gasping away, and murmuring “Oh! Miss Darcy! Oh! Miss Darcy!”

  At least it got me away from the keyboard, while he must continue in his seat out of politeness to the next performer, leaving me to steal away, and miss, as it turned out, his recital upon his native bagpipes.

  I soon found that my performance had not been wasted on every member of the audience, however.

  “Georgiana, my dear,” said Mrs Younge as she helped me into my nightgown that evening, “how terribly wicked you can be when provoked! I must take more care to stay on your good side, I see. Nay, spare me your picture of injured innocence. I saw at once what you were at, although I think no-one else did, and certainly not the gentleman in question, in spite of your ‘This is specially for you, Mr K’ remark.”

  “I must be glad that someone appreciates my subtlety,” I replied, “although, really, I could hardly have made it plainer had I sung the words out loud. It did occur to me to do just that, and to sing them in the accent I once heard used when my brother took me to Liverpool with him when I was quite a child. But I took pity on him, and spared making him the laughing stock he would have become before all the crowd had I regaled them with ‘Begone, dull Kerr, I prithee begone from me’. I fear he did not take the hint, however. Your Border Lairds, I see, are impervious to subtlety.”

  “I fear that is the case, my pet, and that you will have to make yourself very plain if you truly wish to shake him off. But are you sure that this is beyond doubt a case of ‘You and I shall never agree’? His lands along the Border are very wide, you know.”

  “Why should I concern myself with his lands along the Border? Let them prosper and let the ‘Bonny Marys” and Fair Maids of Perth” prosper with them. For well-educated young women of small fortune marriage is the only honourable provision, and however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest preservative from want. I quite see that, especially for those who have the misfortune of being situated ‘along the Border’ or even further north.”

  “Marriage may indeed be the only respectable future for a young gentlewoman of limited means, but I have thirty thousand pounds waiting for me, and I imagine they make at least that may thousands of his reasons for being so truly, madly, deeply in love with me.”

  “You could do worse, you know. Believe me, I know.”

  “Why, Mrs Younge, what is this? Are you hinting at a past? But be not alarmed, I shall not delve into your secrets. As for Mr Kerr, perhaps, if I were ten years older and firmly at the back of the shelf, I might consider him, if only he were not so very, very dull.”

  So, Mrs Younge had a checkered history to relate, had she? How pleased I was to see her obvious disappointment that I had not risen to her hints! Having gone so far, no doubt she would one day disclose all for the pure pleasure of shocking me or stirring me to sympathy. On a day free from Mr Kerr I might well indulge her.

  Such a day, alas, never dawned while we remained in London. Mrs Younge, however, held out a plan of escape.

  “I have fond recollections of the resort of Margate, my dear,” she said to me, a few days after I had given her the task of selecting our summer bolt-hole, “I spent a great deal of time their in my y – when I was younger than I am now, and it has many advantages for our purposes. It has all the usual recommendations of the seaside resort, and is now become quite fashionable.”

  “Has it really?” I replied. “Why then have I not heard it recommended in the same breath as, say, Brighton, or Weymouth, or Dawlish?”

  “Those West Country places are really too far away to be considered, if Mr Darcy is to join us with any convenience when his business is completed, and Brighton is the haunt of the Prince of Wales’s set, whom your brother abhors.”

  “Besides, think of the convenience! A few hours sail from London Bridge will bring you to Margate without all the fatigue of bumping about on dusty roads all day to get to Brighton. You may even engage your own private cabin, and so avoid mixing with the undesirable company which travelling so often inflicts upon the unwary. I know a very trustworthy person, too, in Margate who rents out lodgings that are clean, respectable, and quite comme il faut, and whose rates for an old acquaintance are very reasonable indeed. I can show you about the place and am sure that you will be happy there.”

  I was not so sure of that myself, but I was tired of the sound of Mrs Younge’s voice (I deny absolutely that the amount of wine I had drunk the previous night had any effect upon my humour, and am perfectly certain that my headache was mere coincidence) and I really had no great opinion either way upon the subject.

  “Very well then, let us hear no more of it,” I replied. “Make the arrangements and let us be gone as soon as it suits my brother. I stipulate only for the private cabin and the fastest passage.”

  Chapter Sixteen:A Surprise

  I was packing my things for the trip to Margate a week after, that is to say, I was watching contentedly while Hannah the maid packed my things, when Fitzwilliam knocked on my door.

  “Can you spare me a moment from your important task, Georgiana?” he asked, with what, for him, passes as diffidence. “I should like a word with you in private.”

  “Certainly,” I replied. “Carry on as you are, Hannah, you know what I want. Let us go to the library. No-one will disturb us there.”

  “Tell me, my dear,” he asked, when we were comfortably ensconced in the armchairs by the library window, “have you been saying a great deal of Mr Kerr lately?”

  “Rather more than I should like,” I replied. “Does he have nowhere else to go?”

  “I take it that the gentleman is no great favourite of yours, then?”

  “I should not say so, but why do you ask?”

  “Because you appear to be rather a favourite of his, my dear.”

  “I should imagine that anyone who will put up with him is rather a favourite of his. I dare say that there is no real harm in him, but he is so dull. He comes here at all hours, we greet each other, and then he sits and stares at me. He never says a word beyond “How do you do, Miss Darcy?” When he wishes to vary his staring he may venture a sigh, or even a gasp, but that is all that will willingly pass his lips until he takes his leave. Meanwhile I sit there trying to keep my eyes from straying to the clock, and occasionally attempting one-sided small talk. He is lucky he has not yet come upon me while I am doing my crewel work, or I should have run my needle into him before now, just to hear him squeak.”

  “He cannot be that bad, surely?”

  “Honestly, my dear, dear brother, he has absolutely no conversation. He never volunteers a word of his own volition, and if questioned his answers are not so much laconic as monosyllabic. In fact, they generally consist merely of ‘yes’ and ‘no’, alternately, and, as far as I can make out, bearing no relationship to whatever may have been asked, as –

  ‘Good morning, Mr Kerr. Are you well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And is your mother well?’

  ‘No.’

  “I am sorry to hear that. I do hope it i
s not serious. It is not serious, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I hope she will recover soon, and I am sure that you hope so too, do you not?”

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tell me, Mr Kerr, is it true what they say, that you have been married these ten years, and keep your wife locked up in your house in Scotland?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And are you then a Mohammedan, Mr Kerr, who may have four wives?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yet you are come to London to find a wife, are you not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And do you never think of that poor lady in Scotland?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you really think such conduct to be so very creditable to an Elder of the Kirk. Mr Kerr?’

  ‘Yes.’

  “And so on. It is a true relation of his conduct, I swear it.”

  Fitzwilliam rarely laughs out loud, but when he does, it is usually a herculean task to stop him, and we must wait now until his mirth subsided.

  “Tell me you made all that up,” he said, mopping his brow at length. “You did, did you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have, of course, never said a word out of turn to the gentleman?”

  “No.”

  “Georgiana! Be serious!”

  “In all seriousness then, that particular conversation never took place, but it is a true representation of his conversability. It might well have taken place, and I swear it will take place before long if he continues on his course.”

  “That is a pity,” said my brother. “Poor Kerr was always a bit of a cold fish at school, but never so dumb as you describe. Perhaps it is only among the company of ladies that he is quite so mute and bashful.”

  “He was certainly eloquent enough last night, when he asked my permission to address to you his proposal of marriage.”

  It was my turn to ask him to be serious. Alas, he was!

  What was I to say now?

  “He is calling later today to ask you in form to make him the happiest of men. There is, as you say, no harm in him, and he has more than sufficient fortune, but I wish you to know that the choice must be yours alone. I do not wish to influence you in any way, but I do wish you to know that your happiness is all-important to me, and it will remain so, however you choose.”