Once Upon A Time At Pemberley

(In honor of Mary Wollstonecraft, born April 27 1759)

It is a truth universally acknowledged that all persons born on the North American continent must be in severe want of good breeding.

This thought struck Elizabeth Darcy of Pemberley, Derbyshire, as she sat in her parlor awaiting a visit from Mrs. Josephine Bhaer, formerly March, of Concord, Massachusetts. Mrs. Bhaer was a literary lady of some repute in her native America, who was touring Europe and staying for a time with a neighboring family of the Darcys, the Chumleighs. Elizabeth was not a great reader, least of all of books which emanated from the former Colonies; but her husband, Mr. Darcy, who was hoping to sell to Mr. Chumleigh a prize pig, had during the course of their negotiations learned from his neighbor of the lady’s presence in the country, and had further understood from Mr. Chumleigh that the spirits of his eminent guest were of so unremitting a level of exuberance that her hosts would gladly sacrifice the honor of her company for a few hours; and so, out of a mixture of good fellowship and hopes to advance the sale, had issued an invitation for Mrs. Bhaer to spend a day at Pemberley. Elizabeth was to receive the visitor alone, Mr. Darcy having in the meantime been called to London on unexpected business, a circumstance which a less devoted wife might suppose to have been unusually convenient in its timing; but Elizabeth, beginning to reflect on this, reminded herself quickly that she was no ordinary spouse, but mistress of Pemberley, and that, along with the privileges of her position, it was incumbent upon her to extend the warmth of her welcome to all visitors to that great house, no matter how savage their manners might prove to be. And besides, Mr. Darcy was dearly eager to sell that pig.

Mrs. Bhaer was appointed to arrive at ten of the clock; at one minute past the hour, Elizabeth’s attention was caught by voices in the hall, that of the footman Jenkins alternating with an accent that was unmistakably Colonial. Elizabeth raised her eyebrows in astonishment. Surely Mrs. Bhaer could not be conversing with a servant as if he were her equal?

“A capital suggestion!” she heard then from the hall. “Humbugs it shall be, a pound of the finest for young Tommy Bangs’ birthday. Bless the boy, he will spoil his stomach with candy for all he pretends to study medicine. No, don’t trouble yourself, I shall see myself in.”

The door of the parlor was thrust open, and in strode Mrs. Bhaer, smiling broadly, and with her hand stretched energetically out in what Elizabeth could only suppose to be the American custom of greeting.

“Mrs. Darcy!” cried Elizabeth’s guest, seizing Elizabeth’s own hand and shaking it with some vigor. “What a trump of a fellow is Robert Jenkins! Here was I in a terrible pother about my friend Tommy’s birthday gift, and with the one word – humbug, Mrs. Darcy, Robert assures me there is nothing finer than a Derbyshire humbug – he has cleared my troubles completely.”

Elizabeth stood transfixed by her visitor’s ease of manner.

“What a regularly splendid room!” declared Mrs. Bhaer, inspecting the parlor freely. “And what jolly fellows above the fireplace!” Without awaiting an invitation, she turned her attention to a portrait of Mrs. Darcy’s two sons, Fitzwilliam and George, which had been painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence, and which Elizabeth had always considered to show the west wing of the house in a most pleasing aspect. “Are they yours?” she asked, pointing to the boys.

Elizabeth agreed that they were.

“Jolly fellows!” repeated Mrs. Bhaer. Then turning to survey the length of the room, “And what a capital house this must be for high jinks!”

“I do not believe,” said Elizabeth after a moment, “that I am familiar with …”

“High jinks!” said Mrs. Bhaer. “When they play at pirates or brigands or wild animals in the jungle, and cause as much clatter as they please. When my boys were small, we had high jinks each Saturday, and it sorted them out for the whole week. The dear lads, it did my heart good to see them overturning the furniture and sliding down the stair banisters, howling and racketing and making a regular uproar.”

Elizabeth began to feel a headache coming on.

“Such delightful countryside you live in,” continued Mrs. Bhaer, now moving to the window. “And what famous times you must have with all the other splendid women living nearby. It must do you heaps of good to be able to visit with the Miss Brontës.”

The Miss Brontës were the daughters of a country clergyman in the next county. The Darcys were not on visiting terms with any of the families who lived in their parish.

“I do not believe,” began Elizabeth, “that it would be proper …”

“Charlotte is a dear!” cried Mrs. Bhaer warmly, taking a tea cup from the tray and flourishing it with such energy that Mrs. Darcy began to fear for the Axminster carpet. “The middle sister is a queer prickly creature, I grant you, and I cannot forgive her Catherine Earnshaw for marrying that doltish Edgar Linton when she could have married Heathcliff. Can you imagine, Mrs. Darcy, anything more shameful than marrying a man merely because he owns a fine house and grounds? But take the three sisters together and they are altogether jolly. Oh, Mrs. Darcy, do let us make a trip to meet them for I know we would have such revels.”

Elizabeth, unobtrusively removing the tea service from Mrs. Bhaer’s further reach, could only hope that she had misheard.

“And we must ask Mrs. Shelley to be of the party,” continued Mrs. Bhaer. “My Teddy declares that her tale of Victor Frankenstein’s monster gave him the best nightmares he had had since the night he had broken into the strawberry patch. It’s a prime story, far better than any that I ever wrote – not,” she added quickly, “that I ever wrote anything of that nature, oh, dear me, no, I would think shame to do so. But if I had … oh, Mrs. Darcy, if I had …”

She stopped and appeared lost in a reverie.

“Perhaps some seed cake …?” offered Elizabeth.

“Then it is settled!” cried Mrs. Bhaer. “You and I and Mrs. Shelley shall travel together to visit the Miss Brontës at Haworth. What richness! Oh, if only Mrs. Shelley’s mother were still with us, I should not have a wish in the world better than to meet her.”

Elizabeth hardly dared inquire who Mrs. Shelley’s mother might be.

“Mrs. Wollstonecraft!’ announced Mrs. Bhaer solemnly, drawing up her height and placing her hand reverently upon her breast. “Surely you have read her Vindication Of The Rights Of Woman. Mrs. Darcy, I go nowhere without it.” She bent to produce from her reticule an object that gave the appearance of having once been a book, although so battered about was it, that its exact provenance was uncertain. “I read from it every day, and I always find something there that does me good.” She cracked open the book: a page fluttered to the floor but she appeared not to have observed it.

“’Men in their youth,’” read Mrs. Bhaer, “’are prepared for professions, and marriage is not considered as the grand feature in their lives; whilst women, on the contrary, have no other scheme to sharpen their faculties. It is not business, extensive plans, or any of the excursive flights of ambition, that engross their attention: to rise in the world, they must marry advantageously. How many women thus waste life away, the prey of discontent, who might have practiced as physicians, regulated a farm, managed a shop, and stood erect, supported by their own industry, instead of hanging their head?’”

Despite herself, Elizabeth found her attention attracted.

“Is Mrs. Wollstonecraft then suggesting,” she asked, “that, given sufficient education and opportunity, women’s abilities in life might prove to be equal to men’s?”

“It’s only the men who tell us they aren’t,” replied Mrs. Bhaer. “Come sit by me and let us read on. But … who is this I see behind the sofa?”

From behind the chaise longue arose Elizabeth’s daughter, Jane, who had concealed herself there earlier in the morning in the hope of catching a glimpse of the great author for girls.

“My dear Jane!” exclaimed Elizabeth, mortified. Jane was a headstrong girl, who early on had caused some disquiet to her parents by proving herself indelicate enough to master her pothooks more speedily than had either of her brothers: Elizabeth was now observing with concern the warmth of the girl’s affection for her bookish Aunt Mary. “Mrs. Bhaer, I cannot sufficiently apologize for …”

“The more the merrier!” cried Mrs. Bhaer. “Sit with us, Jane, and let us all three learn together.”

In London at that moment, Mr. Darcy was seated in his club preparing to address a large plate of bacon and grilled kidneys. He felt a sudden twinge of unease in the pit of his stomach, which he attributed to indigestion.