Stanley Michael Hurd's Blog: Scrawls and Screed

I suppose I have no right to post this here, but as most of you are friends from the wider Austen blog community, I hope you will therefore pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention. ;-)

I wanted to announce that my eldest, Allison, has written an urban paranormal fantasy novel, Feeding Frenzy, and has released a free short story in this series on kindle. I like her work, and she has always been my first editor on everything I’ve written, so you can at least expect a well-written piece (apart from under-using hyphens! Grrr.) Anyway, if this sort of thing interests you, the short story is Summoner Sisters: The First One's Free.

Let met thank you on behalf of both of us for your interest and support.

Best,

Stan

Warning- this is fairly convoluted stuff, so you might want to refresh your memory on Elizabeth’s visit to Hunsford before you dig in. Also, as a caveat, I have not looked into every permutation of fixed dates and flexible dates as they might lay down in every year between 1797, when she started First Impressions, and, say, 1816, three years after P&P was published. This may have been laziness on my part, but as one of the voices in an earlier discussion noted, "It's fiction!" So long as my dates laid down pretty tightly with Austen's, I was satisfied.

Most efforts that I have seen to place P&P in time support 1811 as the most probable start date for the events in the novel; these arguments, however, revolve mostly around the historical events of JA’s time, when she wrote and published her novels, and conclusions and inferences driven by a good deal of research into matters outside the novel—and very little of this information comes from JA herself. I feel better just taking the author’s own words in the novel itself. In considering the specific years in which P&P takes place, we have to begin with the two hard dates in November given in the novel: Monday the 18th (Mr. Collin’s arrival at Longbourn) and Mr. Bingley’s ball on Tuesday, the 26th. It is accepting these hard dates that forces us to 1799 and 1811: those years have the proper dates in November. While most arguments have focused on either 1799, as being the closest to the writing of First Impressions, or 1811, as being the closest to the publication of the P&P novel, it should be noted that 1805 and 1816 might also be considered; but as they lay down very much like 1799 and we have no real reason to invoke them, I will leave them out of the discussion.

It is the visit to Rosings and the dates Easter falls on that, in my estimation, points to 1799 as the appropriate start.

“March was to take Elizabeth to Hunsford…”

This doesn’t give us much by itself, but when we add the other limitations to the visit found throughout the rest of the novel, we get a more concrete timeline. First, we have the end of their journey coming within the first fourteen days of May:

“It was the second week in May in which the three young ladies set out together from Gracechurch-street…”

This gives a feeling for the end date, but it’s still vague. To place Elizabeth’s visit more precisely, we have two pieces of evidence that she was there for 6 weeks: On the morning she gets Darcy’s letter, the text refers to “The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent…” As we will see below, this was just over a week before she was to leave herself.

On the Saturday of the cousins’ departure, Elizabeth tells Lady C. “I must be in town next Saturday”. Lady C. responds “…you will have been here only six weeks. I expected you to stay two months. Mrs. Bennet could certainly spare you for another fortnight…”

But which six weeks are they? We have to link several points together to reach a conclusion. On the day of Darcy’s proposal, Colonel Fitzwilliam assures her that they are to leave the coming Saturday:

“Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?” said she. “Yes—if Darcy does not put it off again…

Darcy proposes, Elizabeth gets his letter the next morning, and the cousins leave on the day following (“The two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning…”, which by the Colonel’s account would be a Saturday. Therefore, Darcy proposes on a Thursday, delivers the letter Friday, and leaves on Saturday. So far, so good. Now there are several references that tie to this particular Saturday:

“The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent…” (this on her morning walk the day prior, when Darcy gives her the letter).

And, one we have used before, Lady C. speaking of Elizabeth’s departure the following Saturday: “…you will have been here only six weeks. I expected you to stay two months. Mrs. Bennet could certainly spare you for another fortnight…”

Finally,

“…And if you will stay another month complete, it will be in my power to take one of you as far as London, for I am going there early in June.”

These last two quotes are from the day of the gentlemen’s departure, making the following Saturday (the one Elizabeth and Lady C. are discussing) either the very end of April or the very beginning of May, as “another month complete” will take them to June. The context of that conversation suggests the Lady C. really meant four weeks, which would definitely make their departure the beginning of May, but the point is debatable.

But now we must consider Easter. First, we must remember that the cousins’ stay lasted less than three weeks. As Elizabeth tells Wickham later in the novel:

Wickham: “How long did you say that he was at Rosings?” Elizabeth: “Nearly three weeks.”

Also, the gentlemen arrive the week before Easter:

“Easter-day, almost a week after the gentlemen’s arrival…”

So, given the cousins’ departure a week or so before the end of April / beginning of May and the fact that they were there three weeks, Easter needs to be somewhere around the second week of April. Now we finally have a test of our possibilities. For the years in question, the dates for Easter were:

1800 13 April
1812 29 March

So, if it was 1812, Darcy would have left on April 11th (the second Saturday after Easter that year) and Elizabeth on the 18th, leaving more than six weeks to June, not four. In 1800, Darcy would have left on April 26th and Elizabeth on May 3rd, leaving the full month of May until Lady C.’s departure for London “early in June”, as required. This is the only way you can make all these facts—Elizabeth’s six-week stay, Darcy’s three-week stay, Darcy’s arrival a week before Easter, and Elizabeth’s leaving a month before June—all work together.

The dates of the novel for the rest of the year, including the Northern Tour and Lambton, Lydia and Wickham’s marriage, etc., vary only by one day between 1800 and 1812, and the only hard date we can look to, a letter from Mr. Gardiner dated Monday, 2 August, does not occur in either year (in fact, it occurred only in 1802 and 1819, neither of which can support the rest of the dates), so we can’t support either year from those dates. Anyway, there it is; I hope you like it, and, more especially, I hope that it was comprehensible.

Blog author Claudine Pepe has written a review of Colonel Fitzwilliam, and has also done a delightful pictorial travelogue of the Colonel's travels in Spain and France which she has posted on Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/justjane181...

Well worth checking out!

Hi everybody,

Thanks so much for reading my books and my blog, anemic as it is. Whenever I sit down at the computer, no matter with what intent, I always end up working on the novels instead of the blog. That’s why so much of it is excerpts.

But, the real news is that the book, Colonel Fitzwilliam and the Countess of Sainte Toulours is finished, and will be released through Amazon on November 6th; available for Kindle pre-release purchase now. I really hope you like it. Every time I do this, about this point in the process I fall prey to the belief that I suck as a writer and the book is worthless; the feeling stays with me until I start getting reviews. It is such an act of hubris to publish a book, when so many truly great authors have left us their work for comparison. I’m clinging to the fact that you liked Darcy’s Tale, even though I felt the same way about it.

Have a great day,

Stan

I’ve been wondering what else might be fun to post from Colonel Edmund Fitzwilliam’s story; as it is both a romance and an adventure story, I thought I would let you see the time that the Colonel and his friend Esparza, from the English intelligence service, met the French spy, l’Etailler. L’Etailler had been following them along the Loire Valley in France, merely because he was the suspicious sort. Esparza decided they needed to keep him under closer watch, so he concocted a history in which the Colonel was to play “the proper John Bull”, an under-educated and over-opinionated Englishman, who came to France to settle a bet; Esparza then enlists the Frenchman's aid in managing this unruly Brit. The following is the beginning of their time together; be assured that the Colonel is nothing like the fool he sounds: he is, in fact, channeling his older brother, who is exactly that sort of fool.



Edmund spoke up: “Dash it, Esparza, what does the man say? Are we on the right road, or not?”

Estéban bowed an apology to the stranger, then turned to Edmund and said, “We are indeed, Colonel Fitzwilliam; this good gentleman says we cannot fail to encounter Tours, if we but follow the river.”

“Thank goodness for that. Why these Frenchies cannot manage to put up signposts is beyond me.” At this the stranger’s eyes went flat.

In a terse whisper that easily carried to the stranger, Esparza said to Edmund, “Perhaps, mon Colonel, it would be as well to consider that not every one we might meet is necessarily ignorant of English.”

“What?” demanded Edmund. “What’s that?” Then, looking over at the man, he said, “Oh. Just so; dashed thoughtless of me. Mon … um, mon excuses, Monsignor.” Facing Edmund, Estéban froze for a moment, looking as though he had swallowed something still alive and struggling, as he powerfully resisted the urge to laugh at Edmund’s atrocious perversion of the French language. After a moment he regulated his features and turned back to the other.

“Peut-etre le Monsieur parle un peu de l’Anglais?”

“I do, in fact,” the man replied. “Although it is a long while since that tongue has been heard here. This peace at least offers one the opportunity to keep up on one’s languages.”

“Damme, Esparza, if his English isn’t a match for yours! Hah!” Edmund exclaimed in a hearty, good-humoured voice. There was in his tone that peculiar delight usually reserved for admiring the antics of the trained monkeys at the fair.

Estéban cast his eyes heavenward for the stranger’s benefit, and said, “Forgive my manners, I pray you, Monsieur; I am Estéban de Esparza, at your service.” He bowed and added, “And my companion here is Colonel Edmund Fitzwilliam, second son of the Earl of Andover.”

“I am Maurice l’Etailler,” the man replied and bowed from his saddle to each in turn. He looked on Edmund with interest. “Colonel Fitzwilliam, yours is a noble family, then?’

“Lord, yes,” exclaimed Edmund. “Been in the House of Lords forever. My brother’s quite well-known at Carlton House.” He said this last as though that one fact settled everything that ever need be said on the subject. “As a matter of fact, I came over because I told his Highness that I would wager the Frenchies … that is, erm,” he made a slight bow of apology, “the people of your great nation, are every bit as fed up with this war as we are.”

“You are known to the Prince of Wales?” l’Etailler asked with some surprise.

“Well, not the way my brother is, but we have spoken from time to time.”

To Esparza the man said, “It might not be ill-considered to persuade your friend to keep that knowledge close, Monsieur. This long war has left many grievances against the English, and he an aristo, at that.”

“Very wise, Citoyen,” Estéban agreed. “And I have mentioned to him before now the more enlightened way your nation does things, and how very differently the two countries see things at present. His father is known to mine, you see, and I was pleased to honour that relationship by serving as a sort of guide during this enquiry he pursues. He wished to meet the people of the country, and not just those of influence and position, so we have taken this longer path on the route to Paris.”

“Well, Esparza,” interjected Edmund, “people are people, after all, dash it … hmph: there’s no denying it; and my wager with his Highness was that for every true Frenchman in favour of the war, I could find four against it.”

“Fascinating,” observed l’Etailler coolly. “You came here on a bet?”

“That, I did,” Edmund declared with jovial assurance. “Not much else would entice a man to leave London to come here; hah! The wine’s good, I grant you, but the beer—‘pon my word, I can’t see how a man … well, I hope you’ll forgive me if I say I prefer honest English ale.”

“Remarkable,” said l’Etailler slowly. “Truly remarkable. I shall remark upon our meeting, Colonel Fitzwilliam, I assure you. Betting and beer—what other interests have you?”

“Interests?” asked Edmund, bridling with indignation. “You mean business? I can’t see that my business is any of yours, by gad, Sir!” He cleared his throat explosively and glared at the Frenchman

Estéban held out a placating hand. “No, no, my good Colonel. He meant to enquire into your pastimes, your enjoyments.”

“What? Oh. Oh, you mean besides betting and beer? I see now! Hah, hah, I thought it was a piece of infernal impudence!” He smiled with simple good humour and innocence at l’Etailler. “Well, I never pass up a hunt. In fact,” he added, looking down with a wholly insufficient attempt at modesty, “one has a certain reputation as a rider, don’t you know.”

I’m getting closer to having Colonel Fitzwilliam finished, so I thought you guys might like an excerpt or two. Colonel Fitzwilliam has met and fallen in love with Miss Emily Chelwood, and she with him; unfortunately he is sent to France right after they meet, and he does not propose in order to leave her free if anything untoward occurs while he is away; that was dumb, of course, but they both thought they were doing the right thing, protecting each other from the strength of their feelings. But he can’t keep himself from writing to her while he’s away, and uses Elizabeth as a go-between. This is the third of his letters, and Elizabeth has gotten fairly accustomed to her role as note-passer and confidante.

We start with the Colonel’s letter from France, then we pick up Emily and Elizabeth in Emily’s drawing-room, where she shares her feelings with Elizabeth (we pass over a letter of explanation to Darcy and Elizabeth from Colonel Fitzwilliam, and their discussion thereof; this happens with each letter, giving our D&E addicts a little fix). In it he mentions Esparza, his companion on his mission in France; Esparza is named after our dear friend Meredith, of Austenesque Reviews, lest there be any doubt.

Rochefort, France
Sunday, May 9th, —

My dearest Emily,

A month gone, and this, only my third time of writing you; yet it seems that whole ages of the world have passed by since I last saw you. We have been through Bordeaux, where the wine merchants were so thick and English so often heard on the streets, that I almost thought myself in Piccadilly; now we are at Rochefort, a port city on the Bay of Biscay. As it is Sunday, the only thing moving in the area is the River Charente, winding sluggishly to the sea, and the time drags unendurably. It has been a day of torture to me, as, with nothing going forward, I have no deeds to occupy my mind, and no hope of moving my task forward that I may return to you. And so it is that I find my resolve once again overset, and I sit down to commune with you, the keeper of my heart.

Since writing to you last, I have sought to do as I said I would, devoting each day wholly to the completion of my affairs, thereby hastening my return. All in all, I have not been entirely unsuccessful, but the days begin to run together; I awake, and I yearn for you; I work and strive through the day, and I yearn for you; I retire, and I yearn for you. Mightily do I wish I had not been required to leave your side betimes, that we might have been sure of each other before my leaving. Such frankness cannot surprise you, surely, my dearest, and I trust will not distress you.

This afternoon I find myself enervated and indolent; were I at home, I should like nothing better than to sit with you on the landing, holding hands in silence and contentment, as we watched the world pass by outside the window. This vision has become one version of Paradise to me: peace, home, quietude, and you. There are others, but they all share the common thread of your presence: anywhere you are, is Heaven to me.

Esparza has taken himself off, I know not where; he is an odd fellow—amusing, affable, and sometimes unaccountable. But I like him, and he has been an excellent companion during my travels; I hope I shall be able to introduce you on our return.

Forgive me: I am rambling, I know; but there is nothing for me to do, save writing these paragraphs to you, that I might feel closer to you. I see you instantly here before me, your smile warming my heart, and your sweet voice calming my soul. I must hold firmly to this image, for without it I fear the beasts within me would be loosed, and I would rage all the way to Paris to be done with my commission. But I conjure you up and all is quiet, and moves sweetly within me; your unalloyed purity, virtue, and composure infuses my mind, reforms my unease and frustration, and makes me still again. And so here I sit, whiling away my solitary afternoon, in company with the vision of light and love that is my beloved.

Goodness, how maudlin I am become! You must think me in liquor, but I am not, on my honour; it is only missing you that disorders my thinking and makes me sound the fool. I would gladly play the fool for you, my dearest, if it would amuse you, or ease your day; I only pray that you are well, and do not ache for me as I do for you. Your pain is ever more painful to me than my own, and to be its author is ever my dread.

Well, this has taken a turn I do not wish to follow, and I shall therefore leave off; I shall take myself out into the sun for a stroll, and imagine you on my arm, as when we visited Whitehall; or perhaps I shall sit by the square and watch the couples as they promenade, or ride the lanes in their carriages, and imagine we are amongst them.

Be well and strong for my sake, as I shall be for yours. I am, as always,

Your adoring,

Edmund


And now for Emily and Elizabeth:


On entering the drawing-room Miss Chelwood saw that Elizabeth had another letter for her, and lost no time in reading it. As she read, her soft exclamations of tenderness, seemingly almost designed to elicit enquiry, soon produced their effect. “Emily, for Heaven’s sake! Whatever are you mooning over?”

“Oh, Elizabeth,” said she, “my poor boy! He sounds so lorn and alone!”

“‘Lorn and alone’!” Elizabeth demanded, surprised. “Gracious! Is that Shakespeare?”

“I think not,” Emily replied, colouring. “Donne, perhaps—or neither; I can no longer be sure. I have been reading both, I confess, but it may in fact have come from my own disordered sensibilities.”

“Perhaps you had better limit your reading to prose, dear,” Elizabeth said practically, “as being less likely to discompose the emotions; at this rate we shall soon have to dress you in one of those high, peaked head-dresses, with a scarf flying from its top, and a pendant belt, that you might suffer and swoon the better for your roving knight.”

Emily blushed again, saying, “I only meant he did not sound as if he were in spirits.”

“Yes, in his letter to us Darcy thought he detected that he was not quite himself. Is aught amiss, or does he merely pine?” This last she said with mischievous relish.

“Elizabeth! How can you be so heartless?”

“As he is one of my favourite connexions, and as we have always enjoyed a bit of raillery, if I do enjoy it rather more than I ought, I am sure he will forgive me and understand. But in all honesty I am only too delighted to see him succumb at last to his heart; and I would have you know how truly delightful it is to me that the two of you are together. I am sure I know no other couple so well-suited to one another.”

“There is you, and Mr. Darcy,” Emily said.

Elizabeth did not speak immediately, lost in a reflection on her own early days as a lover and wife. “Perhaps so,” she mused. “And I dare say we were just as bad, at first. But then, maybe that is it: misery loves company.”

“Misery!”

“No, no, my dear; it is only just an expression. I mean, having been so one’s self, it is reassuring to see another, for whom one holds a strong regard, act the same. One does not feel quite such a mooncalf, then.”

“Am I a mooncalf?” asked Emily in a small voice.

“Completely,” Elizabeth assured her affectionately. “Palpably, undeniably, indescribably so; it is terribly sweet, you know. And he is every bit as bad as you. Is not that delicious?”

Emily looked a little alarmed and ashamed, but then she brightened, saying with conspiratorial glee, “Yes—it is.” The two young women laughed, and Elizabeth proceeded to question her minutely on the Colonel’s letter, to Emily’s complete satisfaction.

Dear Friends,

By some unaccountable and irreproducible error, for the last several months the second edition in Kindle and paperback has been lacking the Epilogue. I offer my humble apologies, and until we can get this straightened out through Amazon, I am posting the entire text here. Thank you for your understanding.


Epilogue


Pemberley, Christmas Day



Elizabeth left her chambers after dressing for the day and went in search of her recent acquisition; she found him seated in the breakfast-room, quietly reading the paper along with her Uncle Gardiner. The two men rose as she entered, and she was kissed first by her uncle, then more spiritedly by her husband. When she was seated, Reynolds brought her a cup of tea.

“Good morning, Reynolds. Is your back at all better?” she asked with concern.

“Yes, thank you very much, Madam. That plaster was a vast help, and I slept well for the first time in weeks; amazing.”

Elizabeth patted his arm, smiling up at him. “I am so glad; it always worked for my father.”

“Yes, Madam; thank you again.” He smiled at her in an almost paternal manner before turning back to the side-board.

On her arrival in Derbyshire some four weeks earlier, Elizabeth had been pleasantly surprised at how smoothly Pemberley was run; her day-to-day responsibilities were minimal: but she recognized how invaluable Reynolds was to its operation, so when she had heard he was losing sleep with a bad back, she had instantly thought of the soap-and-salt plaster her father used on his back when it seized. She and Jane had been making it for years, as her mother could never quite remember the recipe properly.

“Where is my aunt?” she asked Mr. Gardiner.

“She is somewhere about,” he said. “She finished breakfast and, tiring of watching the two of us read and dawdle, she went off in search of occupation.”

“It will be time for services before too long,” Elizabeth pointed out.

“Yes, my dear; I am sure she will not have forgotten Morning Service on Christmas Day,” Mr. Gardiner said, amused.

“Gardiner,” Darcy spoke up from behind his paper, “have you any idea where my wife got this notion that no one is capable of running their lives without her help?”

“Certainly not from my side of the family,” he said. “Yet it seems unlikely to have come through my brother Bennet: it almost makes me wonder if my sister had outside help.”

Elizabeth gasped. “I shall throw something at you in a moment!” she warned him.

“And where did she acquire that habit?” queried her uncle.

“Ah…that comes from my side,” Darcy admitted with some embarrassment. “I throw things: pillows, and rolls and such; and my aunt has been known to throw a spoon with deadly accuracy.”

“Charming,” said Mr. Gardiner dryly.

“Is not it?” put in Elizabeth with pleasure. “I do adore these little customs of the ton; they give one so much more latitude of expression in daily life.”

“Are you saying I belong to the ton?” Darcy asked in an injured voice. “I hope I am not so trifling a person as that.”

“Oh, my dear!” Elizabeth jumped up and soothed him with caresses, at which her uncle rolled his eyes and shook his paper, lifting it even higher in front of him. Darcy, mollified, put his arm around his wife and said, “You look well, my dear; am I fit to accompany you to church?”

“You look very well, indeed,” she told him gently. “Blue becomes you exceedingly,” she said, smoothing his lapels with the palm of her hand.

“Did Perkins shave me properly?”

Elizabeth ran the back of her hand delicately across his cheek. “Umm, perfect,” she said softly. As the two of them seemed to have no immediate inclination to disentwine, Mr. Gardiner said pointedly, “I beg your pardon! Do you mind? Elizabeth, finish your breakfast, and have some respect for an old man’s feelings: poor Reynolds hardly knows where to look.” That worthy changed a laugh into a cough, turning away to the side table and adjusting the placement of the tea service quite unnecessarily.

Georgiana came in to join them at this moment, and Elizabeth ran to greet her; the sisters embraced, and walked together to the table arm in arm. Georgiana was also in looks, and, whether by design or coincidence, her frock went very well with Elizabeth’s.

The two ladies breakfasted lightly, chatting about the plans for the day’s activities; Mrs. Gardiner came in just as they finished, dressed for the out-of-doors and pulling on her gloves. “I have been outside,” she announced, “and the mist is clearing, but it will be a raw day; we shall need our coats. Darcy, do not forget you are to read the Lesson; the vicar’s asthma is bad and the curate is gone to Lambton for the early services.”

“Yes Ma’am,” Darcy said with a smile. It had been quite a while since he had found himself being shepherded to church by an older female relative, and he found the experience amusing. To Mr. Gardiner he said, “It strikes me, Gardiner, that perhaps managing men is just what women do; it seems to be quite a wide-spread practice amongst them.” Mr. Gardiner chuckled and nodded his agreement.

Ignoring this, Mrs. Gardiner said, “Come along; we must not keep the congregation waiting on such a day as this.” Darcy reflected that his new family had a remarkably well-developed sense of what was due one’s dependents, and honoured them for it.

The ride to Kympton was over in short order, and Elizabeth found herself once again seated in a place of prominence in the Darcy family pew; it was not an entirely new sensation to her to be shown respect by the villagers—it was so even at Longbourn—but she had to own it was done to a much different degree here at Pemberley. It had come back to her on more than one occasion that the villagers and tenants were glad to see the pew occupied, and that they were pleased that the estate had a new mistress at last. As mistress of Pemberley, one of her larger tasks up till now had been preparing for Boxing Day, with all the gifts for the many dependents of the estate. As it was to be her first real introduction to those she would live amongst, and would reflect strongly on her husband, she had taken the task very seriously; it had occasioned the early arrival of her aunt and uncle, Darcy having encouraged her to invite them to support her in her efforts, as she adjusted to her new rôle as patroness for what seemed to be half a county. Stevenson had made out a list of those to be included, and Elizabeth had consulted with him at length, as well as with her husband and the Reynoldses; it had taken quite a few shopping trips to Kympton, Matlock, and even Derby, to fill out the list, but it was done at last.

During services, Darcy was pleased to note that the congregation was quiet and orderly; this, he thought, must be out of respect for his new lady: she was as yet an unknown quantity to them; although, he had to admit, the glances towards him and his family were not anxious, or even curious—rather they reflected a sort of unobtrusive contentment, or so he thought; this could be merely a reflection of his own contentment, though, he supposed. When it was time for the Lesson, he rose and went to the lectern. There was a creak and shuffle as the congregation adjusted their seats and readied themselves to listen to him. The reading was out of Isaiah, for which Darcy was grateful; he had once had the rather wearisome task of recounting the nations of Abraham in Genesis, and had also once been thrust into a variety of particularly ferocious beasts in a gloomy section of Jeremiah. But to-day he found a particular meaning in the reading: “…The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light…”; this could certainly pertain to him, and the light Elizabeth had led him to. He scolded his mind back to his reading, and, up until “Here Endeth the First Lesson,” he kept his mind resolutely on the page before him.

Back in his pew, Mrs. Gardiner leaned over and whispered, “That was very well read, dear; you have a very nice voice for reading.”

He smiled his thanks, and turned his attention back to the vicar, who wisely spoke very little before calling for the Te Deum. Darcy led his family out down the aisle, and waited for the vicar to come out. As the rest of the congregation filed out, Darcy was pleased to see Corporal Sands, wearing his uniform jacket as usual, saunter out and join a small family gathering off to one side; one of the family members was a young woman of perhaps five-and-twenty, who, Darcy thought, showed more than a passing interest in the Corporal.

Darcy and his family staid just long enough to hear that the vicar’s affliction would not keep him from attending dinner that afternoon, and returned to Pemberley House, for there were still a number of preparations to be made. The carriage went through Lambton first, as Darcy had an errand to attend to, then on to Pemberley; the ride was soggy, but they made good time.

Elizabeth disappeared below stairs on their return, and Mrs. Gardiner set about putting the final touches on the decorations, including the placement of the mistletoe ball. Darcy saw with amusement that his sister was careful to adjust her path so she might never find herself under it, even though there were as yet no young men about.

“Who is it you wish to avoid, Dearest?” he teazed her. “That new curate, or young Horton?”

“Both, thank you, Brother,” said she with just a hint of asperity.

Darcy smiled at her in an apologetic way to show he was only playing; he rather suspected he was right about a tentative interest from the two young men, though; but knowing Georgiana, he was certain she did not return it: otherwise he should never have mentioned it. But he did enjoy sporting with her in this mild way, and was pleased that she allowed herself to show some slight pique; he hoped that, over time, such little ploys, in conjunction with Elizabeth’s example of liveliness and wit, might help increase her equanimity and assurance in company.

Mr. and Mrs. Bingley and the Bennets had, of course, been invited to spend the holidays at Pemberley, but Jane had expressed a wish to spend their first Christmas in their own home, and naturally Bingley would deny her nothing, although it must be admitted that he, too, enjoyed his new rôle, as one of the principle figures in the neighbourhood, to no small degree. And with the Bingley’s decision to stay at Netherfield, nothing could have torn Mrs. Bennet away from the chance to display her daughter’s circumstance and comfort, with great parade, to all their acquaintance in and around Meryton.

Through the afternoon the preparations continued, but all was in readiness well before the guests started arriving; the halls were covered in greenery, and gilded decorations adorned every corner. When the guests first began to arrive, Elizabeth went with Georgiana and Darcy to greet every one as they came in; Elizabeth smiled charmingly at her new neighbours, and Darcy found himself relaxing in a manner he never had before in such circumstances; being sensible that Elizabeth was there to support him—or rather, that he had only to support her—allowed him to greet his guests with a degree of welcome new to him. Georgiana, too, seemed more comfortable as the arrivals filed past, and added her voice to the greetings as well; Elizabeth had a pleasant word for every one, and had a knack of making each welcome seem very personal; perhaps, Darcy hoped and believed, because she truly enjoyed being mistress of Pemberley, and could not help but show it in the performance of her duties.

Dinner was a pleasant affair, marked by excellent food, quiet comfort throughout, and the occasional outburst of laughter. Afterwards, there were games and cards, and, while Georgiana carefully avoided it, the mistletoe ball had to be replaced twice. Darcy was fairly certain he could distinguish an understated interest from the curate, a young man new to the neighbourhood, but from a good family to the south, and also from young Alistair Horton, heir to Catton Hall; Georgiana, however, remained near her sister’s side, often with Elizabeth’s arm around her waist, leaving little opportunity for the two gentlemen to speak with her.

The vicar left early, and Elizabeth made sure he was well supplied with heated bricks for the carriage ride back to Kympton. Their revels lasted well into the evening, with a small ball and a supper to follow. However, Darcy had, for the health of his family and servants, determined not to let it go more than an hour past midnight, as the next day was also to be a tiring one.

On this Boxing Day Pemberley held open house, starting after breakfast and lasting through the afternoon; the many dependents of the estate were greeted with thanks, gifts, and food; the visitors included one hardy company of mummers, arrived from Lambton; Darcy was pleased to see Corporal Sands was amongst the company, assuring him thereby that the Corporal was fitting in well here in Derbyshire.

Drawing him aside, Darcy was pleased to give the Corporal a new, very fashionable coat to replace his uniform jacket. “I like the other well enough for your official duties as constable,” he told him, “but I suspect that you will soon have need of another, for a different sort of official ceremony.”

Sands whistled happily, saying, “I thank you, Major. You might just be right, at that.”

Darcy said, “I have had a note from Tewkes, you know; he says that things in Newcastle are quiet.”

“Aye, yer boy won’t be goin’ anywheres this winter,” the Corporal said complacently. “Come spring I’ll take a jaunt up there meself, an’ see if we can’t remind him wot’s wot.”

“How are your duties here?”

“Nothin’ to it, Major; I feel like I’m stealing your money.”

“What about Ferguson?”

“Aye, Ferguson,” the Corporal said ruminatively. “‘Im I will ‘ave to keep an eye on: one of us isn’t long for this part of the country.”

“He does have some size on him,” Darcy observed noncommittally.

“That’s all ‘e ‘as: ‘e’s all sound, no sand.”

“Well, I trust you to handle it,” said Darcy. “Just do try to stay within shouting distance of the law, and even closer to what is proper.”

“Aye, Major, that I will,” said the Corporal with a whistle. Clapping him on the shoulder, Darcy wished him a Happy Christmas and returned to his other duties as host.

For Perkins, he had prepared a very special gift; in the morning as they were in his dressing-room, he had given him a new watch and fob, but, a coach arriving from Lambton mid-morning, he called for his man; leading him to the front hall, he was very pleased to watch Perkins’s face as his Lara, weeping happily, descended from the coach; this had been Darcy’s errand in Lambton the day before, to ensure that Mrs. Perkins had been properly settled at the inn for the day. Darcy had brought her up from Meryton, Mrs. Reynolds having assured him that a place might be found for her in the household. Mr. and Mrs. Perkins were both in tears on this occasion, and Darcy was not above feeling a little constriction in his chest; his own lady coming up and taking his arm to view the happy couple, she squeezed his arm and whispered, “You are a good, just, and honourable man, Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

“I simply do what I am able,” he said practically.

“You do what very few of your standing would think to do,” she pointed out.

“That does not make me better,” he said. “It only points out their failings.”

Elizabeth patted his arm, and did not argue under the circumstances. Perkins led his wife, still crying and smiling, past them with a grateful smile of his own, to show her to their room.

At the end of an extremely long day, during which a seemingly endless procession of folk filed through their doors, up stairs in their chambers Darcy asked Elizabeth: “I am sure it has been a very trying two days for you, my dear; would you rather I sleep in the other room?”

“You are a good and just man,” she said, smiling as she took his hand and drew him into her chamber.

“It would seem goodness is its own reward,” he observed to the world at large, closing the door behind them. Elizabeth was pleased to reinforce her opinion of her husband’s character at some length; and it might be deemed that, of all those under that roof, those with the greatest comforts enjoyed the least slumber.

I am writing a book on Colonel Fitzwilliam, and I thought I’d share a bit. He felt to me like he was in danger of turning into one of those crusty old bachelor soldiers, so I made up a lady for him; I just love her to pieces. She has the acuity and insight of an Elizabeth, and the gentle vulnerability of a Jane. They meet at a dinner/ball (at the Darcys, just for a glimpse at their life) and are introduced (by Bingley), and fall rapidly and irrevocably in love. Unfortunately, theirs is not to be an easy love affair—less from their own doing than from the general disobligingness of the world. The Colonel, as an example, is ordered the very day after they meet to leave for Europe, within the week. They commit every possible moment to each other in the interim, but, of course, this serves only to make their separation harder.

The scene below comes toward the end of their week, and is the first time they actually reveal just how deeply they feel for one another—the first time they use each other’s first names. They are sitting in her home, having just left from attending her father, a consumptive, who now dozes in his room. John, to whom she refers, is her brother, who died in the war.

Disclaimer, sort of: this is an early draft, so changes will undoubtedly be made along the way. If nothing else, the grammar and syntax doesn’t have a proper Regency feel to it, yet.

*****

While they sat thus, the Colonel observed a certain tightening of her lips, and a strained look at the corners of her eyes. “What is troubling you?” he asked, his heart touched.

Coming to herself, she smiled and shook her head, saying, “It is nothing, really.”

“You did not release me when I offered that as an excuse,” he pointed out to her. “Please?” he pressed. “Tell me.”

She sighed, and her shoulders sagged; she said: “Father was very bad this morning before you came.”

“But he seems better, now: fatigued, but calm and lucid.”

“Yes, but it is a portent of things to come” she said; a deep but controlled melancholy could be felt in her tone. Her wounded air gave the Colonel a profound pang of sympathy; he had never experienced such a loss in his own life, and his imagination brought her pain directly before him, in the most powerful fashion. He wished he might take her up in his arms, and comfort her in the only way that comfort can be truly given, through the embrace of one who truly feels for the other, even if nothing be said between them. He did the best he could, by reaching out to place reassuring a hand on her arm. Looking over at him, she said gratefully, “Bless you,” but then abruptly melted into tears.

This brought Edmund instantly to his knees at her side, looking up into her face, asking with the most sincere urgency, “Dear Miss Chelwood…Emily, please…what is it? What can I do?”

She cried even harder, and he repeated his question again, until through her sobs he could just make out her reply: “Stay: that is what you can do. Stay.”

His heart tore at him; he seemed doomed to bring her pain. He straightened up, still kneeling by the side of her chair, and gently took her into his arms; she clung to him with a desperate strength, sobbing as though she could never again be comforted. He held her for as long as she cried, waiting for her pain to ease and her tears to abate. Coming at last to an awareness of her condition, she disentangled herself from his embrace with sudden embarrassment. She brought her handkerchief to her face, hiding from his view and turning away. “Forgive me, please, Colonel,” she said in a muffled and embarrassed voice. “Leave, if you would; you cannot wish my company in such a state.”

He gently drew her face back to him with the tips of his fingers on her chin; when she turned, with some reluctance, he lay his hand on the side of her face, very aware of how delicate it felt in his hand. “Dearest, sweetest Emily, it is I who must beg for forgiveness; I cannot seem to keep from hurting you: you from whom I would banish all pain, and shield with my life against all suffering—yet everything I do seems to injure you.” He brought her back into his arms, and she huddled there against his chest, crying intermittently for some time further. At length, still leaning against him, she murmured, “You must come back to me, Edmund—you must. I could not bear it if you…and with my father so ill, I shall be left with no one.” She leaned into his chest harder, curling in around her pain, threatening to dissolve again into tears.

“No, no, no,” he told her soothingly. “You must not think so. I shall always come back to you: unless God Himself turns His hand against me, nothing will prevent me from returning to you. Come, now, where is my brave Emily? Where is the one who said she would not fear the future?”

“But I have so much more to lose, now,” she said, with heart-breaking vulnerability. “Before I really knew you, it was easy to imagine I could be strong; but now, the thought of losing you, as I did John—it is too much…”

“Was it not you who pointed out that I am not going into battle? —just a junket around France. Where is the danger in that?”

“You say that, but have I not seen the burden you carry, in your eyes? Have I not heard the sentences broken off when the subject touched too closely on any possible hazard?”

This he could not deny: “Yes,” he admitted, “I do worry, and sometimes doubt; and I am careful of my words, but mainly for your sake: I would not injure your peace for the world.”

“Well, you have,” she said, with something like her usual spirit. “You have ruined my peace quite completely; whether I am with you or from you, whether I am daydreaming about the future or determined never to think of you again, my peace is done, and I shall know no more until you are gone and back again.” She drew back from him and struck him on the shoulder. “Beast!” she said forcibly. Then she took up his hand, which rested still on her shoulder, and kissed it, laying her cheek on the back of it.

Hi everyone,

I wanted to let you know that there is a new edition of Darcy’s Tale with all three volumes in one, out in paperback, with the idea it would be a good gift during the holidays. Also, there are revised editions out on all formats; these, however, have changed from the first edition only by the removal of some non-Regency usages and typos—nothing has changed in the story line or action.

I hope everyone has a very warm and loving holiday season.

Stan

Sometimes you throw something out and all there is is a resounding thud; so it was here. Either I started it wrong, or I shouldn’t have started it at all. But I will leave it up, as it is a question I’m interested in. If you have an opinion on a Darcy interpretation, any interpretation, I’d love to hear it.

Why here, and not at AHA or RoP? Because I have heard those opinions – I want to know what you guys like and dislike. If you are on this page, you have some knowledge of and interest in the books I have done, and your opinions matter more to me than those of the broader range of Austenites.

So, at a minimum, thank you for stopping by my page, and for your continued interest.

Best,

Stan