"The Darcy visit was brief, and every bit as difficult as I feared..."

What makes Anne de Bourgh look 'sickly and cross'? Jane Austen never tells us - but Rohase Piercy gives us a clue in Before Elizabeth.  

I have very little memory of my father's funeral.  My main impression is of a room full of people, with Mama in black silk sitting rigidly in Papa's favourite chair at one end and Mrs Henderson ushering in guests at the other.  I do remember feeling both surprised and gratified that a quiet, reclusive man like Papa should have attracted so many mourners; not as many as had attended my Uncle Darcy's funeral, but enough to bear witness that he was loved.  I know that William was there – I remember seeing him in conversation with Edward, and later with Mama – but I do not recall what I said to him.  It was my turn now to be unreachable in grief.

A fortnight or so later, I fell ill.  The shock of losing Papa in so sudden and violent a manner, at a time when my nerves were already at full stretch, made me easy prey to a virulent fever which confined me to bed for three full months.

I did not realise until much later how critical was my situation during those months, or how close Mama came to losing a daughter as well as a husband.  I remember the pain which racked my limbs, and the burning in my head and throat; Mrs Jenkinson's arm supporting my head as a glass was raised to my lips; the movement of the curtain at the open window and the menacing shadows which danced around the candle during long, broken nights. I recall sharp, vivid dreams invading my sleep with harsh voices and garish colours:  my father calling out my name, Miss Harvey's mocking laughter, writhing worms of light, splinters of blue glass.  Several times I became aware of a low moaning sound, only to realise as I surfaced from delirium that it came from my own throat.  I also have a memory of opening my eyes to find Mama sobbing at my bedside, a sight and sound so startling that I long believed it to have been a dream.

When I came to myself I felt drained, exhausted, and light as a feather.  It was a curiously pleasant feeling, as if the flotsam and jetsam of my life had been washed far out to sea, leaving me becalmed upon a wide, white shore.  I was horrified, however, upon first seeing my reflection in the glass: I had always been slight and fair-complexioned, but now my face was skull-like and white as bone.  My hair came out in great clumps upon the brush, causing me to drop it with a cry of alarm.  Mrs Jenkinson was my nurse throughout, singing old lullabies and stroking my head as though I were once again the little girl she had nursed through so many childhood illnesses; and her tender care brought me back to some semblance of health.

“You have nothing to worry about now, my chicken, except regaining your strength.  We have all the time in the world.  Let me help you to the window, precious – that's right, slowly now, lean upon my shoulder whilst I take your arm.  See, I have arranged the cushions nicely for you – let me lift your feet.  Now, we must wrap you against the cold – look, the trees are almost bare, just a few bright leaves clinging to the birches.  You're as pale and slender as a birch yourself, my poor darling, but have patience – we must all have patience - and we'll have you as bright and gay as a daffodil by Easter.”

I was in no hurry whatsoever to be as bright and gay as a daffodil.  I had no desire to do anything other than lie upon the sofa and watch the last leaves succumb to their fate, spiraling down one by from the skeletal birches.  Every movement pained me and tested my strength.  For what seemed like weeks I could walk no further than the window; then gradually I progressed along the length of the corridor outside my room, my knees giving way upon seeing the turn at the landing and the great flight of stairs beneath.  Eventually however  I was able to descend, and spent a hollow and cheerless Christmas by the drawing room fire, trying to force down sips of spiced wine as the sight of Papa's empty chair brought a lump to my throat.  Mama sat watching me anxiously, her voice unusually gentle and low as she read from Georgiana's letter sending me good wishes from herself and William, and promising to visit in the Spring.  I felt no enthusiasm at the prospect.  I had no wish for company, not even William's; the sensations that his very name had once evoked seemed as distant and ephemeral as a fairy tale.  I moved from day to day like one in a dream, feeling quite content to lie upon the couch and watch my life drift by without taking any active part in the proceedings.

It was Edward who first came to visit me, arriving with the crocuses in mid-February.  I was reluctant to see him at first, ashamed of my changed appearance and cropped hair; but he wisely persisted, and his company proved to be the restorative I so badly needed.  I saw in his face that my pallor and thinness shocked him, but he took my hand with brotherly affection, spoke cheerfully, and declared himself happy to be at Rosings again.  We did not speak of Papa at first; in fact I spoke little at all, leaving Edward to manage the conversation.  He talked of matters that seemed as distant to me as the moon: his promotion to the rank of Colonel; Georgiana's continued progress at school; William's new London friends, whom he had lately been entertaining at Pemberley.

“He is apparently reckoned to be the perfect host. 'Tis a transformation I should dearly love to witness, should not you, Anne?  William making himself agreeable in company – well well!  But then a young man in possession of a large estate is always described as the perfect host by guests hoping for a second invitation!”

I tried to smile, but my incomprehension must have shown in my face; Edward looked concerned, and fell silent.  At length he said quietly “I am so sorry, Anne, that I had to leave Rosings so soon after – that I could not stay longer, and be more of a help to my aunt and to you.  It could perhaps have lessened the gravity of your illness.  I have failed in my promise to my uncle.”

He blinked rapidly as he spoke, and my desire to reassure him roused me to speech. 

“You have nothing to reproach yourself with, Edward; what could you have done?  You are a soldier, not a nurse!  I think I was better off in the hands of Dr Harris and Mrs Jenkinson, do not you?”

Mama, to do her justice, was both courteous and welcoming to her nephew.  Grief had changed her; she had softened towards him, and was appreciative of his kindness to me.   Perhaps having now no occasion for jealousy, she could acknowledge his good qualities without rancour; perhaps his promotion to the rank of Colonel impressed her.   According to Mrs Jenkinson, Edward was a brave and gallant officer.  He must, I realised, be required to command obedience, lead men into danger, risk his life for King and country.  William's responsibilities, great as they were, paled into insignificance beside Colonel Fitzwilliam's; and yet Edward gave himself no airs, stood not upon his dignity, remained open and pleasant in his manner to all.  Who would not love such a man? Papa, I reflected, would be so proud of him.

The months passed, and I grew stronger. Eventually I became curious to see how Georgiana was getting along, and to feel myself equal to that meeting, both longed for and dreaded, with William.  No sooner had I expressed the hope, than Mama arranged the visit. My agitation as the occasion approached was only increased by her repeated assurances that a pale, delicate appearance was greatly preferred by gentlemen of taste, and that short hair was now very much in fashion.  I understood fully for the first time that my bloom, such as it was – 'I would not have you lose that delicate bloom, Anne' - had been irrevocably blighted by my illness; I began to regret having prompted the invitation, which it was now too late to rescind. 

The Darcy visit was brief, and every bit as difficult as I feared. William's shock at finding me so changed was obvious for all to see.  He recovered his countenance well, quickly replacing his expression of horror with one of concern, but it was too late to erase it from my memory or to prevent me from calculating the implications of it.  And it was not just I who had changed.  Edward's talk of a 'transformation' had not been exaggerated - Fitzwilliam Darcy was now a man of the world, his manners confident, his appearance fastidious.  He spoke, with a detachment that appalled me, of the vulgarity of public balls, the tediousness of dinner parties; of shooting parties organised by a boorish neighbour, Mr Hurst, who had recently married the sister of his friend Charles Bingley; of the merits and shortcomings of Mr Rowe's stewardship; of pressing matters of business at Pemberly, to which he must shortly return.

Was it really less than two years since we had stood beneath the trees in St James' Park, and I had felt myself melt before the eloquence of his gaze?  It seemed a lifetime ago.  When Mama took him away to make the obligatory call at the Parsonage, leaving Georgiana and I alone together, I felt only relief.

Georgiana was kindness itself, complimenting me upon my hair riband and bringing me extra cushions with sisterly concern.  She brought her chair close beside my couch and proceeded to regale me with such tales of school life as had formerly been my delight - but what a chasm now lay between us!  Beside Georgiana, I felt old at sixteen; an old maid to whom her eager prattle seemed childish, her robust good looks a reminder of long-faded youth. I reproached myself, recollecting that she had lost both parents, and I only one;  but how could I match such resilience?  Why was I so damaged, and she so wholesome?

Eventually my listlessness and obvious disinterest defeated her.  She timidly observed that I seemed fatigued, and offered to ring for Mrs Jenkinson.  I did not object.

When our guests departed on the following day, Mama declared herself vastly pleased with the visit, and with William's solicitude toward me; but I knew otherwise.  All my hopes and expectations regarding my handsome cousin were now as insubstantial as a dream.  He had left me behind, in a realm of shadow, while he forged his way ahead in the world.  

Unequal to battle, I took refuge in surrender;  I remained upon the sofa and watched cherry-blossom drift past the window as spring gave way to summer, and my seventeenth birthday came and went.  

There was now, of course, no question of my being presented at Court.  

'But is Constance understanding? Is she not just docile and rather ignorant?'

Well, dear readers, the Blog is lingering in the 1890s because this week we've had another anniversary: Oscar Wilde's birthday, 16th October. He's famous for his witty plays and stories, his Aesthetic lifestyle, and (of course) has become a gay icon and martyr. Sometimes people forget he had a wife and two sons. 

                                    

His spouse, Constance has often been sidelined by Wilde's biographers as a dull 'mumsy' figure to be pitied or disdained. Our own Rohase Piercy's The Coward Does It With A Kiss challenges this view with a fascinating, insightful fictional 'autobiography'. We discover not only that Mrs Wilde was far more than a dutiful wife and mother but also, perhaps, what she really knew about her husband.

It's 1891. Let us join Constance as she passes by the drawing room in the Wildes' exquisite House Beautiful and accidentally eavesdrops on Oscar and his friends.

                                                        _________________________________

And now let me test your memory, Oscar. Let me see whether I cannot conjure up your past for you better than you can yourself. Voices in the drawing room – Lionel Johnson’s, Robbie’s, John Gray’s, and yours; June sunlight in the passageway outside; tinkling glasses, laughter, and the smell of Alexandrian tobacco.

‘Oh! No, Oscar, this is too much. How, after Dorian – it will be going from the sublime to the ridiculous. Besides, you cannot base a whole play upon the unrequited lust of an Israelite princess, not in this day and age.’

‘Why ever not? The West End Theatre, my dear Lionel, thrives on unrequited lust. Look at any play you care to mention, and you will find that lust is the very pivot upon which the action turns!’

‘Yes, but a Biblical theme …’

‘Oh, lust is a very Biblical theme! And anyway, I intend to make her Persian rather than Israelite. Poetic licence, my dear, the prerogative of Genius. The Israelites had no appreciation of sin.’

‘No, they quite disapproved of it, I’m told -‘

‘Whereas the Persians toasted the delights of the flesh in sugared wine, offered in chalices of jade and silver by sloe-eyed boys with dusky skin and rose-leaf lips …’

‘Robbie, what utter drivel. What do you know of Persia?’

‘As much as you, I dare say, Dorian. I was merely offering a humble tribute to the exquisite style and taste

of our host here.’

‘A very poor imitation then. And please don’t call me Dorian.’

‘Mr Gray then, if we must be formal …’

‘Oh Oscar really, can’t you stop him?’

‘Stop him? But why? He is so charming with vine leaves in his hair. At least he had the foresight to arrive suitably arrayed in leafy clusters, whereas you and Lionel are both constrained to borrow from me.’

‘At half past eleven in the morning?’

‘It is gone noon, I assure you. Let us toast the glorious noon with some more of this golden nectar. Lionel?’

‘Oscar, how can I refuse you?’

‘Never try. John?’

‘It is just gone half past eleven. I looked at my watch not five minutes ago.’

‘I will not have to do with guests who consult their watches in my presence. But if you insist, let us look

at mine – there, you see – the bawdy hand of the dial is e’en now upon the prick of noon.’

‘Oh, really!’

‘The Immortal Bard’s words, not mine! And am I not right? You see how time flies when you are listening

to me? And now, are you going to drink some more of my sherry?

‘Oh, very well …’

‘There’s no need to be so ungracious about it dear, just because I was right and you were wrong. Petulance does sometimes become you, but not today. Today, let all be sweetness and light! Robbie, my sweet goblin, what have you been doing this morning? How came you thus to anticipate us? Robert, it is too tiresome when you giggle like that instead of replying to my questions. How can I discuss with you the delicious wantonness of Salome when you sit there gurgling like an overflowing waste pipe? I shall be forced to conclude that you need the services of a plumber … oh really, what a vulgar sense of humour. Do try and pull yourself together dear, and let us converse about serious matters. What were we just discussing?’

‘Lust, Oscar.’

‘Oh, surely not!’

‘Persia. The West End Theatre.’

‘The sins of both are the same …’

‘Hic sunt poma Sodomorum – your words, I believe Lionel – ah, the Cities of the Plain! Yes, it was just such a cradle that rocked Salome …’

‘I really don’t see why. Dorian, perhaps, but a Persian princess?’

‘There is a little of the Persian princess in most of us, don’t you think?’

‘Oh Oscar, how perceptive of you! I’ve been trying to keep it a secret!’

‘Not in you, Robbie. A Persian princess would have more dignity. She certainly would not sit huddled at one end of a divan smirking tipsily to herself at half past – whatever it is in the morning. And you have never answered my question. Where have you been?’

‘Nowhere! I arose from my downy couch and came straight here to you. Last night, however -‘

‘Ah, no, I don’t want to hear it. Never refer to the night before! That should be a golden rule amongst all who take pleasure seriously.’

Laughter. The chink of glasses as more sherry is poured. You are determined to keep centre stage, as always.

‘So now seriously, Oscar. You have delighted us all with your subtlety in two wonderful stories which no-one else would have had the audacity to write, let alone publish – I mean The Portait of Mr W. H. and Dorian, of course – and now you announce that you will fling aside the mask of double entrendre to reveal – what? A wanton girl and a reluctant prophet? Don’t you realise how you will have disappointed us all?'

‘I have no doubt that my Salome will be a great disappointment to the shallow-minded, to those concerned only with the particular and not with the delicious conglomeration of the universal.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning the sins of the flesh, dear boy! A veritable feast! The apples of Sodom and the apples of Eden, served at the same banquet! There is the rest of the human race to consider, after all.’

‘As to that, I really neither know nor care. That is an opinion on which we must part company, I think.’

‘So soon? My poor John, you have your whole life ahead of you, and you will find the world a hard, inhospitable place when they expel you from Eden.’

‘You think I am going to change? Or compromise my nature? Because I can assure you, Oscar – ‘

‘No, no, I am merely saying that an artist must take his material from the whole of human experience. Especially if he is to produce West End plays.’

‘Ah, there you have it. You compromise, in order to please the vulgar masses.’

‘Certainly I wish my talents to have universal acknowledgement. Genius cannot thrive in a backwater.’

‘A backwater! You disappoint me, Oscar.’

‘What! Because I am reluctant to leave my house, my family, my Art, and elope with you to some seedy little lair in Bayswater?’

‘There’s no need to refer to that. I take back any such proposal. I am disappointed because you mean to have your cake and eat it too.’

‘I most certainly do! I would consider it foolish and unimaginative not to!’

‘Oh! So you consider us all to be foolish, and unimaginative?’

‘Of course he does not, John, stop trying to provoke him. You are determined to create a deliberate misunderstanding …’

‘Am I?’

‘Yes, and don’t adopt that peevish tone with me. Life is a rich tapestry, and Oscar is the richer for bring blessed with children, and an understanding wife.’

‘Thank you Robbie. Your vine leaves become you. I do consider myself blessed.’

‘But is Constance understanding? Is she not just docile, and rather ignorant?’

‘Constance, docile? You would not say that if you knew her!’

There is a edge to your laughter; and I meanwhile am trembling with rage. Beneath that golden exterior, John Gray is every bit as ugly as his namesake’s hidden portrait. Docile and ignorant! And he so fawning and flattering to my face!

‘Oh, so she knows, does she, where you spend the nocturnal hours?’

‘I would consider it demeaning both to my wife and to myself to discuss such matters. We have an excellent understanding. She pursues her interests, and I pursue mine.’

‘Oh come on, Oscar. You mean that she consoles herself with good works in Whitechapel, and plays at Liberal politics with eccentric old women!’

‘John.’

‘It is all right, Robbie dear. It takes more than a little petulance to upset me. I am not Basil Hallward, and he is not Dorian, as he so rightly says. Now let us forget these petty quarrels and speak of Salome. I can promise you, you will not be disappointed, whatever you may think of the subject matter. It is to be written in French …’

‘In French! Ah, so this is the outcome of your sojourn in Paris!’

‘But of course! No artist can visit that delightful city without bathing in the spring of inspiration that bubbles up from its very foundations … ah, it is the cradle of Decadence. Salome was conceived in Paris, and I shall return thither to attend her birth.’

‘I thought you said she was rocked on the Cities of the Plain!’

‘And so she shall be, Lionel my dear. One generally rocks the baby after it is born .. at least, that is my experience. But as for the Cities of the Plain, surely Paris is one of them? Yes, I shall go back in the autumn.’

This is news to me. I had hoped your long absences were over for this year. The whole of February and March, and most of May – and you did not write very often.

And yes, I already harbour suspicions as to where you spend the ‘nocturnal hours’. They are not the suspicions I once harboured, and I have allowed myself to feel grateful for that; to feel fortunate, even, in comparison with other neglected wives … 

Docile, and ignorant! Only Robbie has any true respect for me … why can you not find another friend like him?

I have not been to Paris since our honeymoon.

I tread carefully on the stairs, past the half-open door, on my way to the sanctuary of my room. The sunlight has moved; a shadow steals across the upper landing. Just before I retreat from earshot, Lionel Johnson is saying –

‘Oh by the way Oscar, there is a young cousin of mine who would very much like to meet you. He’s just up at Oxford from Winchester, and he claims to have read Dorian nine times running! He’ll be in London for part of the Summer vacation …’

"...without Miss Bennet to dominate the conversation ... "

 

Readers of Pride and Prejudice will recognise this crucial point in the story - and here we experience it from Anne de Bourgh's point of view. 

Enjoy this delightful extract from Rohase Piercy's Before Elizabeth

My cousins were due to leave us at the end of the week;  but to my surprise, they were easily prevailed upon to extend their visit by several days, with William seemingly the more anxious of the two to accede to Mama's invitation!  She of course chose to see this as a compliment to me, but I knew otherwise and was extremely puzzled.  Not once had William sought my company, encouraged my conversation or paid me any particular compliment; in fact he had seemed preoccupied and distant since the moment of his arrival, never offering to take Edward's place beside me in the phaeton but preferring to walk the Park alone.  I was at a loss to account for his continued presence with us, though glad to have Edward at Rosings a little longer.

Two days into their extended stay, Edward entered the drawing room where William and I were sitting – William engrossed in the newspaper, and I occupied with my needlework – with the following cheerful announcement: “You may congratulate yourself, Darcy, on having prevented yet another imprudent marriage! I have just encountered Miss Elizabeth Bennet quite by chance in the Park, and took the opportunity to make it perfectly clear that I have no intention of proposing to her.  It was all most discreetly done, I assure you.  You may express your approval, if you like.”

Mama was not present to conduct an interrogation, but William looked uncomfortable, as well he might; he hastily folded the newspaper and sat back in his chair. “What did you say to her?” he asked warily.

“Oh, I merely commented that younger sons cannot afford to marry anyone they happen to like.  Or words to that effect.”

“Well, that was hardly discreet!  What said Miss Bennet?”

“She said, 'unless they like women of fortune, which I think they often do!'  That was  astute, was it not?  I really do not think she will be pining for me.”

William seemed to find this both pleasing and amusing.  He rose and strolled over to the window, smiling to himself, while I begged an explanation from Edward as to what he meant by 'yet another imprudent marriage'.

“Oh, Bingley,” he replied airily; “At least I assume it was Bingley – Darcy, will you not confirm for us that it was Charles Bingley you referred to when you said you had advised a friend against an imprudent marriage?”

I turned questioningly to William and he did confirm it, though without further elaboration.

“And who was the lady?” I pressed, eager for details.

“No-one you would know, Anne.  A Hertfordshire acquaintance.”

“And why would it have been an imprudent marriage?”

“The usual reasons: vulgar connections, an unsuitable family – the lady herself was pleasant enough.  Excuse me, Anne – Fitzwilliam – I believe I must speak to my aunt.”  He bowed perfunctorily in my direction, and made towards the door.

“Well, Miss Bennet seems to think your interference in the matter unnecessarily officious,” commented Edward with a shrug, picking up the newspaper and preparing to occupy the chair that our cousin had just vacated. William froze abruptly in mid-stride, and wheeled around with an expression horror on his face.

“Miss Bennet?  You mentioned the matter to her?  By what right?  What on earth possessed you to speak of such a thing?”

Edward and I were equally astonished, and he not a little annoyed.  “For heaven's sake Darcy!” he retorted, “Am I now not allowed so much as a word of conversation without your permission?  Yes, I mentioned the circumstance to Miss Bennet, as an example, if you must know, of the constancy of your friendship.  I was speaking in praise of you; but I will save myself the trouble in future!”

Now, I thought, William must surely apologise; but instead he persisted with his questioning.

“Did you mention Bingley by name?  Did you speculate as to the identity of the lady involved?”

“Yes, I mentioned Bingley by name.  No, I did not speculate about the lady; why on earth would I?  I have no idea who she is!  Now, if you will allow me, Darcy, I should like to read my newspaper in peace!”  And Edward sat himself down in high dudgeon, unfolded the broadsheet and left William to wander distractedly from the room.

I remained in my seat, lost in silent speculation as to the cause of his discomposure.  The unsuitable lady, I surmised, must be a mutual acquaintance, though why Miss Bennet's knowledge of William's involvement should agitate him so I could not imagine.  There was more to his interest in Charles Bingley's affairs than he was willing to disclose;  could he perhaps be hoping to secure his friend for Georgiana?  I dwelt long upon this possibility, which fitted neatly with another that I had already considered, viz. William's own plans regarding the unmarried Bingley sister, Miss Caroline.  If Charles Bingley were to marry William's sister, might he not feel obliged to be punctilious in returning the compliment?  Could he even now be speaking to Mama, releasing himself from his supposed obligation to me?  Was that why he had prolonged his visit?  If so, we were in for an uncomfortable evening, especially as the Collinses and their guests had once more been invited to drink tea with us!

The evening arrived, however, without my having observed any ill humour between William and Mama; I concluded that I had either been precipitous in my surmise, or that William, for whatever reason, was biding his time.

When our guests arrived, I found myself greeting only the Collinses and Miss Lucas; Miss Bennet, it transpired, was indisposed with a headache and sent her apologies. I was initially disappointed, having planned to scrutinise her manner towards Edward; it occurred to me that his declaration of disinterest might have disappointed her more than he supposed.

Mama was extremely put out – she did not much like Miss Bennet, but expected her to attend upon us when invited to do so, and now Mrs Jenkinson must be called upon to make up the numbers for cards.  William seemed likewise put out, inquiring most particularly into the severity of Miss Elizabeth's headache as though he also suspected her of shamming. 

The visit progressed well enough however;  without Miss Bennet to dominate the conversation I actually managed to engage Miss Lucas, and discovered her to be, beneath her shy exterior, a pleasant and intelligent girl.  When tea was over we prepared for cards, and I hardly noticed when William excused himself and left the room.

As the minutes passed, however, his absence began to impinge upon us and at length Mama sent a servant to inquire for him.  He was not in his room; and it soon transpired that late as the hour was, he had gone out – alone, on foot, and without explanation!  Mama excused his rudeness to our guests as best she could, though her displeasure was evident for all to see; and eventually she made up a table with Edward, Mr Collins and Miss Lucas, leaving Mrs Collins, Mrs Jenkinson and myself to occupy ourselves as we pleased. 

It was a fine May evening, and I chose to take a book to the window seat while the other two conversed alone. There was plenty of light still to read by, but I could not keep my mind upon the page for speculating about my cousin's strange behaviour and current whereabouts.  Nor could I help overhearing Mrs Collins and Mrs Jenkinson, who were speculating likewise.

“It is most unlike Mr Darcy,” Mrs Jenkinson was saying, “to leave so suddenly, and with no explanation to Lady Catherine. I thought at first that he had been taken ill; but if that were the case he would not have gone out.  I do hope he has not received distressing news!  But no message has arrived this evening, and if anything of import to the family had occured Lady Catherine and the Colonel would have been likewise informed.  'Tis all very strange – do you not think so, Mrs Collins?”

Mrs Collins concurred.  “It is certainly most strange. He cannot have gone further than the village on foot; but who could he possibly be calling on so late?  We are all here excepting Miss Bennet, and he knows her to be indisposed.”

We are all here excepting Miss Bennet. I was just suppressing a gape when the jolt shot through me, rendering me fully awake as the scales finally fell from my eyes.  Miss Caroline Bingley, forsooth!  How could I have been so blind?

'Such unequal matches take place all the time'. 'It would be as well to make yourself clear, Fitzwilliam - I think Miss Bennet does find your company a little too agreeable'.  'You have mentioned this to Miss Bennet?  By what right? Did you speculate as to the identity of the lady involved?'

Oh yes, I echoed silently, grimly exultant, it is certainly most strange that Fitzwilliam Darcy should be so very concerned as he seems to be about the inclinations, opinions and matrimonial prospects of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

'Cousins in Hertfordshire, Mr Collins? What relatives are these, pray?'

Before Elizabeth by Rohase Piercy is a marvellous glimpse into the shadows of 'Pride and Prejudice'. Anne de Bourgh's life with her impossible mother, Colonel Fitzwilliam's unexpected secret, Elizabeth Bennet's behaviour - not to mention Mr Darcy's - are all portrayed from surprising angles in this convincing Austen pastiche.

Whilst fretting and fuming over the Darcy family’s behaviour, Mama gave vent to her dissatisfaction by interfering further in Mr Collins’ affairs. The Parsonage, she declared, was in need of a great many improvements, which only a feminine hand could properly attend to; the kitchen garden was shamefully neglected. Mr Collins was a diligent shepherd to his flock, but his domestic life was in a sorry state; indeed how could it be otherwise, since he lacked a wife? And how was he ever to secure one, since he did nothing to recommend himself to any of the ladies to whom he had been introduced since his arrival at Hunsford? (I can vouch for the truth of this: Mama had invited several respectable spinsters of the parish to take tea with us when Mr Collins was present, and without exception they were appalled at the company they had to endure, and could not escape the experience quickly enough!)

“He does nothing to help himself by conversing with such tortuous pomposity,” was Mama’s despairing comment. “I am quite at a loss, Anne. Where shall we find a wife for Mr Collins?”

“Could we not just leave him to find his own wife?” I suggested; but she threw up her hands in horror.

“Good heavens, child, that will never do! Goodness knows what kind of a person he is likely to attract if left to his own devices! For he must have a gentlewoman, you know – I could never countenance anyone other than a gentlewoman at the Parsonage – but she must also be an active, useful sort of person, able to live happily on Mr Collins’ income. I have told him all this often enough! But he will never manage it for himself.”

Mr Collins, however, was to surprise us all, for he did manage it for himself, and in the following manner.

“I wonder, your Ladyship – I have been intending to ask – might I have leave to visit my cousins in Hertfordshire next month? Of course I would not wish to put your Ladyship to the slightest inconvenience, but I feel -”

“Cousins in Hertfordshire, Mr Collins? What relatives are these, pray?”

“A cousin of my late father, Lady Catherine – a Mr Bennet. A very respectable gentleman by all accounts, though an unfortunate disagreement between him and my father has prevented our becoming acquainted. I am persuaded, however, that enough time has now elapsed for me to offer the olive branch with equanimity; indeed, as a clergyman, I feel honour bound to do so. Mr Bennet has five unmarried daughters, and -”

“Five!” (I silently echoed my mother’s exclamation, and sat forward in my chair. This could be interesting.)

“Five daughters! What was the man thinking of? And all unmarried, you say – pray, what are their ages? And what is Mr Bennet’s estate?”

“He is the principal resident of Longbourn, Lady Catherine, a village near the town of Meryton in Hertfordshire. He keeps a very respectable house, I am assured. The youngest Miss Bennet is fifteen, I believe, and the eldest – I am not sure – no older than three and twenty. The estate of Longbourn is – entailed upon myself, in default of any male heir.”

Mama was rendered speechless for a moment, and I could not suppress a smile. There was more to our Mr Collins, it seemed, than either of us had supposed.

“Entailed! Upon you! You have never told me, Mr Collins, that you are to inherit an estate! Why, pray, have you never spoken of it before?”

“Well, I – your Ladyship -” stuttered the unfortunate man, “I did not feel it my place – until, that is, I have made my peace with Mr Bennet – I thought it unseemly to presume -”

“Oh, I understand, I understand. No use putting all your eggs in one basket. But this is news indeed! Longbourn, you say, in Hertfordshire; and five daughters of marriageable age! Well, depend upon it, one of them will easily be prevailed upon to accept you, especially as you are to inherit their father’s estate. Indeed, they can hardly do otherwise! A very pretty scheme, upon my word! You shall certainly have leave to go, Mr Collins, and I go so far as to charge you expressly not to return until you are an engaged man!”

“You may depend upon it, Anne,” reflected Mama when the grateful suppliant had been dismissed and we were able to discuss his prospects in private, “If the Bennet daughters do not have the good sense themselves to look favourably upon Mr Collins, their mother will see to it; she will be a very short-sighted woman if she does not! She has her husband’s estate to think of, and her comfort in old age, as well as the possibility that one of so many daughters may end an old maid, and dependent. She will persuade one or other of them to have him, mark my words!”

But when Mr Collins, who always did what Mama required of him, returned from Hertfordshire an engaged man, it was not one of the Miss Bennets who was the chosen partner of his felicity. We were surprised to learn that he had instead secured the eldest daughter of one Sir William Lucas, a neighbour and friend of the Bennet family. This gentleman, though formerly in trade, had been distinguished during his mayoralty of the town of Meryton by a knighthood; and his daughter Charlotte was declared by her enraptured lover to be the most amiable, most accomplished and most virtuous young woman of the neighbourhood. Whether she could possibly be of sound mind was a matter of speculation between myself and Mrs Jenkinson; but this was exactly the kind of wife Mama would have chosen for Mr Collins herself, and once she had got over her astonishment at his not having got one of his cousins, she was all affability and approval, and declared that the wedding must take place as soon as possible.

“Miss Lucas is the eldest daughter of her family, you say? Pray what is her age, Mr Collins?”

“She is seven and twenty, your Ladyship.”

“Well! She will not be wanting a long engagement, at seven and twenty! Pray return to Hertfordshire as soon as you like, and arrange the date! And her father is Sir William Lucas, is he? Well, you may tell him from me that he will be most welcome to visit his married daughter whenever he likes, and I will receive him here at Rosings!”

Mr Collins saw nothing untoward in my mother’s giving Sir William Lucas permission to visit his own daughter; he was all effusive gratitude, as usual. I was not paying attention to all that he said, for I was wondering whether all five Miss Bennets had refused him in turn, or whether he had become disheartened after one or two rebuttals and decided to look elsewhere. His description of his cousins was uncharacteristically reticent – ‘they were most pleasant girls; the eldest was likely to be married quite soon; their father and mother had been most hospitable.’ It was not like our Mr Collins to be so economical with words. Something, I suspected, had gone awry in that quarter.

I was aroused from my reverie by the exclamation: “Oh! My dear Lady Catherine, I have omitted to mention a most particular circumstance. Whilst in Hertfordshire I had the pleasure of meeting your nephew – Mr Darcy, of Pemberley!”

I bent my head to avoid the significant glance cast in my direction, while Mama inquired somewhat suspiciously into the circumstances of this meeting.

It transpired that a ball had been given by Mr Bingley at his Hertfordshire residence, to which the Bennets and their guest had been invited. It was there that Mr Collins had encountered William, and taken the liberty of introducing himself – ‘taking advantage’, as he put it, ‘of that privilege which we members of the clergy may claim, in being permitted to lay aside the established forms of ceremony’ – and of assuring him that his esteemed aunt and amiable cousin were both in good health. I was mortified, imagining William’s haughty surprise at being thus approached, and was relieved to hear that Mr Collins believed himself to have been received with ‘most affable condescension.’

Whilst Mama, her displeasure towards the Darcys temporarily suspended, waxed eloquent upon the impeccable manners of her nephew, I experienced an unpleasant succession of emotions as I pictured a flurry of Miss Bennets, Miss Lucases and other importunate female residents of Meryton all vying for William’s attention. The man who had once claimed to find balls so tedious had obviously not been averse to attending this one! And supposing he had already formed an attachment? Mr Bingley’s unmarried sister, for instance – how could I have overlooked that possibility? How long would it take Mama to get around to it? I stole an anxious glance in her direction, and was grateful to see that Mr Collins had the whole of her attention, and that my burning cheeks were safe from scrutiny. I surreptitiously placed a hand upon my heart, in a vain attempt to still its unruly clamour. Accept it, Anne, I told myself; accept the inevitable. Miss Bingley, or someone similar, will soon be mistress of Pemberley.

Mr Collins was married in Hertfordshire early in the New Year, and returned with his bride very promptly to Hunsford to be visited by a great many people, all curious to see how the new Mrs Collins conducted herself. Mama and I were of course among the first to pay our respects, and I was on the whole very favourably impressed. Mrs Collins was plain, neat, and well mannered. She smiled a little too readily, but this could of course be due to nervousness. Her conversation, when her husband’s verbosity allowed her to speak, was sensible, desirous to please but not disposed to flatter. Mama seemed likewise well satisfied with her, and invited the happy couple to dine with us the next day.

The Collinses soon became fairly regular guests at our dinner table, being much more welcome as a couple than Mr Collins had been in the single state. Although they were neither lively nor witty company, the husband was often unintentionally amusing and the wife always pleasant and friendly. I began to admire Mrs Collins for the diplomatic way in which she handled her husband, and for the equanimity with which she bore my mother’s interference into every aspect of her domestic affairs. Her age and situation, I decided, were sufficient explanation for her having accepted Mr Collins’ proposal; and if she did not show much obvious affection for him, neither did she betray any repugnance or regret. She seemed cheerfully determined to make the best of her situation, and I could only wish her well.

A small, fat dog and a number of cherries

A Case of Domestic Pilfering by Rohase Piercy and Charlie Raven is a lighthearted tale of two friends who find themselves caught up in an adventure involving blackmail, theft, mistaken identity and 'the love that dare not speak its name' - an adventure in which, for once, Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson find themselves repeatedly and hilariously wrong-footed.

It's the summer of 1890 and Max, a passionate reader of detective stories, is staying in London with his spoilt but charming friend, Guy. They've recently made the acquaintance of a certain Dr Watson - and glimpsed the legendary Sherlock Holmes. In this extract, we find them dutifully taking tea with Guy's mother - and Guy, as ever, has no concept of discretion.

Lady Esher absently poured tea for her guests. A shaft of morning sunlight caught her hand,

modelled its plains and dimples and came to rest flatly on the white cloth. The fine china rang as she handed a cup to Max with a smile. So typical of Guy, she thought, to turn up on her morning ‘At Home’ instead of the Tuesday hour she reserved for him; but at least it varied the company.

Lady Lillingford and her daughter Alicia were quite animated for once. The conversation had

achieved new heights. Alicia had twice opened her mouth to speak, and on the second occasion some actual words had been emitted. What the import of these might have been, had not her mother at that moment fired a descriptive broadside of Mrs Carnforth’s weekend party, Lady Esher pondered with mild interest.

Max, the dear boy, was being attentive; he was charming Lady Lillingford simply by watching her face with his deep brown eyes as she spoke. Whatever one said, if Max listened, one felt that he was giving it a flattering degree of attention.

Guy, on the other hand, was picking cherries out of the madeira cake and feeding them to Candace, her pug. Candace would shortly be sick, probably in the hall by the hat stand. Really, that boy was impossible…

Lady Esher smiled dutifully at Guy, at Candace, at the teapot and then at Max and Lady Lillingford. Alicia, she decided, needed an extra squeeze of a smile, for she looked equally fascinated and dismayed by the presence of so many young men – her eyes signified that they might number several hundred in their mild grey alarm.

‘Come over here, my dear,’ she said kindly. Max looked up surprised, but immediately perceived his mistake and returned his gaze to Lady Lillingford’s doughy face with a hint of resignation. Alicia rose, dropped her parasol, blushed scarlet, and dutifully navigated her way around the tea table to sit beside her hostess.

‘Now tell me,’ Max heard Lady Esher say with an air of delicious confidentiality, ‘Tell me about all your conquests at the party!’ Alicia’s response was inaudible. Max felt very sorry for her.

‘And then, my dear, who do you think was announced?’ breathed Lady Lillingford, and he patiently returned to his contemplations. Composed and serious as his face was, his mind was quite elsewhere; not one word of her long account had registered in his understanding. As he watched the loose, pale lips forming and ejecting their words, his mind moved in realms of gold and pearl, reviewing and re-inspecting the austere, possessed figure emerging from the dim hallway of 221B Baker Street. In his heart was ineffable bliss, exquisite pain. He sighed unconsciously as Lady Lillingford concluded her description of the Duchess of Devonshire’s ball gown.

This young man has taste, she noted with approval; taste, good manners, and obvious breeding. But does he have prospects? If so, Alicia could do worse … she changed the subject abruptly, barely pausing for breath as she set about the task of exploring Max’s background with the all subtlety of an Amazonian explorer wielding a machete.

Guy had discovered that there was a limit to the number of cherries a small, fat dog could consume. This limit had just been reached, and Candace did the decent thing and exited the room. Guy watched her go. What should he do next? His eye lighted upon Max, bravely holding his station whilst buffeted by the sou’wester of la Lillingford’s interrogation. I shall rescue him, thought Guy lovingly.

‘Oh, Mother!’ he cried, suddenly and loudly, causing all heads to turn towards him – not because more than one person in the room was under the impression that she was his mother, but because he had hitherto spoken only four words: ‘Hello,’ ‘Charmed,’ and ‘How tedious‘.

Guy simpered, pleased with himself. ‘We met the most fascinating gentleman yesterday. Actually we met two fascinating gentlemen. The first one – he is so sweet – I’d already made his acquaintance at the races over champagne, and we were sitting yesterday in the bar at -‘

‘Guy, dear, please pick up that cherry before you grind it beneath your boot heel!’

Lady Esher’s voice carried a warning note. Alicia’s eyes had become very round; mention of ‘champagne’ and ‘races’ had quickened her breath. Lady Esher was all too aware that her son’s friends – always excepting Max – were inclined to be somewhat disreputable.

‘… smoking and chatting,’ continued Guy, tossing the cherry onto the table, ‘When there he was. And do you know what? He turned out to be a close friend – indeed, the close and intimate friend, of -‘

‘I do hope, Guy, that you have not issued these gentlemen with one of your invitations to dine here,’ interrupted Lady Esher again, hoping to stave off the name of the intimate friend. Could it be that Beardy, or Beardsley, or whatever he called himself? Surely not that awful Wilde man …

Lady Lillingford, on the other hand, was listening attentively. Beardies and Wildies were

beyond her ken; a more illustrious Beard was in her mind, a Beard definitely associated with horseflesh and champagne …

‘Of course not, mother! He never dines out, you know. He is so fascinating! So different. And we had tea in his rooms afterwards, but he couldn’t join us himself as he’d just been summoned to Scotland Yard.’

There was a small flurry as Lady Esher pressed several different kind of cake upon Alicia.

‘Scotland Yard?’ repeated Lady Lillingford, with a dawning realisation that the P. of W. was not, after all, the protagonist of this adventure.

‘Yes, Lady Lillingford!’ emphasised Guy gaily, aware that he was making an impression. ‘He is

professionally associated with Scotland Yard – you must know that.’

‘Who is, dear?’ Lady Esher felt she could begin to relax. Sir Edward Carson, could it be?

‘Mr Sherlock Holmes, of course! I told you!’

‘No dear, you never mentioned the name.’

‘Only because you kept interrupting me, going on about cherries and dinners and suchlike.’

‘Mr Sherlock Holmes?’ repeated Lady Lillingford slowly; ‘Ah, yes! My dear, it’s that wonderful detective man – you know, he cleared up the matter of Lord St Simon’s little problem so discreetly. You remember, dear! Mrs Tattershall told us about it a while ago. Shocking business.’

Lady Esher metaphorically unstopped Alicia’s ears by withdrawing the tray of cakes, and seemed remarkably to have unstopped her mouth in the process.

‘But I have read all about him, Mr Clements! He is remarkable, as you say. It must have been wonderful to meet him in the flesh.’

Her small, clear voice turned all heads in her direction, and Max nodded vigorously, his heart swelling with affection for Alicia. Guy had more than appropriated his hero in the last few minutes, and he was determined to retrieve the honour.

‘We didn’t really have time to introduce ourselves, Miss Lillingford; he passed us on the doorstep.’ Max blushed deeply. ‘But we had tea with Dr Watson in his rooms.’

‘And what rooms!’ crowed Guy; ‘Utterly Bohemian, Miss Lillingford! So thrillingly unconventional!’

‘Bohemian?’ Alicia leaned forward, fascinated; Lady Esher thought she detected an

unhealthy gleam in her eye.

‘Yes, yes! Oh, how can one describe them? Filled with chaos, but such artistic chaos! Chemistry, tobacco, Persian slippers. Revolver practice. You see, he eschews all the petty concerns of daily life and lives in splendid isolation, either driven by the white heat of his genius, or – or -‘

Max chose not to leap into the breach and save his friend; really, this was too much. Guy

knew nothing whatsoever about Mr Holmes.

‘Well, well,’ said Lady Esher mildly into the the pause that followed, ‘Obviously a remarkable man. Perhaps we could invite him to dine one evening – with Mr Percy, Sir Edward’s solicitor, and other people of that sort.’ She smiled wearily at Lady Lillingford. ‘One does well to entertain one’s professional men from time to time, don’t you find? They do give of their best when favoured with good wine and conversation.’

Lady Lillingford nodded. ‘Oh, quite – Sir Charles’ physician is a charming man, quite convivial company in the right circumstances.’

Max could not bear it. ‘He would not come, Lady Esher, I think,’ he said in stilted tones,

straining the boundaries of politeness. ‘As Guy has already mentioned, he does not dine in company.’

Both ladies looked taken aback, and his hostess raised a well-bred eyebrow. There was an

awkward hiatus before the conversation picked up harmlessly again, and Guy sulkily began to pick walnuts out of the walnut cake. A shaft of sunlight pressed itself into the nap of the carpet, and slept at its twisted roots.

The breakfast table at 221B Baker Street was also bathed in warm yellow. The blind was up, the windows were open and the noise of mid-morning traffic chattered behind the ticking of

a clock and the occasional crackle as Sherlock Holmes turned the pages of his newspaper. Dr Watson was relaxing in the warm sun, smoke curling from his cigarette.

‘Watson.’

‘H’mmm?’

‘Who were those two young men you entertained for tea in my rooms yesterday?’ Holmes spoke from behind his newspaper.

‘Oh – just an acquaintance, and the friend of an acquaintance. I met them when I went out

for a walk.’

‘Obviously.’

‘Admirers of yours, as it happens.’ Watson pushed a crust of toast around his plate and smiled at the shimmer of sun on the silver coffee pot.

‘I would have thought admirers of yours would be a more apt description. Your little

stories are gaining you a reputation you know, however inaccurate they may be, and however inappropriate a form in which to embody my professional achievements.’

‘You never read them, Holmes, so I don’t see how you can judge.’ Watson smiled again, and

poured the remains of the coffee into his friend’s cup.

‘I’ve glanced at one or two,’ sighed Holmes, laying aside the paper and taking up his pipe. ‘It seems to me that you take some quite unjustifiable liberties, not only with the material but also with my character.’

‘So you keep saying, my dear. You haven’t finished your coffee.’

Holmes picked up the cup absently, and sipped.

‘You look better today,’ ventured his friend; ‘Might I enquire about the investigation on which you’re currently engaged?’

‘You might, my dear fellow, but I’m not yet able to give you much information. It’s a

Government matter.’ Holmes passed a thin hand over his hair. ‘Brother Mycroft is responsible for involving me. Some War Offices documents have gone missing; of no great moment in themselves I understand, but related to the nation’s security nonetheless.’

‘You were away all night?’ asked Watson carefully.

‘Indeed. But so far I have little to go on. Perhaps you’d care to join me today in a number of enquiries I’m planning? That is, if you’ve nothing planned yourself – meeting your young drinking companions again, for instance?’

Watson ignored the sarcasm and met the grey eyes innocently. He was delighted to see a

return there of the usual sparkle.

‘I was not planning anything of the kind today; I may stroll over tomorrow and return their call,’ he said lightly.

Holmes rose from the table and wandered towards the mantelpiece. The cord of his silk dressing gown was knotted carelessly at the waist, but his appearance was otherwise as fastidious as ever. Watson marvelled anew that one so untidy, indeed so wilfully destructive, in his personal habits should be so neat, so correct in his dress.

‘You’re invited too, by the way,’ he added.

‘Oh?’ Holmes was inspecting his violin, plucking gently at the strings and listening minutely to their resonance. After a moment, he murmured, ‘I never call on anyone. You know that, Watson.’

‘Only if it’s after midnight,’ said Watson sotto voce. ‘You should, you know,’ he added in a louder voice. ‘It would do you good.’

‘If I call on you after midnight, Watson, it is because I am in need of your help. And I do not require good to be done to me. Thank you.’

He drew the bow across the instrument, paused to make an adjustment, and began to play; an eerie, wandering improvisation, ill-adapted to the sunny day outside.