Miss Darby's Duenna

MISS DARBY’S DUENNA

Sheri Cobb South

Chapter One

When there is so much love on one side, there is no occasion for it on the other.

JANE AUSTEN,
Juvenilia

Sir Harry Hawthorne, a strapping young gentleman of some four-and-twenty years, was a man with a purpose. He had been bred to this purpose for most of his life, and now in preparation for the execution of his mission, he guided his roan gelding down the country lane linking his ancestral home with Darby House, its nearest neighbor. He had every expectation of success in his undertaking, for besides being blessed with an optimistic nature, he was a young man of considerable wealth and social standing in rural Leicestershire. Besides being the holder of a baronetcy, he possessed the added charms of a headful of stylishly cropped sandy hair, a pair of speaking hazel eyes, and a firm square jaw enhanced by a fine pair of sidewhiskers of which he was inordinately proud. His cutaway coat of Devonshire brown, biscuit-colored buckskin breeches, and white-topped riding boots all proclaimed him the epitome of the fashionable country gentleman.

Not that Sir Harry was a rustic, by any stretch of the imagination. On the contrary, he much preferred the gaieties of town life to the tranquility of the country, and fancied himself, one minor contretemps notwithstanding, one of Society’s most dashing ornaments. Until his father’s death some twelve months previously had recalled him to the bosom of his family, he could usually be found in London, blowing a cloud at White’s, stripping with his cronies at Gentleman Jackson’s, or ogling actresses from the pit at Covent Garden. Recalling these pleasant pastimes from which he had been too long absent, he urged his horse onward, impatient to complete his mission so that he might return to the metropolis and resume his chosen way of life.

It was not until he entered the gates of Darby House that he began to waver in his purpose; after all, this was not something he did every day. As horse and rider made their way up the raked gravel drive which led to the house. Sir Harry frowned thoughtfully into the distance at the barren trees which made up his own Home Wood. Perhaps he should have brought flowers; it was his observation that females set great store by such things. The roses in his gardens had not yet begun to bloom, but he was sure the hothouses at Hawthorne Grange would have yielded something worthy of the occasion. Yes, he should have brought flowers. But now the edifice that was Darby House loomed before him, and it was too late to remedy the omission.

He surrendered his roan to Colonel Darby’s groom, who had been watching for his arrival, and then, mounting the steps two at a time, reached for the door knocker. Before his hand touched the polished brass knocker, the heavy double doors parted before him, and the butler, who had known Sir Harry since he was in short coats, informed him rather grandly that Miss Darby awaited him in the Blue Saloon. Everyone, it seemed, was aware of his mission. Dismissing the butler with a nod, he made his way to this sanctum with the ease of long familiarity with the house and its residents, pausing midway up the stairs to provide himself with a floral offering from a large urn on the landing.

Upon reaching the Blue Saloon, he paused uncertainly before the open door. Beyond it sat Miss Olivia Darby, a solitary figure dressed in a simple round gown of blue muslin, a matching ribbon threaded through her dusky curls. Her gloved hands were clenched tightly in her lap in silent testimony to her unique role in his mission. Sir Harry took off his curly-brimmed beaver and raked his fingers through his sandy hair, disarranging his fashionable crop.

“Hullo, Livvy,” he said at last, taking two uncertain steps into the room. “I suppose you know why I am here.”

Her tremulous smile informed him that his surmise was correct. “I daresay I can guess. Mama told me you had something particular to ask.”

The look of relief on Sir Harry’s face was unmistakable. He strode forward with something approaching his earlier confidence and grinned down at her. “Well then, Livvy, what is it to be? Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

A more observant gentleman than Sir Harry might have noted the spectrum of emotions which washed over Miss Darby’s expressive countenance upon the receipt of this declaration. Anticipation gave way to confusion, and confusion ever so briefly to pain, before every trace of emotion was replaced with the delicate arching of her left eyebrow in a look of ironic amusement. But alas, observant poor Sir Harry was not, and he heard only her faintly mocking reply.

“But, Harry, this is so sudden!”

“Dash it, Livvy, how can you say it’s sudden when you just told me you were expecting it?” he demanded impatiently. “Always knew I’d offer for you as soon as I finished at Oxford; known it since we were in leading strings!”

Miss Darby weighed this declaration, and found it wanting. “Does my memory fail me, Harry, or has it been nigh on three years since you finished at Oxford?”

Sir Harry crumpled the brim of his hat in his hands. This was not going at all as he had expected. “Well, Livvy, no sense in rushing into things. I mean, a fellow likes to see a bit of the world before tying himself down, y’know.”

“I’m beginning to,” Miss Darby said with a sigh. “And what of me, Harry? Should I not have the opportunity to ‘see a bit of the world’ before tying myself down, as well? Mama wishes to take me to London this spring, so that I might make my come-out before we—that is, before any sort of announcement is made.”

“Whatever for?” asked Sir Harry with a puzzled frown.

“ ‘Tis not so unusual,” Olivia pointed out. “Liza had a Season the year before she married George, you know.”

“Yes, but your sister had to go to Town to snare a husband. You’ve no need to go husband-hunting, Livvy, because you’ve got me,” her faithful swain said generously, then hastened to add, “that is, if you’ll have me.”

“And by this offer, am I to understand that you have seen enough of the world, and are now ready to settle down to the domestic life?” Miss Darby pressed on.

Sir Harry thought wistfully of a certain actress outside whose dressing room he had been wont to camp until his father’s untimely demise had recalled him to Leicestershire. Fortunately for the success of his mission, Sir Harry had the wisdom to refrain from making this fair charmer’s existence known to his chosen bride. “Much as I enjoy Town life, I know where my duties lie,” pronounced Sir Harry loftily. “With Papa gone, I am the head of the family, and now that I am out of mourning, I think it high time I wed. I am sure it would greatly relieve Mama’s mind to have me settled.”

“Then I suppose I must accept your generous offer,” Miss Darby conceded in a voice curiously devoid of emotion. “Far be it from me to disoblige your Mama.”

“Capital!” proclaimed Sir Harry, then added in a more serious tone, “It ain’t just for Mama’s sake, you know. No matter how much she wished it, I wouldn’t offer for you if I wasn’t certain we should deal famously together.”

Miss Darby mustered a smile. “Indeed, I have always thought we would, Harry.”

“Of course we will! After all, we’ve rubbed along tolerably enough for most of our lives. ‘Twill be just as before, only different.”

With this happy prediction, Sir Harry announced his intention of imparting the good news to his family, and, after bestowing a fraternal kiss on Miss Darby’s cheek, took his leave.

His affianced bride remained in the Blue Saloon for several minutes, gazing down at the flowers in her lap—unless she was much mistaken, the same flowers which she had just that morning brought in from the hothouse and arranged in the large urn on the landing. How much had changed in those few hours! Of course, she had known all her life that she would one day marry the heir to the Hawthorne baronetcy, thus fulfilling their fathers’ dreams of merging the two estates. Still, there was quite a difference in expecting something to take place in the vague and distant future and seeing it accomplished as fact. Now the betrothal was real. She was to wed Harry, whom she had loved as long as she could remember. And although she entertained no illusions that Harry nursed a grand passion for her, she was well satisfied with her lot. She was certain he would be a kind and considerate husband, when he thought of it, and if he did not love her, at least she had the satisfaction of knowing that she held some small place in his affections, somewhere above that occupied by his hounds, though not so high, perhaps, as his horse. Many ladies, she knew, would envy her.

Yes, she reflected sadly, pressing her gloved hand to her cheek, where Sir Harry’s kiss still burned, she was a most fortunate young lady.

* * * *

While Sir Harry offered his heart and hand to Miss Darby, his sister, a Titian-haired damsel of seventeen, entertained a visitor at Hawthorne Grange. The Reverend James Collier, vicar of Hawthorne parish, was a serious-minded young man of some eight-and-twenty years. He was also remarkably handsome, being possessed of a crop of golden curls, one of which was wont to fall carelessly over the good reverend’s aristocratic brow, and a pair of fine blue eyes whose charms were not entirely obscured by wire-rimmed spectacles.

In the six months since this worthy gentleman had assumed the living at Hawthorne, Miss Georgina Hawthorne had experienced a spiritual awakening of no small degree. Once a frivolous damsel who cared for little besides fashions and flirtations, she now devoted herself to the service of the little parish church and its shepherd. Throughout the summer months she had made a practice of providing fresh flowers for the altar every Sabbath, and when winter’s icy blasts at last put an end to this activity, she had unwittingly offended the Widow Latham by usurping that good woman’s universally acknowledged, albeit unofficial, position as overseer of the altar cloths, bearing them away after each week’s service so that they might be laundered and starched by the Grange’s own servants and, when necessary, mending them with her own hands. Now, with the vicar taking tea in her parlor, she presented the snowy linens to him, ready to bask in the warmth of his praise. Nor was she disappointed.

“Your devotion, Miss Hawthorne, is an example to us all,” said the good reverend, his fingers brushing hers ever so fleetingly as he received the cloths from her hands.

“It was nothing, really,” she protested modestly, setting at naught the stain from the Eucharist wine which had taken the under housemaid the better part of an entire morning to eradicate. “ ‘Twas, after all, only my duty as a Christian.”

“Would that all my parishioners were as mindful of their duty,” he replied with feeling. “Miss Hawthorne, I have often had occasion, over the last six months, to admire the dedication with which you go about your Father’s business.”

“But my father is dead,” protested the literal-minded Miss Hawthorne.

The vicar’s handsome face registered mild shock. “I was referring to your
heavenly
Father,” he explained with some consternation.

“Oh,” said Miss Hawthorne, embarrassed at her
faux pas.
“As to that, Reverend, one does what one can.”

“Indeed. And yet, although one may do much good, surely if two were to combine their efforts, they might accomplish twice as much.” While his fair hearer digested the mathematics of this statement in silence, the vicar was emboldened to possess himself of her hands. “My dear Miss Hawthorne, will you grant me permission to speak to your brother?”

“Harry?” said Miss Hawthorne with a puzzled frown. “You may speak to him any time you like. Why should I have any objection?”

“Miss Hawthorne, I am asking for your hand in marriage!” said the good reverend, understandably chagrined.

Miss Hawthorne’s eyes opened wide. “Oh!” she gasped, taken aback at thus unexpectedly receiving the offer for which she had been angling for the past six months, the achievement of which goal, it must be said, fell short of Miss Hawthorne’s rosy imaginings.

“Perhaps I spoke too soon—” hedged the Reverend Mr. Collier, misinterpreting her response.

“Oh, no!” she put in quickly. “I was hoping you would—that is, I should be pleased if you were to speak to Harry. He is out at present, but he should return ere long. And,” she confided with a twinkle in her hazel eyes, “you should find him in a receptive mood. He has gone to offer for Olivia.”

“Miss Darby?” The vicar nodded his approval. “A most sensible young woman. Perhaps she will be able to restrict that flightiness of character which—” Mr. Collier broke off in confusion. “I beg your pardon, Miss Hawthorne. I should not have spoken so freely of the head of your family.”

Miss Hawthorne, however, was not offended. “I don’t see why not, for everyone knows it is true,” she said with alarming frankness. “But I think she truly cares for him, and so perhaps will be a good influence.”

Having settled Sir Harry’s future to their mutual satisfaction, the vicar and his chosen bride turned their attentions to their own plans, and remained thus agreeably occupied until Sir Harry returned. He whistled a jaunty tune as he entered the great hall, giving his sister to understand that his mission had been a success.