A Picnic at Pemberley

It’s picnic time!

June is a great time for picnics, with or without our Regency glad rags on.

I love writing about picnics. In The Second Chance there’ s one at the seaside (but on a pebbly beach and sitting on deck-chairs, so hopefully they didn’t have to worry about sand in their food).

There’s another one in The Darcy Legacy, where Darcy is trying to sidestep a vexingly vigilant Mr Bennet, who keeps getting in the way of his courtship.

There’s also a cheerful picnic in The Unthinkable Triangle, at the Bingleys’ new estate in Staffordshire, although it turns out to be less than cheerful for Colonel Fitzwilliam, who comes back from the Peninsula to find himself supplanted by his cousin in Elizabeth’s affections.

I couldn’t decide which of them I should include in this post. The picnic excerpt in The Second Chance is too short, the one in The Darcy Legacy is way too long (it stretches over a couple of chapters) and the one in The Unthinkable Triangle is bittersweet (Darcy and Elizabeth are happy, but poor Colonel Fitzwilliam is in for the shock of his life).

So how about a little vignette today? It’s June, it’s a sunny day at Pemberley, and the new Mrs Darcy would like to amuse her guests and her husband’s with a picnic. Ah, but is everything going to plan?

MISS BINGLEY’S LAST PICNIC

Photo: BBC

As rotten luck would have it, it was a sunny day. Miss Bingley groaned. She turned her back to the wide windows and flung one arm over her face. So, there was no impediment to that confounded scheme, the picnic. It would go ahead. The very notion was apt to give her a headache.

Her lips twisted into a grimace as she remembered the worst headache she had endured in her life. It had come to plague her right after the cursed evening when a scribbled note from Charles had been delivered to Grosvenor Square. He had written to inform her of his betrothal – and Darcy’s.

On that occasion, she had medicated herself with rather too much Constantia wine. Far more than was good for her, apparently. But to no avail. The sweet wine – sickly-sweet, after a while – had not tempered her bitterness of spirit, nor subdued her anger. It had only given her a splitting headache on the following day.

And now she was at Pemberley, her bitterness unabated. How could it be otherwise, when day after wretched day she had to witness that artful creature playing the part of the lady of the manor?

When she headed off to Bath, Louisa told her she was a glutton for punishment to come here and put up with the new Mrs Darcy. Yes, well, Louisa had the luxury to speak thus. Louisa was married – for better or for worse. As for herself, she patently was not. So what was one to do but grin and bear? Darcy was her main foothold in the exalted circles of the ton, and the grand salons she aspired to were jealously guarded by the wives, sisters, and mothers of his peers – a supercilious horde that still turned up their noses to fortunes made in trade.

“Snobs and hypocrites,” Miss Bingley muttered.

What were they but the descendants of industrious sheep farmers, clothiers, and coal merchants? The only difference was that their fortune was made a century or two earlier – that was all.

Yet it served no purpose to rant against the injustice. One could only conquer the fortress from within. So she could not afford a rupture with Darcy. She had to grit her teeth and be civil to that wife of his.

Miss Bingley scowled as she pushed the counterpane aside and sat up. She had better ready herself for the day – and for that miserable picnic. She snorted. The sly vixen, Eliza, must have planned it on purpose. The conniving woman knew she loathed the outdoors and common pastimes, and must have schemed to keep her out of the way. The apple does not fall far from the tree, does it? Just like her mother, Eliza must be working to clear the path for that other hoyden, Kitty, so that she could ensnare one of the eligible gentlemen now visiting at Pemberley.

Miss Bingley titled her chin upwards. Well, she was not falling for it, and would not stay behind – so there! Eliza must learn to brook disappointment.

“I see your game, madam,” Miss Bingley glared in the general direction of Mrs Darcy’s chambers. “Depend upon it, you shall not best me again.”

* * * *

She should have chosen to ride, Miss Bingley grumbled to herself with a sour look towards the mounted party. There they were, Georgiana and that little baggage, Kitty, cantering away with all four eligible gentlemen in tow: Mr Bradbourne, heir to a handsome neighbouring estate; Mr Aubrey, Lord Kendal’s second son; Colonel Fitzwilliam and his younger brother.

Miss Bingley sniffed. Georgiana should know better than to associate herself with the likes of Kitty Bennet and ride off with four gentlemen in hot pursuit. So brash and unbecoming of a young lady, especially one of Georgiana’s pedigree!

Her brother’s voice, gratingly cheerful, drew her from her ruminations.

“Come, Caroline,” he said, “let me see you to the carriage. You are to go with Jane and Lizzy, are you not?”

Miss Bingley suppressed a scowl. The prospect gave her no pleasure, but the other options were even less appealing. Whom would she travel with – Mr and Mrs Bennet? Or, worse still, the tradespeople from Cheapside and their unruly brood?

“Yes, of course,” she retorted crisply and allowed her brother to hand her into the conveyance. An open carriage. Hm. Well, it was a warm day, so it would do.

Parasol in hand, Miss Bingley sat beside her sister-in-law and the squealing package on Jane’s lap.

“No, no, Robin, pray leave your aunt be,” Jane admonished softly – and timely too – when Miss Bingley’s nephew reached out a sticky-looking hand.

With a tight smile, Miss Bingley shuffled sideways and tugged her beautifully embroidered shawl out of harm’s way.

“Come sit with me, Caroline, there is more room here,” that woman spoke up from the other seat and, with great forbearance, Miss Bingley cast her a thin smile too.

“I thank you, Eliza dear. I am quite comfortable, I assure you,” she replied and suppressed a snort.

More room beside her? One would say not. Smug Mrs Darcy looked as though she had swallowed a prize pumpkin, the largest in the patch. As if she carried not just one offspring, but an entire litter.

“I am glad to hear it. Then let us be off,” the other said and, clearly determined to provoke her, Eliza cast a bright, proprietary smile at Darcy, once he had swung himself into the saddle.

Undaunted – and unwilling to give her old rival satisfaction – Miss Bingley schooled her countenance into a bright smile of her own.

“Let us, by all means. I am all anticipation!”

* * * *

Heavens, what a notion, to picnic so far from the house! Travelling for miles with her noisy nephew and her grinning nemesis had been a severe trial on Miss Bingley’s patience. But praise be, they finally arrived at their destination. Not a moment too soon, Charles came to scoop up his jabbering boy and handed his wife out of the carriage.

Darcy followed suit to hand out his own wife, who lumbered down with all the agility of a mare in foal. Gone was her celebrated nimble form that had served her so well in catching herself a husband. Miss Bingley looked away to conceal a vindictive little smile. That form would never be nimble again.

Greatly cheered by that thought, Miss Bingley stood from her seat with easy grace when Darcy reached out to hand her down as well. She straightened her back, so that the folds of her dress would fall just so, and show her unspoilt figure to advantage. She let him have the benefit of her statuesque pose for a little longer than strictly necessary, then took his hand and daintily dismounted, raising the hem of her dress to expose a few generous inches of slender ankles which, unlike some, had not grown thick and unsightly.

To her vast delight, the ploy worked to perfection. Darcy’s gaze dropped to her elegant slippers. He arched a brow and smiled, then looked away, doubtlessly flattering himself she had not noticed. Men were such fools. Of course she had!

Once her feet were firmly on the ground, Miss Bingley raised her chin and drew a deep breath of contentment. Aye, let him see what he had lost. More fool him if he imagined he would get anything from her now, except a flash of shapely ankles. He had missed his chance with her. Now she had other fish to catch.

Oh, how joyful and rewarding life would be if she should have her sweet vengeance! It would be utterly delicious, it would be poetic justice, if she should marry one of his cousins or his neighbours, and be constantly at hand to tantalise him with what could have been his – and now he would never have.

Those reflections were ever so pleasing as Miss Bingley made her way across the grass leaning on Mr Darcy’s left arm, while his wife of choice waddled like a duck at his right. Perhaps she should walk ahead of them and emphasize the difference between a waddle and a floating, elegant manner of walking, Miss Bingley thought. Releasing Darcy’s arm with a demure smile and a word of thanks, she set about to do just that. She glided forth, a slight sway in her hips, her steps graceful and light, the corners of her shawl fluttering behind her, her fringed parasol poised prettily above.

Sadly, the odds were against her. The grass was wet, and she nearly lost her footing. With the greatest effort, she redressed her balance at the last moment and – thank goodness! – she did not suffer the indignity of falling flat on her face. Clinging to her straw hat, Miss Bingley fought for poise and cursed inwardly.

“Edward, do lend your arm to Miss Bingley,” she heard the tradesman’s wife say. “I can walk with James. Besides, I seem to be managing quite well without assistance.”

Whereas she could not, Miss Bingley thought and seethed, pursing her lips into a grimace of resentment. How very like Mrs Gardiner to ungenerously point that out, just in case anyone had missed the mortifying incident!

The tradesman did not hesitate to do his wife’s bidding.

“Aye, do take my arm, Miss Bingley,” he cheerfully said, then was quick to deal her a jibe of his own. “Oh dear, I fear for your pretty slippers. Lizzy should have lent you one of her pairs of sturdy boots.”

Miss Bingley’s chest swelled in indignation. Sturdy boots were for country bumpkins. She had more taste than that. So what if she should ruin a pair of beautiful slippers? She could certainly afford to. Yet as she caught Darcy’s second glance at her feet – and caught his smirk too – Miss Bingley’s fury knew no bounds. So, he had not admired her ankles earlier, but silently mocked her choice of footwear. Damn him and his confounded impudence! Oh, damn them all!

* * * *

Miss Bingley’s day did not improve from there. It was profoundly unappealing to stroll over the wet grass. She might have taxed herself thus in the right company, but she had no wish whatsoever to saunter about on Mr Gardiner’s arm.

As for the eligible gentlemen, they were otherwise engaged. Mr Bradbourne kept to Georgiana’s side as if he were glued to her elbow. Miss Bingley gave a disdainful grimace. Very well. Georgiana was welcome to the tall and oafish fellow, who seemed unable to find much to say to anyone else.

For their part, Darcy’s cousins and Lord Kendal’s second son seemed determined to play the fools with Kitty Bennet and the Gardiner gaggle. Instead of seeking genteel ways to pass the time, they chose blind man’s buff, and quoits, and rounders, and games of shuttlecock and battledore.

At long last, the party congregated around the wicker baskets – and sat on quilts! Aye, quilts and cushions. Miss Bingley fumed. Why did that woman not instruct the servants to bring some canvas chairs along?

‘Serves her right if she should be unable to rise to her feet with her vast burden when we leave,’ Miss Bingley thought with a venomous glance towards the architect of all her woes, who was blithely stuffing her mouth with strawberries and a generous helping of cream, as though she were not of gargantuan proportions already.

And then Miss Bingley’s jaw dropped – literally. Heavens, did Darcy have no shame at all? Seemingly not. Why else would he be so uncouth as to stroke that hideously large belly – in company! Could he not have had the decency to at least wait until they were alone?

Repulsive thoughts about what else they might be doing when they were alone flashed through Miss Bingley’s sickened imagination. She scrambled to her feet, and did not care one jot if she looked less than graceful as she did so. Her ruined hems – more than eight inches deep in mud by now – troubled her as little as the fact that rising to her feet involved getting on all fours, then pushing herself up derrière first – a most undignified position.

She gave Colonel Fitzwilliam an acid smile when he offered his assistance, and walked away, her wide-brimmed hat flapping in the wind.

Derbyshire, Photo J Starnes

She very nearly lost the wretched thing as she stood under a large oak tree atop the vantage point that commanded extensive views over the valley. She caught it just in time, but sadly could not watch her feet. Her once peach-coloured slippers sank into the fresh cowpat with a squelch – whereupon Miss Bingley lost all pretence to ladylike deportment. Her countenance a deep shade of puce, she growled, cursed and vowed, “Never again!”

© Joana Starnes 2019