Mr. Darcy sat serenely at the head of the table with a small silver spoon in one hand and a cup of steaming black tea in the other, as he inquired politely after the health of my heroine. We were alone at breakfast. Lizzy was still too ill to come down. As for our guest, I’d been informed by Darcy that Colonel Fitzwilliam had arrived in the early hours of the morning and would, understandably, take his breakfast in bed, having suffered both a tedious journey in last night’s rain and some serious neglect at the hands of two surly servants. Plans had been made to dismiss Turner before luncheon, with three weeks’ pay and no reference; he’d fallen asleep on top of the colonel’s luggage cradling a depleted bottle of gin. As for the other and more sensational person, who had dared embody superiority where none could be permissible, that lady’s identity had yet to be discovered, but Darcy believed it only a matter of time. Servants often betrayed one another for the sake of appearing well in front of their masters, and in this way were the low kept even lower. Hearing of the drama, I’d offered a few generic opinions on the unreliability of servants and feigned disinterest, knowing, of course, that all would be revealed in good time.
“Tell me, Mary, how is Queen Leonora these days? And where is she now?” Darcy inquired, looking up from his large cut of ham.
I struggled to recall the latest chapter and bought some time pretending to dab the corners of my mouth, though I’d eaten nothing. “She’s been abducted by the grand duke, her father’s cousin, whose loyalty has been purchased by the French,” I reported, as though this were an everyday affair—which, for unlucky and stunningly beautiful Leonora, it was. “The grand duke is keeping her prisoner in a secret underground cell that no one knows anything about and blaming the abduction on their allies, the Swedes, with whom the French desire to go to war. Originally, he promised Leonora that he’d betray the French, too, but only on the condition that she marry him and make him king. She, of course, refuses and, at the suggestion, spits in his face. For this insult, he slaps her and reveals, in his anger, that he was also responsible for the poisoning of her father, the good and noble former king. When I last left her, she had just finished eating the entrails of a rat in order to survive.”
“Good God!” Darcy cried, with genuine enthusiasm. His knife rolled off the side of his plate. “What is to be done?”
Growing smug, I broke off a piece of cake. “You forget that Wilhelm, the German prince, departed two chapters ago from the shores of his motherland to sail to Denmark. The unfortunate affair with the Spanish princess thankfully forgotten, he realizes he still loves Leonora, and I may have Leonora fall in love with him following a prolonged and tormented struggle with herself. As for her current, unhappy situation…” I paused to wet my mouth with lukewarm coffee.
“Yes, what of her current, unhappy situation?” Darcy echoed, smiling and chewing his ham.
“The grand duke still visits her every evening,” I said, “but I’m currently undecided between two scenarios, both of which I’ll gladly present for your consideration. Either a loyal handmaiden of Leonora’s will discreetly follow the grand duke into the prison cell and bring help later on or Leonora will pretend to accede to the villain’s request, entice him into the cell with promises of pleasure, then strangle him or bash his head in with a rock. The rest is easy enough. All she must do then is find her way back to the castle and emerge malnourished but unharmed to her adoring subjects before revealing the truth.”
Darcy considered the options for a long time before speaking. “I think I prefer the second scenario, and I’ll explain why. This is, if I’m not mistaken, her fourth abduction since her ascendance to the throne, not counting the two kidnappings from her days as a princess. The reader might reasonably hope that our heroine has learned something from her previous abductions. I’d even suggest—”
Darcy broke off as a tall and not very gentlemanlike man entered the breakfast room and sat down. He did not speak. His mouth was a straight and bitter line, which underscored the three wavy ridges that creased his forehead. Two deep furrows running diagonally from either end of his nostrils triangulated the bottom half of his face into an expression of fixed and stubborn misery, while a pair of red-rimmed eyes gazed with prophesies of untold doom at the three beverage pots set in a neat arrangement in front of him. As the man splashed inky liquid into his cup, Darcy cleared his throat. His guest looked up, and thereafter a few minor events occurred in rapid succession. First, I crooked my eyebrow, because the intruder to an otherwise extremely pleasant and intimate breakfast had spotted and recognized me. And while that man’s face was busy contorting into an expression which would eventually encompass both mortified amazement and embarrassed disgust, Darcy proceeded to perform a perfunctory introduction (“sister to my wife, Lizzy,” “my cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam, nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who I mentioned arrived earlier today,” etc.) that included, I’m happy to report, a few compliments paid to myself and mention of the “marvelous and highly imaginative book” I was working on. A blustering hand upset the cup of aromatic coffee, and a brown stream eddied beneath the jars of black butter jam and peach preserves, ending its journey at the edge of the platter of hot rolls.
“You!” he cried out in a tone reminiscent of our unfortunate earlier encounter. “You!” he repeated, aghast, as though I were an apparition that refused to disappear.
I coughed and tore off a piece of dry crust. “Yes, me,” I said dispassionately. “I told you I was visiting my sister.”
“But you didn’t say who your sister was. I asked you what post she had in the house, and you didn’t give me a straight answer….” he peevishly added.
“Excuse me,” Darcy interjected. “Am I missing something here? Don’t tell me you two are already acquainted.”
“Yes, the colonel and I met almost as soon as he arrived,” I said. “He behaved like any gentleman would.”
“Fitzwilliam?” Darcy asked, turning to his cousin.
“How was I supposed to know she was your wife’s sister?” the colonel grumbled, looking more and more like a bloodhound that had just been kicked in the teeth.
Darcy’s eyes lit up. A boyish grin spread over his face. “Oh, I see now!” Then, turning to me, he cried, “You were the surly servant.”
“I’m sure I wasn’t made to feel like one,” I replied magnanimously. “The colonel paid me many fine compliments upon our introduction. He said, and I quote, ‘An ugly little thing, aren’t you?’ ”
At this, the colonel banged his fist on the table. The cups rattled fanatically in their saucers. “That’s not fair,” he barked. He seemed prone to boorish shouting. “You were purposely elusive in your answers!”
“Fitzwilliam!” Darcy cried out, appalled at the savagery which threatened to ruin his morning repast.
“How can I be expected to know…” The colonel trailed off. “Why didn’t she say something, I ask you? There was ample time for her to have said something when we went upstairs….”
“I’m sitting right here. You may ask me now, if you like,” I retorted.
“Fitzwilliam, do apologize to Mary,” Darcy declared from his throne.
“What?” the colonel gasped.
“Apologize to Mary, please,” Darcy repeated.
The colonel grabbed a bread roll, tore a piece off, and offered a desultory “sorry” through his full mouth.
“I suppose that’s the best he can do,” Darcy said, shrugging at me.
“Did you say you’re writing a book?” the colonel suddenly asked, perhaps desperate to change the subject.
Darcy jumped in before I could: “A brilliant work tentatively titled Leonora’s Adventures: Chronicles of a Tragic and Deeply Unhappy Queen. I may send a speculative letter to a publisher I know in London when she’s finished with it.”
“Not another woman’s novel!” he grunted. Then, in a halfhearted attempt at friendliness, he added, “What is it about?”
“Oh, you know, just another woman’s novel,” I spat, twisting the knife deep into the jar of strawberry preserves and slathering blood-red gobs onto my bread with more than usual delight. “One can’t expect a mere servant to write well, you see.”
“Fitzwilliam’s apologized, Mary,” Darcy reminded me with a nervous laugh.
“Which isn’t to say I’ve accepted his apology,” I mumbled.
“But since you pretend to take an interest,” I continued, speaking up, “it’s about the Queen of the Danes, Leonora, daughter of Albert the Good King, and all the awful things that happen to her at the hands of uncouth and vicious men who, despite their titles, have little learning and little breeding and absolutely no manners at all.”
“Mary,” Darcy jumped in. “I must insist that you refrain—”
“No such person as Leonora, Queen of the Danes,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said calmly, sliding the jar of preserves over to himself. “I’ve never heard of Albert the Good King, either. It must be fiction you’re writing.”
“Yes, it must be, mustn’t it?” I mocked and watched as that gentleman coarsely ate his meat and several bread rolls, washing down everything with cup after cup of black coffee. His appetite was enormous.
An ugly little thing, aren’t you? he had said, holding the candle so close to my face I could feel the danger of its heat. And what if he had grazed my cheek with its flame and burned me? Would it have mattered?
I mean, will it make any difference whether it scars or not on my face, as opposed to…Jane’s?
“Mary?”
I looked from the coffee stains on the tablecloth absently into Darcy’s face.
“Mary?” he repeated. There was genuine concern in his voice. “You seem depressed.”
“I’m fine,” I just managed to say, tossing my napkin onto the table. “But I’m not very hungry anymore. Will you please excuse me?” Rising quickly, I headed straight for the library, for my desk and chair, and the stack of blank paper I knew would be waiting for me. By the time I sat down, I’d decided that Leonora would escape the grand duke’s prison of her own accord. She’d bash his skull in with her own fists, if she needed to.