Fireside

Austen by the Fireside is this month’s theme, and it’s such a cosy one! Perfect for January. This is the time for cosiness, for wrapping up warm and curling up with a good book – or with several.

It would be ever so nice if we could curl up before an open fire, but these days many of us no longer have them in our homes.

So how about a snug spot by the fireside in an old country inn?

They say that in many villages the oldest buildings are the church and the pub. Sometimes it’s very easy to believe that. Despite the electric lights and the modern bits and bobs, fireplaces such as these look like they stood there for a fair old while and had given warmth and comfort to many a weary traveller who had arrived on horseback or on a crowded stagecoach.

Borrowdale Hotel nr Keswick, Lake District

Jamaica Inn, Bolventor, Cornwall

Tanronnen Inn, Beddgelert, Wales

Left: Borrowdale Hotel nr Keswick, Lake District. Centre: Jamaica Inn, Bolventor, Cornwall. Right: Tanronnen Inn, Beddgelert, Wales.  

Photos J Starnes

We can always rearrange the chairs in our imagination, move the modern whatnots out of sight and picture a larger table in the middle of the room, with the occupants of a Regency stagecoach gathered all around:

George Goodwin Kilburne: ‘A meal stop at a coaching inn’ (Wikimedia Commons)

By the way, don’t you just love the dark, suspicious glare that the chaperone is casting the gentleman who’s asking permission to sit beside the young lady in her care? Not best pleased, is she? There must be at least one story in that!

Now, how about a fireside conversation between two gentlemen we know and love 😉? Mr Darcy is on his way to Brighton to prevent Lydia’s elopement and protect Elizabeth from taint by association. But, as luck would have it, here comes another gent with the same purpose in mind:

THE SUBSEQUENT PROPOSAL

(Chapter 6 – Excerpt)

With a frown, Darcy helped himself to a glass of ale. Then, as soon as he had finished eating, he poured himself another and took it to one of the large chairs that stood before the fireplace. He drained it soon enough – the man had not deceived him; the ale was not bad – and it was only when he was startled by the sound of activity and voices ringing in the hallway that he realised he must have drifted off to sleep.

Darcy sat up and checked his pocket watch again. No more than an hour had passed since his arrival at the inn, so he could allow himself to slumber further in his seat, but not before instructing the innkeeper’s people to rouse him in another hour, he decided. He stood to walk to the door and call them, but there was a knock before he had taken a few steps. It was the innkeeper, humbly begging his pardon for disturbing him, but there was another party just arrived, and as this was the only private parlour, would the gentleman greatly object to company?

“Whose company?” came Darcy’s morose query. He had no wish for company, and certainly not for that of the chattering sort.

“A naval man, sir, travellin’ with an older gentleman who might be ‘is father. The older gent took hisself to bed for a few hours, but the young ‘un said that a seat by the fire’d do just as well.”

Darcy scowled. Now that would be a fine to-do.

“Did the gentlemen give their name?”

“Nay, sir, but I ‘eard the older gent callin’ the younger ‘un Wentworth.”

Darcy sighed. Oh, well. Needs must when the devil spits upon your supper.

“Aye, have him come in, why not indeed?” he said, the quiet sarcasm entirely lost upon the innkeeper, which was just as well.

The man left, and returned at once to bow Captain Wentworth in.

“I thank you, sir, for your—”, the newcomer began, only to stop short and exclaim instead, “Mr Darcy! What brings you here?”

“The same matter that brings you, I’d wager,” Darcy replied dryly, before requesting that a glass and more refreshments be brought for his unexpected guest. “Will you not take a seat, Captain?” he civilly offered and gestured to the substantial remains of his repast. “Pray help yourself if anything takes your fancy. The game pie is good.”

Captain Wentworth thanked him and was quick to avail himself of the opportunity to sample it. The hosteller came and went, bringing them more of the same fare, and for a while there was silence as Wentworth ate and Darcy stood nursing his ale by the fire. Then the captain refilled his own glass and came to join him. The merry fire was casting a red glow over their faces, and for a short while they more or less surreptitiously eyed each other, until suddenly Wentworth laughed.

“Well! That is a chance meeting and a half,” he muttered as he threw the other a good-humoured glance which, despite himself, Darcy could not fail to return as he also chortled.

“Too true. So, Captain, may I ask, what are your plans? I take it that you are travelling with Mr Bennet.”

“Aye. With some persuasion, he was induced to get a wink of sleep. Not the sort of exertion that sits well upon a man his age, this.”

Darcy had never considered Mr Bennet’s age. He was obviously older than his wife, but his demeanour and sharp sense of humour did not bring an old man to mind, but rather a mischievous one in his middle age, who had seen a lot of the world and did not much like it, other than as fuel for his wit and sport. His lips twitched as he thought of the older man. Despite Mr Bennet’s failings and the unflattering light in which Elizabeth’s father seemed disposed to view him, Darcy could not help thinking he rather liked the master of Longbourn. After all, Elizabeth could not have inherited most of her charming traits from her mother.

He took another swig of ale and returned to the matter at hand.

“I daresay this makes everything a great deal easier. Miss Lydia cannot very well defy her father, although I had my doubts that she would follow my advice.”

Wentworth did not comment, but a moment later he turned to eye him squarely.

“You have not answered my question,” he quietly observed. “Why are you here? Or, more to the point, why would you take it upon yourself to be Miss Bennet’s champion, if you do not mind my asking?”

In fact, Darcy minded very much indeed. Nor was he under the misapprehension that the question pertained to Miss Lydia Bennet.

“I might ask the same,” he parried.

“And I might tell you ‘tis not your place to ask,” Wentworth retorted without acrimony, yet the words stung, for there was more truth in them than the captain could imagine.

“Let us just say that I, too, owe Mr Wickham a debt that begs to be repaid,” Darcy replied, then glanced back at his companion. “May I ask of yours?”

Wentworth drained his glass. “He was the means of ruining the sister of a very dear friend,” he finally revealed. “My friend fell at the blockade of Toulon before he could seek retribution. I owe it to his memory that the beast is made to pay!”

Wentworth’s fierceness found its match in Darcy’s breast and he nodded.

“What is your quarrel with him?” Wentworth asked after a short pause.

“He made designs upon one of my relations. They were foiled, thank goodness, but I have known him for long enough to be assured that marriage to the daughter of a small country gentleman falls beneath his lofty expectations. He aims to lay hands on a substantial dowry. This is not merely a question of an imprudent marriage that would not be in Miss Lydia’s best interest,” he earnestly added. “There will be no marriage – and he must be stopped.”

“He will be,” came Wentworth’s grim reply. “You have my word that a well-placed bullet will see to that.”

Darcy made a quick gesture of impatience. “I hope you are not labouring under the misconception that you will call him out.”

“‘Tis not a misconception,” Wentworth said firmly. “I have more to avenge, and it is my right.”

Blood rose to Darcy’s head. “Of what right are you speaking?”

“God willing, I am hoping that Miss Lydia might be my sister before the year is out,” the captain declared, fixing a flinty stare upon the other. “Can you say the same?”

Darcy suppressed a wince. He most certainly could not. He looked away to gaze into the flames and the question came out of its own volition.

“Have you made your offer?”

“Again, I fail to see what gives you the authority to ask – and why I should tell you, for that matter. Have you?”

Darcy made no answer. He would be damned before he shared the truth about his loss with Wentworth. The man had more than enough reasons to crow over him as it was.

They glowered at each other over their empty glasses, and in the end the captain lost his patience.

“Well, what is it to be, sir? Will you be my second, or will you turn back?”

Darcy’s features hardened, as did his eyes, and he shot the other the sort of glance commonly met at twenty paces as he damned the man, his freedom, his alleged rights and his better chances. When at last he spoke, his voice was low and heavy with resentment.

“Do what you will. But I will not turn back!”