THE DARCY COUSINS EXCERPT

Chapter One

THE church door flew open and footsteps resounded through the church, forcing its lethargic inmates into sudden animation. Mr Collins, whose sermon on fire and brimstone had taken on a decidedly monotonous rhythm, was awakened into new fervour. His eyes rounded and his voice rose, ringing with conviction now that he had found a target for his wrath. Even his conviction, however, did not regain him his audience, for the congregation turned en masse to survey the newcomers. Heads turned, necks stretched and hats fluttered. Twittering echoed around the stone pillars.

Mr Collins tried his best to ignore these disturbing signs of inattention. He proved himself worthy of his position indeed, for he did not falter for an instant and, when the restlessness of his flock became too apparent, he turned his eyes on the one person who was worthy of the benefit of his words – indeed, had had a hand in suggesting those very words – his noble patroness Lady Catherine de Bourgh. She sat rigidly upright in her pew and kept her gaze calmly fixed upon him. Her daughter Anne, though generally too sickly to be curious, shifted in her seat so that she could sneak a glance at the new arrivals, until a sharp pinch forced her to recall the gravity of their elevated stature.

But, at last, even Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself could not ignore the disturbance, for the newcomers, instead of squeezing silently into whatever empty bench they could find, came straight in her direction, and signalled for her to shift down towards the other side of the family pew. Lady Catherine, torn between the diminished dignity of moving from her accustomed seat, or the prospect of causing a scene in the Lord’s presence, moved closer to her daughter. At this insult to his dear patroness, Mr Collins stuttered, not once, but twice, an event of such unprecedented magnitude that he succeeded in drawing all attention back to himself again.

“I am sorry we were tardy, Lady Catherine. I know we wrote that we would arrive before church today,” said a cheerful young voice in a loud whisper. Those closest to Lady Catherine’s pew strained to listen above Mr Collins’s voice, and a few turned to convey her words to the ears of their less fortunate neighbours. An elderly lady’s voice could be heard complaining forcefully that no one ever told her anything. “What is the young lady saying?”

She received several disgruntled looks.

“One of our horses was lamed,” continued the young lady, “and we had to wait until a fresh one could be brought. It took forever.”

Mr Collins fixed a quelling look at the young lady in question. She was apparently chastised for she said nothing more. But no sooner had Mr Collins resumed the familiar flow of his sermon than the young gentleman leaned across his sister and added in a whisper, “I hope we have not missed too much of the service,” he remarked. “My watch must have been stolen by pickpockets when we stopped in Bromley, for I could not find it, and I have no idea of the time.”

Lady Catherine did not deign to reply. Mr Collins paused in the middle of a sentence and cleared his throat.

Georgiana Darcy, who was sitting to the right of Anne, wished Mr Collins would simply ignore the newcomers, instead of drawing even more attention to them. Her party seemed to have become the focus of all eyes. If only their pew faced forward, instead of standing sideways where everyone in the congregation could see them! She squirmed in her seat, trying her best to look unruffled. If only she were sitting with her brother Darcy, whose tall form was partly hidden by a pillar. Such thoughts did not avail her, however, for there she was, with all eyes turned towards her group. She needed to project an air of calm dignity. She grasped her hands together in her lap and concentrated on practising serenity.

One pair of eyes – dark and insistent – stood out from the sea of eyes turned towards her. Her tremulous serenity collapsed. A glance across the empty space to the pew opposite theirs – one of the pillars of the community, clearly – revealed the source. A dark-haired, impeccably dressed young gentleman was watching her – not the others – but her in particular. His knowing gaze rested on her deliberately, and she had the uncomfortable sensation of being evaluated.

She looked away quickly at the sea of eyes to her left. She preferred them to that one single evaluation. But looking away did not help, for she could still feel the touch of that steady gaze upon her. Unable to resist, she turned to him again. He nodded at her politely, with a hint of a smile that suggested sympathy with her predicament. She flushed this time, flustered more by his pity than by anything else that had transpired.

Fortunately by now the new arrivals appeared sufficiently cowed by Mr Collins, or Lady Catherine, or both, for neither of them uttered a sound until it was time to sing the next hymn, upon which they sang with voices like angels. At least, that was what old Miss Alton said to her sister, Miss Emily, when they had left the church behind them and started on the path towards their cottage. Miss Emily, who was partially deaf, could neither agree nor disagree, but acknowledged generally that they appeared to be very agreeable young people.

This seemed to be the general consensus in the village of Hunsford. Much was made of the fact that they had requested Lady Catherine to move. But the explanation given for such an obvious social faux-pas was that it was only to be expected, since they were Americans. This explanation seemed enough to satisfy most people. A few less easily persuaded souls, however, pointed out that though Mr Robert Darcy was American, he was as fine a gentleman as could be, and married to an English lady, moreover, and he would never have thought of forcing Lady Catherine to move. Nothing remained to be said except that, since the two young people in question were actually Mr Robert’s brother and sister, one would have to blame their extreme youth for the mistake. They were by no means to be condemned in any case, for how could they know that Lady Catherine de Bourgh had occupied that exact same seat for at least the last thirty years, since the Sunday after Sir Lewis de Bourgh had brought her home as a new bride?

The mistake was even more quickly forgiven when it became known that they possessed respectable fortunes. The young lady, Miss Clarissa Darcy, was worth at least £25,000 a year, while the young man, Mr Frederick Darcy, was worth far more.
It was Mrs Channing who put her finger on the pulse of the matter as she addressed her son, who had not attended the service, and so had to be apprised of all the excitement he had missed. “Their behaviour would be enormously presumptuous, were it not for the fact that they are known to be cousins of Mr Darcy. Any cousins of Mr Darcy must be respectable enough to be received in any household in the county. The fact that they are American pales in significance to that very important connection.”

“But, Mama,” said Mr Channing, an easy, cheerful young man whom his mother fondly described as the handsomest young man in Kent, “you have told me nothing at all of Miss Clarissa Darcy’s appearance. For all you have said will weigh nothing with me, unless you can tell me she is pretty.”

“Weigh nothing?” replied his mother. “What can be more important than family connections, especially when they come with a considerable fortune? A young lady can look like a toad and still receive offers of marriage when blessed with such advantages.”

“Still, Mama, I am not so desperate as to try my luck with a young lady who looks like a toad.” This threw his mama into an agony of confusion.

“But I did not say she looked like a toad, Percy. If I did, I did not mean it.”

Mr Channing smiled at her obligingly. “You did not say it. But you have not told me either if you think her handsome enough to tempt me.”

His mother sniffed. “She is not unpleasant looking. Not as fine-looking as you, but acceptable.”

“You sound unsure, Mama.” “That is because I am not sure she would suit you,” said Mrs Channing. She picked up her work and pierced the cloth with quick, tight stitches. “You would do better to cast your line at Miss Georgiana Darcy. She combines all the advantages we have spoken of, and she is a biddable type of girl, the type who will not cause you any trouble. I suspect Miss Clarissa Darcy has a mind of her own.”

“You pique my interest, Mama. I must meet such a paragon, for I quite admire a young lady of spirit.” Mrs Channing jabbed her finger with a needle. Peevishly, she tossed her needlework to the side. “You will do as you wish, I know. You have never set much store by anything I say. But I think such a young lady would not do well for a wife.” She was quite out of breath by the end of her little speech.

Her son’s astonishment was readily apparent. “I have not heard you express such a strong opinion for a long time, Mama. You need not worry! I do not intend to marry any time in the near future. But that does not mean I will abstain from meeting young ladies of fortune.”

Mrs Channing, satisfied that he was in no immediate danger of riding over to Rosings to propose to Miss Clarissa Darcy, took up the discarded needlework, and fell back into old habits. She was generally inclined to agree with others who were more forceful than she, and rarely took her own position on anything. Only the most dire fears moved her to express her opinion openly. “No, of course not. It is advisable to foster good connections whenever one can,” she observed placidly.

“Then we are in agreement,” said Mr Channing. “I am to meet the young lady in question. But since Lady Catherine has issued no invitation for me to visit her at Rosings Park, I fear that my chances of becoming acquainted with the Darcy ladies are rather reduced.”

He paused a moment to let her mull over his words, knowing full well that Lady Catherine’s failure to invite the Channings for more than two weeks while her relations were visiting was a sore point to his mother.

“I cannot force Lady Catherine to invite us if she does not wish to,” replied Mrs Channing, once again stabbing at her needlework.

“Of course not. But I have a perfect solution. If I cannot go to Miss Darcy, Miss Darcy shall come to us. We shall have an informal dance, and Lady Catherine’s guests shall be invited.”

However little the idea of organizing a large event for such important guests may have appealed to Mrs Channing, she could not refuse. Her first thought was that such an event, with the presence of such prominent personages, would be food for conversation among the ladies of the neighbourhood for months, and would add greatly to her consequence. Her second was that perhaps such an amusement might keep her son longer with them in the country. For she had noticed that her son visited her less and less frequently, and that his friends and London amusements occupied most of his time.

Besides, he was her only child and she was not in the habit of denying him anything.

“But your father…” she protested, weakly.

“My father may not approve of lavish entertainment,” said Channing, “but he is far away in India and, as long as you refrain from writing to tell him about it, will not know anything about the matter.”

Mrs Channing, quickly relieved of her one cause of apprehension, allowed herself to be persuaded. “There shall be a dance, then, if you insist, and you shall meet everybody.” A sudden doubt struck her, and she added, “That is, if Lady Catherine and her guests agree to attend.”

Mr Channing grinned. “I can assure you they will, Mama,” he said. “For after spending so much time in Lady Catherine’s presence, they will be more than ready to seek other company. We must invite the Darcys directly as well as Lady Catherine, for that way, even if Lady Catherine refuses, they will not.”

copyright Monica Fairview