P&P The Untold Stories: Lady Catherine’s Easter by Diana Birchall

It’s Easter, and Mr. Darcy has still not proposed to Anne de Bourgh…

March 29, 1812

The wished-for proposal did not come. The green sarsanet, the primrose silk, the floral printed gown with the fichu, were all cunningly constructed so to give Miss de Bourgh’s figure consequence, and accordingly worn with her best French ringlets and hair decorations. None of these things, nor all of them, brought Mr. Darcy to a declaration. To Lady Catherine’s mortification, Darcy was invariably polite, and listened to her deliver strictures and dictates with commendable patience, but he seldom seemed to even notice that Miss de Bourgh was in the room at all.

Darcy and Fitzwilliam had arrived with promptitude, just when they were expected, in the week before Easter; and they were welcomed with all the festivity that was at the command of Lady Catherine in doing the honors of her own house. She had hoped that Anne might be equal to charming and entertaining at least one of her cousins, but Anne said very little, and whether from embarrassment or from pique, remained a silent stick in the corner each evening, despite Lady Catherine’s grossest and most urgent attempts to bring her forward.

“I do wish Anne could play for you. She has such taste! Mr. Collins the other day said that never did he see a young lady with more real musical ability, who did not know how to play, and that her preference for Mozart over Haydn showed her taste to be very nearly divine.”

There was nothing to say to that. Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam looked at each other, and Fitzwilliam consulted his pocket-watch. It still lacked an hour to supper.

“We do miss hearing some good music,” Fitzwilliam finally offered. “Do you know, Lady Catherine, to-day we walked over to the Parsonage, and the young lady guest there, Miss Bennet, is said to play rather well. Perhaps,” he hinted, “the family there might make up an evening party.”

That was not to Lady Catherine’s purpose. She could not wish the tame vicar and his female entourage to be the prime entertainment offered to the young men, or for the prettyish Miss Bennet to perhaps be a distraction to prevent Darcy from making the proposal so ardently desired by mother and daughter. Yet to her chagrin, she had to confess to herself that the visit was not going altogether as she would wish. Both Darcy and Fitzwilliam loved Rosings immensely, she knew, and had nothing but the greatest respect for herself and her daughter; but still, they were young men, and in this bleak, not-quite-spring weather, there was not much for them to be doing outdoors, no hunting, no field sports. They liked their walks, and she had already observed that nearly every day one or both walked through the park of Rosings and past the palings to the Vicarage, and generally spent all the afternoon there, not returning until nearly time for the evening meal. Dull, plain Mrs. Collins could not be the attraction, nor yet her insipid sister who was as silent as Lady Catherine’s own daughter. No, it was with some displeasure that she suspected it was that Miss Bennet they crossed the park to see; and as this must be discouraged, she took the step of planning a very fine supper and inviting some of her grander neighbors of the county.

On the whole this was the worst failure of all. Lady Metcalfe and her red-nosed old husband, who fell asleep over the fire with his port, and the Lassiters of Saddlefield Place, who liked to quarrel as soon as they picked up a set of cards, and the Munnings, with their three spinster daughters in their forties, giantesses who liked to talk about their ailments, were not the most enlivening society. The talk and the food were heavy alike, and both Darcy and Fitzwilliam, though their manners were perfectly proper, were anything but animated. Fitzwilliam found less to say than usual, and Darcy never opened his lips except to eat the oysters and the ragout.

After the guests rolled away in their carriages, and the two young men went to their rooms, Darcy pleading a headache and Fitzwilliam fatigue, Lady Catherine hopefully tried to assure Anne and Miss Jenkinson that all had gone well.

“Well! I must say that was a delightful occasion. One of our successful soirees. Rosings is a house made for hospitality. That is what Mr. Collins always says, and it is true.”

“Mr. Collins was not here,” Anne pointed out dryly.

“No, I thought that he and the ladies of his household would have felt rather out of their element, in such a noble society as this. Sir George Metcalfe a baronet, and the Munnings related to the Duke of Beaufort.”

“Mrs. Collins’s father is a knight,” said Anne.

“Pah! A creation within memory, and only as a reward for civic duties, at that. He is quite vulgar, Anne, quite, though there is no real harm in the man. No; they were not to be made uncomfortable. Our guests tonight were more in Darcy’s rank of life.”

“He did not seem to enjoy their company so very much, Mama. He barely spoke.”

“That was the head-ache, to be sure, nothing more. I sent him to bed with a posset. He was most grateful for the attention. ‘Lady Catherine,’ he said, ‘thank you.’”

“I thought he did not eat his dinner very well, either,” put in Mrs. Jenkinson. “He only ate three oysters, and did not touch the salad.”

“He asked to be helped to the ragout twice,” began Lady Catherine repressively.

“Oh, Mama! You make the best of it, but the evening was not a success. Such company as the Lassiters and the Munnings are no pleasure for two such young men. They are all so old.”

Lady Catherine was thoughtful for a moment, and adjusted her purple satin bandeau over her forehead in an absent way. “They do go to the vicarage daily,” she admitted. “I cannot presume to conjecture what merit they find in the society there, but perhaps we ought not to avoid giving the invitation to the Collinses any longer, after all. I did hope…”

“That I would get a proposal?” demanded Anne, tears beginning to show themselves.

“My dear!” cried Mrs. Jenkinson, going over to the sofa where she sat and enfolding her in her arms.

“Now, Anne, there is no call to be blaming yourself,” said Lady Catherine with some distaste. “Heaven knows, I am sure, we did everything. The lace round your neck tonight, and that locket…well, well. If only you could be a bit more animated…”

“I cannot be forward, Mama!” cried Anne, putting her fists to her eyes. “Some girls can but I cannot. Have you not taught me that forwardness was common, unladylike behavior? And common is just what I can never, never be.”

“No, certainly not,” answered her mother uncomfortably. “Well, there’s nothing for it then. After church, on Easter Sunday, we shall ask Mr. Collins and the ladies to come to Rosings. They can come in the evening, you know, when Darcy and Fitzwilliam seem most to have the wish for company.”

“We would have to invite them anyway, would we not?” asked Mrs. Jenkinson practically. “Mr. Collins is the clergyman and will have just given his Easter sermon that morning.”

“Exactly so,” nodded Lady Catherine. “It is a very proper attention indeed.”

On the Easter Sunday evening, then, Mr. Collins, rather tired after his exertions, was pleased to spend his time looking over an album of horse engravings in Lady Catherine’s best sitting-room. Mrs. Collins, showing herself to be truly well bred, sat between Miss de Bourgh and Mrs. Jenkinson, trying to converse, and admiring their bead-work.

Mr. Darcy and Col. Fitzwilliam were leaning over the pianoforte as Elizabeth played to them, so that their lively conversation was not audible, over the music, to the ladies seated across the room. Lady Catherine made one or two attempts to call out and ask what they were speaking of. She gave her opinions on her and her daughter’s taste in music, with many instructions on how necessary practicing was to Darcy’s sister. With each attempt, however, the conversation quickly moved away from her, to her displeasure, and nothing was heard in the intervals between songs but the intimate, congenial murmur of Elizabeth talking with the two young men.

There was something Lady Catherine did not like at all, in the intent way Darcy was looking down at Elizabeth, and when she heard Darcy’s words “You have employed your time much better,” she took alarm and called out once more to require them to tell the subject of their conversation. Elizabeth immediately began playing again. Lady Catherine tried some further remarks on Anne’s taste, with expressive gesturings toward her daughter, but Darcy barely turned his head in their direction. Elizabeth, still playing, thought to herself that she saw no symptom of love in Mr. Darcy toward his cousin, nor any likelihood of their supposed marriage.

In a still more open attempt to remove her nephew from his absorption in Elizabeth, Lady Catherine rose to her feet, approached the piano, where she stood in state, and proceeded to take apart her performance.

“Do you not see, Miss Bennet, that your fingering is too heavy in that arpeggio? Cramer is meant to be played adagietto there. I fear you have not the light touch requisite for the classical form.”

“I think Miss Bennet plays very well,” said Fitzwilliam warmly. “The Scotch airs particularly. Won’t you play us some more of those?”

“Yes, I think you are right, Fitzwilliam—simple, peasant music is best for such a beginner,” said Lady Catherine condescendingly.

Mr. Darcy looked angry and shot a look at Fitzwilliam that would urge him to speak for both of them. “On the contrary,” Fitzwilliam countered, “the lovely simplicity of the best Scottish songs takes confident playing, and great taste. Miss Bennet has them both. What would you like her to play, Darcy?”

“I liked those airs by Burns,” he said reluctantly, and would say no more.

“Burns! Dreadful man,” exclaimed Lady Catherine. “I wonder you can tolerate him, Darcy.”

Col. Fitzwilliam’s eyes twinkled. “I think my cousin would like you to play and sing ‘My Love is like a Red, Red Rose,’ Miss Bennet,” he said. “Isn’t that right, Darcy? Why, man, you are blushing as red as a rose yourself.”

“Blush? Darcy? Surely not. I see nothing of it. What do you mean, Fitzwilliam?” rapped out Lady Catherine.

To forestall further comment, Elizabeth began to sing.

0, my love is like a red, red rose,

that’s newly sprung in June.

0, my love is like a melody,

that’s sweetly play’d in tune.

As fair thou art, my bonnie lass,

so deep in love am I,

And I will love thee still, my dear,

till a’ the seas gang dry.

Her eyes caught and held Darcy’s, in spite of herself. He was fathoms deep in love by this time, and moved forward, holding out his hand, with what gesture in mind no one could tell, for Lady Catherine at once intervened and said with asperity, “Well! We will have no more of that immoral ploughboy! Some instrumental music, Miss Bennet, if you please, and no more of that coarse singing. It is not at all the thing among the gentry, though you might be forgiven for not knowing that.”

Mr. Darcy was moved to speak. “Aunt Catherine,” he objected with some heat, “Miss Bennet, in my opinion, marries good breeding and good taste to perfection. You will oblige me to not speak of her in such a way.”

Lady Catherine lost her temper. “I do not know what you mean in the least, Darcy. Miss Bennet has not a trace of the breeding and taste of Anne.”

Mr. Collins heard the strident tones and hurried across the room, anxious to forestall trouble. “Perhaps my cousin has sung long enough, Lady Catherine,” he said anxiously, “we do not wish to tire you, of all things. Shall I place the card tables? Would Miss Anne care for a game of Cassino?”

“Yes,” came her faint voice from the sofa. “I should like that. Will you not play with me, Mr. Darcy?”

“Another time,” he replied shortly, not turning around to look at her. “Now we are having the pleasure of listening to Miss Bennet. Will you play ‘Ae Fond Kiss,’ Miss Bennet? That is another favorite of mine.”

She played the first few notes. “Who would have thought, Mr. Darcy,” she said with an arch look, “that you would be a person of such romantic sensibility? You would think that Burns had a heart, after all. It is such a sad song.”

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;

Ae fareweel, and then for ever!

Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,

Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee.       

“Yes, a sad song, yet it makes me happy,” he observed at its conclusion, low.

No one heard his words but Fitzwilliam, standing next to him, who looked surprised, but Lady Catherine saw or thought she saw enough to say tartly, “I consider that it is surely time for this evening to draw to an end. If you must have Robert Burns, Darcy, then let Miss Bennet sing Auld Lang Syne.”

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