Such Low Connections (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

Prologue

How crowded the streets of London were this autumn, despite the damp and dismal weather! What were all these people doing out here at noon on a Tuesday when they ought to be gainfully occupied at workplaces or homes? It was not a public holiday.

Fitzwilliam Darcy looked about the bustling, jostling masses with general disapproval. He himself would not be walking down Piccadilly if it were not for the imminent military deployment of his favourite cousin.

As well as wanting to give Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam a farewell commensurate with their strong ties of blood and friendship, there were also vital family legal matters that must be dealt with before his cousin departed England.

Meeting for luncheon at Brooks’s on St. James’s Street had seemed a fine idea when they arranged it.

The walk from Darcy House was less than half an hour and would have been pleasant exercise in more clement weather and with clearer pavements.

Darcy had not considered how unpleasant it could be in persistent autumn drizzle and while dodging ill-mannered fellow walkers, yapping dogs and barrow boys.

Even for a man as tall and broad-shouldered as Fitzwilliam Darcy, navigating the street was a challenge.

If it were not for his younger sister, Georgiana, he might already have removed their little London household to Pemberley until next spring.

However, the best of the pianoforte masters were to be found in London, and he wished her to have the benefit of their teaching.

Georgiana’s accomplishment on the instrument was considerable, he reflected proudly, glad to see both her skill and her enjoyment in playing.

A small scuffle ahead jogged him out of his reflections.

Darcy frowned as a bewhiskered elderly gentleman was shoved carelessly aside by two young men in identical dark suits, his walking stick sent clattering to the ground.

The two offenders, perhaps office clerks, were deep in conversation and seemingly unaware of anything or anyone around them.

“Have some care there, sirs,” Darcy called out sternly at this display of abysmal manners and disrespect for age. He hurried forward to pick up the old man’s stick and return it to his hand.

The offenders did not even turn in response, making Darcy shake his head at their rudeness. The elderly gentleman thanked him, tipped his hat, and walked away down a side road, evidently also in a hurry to be somewhere. Why was everyone in London in such a rush?

Darcy turned over in his mind the idea of a visit to the country with his friend Charles Bingley, who was keen to acquire a country residence.

The thought of a slower, quieter pace of life was becoming more tempting by the minute.

Hertfordshire was not so far from London, and Georgiana might stay here at Darcy House with her companion, Mrs Annesley.

“Bastard!” hissed a loud voice at Darcy’s shoulder, the vicious tone as startling as the word itself.

Spinning about, he briefly saw a youth whose face was half-hidden under a large cap.

The young man was already preparing his escape by the time his target turned, barging forward at a run and knocking Darcy’s shoulder.

Too slowly, Darcy made a grab for an arm, but the youth was quickly halfway down the street, crossing dangerously before a fast-moving horse and carriage and then turning out of sight.

The whole peculiar altercation was over and done with in a matter of seconds, leaving Darcy blinking in disbelief and the multitudes around him staring suspiciously as though he, rather than the fast-heeled youth, had committed some social transgression.

Ignoring the eyes on him, he checked his pockets.

Nothing seemed to be missing. His money was untouched, and to his particular relief, the silver watch handed down to him by his father was still in its place. If the youth had intended to pick his pockets, he had been unsuccessful. What on earth had that been about?

He supposed it was a case of mistaken identity.

Or perhaps the youth had been a friend of the two clerks Darcy had taken to task, although he could not see that he had said anything severe enough to warrant revenge.

In any case, it was typical of the rudeness of London’s denizens and only added to his present distaste for the city.

∞∞∞

“He probably took exception to your manner of walking, Darcy, or didn’t like the cut of your clothes, and uttered the first insult that came to his mind,” suggested Colonel Fitzwilliam, sympathetic but taking the matter rather less seriously than Darcy would have wished him to do once it was related to him.

“As you said yourself, the manners on London’s streets leave much to be desired nowadays. ”

Not being a club member there himself, the colonel had been sitting in a comfortable armchair in the guest’s waiting area at Brooks’s when Darcy strode in through its doors. Fuming, Darcy launched into his story of the encounter in the street before even enquiring about his cousin’s health.

“If that was one of the villages near Pemberley, I would have that young man found and brought in to explain himself and apologise,” Darcy said at last, his anger scarcely abated.

“I would inform his father of his behaviour, and his employer, if he had one, with the view that they should instil better discipline in him and prevent him accosting strangers in the streets in future.”

“He is lucky, then, to be an inhabitant of anonymous London. Do not take so mindless an incident to heart, Darcy,” Fitzwilliam urged him.

His voice took on a teasing note. “This ignorant youth was not to know that he spoke to a man with such great pride in his blood and breeding, was he? Would you be so exercised if he had merely called you a dimwit or nincompoop? I think not.”

There were not many men brave enough to tease the tall, commanding, and sometimes saturnine Fitzwilliam Darcy. There were even fewer who could get away with it and bring a smile to that dark-browed countenance. His cousin Richard was fortunately among this small number.

Finally, Darcy smiled and remembered his manners. The two men strolled together over to the reception desk, where old Cyril Baines kept the membership and guest registries and copies of all notes of account.

“You are right, Richard. I will not allow such nonsense and rudeness to ruin your last luncheon in England for some time. You sail tomorrow?”

“On the tide,” answered the colonel. “I leave London tonight.”

“Then we must make sure you have a fine English meal to fuel you,” Darcy said, and looked to the white-haired club official with a far more amiable expression than when he entered the club’s doors. “Is there roast beef on the menu today, Mr Baines?”

“There is always roast beef on the menu, Mr Darcy,” the old man confirmed, appearing very happy at this thought. “Except for Fridays, of course. There’s some very fine claret to go with the beef this week too.”

“Excellent. I will sign in my cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, if you would be good enough to pass the guest register, Mr Baines.”

The old man took the large, heavy book and opened it to the page headed for Darcy, before pushing it across the desk to him.

“I will give you a fresh pen, Mr Darcy. One moment.”

While Cyril Baines was opening the inkpot and selecting a pen from a tray, Darcy casually browsed the register, which contained only a few entries under his name, all recognised and unremarkable.

Then he froze as he spotted something odd at the top of the page where his full name and details were written out.

“Is there something wrong, Mr Darcy?” asked the old official, setting the tray of writing materials beside the book. “Is there an error? Or a guest under the wrong name? I shall have it corrected immediately if so.”

“What is it, Darcy?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked at the same time, his attention drawn by Darcy’s sharp inhalation of breath.

The officer followed his cousin’s finger to the offending line at the top of the page. Directly following the listing of “Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy, Master of Pemberley, Derbyshire”, someone had added “?”.

“Who did this?” Darcy demanded, his expression incensed.

“Dear me, I don’t know how that got there,” said the club official apologetically, taken aback both by the appearance of the mark and by Darcy’s strong reaction to it.

“Sometimes when I’m away from the desk, one of the younger men looks after the books.

It must have been a mistake. Or perhaps it was a member, a young gentleman playing a joke in high spirits. ”

“I cannot say that I find it very funny,” Darcy snapped.

“Mr Baines, can I suggest that you sand away this mark immediately?” Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped in and suggested tactfully. “It will not be there next time Mr Darcy looks at the book, will it?”

“No, Colonel. It certainly will not,” Cyril Baines assured him gratefully, reaching for the sanding block. “I’ll see to that right now. Mr Darcy can sign you in after luncheon, if that pleases him.”

“Come along, Darcy,” Richard urged, taking his arm before Darcy could comment further on what did or did not please him. “It is a trifling error and will be dealt with directly. You are only more sensitive because of what happened this morning.”

Disgruntled, but knowing that his cousin was right, Darcy pulled himself together and led the way to the dining room.

∞∞∞

“I cannot say when I will be able to write, still less when any letter might reach England,” Richard Fitzwilliam reflected a little pensively as their glasses were refilled. “My regiment will move to wherever it is needed, and the chances are high that we will see some real action this time.”

The colonel’s face showed no fear or trepidation at this prospect, but his eyes were serious.