A Ghost Story

It’s Halloween tomorrow, so I’m guessing you’ve already carved the pumpkins and stocked up for Trick or Treat. If you’re anything like me, that stash must be awfully tempting, so let me entice you to sneak away with a chocolate bar and think with some compassion of our Regency forebears, who had never tasted such delights because chocolate as we know it had yet to be invented.

I hope your compassion will extend to a certain gentleman, even if he can’t seem to coin a marriage proposal in a gentlemanlike manner to save his life. In my opinion, one of the greatest achievements of the 1995 adaptation of Pride and Prejudice was Mr Darcy’s utterly abysmal first proposal. Jane Austen never gave us his exact words, but with great skill Andrew Davies filled in the blanks and made Mr Darcy bury himself and blast his chances in one minute flat (58 secs, to be precise, from ‘In vain I have struggled, it will not do…’ to ‘… I beg you most fervently to relieve my suffering and consent to be my wife.’). Please time it if you like, or just enjoy the cringe-worthy moment (if ‘enjoy’ is the right word for it 😉 ). So, let Mr Darcy suffer the indignity of a click on his manly nose (just kidding, you can click anywhere on this picture) and we’ll hear him have his say:

Photo BBC

I will admit I watch this often and even if I know how that awful first proposal goes, I still can’t help thinking, ‘For goodness’ sake, if only something would stop him before he makes a complete fool of himself!!’

Funnily enough, that was how my latest book came to be: it all spun from the ‘If only something would stop him!’

Are you sitting comfortably, with or without a Trick or Treat choc bar? I hope so, and I hope you’ll let me entertain you with a ghost story (what better time for it than at Halloween?)

The setting is not Halloween-y. Our dear characters are not taking refuge in a deserted mansion. Instead, they’re sitting on a secluded bench, it’s April not October, and Mr Darcy is just about to deliver something along the lines of his original first proposal. And, just like in the novel we all love, he’s making a dreadful mess of it – until, in the timeless spirit of Halloween, he gets to commune with the departed in ways he would never have expected:

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Excerpt from The Darcy Legacy

(Beware, there be ghosts! And spoilers 😉 )

 It was rather fortunate that she had already noticed his approach, sparing him the task of finding some other way of making his presence known, so as not to startle her. Thus, he could simply say, “Good morning,” – although it was drawing closer to midday – and civilly follow it with “May I join you?”

Her full attention now back on her sketch, Elizabeth briefly tightened her lips – in concentration on her task, or displeasure at his question? – before she said, as she traced a few bold lines, “Pray do. Unless you came to find fault with my perspective and my grasp of detail.”

The customary mixture of sweetness and archness in her manner made it as difficult as ever to tell if she was teasing him or she was in earnest, but Darcy availed himself of the free seat on the bench nevertheless.

She paid him little heed, her eyes darting up and down between the scenery ahead and her open sketchbook. The landscape she had chosen for a model was already recognisable, slowly taking shape on the white paper. Darcy refrained from steadfastly keeping his eyes on her handiwork so as not to disconcert her and, after a brief inspection, he leaned back against the tree trunk, his gaze ahead. He remained thus when he began speaking.

“I will endeavour to comply. But ‘tis somewhat of a hardship.”

“What is?”

“Not commenting on your perspective.”

This time she did turn to face him, a brow arched.

“I see. Very well. Have your say, if you must. What offends you? The shape of the birch? The reeds? The lake? Or the overall angle?”

“I was not speaking of your sketch. No one could find anything wanting, nor dispute your skill with the charcoal. What I had in mind was your general perspective.”

“You will have to do a little better than pithy remarks, sir.”

“I was hoping to. What I meant to ask is why would you assume I came to find fault? Can you not imagine I came to find you because I simply could not stay away?”

Her eyes widened. Despite himself, Darcy gave a little rueful chuckle.

“Forgive me. That was blunt,” he said softly, reaching to gather her small hand in his, the charcoal still poised between her fingers. He drew it from her slacking grasp with his free hand, lest it mar the artwork, and set it on the bench between them as he stroked the back of her fingers with his thumb. “I would have liked to court you as you deserve to be courted, before blurting out that I was bewitched within days – hours – of making your acquaintance. I should have said so – long ago. I wish I had. So much time lost. Besides, courting you now, at Rosings, has its… difficulties,” he felt compelled to clarify, although he was convinced that by then she knew enough of Lady Catherine and her ways to make any further clarifications needless. Still, he pensively continued, “Your change of circumstances should have made everything easier, and in the main it does, but at the moment it complicates matters too. In many ways, it would have been preferable if you had remained the second daughter of a gentleman of little consequence in Hertfordshire.”

Her hand twitched in his, and her chin came up.

“I am still the daughter of a gentleman of little consequence from Hertfordshire, sir.”

“I beg your pardon, that was badly put. What I meant,” he said, struggling for better words, “is that I should have courted you then. There was a wealth of opportunity and a great deal more freedom. My sole excuse – and a poor one at that – is that your connections rather served as a deterrent. Needless to say, I should have known better. Their condition in life may be far beneath my own, but they made you who you are, and you are flawless, so whatever they did must have been right. As for their want of propriety – aye, that could be mortifying, and it often was, but the same can be said of my aunt. If anything, Lady Catherine’s shortcomings are far less excusable. Noblesse oblige, and an earl’s daughter should know a vast deal more about ladylike deportment than an attorney’s wife,” he said with energy, glad that his words were coming with greater ease, now that his case was taking shape and he could explain his standpoint better. Yet, just as he had begun to feel less tongue-tied, the flow of his discourse was abruptly interrupted by an exclamation coming out of nowhere:

“Heaven help us, what is the lad about?”

Darcy started and instinctively turned to look over his shoulder for the source of the irate remark. Yet he saw no one. And the voice gave him pause. Had he not known better, he would have said it sounded like… Well, a little like his father. He glanced around again, not in the least amused by the prospect of anyone interrupting his proposal. It was equally unamusing to suspect that he had started hearing things. Nevertheless, after all the galling interruptions – particularly on the previous day – he was glad to note that no one was there. He straightened in his seat and turned back towards Elizabeth, to see profound displeasure in her most expressive countenance. He suppressed a smile. So she was not fond of interruptions either.

“What I wished to say,” Darcy resumed, “is that I have wasted too many opportunities already. I will not waste any more time on my aunt’s account. Little as the result will please her, she has raised your consequence, and you will be more readily accepted in society as Lady Catherine’s relation than as an unknown young lady from three miles north of Meryton.”

“‘Struth! Was I expected to teach him how to go about it? He is a grown man of eight-and-twenty – has lived in the world – spoken to people – read books. There are more than enough in the library. How can he make such a cursed hash of it? He pines for the lass for months on end and now he sits there, insults her and calls it a proposal!”

This time Darcy released Elizabeth’s hand, sprang to his feet and looked around in earnest. Whoever said that would pay for his impertinence. Eavesdropping was bad enough, but mocking him – in his hearing – and at a time like this! Who was it? They knew him well – too well. Well enough to know about the months of pining. Surely it was not one of Fitzwilliam’s jests! That was beyond the pale, even for him. And there was naught amiss with his proposal – not that it was anyone’s affair but his. He was going about it in the proper manner. As for insulting her, he had just complimented her, for goodness’ sake, and declared that her eminently vulgar aunt was nowhere near as much at fault as Lady Catherine. How was that insulting? And, more to the point, how dared he, whoever the impudent wretch was?

“Who goes there?” he called, and looked up too, for good measure. No one in the tree, risking life and limb. And the voice was a mature one, not that of a child. And still uncannily like his father’s.

“What the deuce is he doing now? Who is he looking for?”

Darcy spun around towards his companion.

“Elizabeth, could you ascertain where that came from?”

She cast him a severe glance and picked up her charcoal from where he had left it, on the bench.

“There are a great many things that I fail to ascertain right now,” she said crisply, “not least your reasons for this strange performance. Pray amuse yourself at leisure, if you must, but kindly step out of the way. I would like to get back to my sketch.”

“And now he has vexed her. Lord help me! How difficult can it be? If he will have that lass and none other, must he antagonise her so? I will not see my line wiped out from the face of the earth, by Jove! Get your wits about you, Son! Just tell her you love her,” the voice in his head forcefully commanded.

“Son? What insolence is this? Enough, I say!” Darcy exclaimed, turning on his heel to cast a fierce look around.

For a moment, there was naught but silence. He could only hear the faint rustling of the wind through the yellowed reeds. Even the twittering birds seemed to have been hushed by his outburst.

Photo J Starnes

 

“For a moment, there was naught but silence. He could only hear the faint rustling of the wind through the yellowed reeds. Even the twittering birds seemed to have been hushed by his outburst. “

And then a shocked whisper filled his head.

“Fitzwilliam? Son, you can hear me?”

He spun around again, his eyes darting searchingly this way and that.

“What is the meaning of this? Where are you? Who are you?”

The ensuing silence lasted for a mere fraction of a second. Then a torrent of words came.

“He heard me! Aye. Truly, he did. Who knows? I cannot say. For the life of me, I cannot fathom how I could hear him from hundreds of miles – not just his words, but whatever is going on in his head. And he heard me, too. No, of course he is not asleep. He was talking to the lass, making a hash of it. He must be wide-awake, yet he could hear me nonetheless. Fitzwilliam? Can you hear me still? By all that is holy, I swear he could hear me a moment ago, Anne!”

“Mr Darcy? Are you well?” Elizabeth added her voice to the cacophony.

Stunned by everything else that he was hearing, he could only whisper, “Anne?”

“No, sir. ‘Tis Elizabeth. You should sit. You seem to be unwell,” Elizabeth urged, but the voice in his head drowned out her advice. It was a great deal louder.

“Yes! You can hear me still. Thank goodness. But what wretched timing, eh? The lass will think you fit for Bedlam. She is in the right, my boy, you had much better sit. This could unhinge anybody. Sit down, Son, and listen—”

“Son?” Darcy repeated, mightily struggling for a grasp on sanity.

“It must be the sun,” Elizabeth agreed. “Another bright morning, I grant you, and warmer than yesterday. Have you been walking over the fields for long? Do sit, Mr Darcy. I fear you might be suffering from sunstroke.”

“Come, now, my boy,” the voice in his head urged as well. “Listen to the lass, sit yourself down and let me do the talking, else she will think you have lost your mind if you keep talking to the trees. Also, I have no notion how long this will hold, the connection, and I must have my say while it does.”

“How is this…? No… impossible,” Darcy whispered as he took their advice and sat, clasping the hand that had somehow made its way into his, as though it were a lifeline.

“I think not,” Elizabeth countered. “‘Tis sunstroke, most likely.”

The voice in his head, however, readily agreed with him:

“Impossible, aye. Anyone would think so.”

It was too confusing for his scattered senses, and for the first time since the beginning of their acquaintance, instead of seeking to pick out Elizabeth’s voice from a crowd as he was wont to do, Darcy endeavoured to dissociate himself from it, so that it would not distract him from the other, which continued:

“Yet here we are. Goodness knows how. The only other time when I could conquer the obvious limitations of my current state was when I was beset by violent emotion. In this case, it must be anger at your bungling that proposal so. By Jove, you will not be the last Darcy of Pemberley, if I can help it. So I will tell you this: if your happiness and the future of my line rests upon this lass, then bestir yourself and make a better job of trying to secure her. Whoever courts his lady by insulting her connections, my boy? Or sits there talking about Catherine, of all people?”

“Catherine,” Darcy echoed numbly.

“No, sir. Not Anne, nor Catherine, nor any of my sisters. Elizabeth,” she slowly and distinctly said her name again, syllable by syllable and with some emphasis, but Darcy made no answer as the voice in his head chuckled.

“Can you not hold your tongue, lad? I did warn you that you should. Seemingly, you need not speak out loud for me to hear you. Now, still yourself and listen. I would rather not miss this chance to say what must be said. Lord knows I missed too many. All those years, when I should have told you— Yes, yes. You are in the right, my dear. Fitzwilliam, I should not entice you to look back. You should look ahead. So go forth, my boy, and know that you do me proud every day. You always have. I could not have left your sister in better hands, and I know Pemberley will flourish in your care. Your mother and I… er… Hm. I thank you. Aye, of course. Of course I can say it, and I shall. A pity I had to die before I learned how, but there we have it. What I wished to say, Fitzwilliam, is that your mother and I love you very, very dearly, and we both hope to remain tethered to this world for long enough to see you and Georgiana happily settled. Now, I trust you will not mind if I tell him— I must. You can see that, can you not? God bless you, my dearest. Fitzwilliam, if this lass – Elizabeth – is your choice, then hasten to secure her. I— We trust your judgement implicitly. And she seems a good sort of girl, bright and spirited. I would have liked to know her better. But I daresay I should be glad to be around for long enough to learn anything at all about the future mother of my grandchildren. So gather your wits together, lad, as I said, and cease rambling about her station in life and whatnot. Just tell her you love her. If you put your mind to it, I daresay you can be trusted to strike the right note between some self-absorbed dunderhead offended by her connections and a lovestruck mooncalf who readily avows he has spent the last five months wasting away for the love of her,” his father said with an affectionate chuckle, and Darcy could not help echoing it, despite the surreal experience of receiving guidance in matters of the heart from his departed father, and the equally surreal novelty of actually laughing with him.

But better late than never.

His father’s voice had a melancholy ring to it when he replied:

“Aye, too true, my boy. I wish… Well, too late now,” he checked himself, his tones suffused with the greatest sadness. “I take comfort in knowing that you will do better than me in every regard. You will make a fine father, and if I am not mistaken, the young lass will bring joy and laughter to my grandchildren’s lives, and yours. By the bye, if you prefer not to play the part of the lovestruck mooncalf when you secure her, once you are married pray do not wait for the afterlife to tell the lass she means the world to you. Believe you me, it will serve you better if you say so – and show it, too – while you are living. And it bears frequent repetition.” (© 2018 by Joana Starnes)

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Let’s hope that Mr Darcy follows this very sensible advice. Some of you might know if he does or doesn’t, but if you don’t know what happens next and you’d like to find out, the e-book is still available at half price at Amazon until midnight tomorrow – because it’s Halloween, and to celebrate The Darcy Legacy’s release in Audible, exquisitely narrated by Stevie Zimmerman.

So, if you haven’t read it yet, maybe you’d like to amuse yourselves with it or let Stevie Zimmerman’s beautiful voice bring the story to life. If you’re an Audible.com listener you can find the link here, or please follow this one for Audible UK.

Happy Halloween and thanks for visiting!