Happy November, dear readers.
And a very Happy Birthday to Second Son!
Yes, readers, that is correct: my first book baby is seven years old today. <Sigh> It seems only yesterday that I finally found the ultimate outlet for all my nerdish ways; for, eleven years ago next week, I sat down (Wow! I could do that then!) Where was I? Ah, yes, eleven years ago, I finally committed to hard drive the first scene (the night at Chatsworth) on a plot bunny which had been hopping around in my head for a while: What would P&P be like if, instead of being born the heir to Pemberley, ODB was a second son?
Afterwards, I passed the scene around to my husby, eldest children, a JAFF loving librarian, and a few other friends, for their feedback. And that, dear readers, is how I ended up sharing my nerdiness with you once a month on this lovely, Always Austen, blog.
In honour of these momentous occasions, today, I shall post an excerpt from that very first scene in Second Son. I hope you enjoy it, and I wish you a blessed November!
After dinner, paid performers appeared, space was cleared, and dancing soon commenced. Darcy shook his head that both Stephen and Richard could be so pleased dancing with mere acquaintances or even with total strangers. He fell back to his usual position, a shadow along the back wall, to watch until he could reasonably excuse himself to get some sleep before his travels in the morning. He noticed some young ladies not far from him, sitting out, but obviously watching the dancing. He could tell by their dress they were not yet out but, based on their looks, would probably be out within the year.
Doing his best “blend-into-the-wallpaper” act, and lost in his own thoughts, Darcy was startled to discover one of the girls had come to stand quite near, to better watch the dancing. At his start, the young lady beamed a friendly smile at him. “Forgive me, Sir, I did not mean to startle you. I wanted to watch my new friend dance with her grandfather. Of course, I then also noticed my sister and my grandmother dancing as well.”
Darcy, thinking it rather more polite than enjoyable, asked, “If you would like to dance, I could arrange an introduction to my cousin or brother. They both enjoy the exercise.”
He had been hoping to affront her, thereby avoiding tedious and senseless conversation. Darcy was surprised when she instead laughed, her eyes dancing in the candlelight. “Do not be frightened, Sir. I did not move this way to beg a partner. I am much happier to be here, on the side, philosophizing about the company.”
“What could you find to philosophize regarding a dance?” Darcy muttered under his breath, not really interested in her answer.
by Rolinda Sharples, 1817
“Well, you cannot help but observe all participants are smiling, laughing, and conversing, giving rise to the idea that all are happy and well-pleased with their lives. However, watching closely, you notice that all of this ‘happiness’ is nothing more than a quest for more power, a lust for greater consequence. Hence, I can only suppose they agree with the Italian philosopher, ‘whether it be better to be loved than feared or feared than loved? It may be answered that one should wish to be both, but, because it is difficult to unite them in one person, is much safer to be feared than loved[i].’”
Taken aback with this reply, Darcy responded, “You have studied Machiavelli!? Odd subject for a young lady.”
“Yes, sir, it is. Mamá is always scolding Papá for giving me the education of a son. She bemoans that I shall remain a spinster, with all my love of reading, study, and nature. I enjoy taking long walks, climbing trees to ask questions of the birds, reading books, and debating with Papá or Grandmother about current happenings, or anything else for that matter,” she laughed, no fawning or preening in sight.
A little curious, he asked, “I can see that you are not yet out. How much longer until your mother can test her hypothesis of your looming spinsterhood?” Darcy was half thinking she would now begin the normal female laments and mannerisms.
“Were it up to Mamá, we would be out at sixteen, but Papá refuses to allow us officially out until we are eighteen. Mamá sometimes threatens not to let me come out until I can learn to be a proper lady, which I suppose means I would never come out,” she laughed at herself. “However, Papá says that to hold back my coming out would hardly promote sisterly affection, so I shall have my share of amusements and enjoyments in three years – whether I still climb trees, run through the countryside, read the broadsheets, or not.”
To Darcy, this girl was a breath of fresh air. “You stated you have a sister. Does your father attend to her education as well?”
“I, actually, am the second of five sisters. Papá and Grandmother are firm believers in the value of education, even for females. However, Papá does not believe in forcing any of us into subjects where we have no inclination. We all MUST read, write, and do basic accounts. Beyond that, each of us can pursue our own interests. Jane, my elder sister, attends the more traditional feminine pursuits but has a devoted love of reading gothic novels,” the girl said. “I should not reveal such things in company, but…” she shrugged without compunction.
Curious to see if the elder sister would resemble this girl before him, he motioned to the line of dancers, asking, “Which of the ladies is your sister?”
“The answer to that question is: ‘The most beautiful lady in the room,’” she answered immediately, obviously filled with sisterly pride. “She is the fair-haired lady in the pink gown, dancing with the major of the Light Dragoons.”
Darcy was surprised to see, dancing with Richard, the sister to this beguiling sprite was his dinner partner, the marble statue. “She is definitely an example of the Grecian beauty considered the current height of fashion. Has she had a Season?”
“She is coming out this year and will partake of the season in Town. That is why we are heading back home, instead of staying out the winter in Northumberland,” the girl replied.
Darcy realised she was giving more information than what was considered fashionable but decided he could not object. She had impeccable manners (and had probably been educated regarding proper social interactions), but she showed no inclination for the façades, ennui, and strict rules of the ton. He admired her freedom and relaxed, so he could enjoy his time with her. After a short pause, he smiled and queried, “Where, then, is ‘home’?”
She laughed, “I suppose I could hardly expect you to know the whole of our family history. We live in Hertfordshire, with Papá, Mamá, Grandmother, and all our sisters. Some combination of us visit Uncle Augustus every autumn, and this year our whole family went to visit his home in Northumberland. Papá and Mamá sailed back with our younger sisters in time for the harvest, whilst Jane and I stayed through October with Grandmother. We were delayed leaving, due to Grandmother being ill for much of November, and are now travelling home at a much slower pace than usual. His Grace’s sister, the Dowager Duchess of Waverley, invited Grandmother to rest and recuperate for a week with Her Grace during her stay in Buxton for the winter. We were invited to partake of tonight’s enjoyments as guests of Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess[ii].”
“Have you seen any of the sights in Derbyshire during your stay?” Darcy asked, observing her laughter had a musical quality he had never heard before.
“On this trip, we have only explored Buxton and visited acquaintances in Lambton. This is the first time I have seen the area in winter; the dales have a most haunting quality: the wind seems to be crying out for something it has lost,” she replied – head cocked as if she were trying to decipher the words of the wind’s lament.
Darcy silently watched the emotion crossing her young face. He was not surprised this time when she suddenly smiled, “Do not worry, though, we have seen other delights of some of the northern counties on former visits to Northumberland and Staffordshire. I have enjoyed observing the effects of early winter on the canvas of Nature.”
“What are your favourite places of our north end of England?”
“My favourite, of what I have seen, I would say, are the Peaks. Such beauty and wildness and open space! I also am a great admirer of the moors and dales and the forests; anywhere there is untamed beauty, uninhibited nature, and fresh wild breezes, I enjoy. Historically, I liked touring the various abbey’s and castles dotting Yorkshire, though locally I prefer Arbor Low, and enjoy picturing the Druids of old dancing their rituals and enjoying their feasts.”
Darcy was amazed at the light in her eyes as she remembered her visits and imaginings. He was considering this was probably the longest time he had ever spoken to a female in his life. Wishing to keep her company, he asked her opinions of art, music, and her family. She was completely open, not afraid to share her opinions, knowledge, or lack thereof, and told amusing stories about the antics of her family, laughter trilling through her voice all the while.
As Darcy was laughing at another of the girl’s dialogs, he saw Stephen and the marble statue leaving the dance floor to come over to where they were standing. The girl, seeing her sister, turned to him and in a more proper tone said, “It has been a pleasure talking to you this evening, Sir. I hope I have not been overly impertinent or bored you to tears with my inane opinions and stories. I wish you good evening, Sir.” Only the warmth in her eyes showed her innate humour as she dropped a proper curtsey and went to meet her sister.
As she was leaving, he remembered his new resolve during dinner to immediately mention his Cambridge fellowship tenure in any conversation with a new female. He laughed at himself, thinking this was probably one girl who would immediately quiz him on some sort of idea, or possibly debate with him about the benefits or perils of modernisation and factories.
He was still chuckling, when Stephen arrived. “I do not know what you are about over here, speaking for over an hour – since when do you talk to anyone for an hour? – let alone a little country chit who is not even out yet,” Stephen hissed under his breath, obviously upset with his younger brother. “You KNOW your duty: you must marry a lady of means and breeding to provide comfort and connection to the benefit of the family. Why do you stand against the wall for hours, not speaking to anyone except Richard and now you are speaking to girls still in the school room? If your predilections run that way, Fitz, I can recommend a place in London which accommodates said tastes.”
Fitzwilliam was at first baffled by Stephen’s anger. (What could be so wrong with talking to the young lady, in view of the whole room and with her sister and Grandmother in attendance?) As the meaning of Stephen’s accusation sank in, he became indignant and, as usual, in his anger, lost his tongue. He gave his fiercest glare to his brother, choked with rage and disgust, managing to clip out, “I will not even deign to acknowledge that.” He stalked off to give his regards to his other relations and his compliments and thanks to His Grace for the hospitality before he left the party.
[i] The Prince, by Niccolò Machiavelli, published in 1532, Chapter XVII
[ii] His Grace referring to the 5th Duke of Devonshire, Sir William Cavendish. Mourning observances for the death of Her Grace, Lady Georgiana Cavendish’s death in March 1806 would make this dinner party unlikely, but, for the sake of literary license, I ignored that. The Duke’s sister, Her Grace, Lady Lavinia Robinson, Dowager Duchess of Waverley is a figment of my imagination. Basic history of the Dukes of Devonshire: https://www.chatsworth.org/about-chatsworth/history-of-chatsworth/18th-century/
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