Mr. Darcy Takes the Plunge

family rather than a visitor. Mr. Bennet nodded as the young man entered the room and picked up a discarded section of the newspaper. Cato the Philoso-fur immediately leapt onto his lap, and Darcy stroked its gingery coat as he perused the articles. After a few moments he commented, “I see the Prince Regent has coined a new phrase. Whenever someone curses luridly, ‘Prinny’ says, ‘He swears like Lady Lade.’ I daresay Lady Letitia Derby’s profanity could not hold a candle to my aunt, Lady Catherine der Bug … I mean de Bourgh. Her long-winded cusses would make a sailor blush.” 

Prissy and missish Miss Catherine entered the room, frowned with reproof at the mention of bad language, curtsied to Mr. Darcy, and then said to her sister, “Lydia, as requested, I have done a reproof, edited, and written out a good copy of the foolish folly you and Robert composed.” 

Mr. Bennet put down his Morning Chronicle and reached for the handwritten sheets containing the story, which was titled The Hanson Barberin. The tale was inspired by Robert Bennet and composed in collaboration with his precocious seven-year-old sister, Miss Lydia. The anecdote was then edited by strait-laced one-and-ten-year-old Miss Kitty, who somehow missed expurgating a certain section pertaining to where a young lady was kissed. Their father settled back in his chair, adjusted his spectacles, and began to read aloud:

“Once upon a time there was a handsome barbarian. A barbarian is a barber who works in a library. His name was Mister Daresay because he always said, ‘I daresay’. Mr. Daresay loved books. He slept between the covers, wore a dust-jacket, ate from a bookplate, and put a bookworm on his hook when he went fishing. One day his dog-eared hound, Mythter E. Tail, started to eat a spine-chilling mystery novel; and Mr. Daresay had to take the words right out of his mouth.

Mr. Daresay did his barbering in the library. He shaved and cut hair for lots of customers who were aristocrats. The library had more nobles than the royal court because of all the titles.

Mr. Daresay had a good friend who was a Knight. Sir Cular wrote handbills for Mr. Daresay’s excellent barbering. Whenever Sir Cular read a book from Mr. Daresay’s library, his Page was always at his side. Sir Cular had a sister, Miss Bizzy Lennet. Mr. Daresay and Miss Lennet loved one another very much. One day the handsome barbarian got all gooshy and kissed her in a very private place.

They were hiding behind a bookshelf. They thought no one saw them, but her brother and sisters all did. Mr. Daresay gave each of Bizzy’s siblings a pony. Then they all lived happily ever after. The end.”

Mr. Bennet cleared his throat and looked over his spectacles to the spectacle of his blushing future son. “Is this enlightening account a product of my children’s over-active imaginations; or is it, in fact, based on fact?” 

His fiancée had just entered the room and saved Darcy from further embarrassment as she spoke with enthusiasm of the new establishment she, her sister, mother, and aunt had discovered. The combination draper and bookshop had provided hours of material enjoyment as the ladies browsed amongst the text-aisles. Many volumes of ware to wear and read had been ordered. 

Red-faced Fitzwilliam Darcy was thankful for the diversion, and he desperately hoped the other gentleman would believe the entire Hanson Barberin story was fiction. Non-friction between Lizzy’s father and himself was vitally important. Of course, the notion of him being a scissor-wielding barber was shear nonsense; nevertheless, the truth was he had gotten all gooshy and kissed Elizabeth in a very private place, indeed … behind the bookshelves. Drawing on his masterly command of the English language, Darcy said nothing.

The Darcy and Fitzwilliam families were the first arrivals at Pemberley, with the two de Bourgh ladies and Ellis Fleming close on their heels. Bingley showed up early the next day from neighbouring Staffordshire, and the three carriages conveying the Bennets and Gardiners were expected to roll in late that afternoon. The Anglican clergyman, Reverend Mr. Godfrey, was not expected to present himself until the eve of the wedding; and all the guests would arrive following the early-afternoon marriage ceremony. Because the three fiancés had each procured special licenses, their solemnization of matrimony rites did not have to take place in the morning or, in fact, even in the parish church. 

The grand estate was in a state of organized chaos. Gardeners, huntsmen, labourers, cooks, maids, footmen, valets, coachmen, and the gamekeeper all had a hand in the preparations. Weeks previously, a steady stream of delivery carts had begun traveling the road to Pemberley from Lambton and London. Although Ellis Fleming and the Bennets were fairly flush in the pockets, it was not every day three members of two illustrious families such as the Darcys and Fitzwilliams were wed in the same ceremony; so no expense was being spared for the special event. Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds directed the flow of traffic as provisions flowed in for the nuptials and a lavish celebration to follow. 

Heavy crates of fine wine, spirits, and champagne, courtesy of Mr. Gardiner, were carried to the cellar under the direction and watchful eye of Owen Reynolds. When told where to store the white wine, one footman gave the butler a blanc stare while another servant was ordered to lock up the vintage red wine in a cabernet. Unfortunately, the latter fellow accidentally broke a bottle, and the ruby-coloured liquid ended up on his livery, which earned the young man a scathing look of dis-stain from Mr. Reynolds. The clumsy servant winked at the other footman and said, “This drink is on me.” 

During the days, hours, and minutes leading up to the wedding, Pemberley’s massive kitchen was a very heated place. Tempers sizzled, workers were steamed, and the new chef, Mr. Eggleston, lambasted his cooks. Despite being a cantankerous supervisor who often beat eggs and whipped cream, Mr. Eggleston was undeniably a very gouda chef who created grate delicacies from Cheddar, Cheshire, as well as Wensleydale. Nevertheless, the kitchen workers often referred to ‘Eggy’ as a munster or some other equally cheesy name. One emotional onion- mincing minion, Mrs. Culpepper, was particularly astir and mixed up; yet she took it with a grain of salt when Eggleston had a beef with her lumpy gravy. He grilled and roasted the poor woman and called her ham-fisted. While Mrs. Culpepper inwardly simmered and stewed, she was inspired to calmly ask what the chef thought about serving honeymoon salad. 

Tetchy Eggleston haughtily inquired, “And just what, pray tell, is honeymoon salad, Culpepper?” 

“Lettuce alone, sir!” 

Eggleston sniffed, lifted his chin, and looked down his nose at the baker, “You need to knead the dough faster, Mrs. Butterfield. It is the yeast you can do, and you should know batter by now.” 

The baker may have been a gluten for punishment; all the same, when her shift in the kitchen ended, she left with a loathe of bread. The next morning when she started work again, Mrs. Butterfield noticed one of the large fruitcakes she had made days previously had been cut. She was not, however, the only woman one slice short of a loaf. The half-baked guilty party, in her toasty guest bedchamber, chastised her seasoned maid for not having pinched, poached, or purloined another crumby slice; and the harridan’s leavened, unsavoury language was most distasteful until the Lady’s daughter, Anne de Bourgh, arrived with a glass of laudanum-infused sherry.

It might be supposed he would have been of a disposition in which happiness overflowed in mirth the days before being united in wedlock with Elizabeth Bennet. However, his family, relatives, friends, and servants hardly knew a more awful object than perfectionist Fitzwilliam Darcy on that particular occasion, at his ancestral home with nothing to do but fret. He drove Mrs. Reynolds to distraction with his concern for Elizabeth’s comfort while under Pemberley’s roof, and he interfered in every minuscule detail of the preparations for the celebration. Darcy vexed Crispin Knott, his elderly valet, when he changed attire no less than four times before finally being satisfied with his appearance the day of her arrival; and he worried and paced because the Bennet carriage had not arrived precisely at the expected hour. 

“Fitzwilliam George Darcy!” admonished his mother. “Do cease being such a niggling, nagging, nettling nuisance and simply allow the servants to do their duties without making each and every little triviality into a monumental issue. They are beginning to wonder if royalty is actually expected, and I imagine Elizabeth would be horrified if she knew how you have been absolutely agonizing over her arrival.” 

Georgiana agreed with her mother. “Really, brother, Elizabeth is quite easily pleased, does not have unreasonably high expectations, and cannot possibly be so very fussy. After all, she has agreed to marry you.” 

“My, my, you are rather whimsical in your civility today, Georgie; and my pitiable friend, Fleming, obviously has extremely low standards to be willing to wed such a termagant.” 

“Children, behave! Fitzwilliam, why do you not go for an invigorating walk or a ride to expend some of your