The Pemberley Papers

1932.

PART I

Gulliver

Pemberley, Derbyshire, August 28

My life is over. Master Willy is not coming back. It’s my fault.

Well, no. Not entirely my fault. Perhaps I WAS in the wrong, but I was only trying to be friendly.

Miss Georgie never has any objections to my pawing and sniffing. She laughs when I put my paws on her shoulders. But this girl—I should have known! That mushroom scent! Hint of vinegar and putrid duck! Ill omen. Mushroom girl shrieked at my ritual of welcome. She kicked me in the belly. I snapped. I bit, but just a little.

She screamed. Master Willy stared at me. Perplexity and horror combined. Gulliver! NO!

What an uproar! Mushroom girl peeled away. Faked limp (I am not a dupe of these things). Master Willy ran after her. I was taken to the stables (oh indignity) by Horse Boy Harry. They leashed me like a beast of burden and left me there for hours. They forgot to feed me, too.

Now the house is almost deserted. Mushroom girl and her sister left. Master Willy left. Mr. Charles left. Mrs. Reynolds came to liberate me, gave me a bone with plenty of meat on it. Patted me on the head, and said, Not to worry, Gully, me little lad, not to worry. I chewed on the bone, only to please her. Really, I was not hungry by then.

My life is over. I will lie here and just die. He is angry with me and will never come back.

September 1

O blessed, blessed day! Master Willy is back, and he does not hate me. In fact, the opposite. He was happy to see me. Good dog, good dog, good dog! And then, those cryptic words, Gully, old boy, I believe you saved me from a very inconvenient situation. I am not sure what that means. The cloud on him is gone, not a whiff of it left. Whatever can that mean? But oh, I love that sweet scratching behind the ears, and that low rumbling voice. He loves me again. He is the best.

September 4

Aaahh! Something about early fall. Formidable scents, numerous and undulating, cool breezes wafting. I go mad with glee. Master Willy is happy to be back and loves me again, he does. We take long walks, sometimes we run. I love to run.

I heard them talk in the kitchen: mushroom girl is not coming back. Life is wonderful.

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Pemberley, Derbyshire, September 18

What a fool Charles is. I shall never understand how he can be so precipitous—bordering on flighty—in making momentous decisions. Unheeding of my advice to purchase the Hatsworth estate, which was well within his power to acquire, and which would have made us neighbors of sorts—a mere 70 miles from Pemberley—he has quite inconceivably signed his agreement upon an estate in the South, in Hertfordshire, a property that was to let, not to purchase.

Caroline was not kind in her rebukes this evening, and Louisa was scarcely more civil. Indeed, they are impatient for him to be truly settled now that he has been of age two years already, and they would prefer a more Northern exposure, as it were. The conversation went something like this:

How could you make such a decision on a whim? said Louisa in that whiny, exasperated tone of hers.

Not a whim, Bingley protested. The property was highly recommended by the curate of North Lambton, whose cousin—

Charles, that is not the issue. Why did you not consult us? Caroline cut in.

But… The truth is… It has a splendid library that…

"Hah! For all the time you ever spend with a book! One might think you perfectly illiterate!" Caroline said. Her sneering tone annoyed me. ’Tis true that Charles is not the most well-read fellow I ever met, but it was inappropriate of her to upbraid him so, especially in company. Georgiana looked up in astonishment from her work. I had to intervene.

I clapped my book shut, started up from my chair, and championed Charles’s cause in the most ardent tones, praised the charms of the southern countryside in the fall, and declared myself ready to accompany him when he takes possession at Michaelmas. That nailed the sisters’ beaks shut. They looked quite chastened. I rarely express myself so vehemently. Blessed silence followed, broken only by the fire crackling in the hearth. I was gratified by Georgiana’s almost imperceptible smile, as I was by Charles’s grateful expression. Hurst continued snoring unperturbed.

So, to this Netherfield estate shall I go. Bingley is not to be left on his own in uncharted waters, and he needs my helping hand. I do hope this impulsive decision will not prove as disagreeably consequential as his last few ideas. After all, it was due to his bumbling excess of nicety that we found ourselves embroiled with the Edwards sisters. That, fortunately, is history. Thanks to Gulliver. Good little fellow! As a reward, I shall bring him along in my southerly saunter.

Netherfield, Hertfordshire, October 3

I suppose Charles can be half forgiven for allowing his inclinations to supersede his reason. Netherfield is a pleasant property, quite suitable for his station in life. At this time of year, the woods are entering autumn glory. Cool nights provide excellent sleeping conditions, and the afternoons are warm and golden.

Today, Bingley is busy flitting to and fro, visiting his new neighbors. The sisters are not expected here for another few days. I savor the solitude, unhampered by shrill female voices. Just the thing for long strolls with Gully. Poor lad! He seemed quite despondent and thin when I returned from London after delivering the injured Miss Edwards back to her indignant family. Mrs. Reynolds said he ate next to nothing while I was gone. But he looks better already. Loyal Gully! Little does he know what I owe him—the bite that saved! I could hardly keep a steadfast countenance when Miss Edwards declared, as we parted, that any engagement between us was now quite impossible, seeing that I had been lacking in respect by not immediately putting the ferocious animal down. Apparently, she was deeply offended by my tepid apologies. Well, so be it.

As if she had been hurt! He barely snapped; no blood was drawn.

As if an engagement had ever been envisaged… I was speechless with astonishment. Where the devil did she see an engagement looming?

I have difficulty comprehending females sometimes, and I feel as though I have narrowly escaped a most harrowing situation. Again, it has been hammered into my brain that it is very dangerous to pay attention to any woman, no matter how enticing her smiles may be, how nonchalant her demeanor, before one has thoroughly studied her character. It seems they are always scheming. I must be less naïve from now on and remain on my guard.

Netherfield, October 6

Bingley informed me that an Assembly is planned in Meryton, a village just a few miles from here, in a se’enight. He has secured invitations for all of us from a local knighted tradesman named Lucas. SIR WILLIAM Lucas. A ponderous, exclamatory fellow who has already returned Bingley’s visit (twice) and regaled us with interminable tales of his presentation at Court. Caroline, Louisa, and Hurst are due to arrive tomorrow.

Bingley’s social energies are remarkable. He has already met with a good number of the landed gentry here. I do not relish the thought of a country assembly, where more ladies of the ilk of Miss Edwards—except in a low, rustic incarnation—are bound to be present, ready to ensnare. But I must brace myself for the inevitable. In a more positive light, I am hopeful that a suitor might be found for Caroline among the young men here. Although her supercilious airs may frighten away the local lads, her 20,000 pounds may render her society—and an alliance—supportable to some, just as Louisa’s share secured Mr. Hurst. It would make Bingley’s life infinitely more pleasant to have her settled. And, I daresay, mine as well.

In the meantime, I am enjoying the perusal of the Netherfield library. Clearly the owner is a man of taste and education; besides the English and Classical authors, there is a tolerable collection of French and Italian works, a few of which I do not have at Pemberley and must make a point to purchase; although Voltaire and Montesquieu may be out of favor among my countrymen—out of excessive patriotism perhaps—they do make for provocative reading; in fact, much wisdom is to be found, in my opinion, in any work that a reputable printer finds fit to print—if only to sharpen one’s wits in formulating disagreements with an erroneous point of view.

Even novels have value (although I discourage Georgiana from reading any), especially if one reads them with a critical stance. I use literature of all kinds to hone my ability to see things clearly, rationally, and with unprejudiced eyes.

I find it curious that not one of Charles’s five sisters is ever to be seen with a book in hand. I have made it a point that Georgiana will not be left ignorant, as so many girls seem to be. They are merely asked to learn the Kings and Queens of England and a few phrases of French, and then their brains are left to wither away. I have instructed Mrs. Annesley to have Georgiana diligently follow the program of study that I drew up before I left.

I took a rather stern approach with Georgiana myself in that regard upon saying goodbye, but she disarmed me with her playful embrace. She declared that she would do exactly as she pleased in my absence but that since nothing pleased her better than pleasing me, I would not be disappointed, and I could quiz her as much as I liked upon my return. Sometimes she surprises me with such declarations that are half-impertinent, half-adoring. She is so young. When I think how close I came to losing her…

October 8

Caroline and Mr. and Mrs. Hurst and their retinue of servants arrived as a pouring rain was darkening the lanes. Complaints rained just as hard inside, immediately and incessantly. How backward the country, how rutted and muddy the roads, how inconvenient the inn, how dirty the carriage, how disgusting the sustenance proffered along the way, etc. They declared, with reproachful looks in my direction, that they had left Georgiana inconsolable at not being allowed to come to Netherfield to join our party. But after what happened, I believe it is safest to keep Georgiana out of society for a while, and I stolidly ignored their jagged arrows. I find that silence is a most efficacious response to impertinence.

October 10

We are settling into a routine. Charles and I comb the countryside on horseback every day that is fine—and many have been fine since we have been here. The sisters stay at home, carp and cavil, receive visitors with mellifluous tones, mock them once they have left, play the pianoforte and sing duets (rather shrilly), and work their endless embroideries. Caroline sighs often, remarking that Pemberley is infinitely superior to this place and hoping that Charles will soon be done indulging his Netherfield folly, as she calls it. He ignores her speeches, with a serene countenance. I admit she tries my patience. Were she my sister (God forbid!), I would not allow such sharp discourse. Mr. Hurst revives himself from his numerous naps only to bully us into playing vingt et un or whist in the evening and to drink himself into oblivion once again.

While this life may be perfectly acceptable for a few weeks, and although Bingley finds great pleasure in entertaining new acquaintances and returning their visits, I try to avoid this tedious social intercourse and find myself absent from the house much of the day. Gully is a lifesaver in this respect, and I always feel better after a long walk. But I daresay I shall go mad in a fortnight unless something happens to relieve the monotony.

Sometimes I wish I could be more like Charles and find amusement and joy in society. I wish I had his ease of repartee and that ingenuous, endearing tone of voice that many, including myself, find so charming. But it seems I am constrained by my character, and all the good will in the world will not turn me into a social butterfly. Perhaps I should go to Town soon nonetheless, and bring Georgiana, for her skills on the pianoforte have improved to the point that her current teacher has declared himself quite outdone by his pupil.

That accursed Assembly! It has been threatening like a tempest on the horizon for a week, and now it is upon us. Bingley is looking forward to it with the enthusiasm of a little boy who has been promised sweets, for there is talk of a few local beauties; and the sisters are outdoing themselves in their contemptuous predictions of the savagery we are about to witness. I do not know which of these two attitudes is most to be pitied. I confess I may agree more with the sisters than with Charles. But I am tired of their platitudes and affectations—what Louisa would call sournoiseries in other women—and so I plan to remove myself as much as possible from their society today. Long walks in the woods of Netherfield these next few days may do the trick. Gulliver needs exercise. I am happy to have brought him.

Gulliver

Netherfield, October 11

Delightful, enchanting! Master Willy is truly my best friend. We have been going out and traipsing the countryside every day, for hours, just he and I. I am no longer a puppy; I can go all day. Master Willy gives me leisure to sniff about and explore, and I can tell you that these woods are at least as delicious as those of Pemberley—a true fairyland. Brooks, ferns, squirrels, snakes, frogs, moles and voles galore. I almost caught a duck today.

Nothing is better than coming home after those long rambles, filling my belly with a most convivial mush, and lying before the hearth.

There is something about Master Willy, though. It has happened before. It is happening again. He looks happy to go out but anxious about something. Unsettled. I hope it has nothing to do with that mushroom girl. Tonight, he is sipping a glass of wine, staring intently at the fire. Then he will start up and walk about as in a fit. Then he sits down again.

Well, time to nap.

October 14

Something very strange has happened to Master Willy! Last night he went out with the rest of them, in very fine clothes, for a social occasion, I believe.

Upon his return with Mr. Charles and the sisters, I sensed a great deal of agitation in him. Though he went to bed after some snappy, incomprehensible conversation with the rest of the company, he never slept a wink the whole night. He was up again before sunrise, and off he went, this time on horseback, without me.

Why do humans do things that make them so unsettled? I don’t have that problem. In fact, I will stop worrying about it and take a nice, long nap.

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Netherfield, October 14

How do I put down on paper the jumble of emotions that have tossed me like a ship in a storm in the last twelve hours? I must organize my thoughts and take a rational approach. None of this should be causing me the least bit of unrest, and yet I am perturbed. I must analyze all this rationally.

First, I am afraid I must have looked somewhat foolish at that confounded Assembly last night. I hate nothing more than opening myself up to the commentaries of fools, but what else might I expect from a country assembly?

Bingley has just hinted this afternoon, during a postmortem of the evening, and the sisters have confirmed, that I was the object of much speculation and expectations last night. As I had dreaded. Apparently, I did not please the rabble because I did not dance enough, talk enough, or smile enough. I was deemed to think myself above my company.

What happened was that a rumor ran about the room as soon as we had entered—probably sparked by that Lucas fellow, who simply talks too much—that I was a most wealthy man who was searching across the kingdom for a seductive Cinderella to be my true love; and it was quite disappointing to the hopefuls that I did not immediately fix my head and heart (not to mention fortune) on an object.

The truth is that the place was noisy and crowded, the candles smoked, the musicians were more eager than able, and as soon as I walked in, I heard an old woman whisper theatrically "TEN THOUSAND A YEAR" into the ear of another hag while staring at me.

I wanted to turn on my heels and spend a quiet evening at home reading, sleeping, playing solitaire, anything, really. Even a reading of a few of John Donne’s sermons would have been the summit of felicity compared to this.

Although I had hoped that here in the country, as a relative unknown, I might be safe from the London set, I realized I was wrong. Here again, nubile girls would be thrown in my way, their mothers eagerly projecting what luxurious toilettes and carriages would be theirs as the companions of my wealthy life. Another Amanda Edwards would be conjured up, with her coquettish ways. More false declarations, artificial emotions, stupid babble, and fakeries. I honestly think I did try to see what Miss Edwards had to offer; but there was no substance there, nothing to talk about; the same platitudes and idiocies that plague bored, so-called accomplished women. I am determined to spare Georgiana that fate.

Four times in the last five years, I have been accused (though not always openly) of toying with a woman’s affections only to reject her coldly. Yet, each time, I had given very little encouragement, for a very good reason. I felt perhaps some attraction, but never attachment. I am a man, and subject to the foibles of my sex. But it is my duty to be extremely careful in my assessment of a woman’s suitability. For this reason, I do not banter, I do not flirt, I do not pay