A Cameo for Ukraine – excerpt from the Darcys and Lord Byron in Venice by Diana Birchall

At Austen Variations we are overjoyed that our fundraiser for Ukraine has been so wildly successful, with over $10,000 raised so far!  Our authors are offering readers cameos in their forthcoming novels, as well as signed books and other Jane Austen-related treasures, in exchange for a donation.  Here is my own first contribution, a chapter from my forthcoming novel The Darcys and Lord Byron in Venice, featuring reader and donor Michelle d’Arcy. (You’ll agree that’s a most fortuitous name to work into an Austenesque novel – but it is the pen name of a lady who is an Austenesque novelist herself!)

I will be offering a second cameo excerpt, which you can win with a donation. You can read all the details about the fundraiser on our website or Facebook page.  Meanwhile, here is my first cameo story. Thanks to Michelle d’Arcy for her participation!  And prayers and support for Ukraine.

Doges Palace, Venice. Photo by Diana Birchall.

“I do like a Venetian breakfast,” said Elizabeth happily, regarding a plump choux pastry with pleasure.

Darcy looked up from the letters that had just been brought in, which he was sorting. He smiled at the sight of his wife, sitting in the sunshine on the terrace overlooking the Grand Canal, in her flower patterned silk morning gown.

“You look a picture of contentment this morning,” he observed. “But what in God’s name is that chocolate concoction you are calling breakfast?”

“It is bigne al cioccolato – pastry filled with chocolate cream, and you ought not to judge anything harshly that is of such particular sweetness.”

“Or so likely to stain your gown and add weight to your silhouette.”

“My dear! Does it not occur to you that it might be tactless to compare me so rudely to Lydia? I concede that liquid chocolate adheres as thickly to her garments as pigeons do to San Marco Piazza, and she has borrowed and ruined more of my gowns than I can enumerate.”

Bigne, photo by Heuge Crimon

An Italian manservant brought in Mr. Darcy’s breakfast. It was a plate of Parma ham with shirred eggs, and some brioche.

“I see why you mock me. Your breakfast is more substantial than mine – though not so hearty as it used to be in England.”

“Ah, England,” he said reminiscently, beginning to butter his brioche with the sweet Italian butter. “There I could enjoy a regular man’s repast. Chops of pork, and baked potatoes. Yes.”

“You might have that now,  if you liked. I thought that was why we made sure to keep an English cook as well as Venetian and French chefs – so we could enjoy our roast beef, and have the children’s nursery menu be like that at home. But perhaps having Lord Byron as our neighbor has influenced you in Continental tastes.”

“His Lordship will never influence me,” he returned. “Not in habits nor morality. Though I am happy to take his recommendations in literature, and hear what he thinks about the political troubles in Greece.”

“Is he not a great gourmet? He always seems to me to be one who is a positive slave to his corporal tastes.”

“That is the problem,” said her husband, starting to eat his golden eggs. “His habits have made him too corpulent, and he tries faddish courses to reduce. He says he has a natural morbid propensity to fatten, so he lives for long periods on green tea, hard biscuits, and soda water, with red cabbage and vinegar for variety. His breakfast is only one thin slice of bread, so I think you would not wish me to emulate him.”

“No, certainly not; and I must say I should not enjoy being at table with him as he indulges in such strange feeding.”

“You are safe there,” her husband assured her. “Byron says he dislikes watching a woman at a meal, and tries to avoid eating in mixed company.”

“How peculiar! I wonder why he minds such a thing? He certainly likes women’s company at other times.”

“I believe he thinks eating makes women seem uncouth and animal – something like that.”

Elizabeth looked dubious and took a delicate bite of her choux. “Well,” she said, “you enjoy your Parma ham, and I my cioccolato, if you will forbear ruining my appetite further by talking of Lord Byron’s habits.”

“That is no hardship for me,” he said. “It is such a pleasure for us to break bread together, solo noi due, that there is no need to ruin it by introducing uneasy subjects.”

“You see the benefits of early rising. The children are still asleep.”

“And so is your sister, thank fortune.”

“Why, you know Lydia seldom rises before noontime. What have you planned for today, Mr. Darcy? Perhaps we may get out early and extend our idyll.”

“We might go to one of the islands. It is still only early spring, but willows and buds may be coming out in this sunshine. We might take the children…Only permit me to finish my breakfast – and my correspondence.”

“And I will sip my English tea and think about islands quietly,”she agreed peaceably.

She followed her word, with no more than a thoughtful murmur about Torcello. A moment later, her quietude was broken by a start, an exclamation from Darcy.

“How! My cousin arriving here – this letter has been somehow delayed. She arrives today!”

“Your cousin? What cousin do you mean?” asked Elizabeth, perplexed.

“My French cousin. That is, the widow of Chevalier Reynaud d’Arcy. Madame d’Arcy. You remember visiting them on our grand wedding tour.”

“Oh, yes! The charming and worthy French branch of the Darcy family – with the name so delightfully spelled.”

“Our two branches are equally old, but they have kept the French d’Arcy spelling, which is the original.”

“Yes, I remember. They were so kind to us – and their chateau was a true paradise, just perfection for what is now vulgarly called the honey-moon.”

“Nothing vulgar about it,” said Darcy meeting her eyes with a reminiscent smile. “I was sorry to hear of my cousin d’Arcy’s death, some six months ago. It seems Michelle – a rather distant cousin by marriage, but still eligible to be called ma cugina Michelle – is coming for change of scene, to help assuage her grief.”

“She was a sensible woman, with beautiful manners,” Elizabeth remembered. “I hope we can give her a pleasant visit in return – but oh, of what am I thinking? How is it possible, with my sister Lydia and your aunt Lady Catherine de Burgh in this very house?” She lifted her hands in distress.

“That is unhappily true. We will have to suppress Lydia’s noisy spirits.”

“And how is that to be done,” Elizabeth sighed.

“At least we may hope that Lady Catherine may be on her best behavior.”

“You may as well expect a Gorgon to be on best behavior,” Elizabeth lamented.

“Lady Catherine sets such store by family, she will respect the aristocratic and wealthy French d’Arcys – I hope,” Mr. Darcy finished.

“And where is your aunt this morning, come to that? She is usually about by now, criticizing the meal.”

“Since we are not graced by her presence, I rather imagine she is in the adjacent gardens, trying to peer through the doors into Byron’s portion of the palazzo.”

“Oh, surely not. I thought he had rebuffed her pretty smartly?”

“My aunt is fairly insensitive to rebuffs.”

“And she does have an unfortunate passion for the poet. There is no use trying to ignore it; it is as obvious as if she was bent on devouring him. Can you not have a word with her?’

“I – with Lady Catherine?” Darcy hooted. “I might say tis woman’s work, and you are the woman who has routed her before this. However, I do not suggest you attempt to interfere in such an indecent and indelicate situation, and I’m sure I shall not. No, Lord Byron is a man of the world, and used to fighting off women. Let him handle it himself.”

At that moment the manservant reappeared, to announce the arrival of Madame d’Arcy. The Darcys rose as a well-looking woman in traveling-dress, with fair hair under her turban, entered hesitantly with her lady companion. She appeared to be between thirty and forty, with a sensible countenance, and smiled at the sight of them.

Darcy made his bow in form, and embraced his cousin.

“Dear cousin! Mrs. Darcy! It is kind of you to receive me, and I am sorry we could give but little notice. We have been journeying from pillar to post, to use an English expression. My companion, Madame Moulin.”

The Darcys invited the two ladies to be seated at table, and solicitously inquired what refreshment they would wish, as they had been traveling and must be tired.

“And you have your choice of cuisine,” Elizabeth said hospitably. “Not meaning to boast, like a nouveau riche, but of our three cooks, one is Italian, one English, and one French. So you may have any manner of petit dejeuner you prefer.”

“Ah, you always did know how to live, Darcy! And we are enchanted to sit at your table, whatever its nationality. But you know, when in Venice, dine like a Venetian, is that not so?”

“You choose wisely,” approved Darcy, and gave orders to the servant. “An assortment of Venetian dishes tipico for these ladies – whatever Ruggiero can assemble to hand. Calves liver and chestnut polenta, perhaps? Some sardi in saor – the seafood in Venice is delectable, Cousin, especially the sardines with pine nuts – and perhaps little fried crabs. I hope there are some langoustines for spaghetti alla busara. I know Ruggiero will do his best, to show my cousin the food of Venezia.”

The servant bowed. “Tutti la cucina di Palazzo Mocenito will do its best, Signore Darcy.”

“I am sure of it. Oh, and bring a basket of breads as well. And what do you like to drink this morning, mesdames? Chocolate, caffe, tea? It is almost afternoon now, and we have some nice Venetian wines you may like.”

“Gracious! What a cornucopia!” exclaimed Madame d’Arcy. “Mme. Moulin and I could not eat a quarter of all that, and would not wish to turn your household upside down with preparations. Perhaps – just some Parma ham and cheese, and the breads. And the wine would be a pleasure. I am enough of a Frenchwoman to think that.”

Palazzo Mocenigo, Venice

“Madame d’Arcy,” advanced Elizabeth, “you speak English so perfectly. We really ought to be polite and speak your native language with you, but to say the truth, I am not a proficient.”

“Then we will continue in English,” the lady returned civilly, “in deference to our hostess. And as we are cousins – I have forgotten the exact connection, Darcy, are you? Is it that the Chevalier’s grandfather and yours were brothers?”

“You remember perfectly,” he replied, “We are second cousins, which is pleasantly close kinship.”

“And here are some more little cousins coming,” said Elizabeth, hearing the voices of her children as, dressed freshly in white by their nurse, little Charles and Jane pattered through the long ornamented saloon drawing-room. “Have the children already had their breakfasts, Sarah? Come and meet your cousin, dears.”

The company was happily busy, between the two diversions of the visitors admiring the children and enjoying the luncheon they were served, when they were joined by another housemate. Lydia wandered in, her hair loose and uncombed, in one of Lizzy’s furred robes.

“Oh, the children are here,” she commented in a cross tone, reaching over Elizabeth’s head for a chocolate brioche. “I declare! They make me feel quite miserable, they remind me of my own poor little ones so dearly. It is too sad. Who are your guests, Lizzy,” she finished, cheeks stuffed out with pastry.

Elizabeth, rather tight-lipped, made the introductions. With sympathy, Mme. D’Arcy asked if Lydia had lost little ones.

“Lost! Oh, you mean dead – no, not so far as I know, though news takes such time to come from England they may as well be. However, when I saw them last, six months ago, they were at my father’s house, and well enough, though little Lil I think was developing a cross-eye.”

“Oh, I see – you and your husband left them behind when you traveled? I know that many people do not like to risk their children’s health in the warmer climes on the Continent.”

“No such thing. We lit out because we were dead poor, with debts trailing us around, and nothing for it but to leave the country. Then as soon as we got here, to my sister’s house, my husband went off with an opera singer. I dislike being a burden on Lizzy, though to be sure she is rich enough, but I hope I have some consideration for others. I did try to make other arrangements, but Lord Byron refused to keep me.” She sighed.

Mme. D’Arcy contemplated a moment and said gently, “If your husband is not here, perhaps your place is back at home in England in your parents’ house.”

“La! Not I. Live with my father again, when he hated me going about with the soldiers? My mother would like it, that’s true, but between you and me there’s a great deal more going on in Venice than in a dead-and-alive, poky little place like Meryton.”

Mme. D’Arcy would not look at Elizabeth, aware that she must be suffering embarrassment. Darcy remained composed, and collectedly closed the subject by mentioning that when they returned to England, Lydia would travel with them and be delivered forthwith to her parents.

As he finished this speech, Lady Catherine de Bourgh entered from the garden, looking rather heated.

“I declare, what is all this? Who are these people? I need some respite and quiet, after spending all morning out in the garden, waiting for Lord Byron to return. It is very hot. You would not think it March, in these sickly southern climes.”

“If you require quiet and coolness, Aunt Catherine, you might go to your room to lie down,” suggested Elizabeth.

“Silence, Mrs. Impertinence! I will have some collation first. Hm, you have provided nothing but ham and cheese for your guests? And a bit of smelly Venetian seafood? Is that the best you can do? I want some eggs-and-bacon. And will you not make an introduction, Darcy, if these people are worthy my notice?”

“Our visitor is quite as worthy of your notice as mine, Aunt Catherine, for she is a relation. This is Madame d’Arcy, of the French branch of our family.”

“Oh – yes. That is right. I have heard of you. A Frenchwoman who married Darcy’s cousin, are you? A lucky match for you I dare say. And he did not accompany you – only this servant?”

“My husband died six months ago, Lady Catherine,” the lady said quietly.

“Hum! And you do not observe a full year of mourning, before you go gadding about! I never heard of such a thing. The French are barely decent.”

“Lady Catherine, I must beg you to withdraw,” said Darcy. “You cannot be permitted to insult and offend our guests. I will not stand for this.”

“Oh very well,” she returned crossly. “I will say I am sorry for the death of Monsieur d’Arcy, if you like.”

“Thank you,” said the widow, quietly.

“And what were you doing at Lord Byron’s window this morning?” Lydia interposed. “I thought he told you to keep away from him. He has plenty of work to do, and at least two concubines in his part of the palazzo to my certain knowledge, so there’s nothing he’d want to do with an old woman like you.”

“I will have you know, you insufferable, indecent young person, that my business with Lord Byron is purely literary. We are correspondents.”

“Then why don’t you write him a letter instead of waiting for him with sheep’s eyes? There’s nothing he hates worse, and I happen to know he’s not at home any how – he has gone back to the monastery island.”

“And how do you know that, pray tell?”

“Why, he told me he was going, last night,” simpered Lydia.

They would perhaps have come to blows, but Elizabeth stood up and ordered Lydia to go and dress herself cleanly and properly. As for Lady Catherine, if she would take her advice she would rest in her own room, and Elizabeth and Darcy would sit in the garden with their visitors, and watch the children at play. Quietly, she said, with emphasis on the word.

The repast was more or less finished in any case; and certainly no one had any more appetite to eat any thing.

Venetian literary salon visited by Lord Byron. Photo by Janet Todd