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Re: My Trip to Austen:: A short story

EvelynJean — Sun, 19 Apr 2026 20:02:11 +0100

Hahaha!

Re: My Trip to Austen:: A short story

LisaY — Thu, 16 Apr 2026 19:17:03 +0100

Very amusing.

Re: Too Much of Honour

DavidG — Thu, 16 Apr 2026 14:45:19 +0100

Thanks so much to all those who've taken time to leave comments saying they liked the story. It helps my writer impostor syndrome and is encouraging me to carry on working on A Haunting in Hunsford. I won't reply individually to avoid cluttering the message board, but I really appreciate it.

I would be interested if anyone got my obscure Sherlock Holmes reference - in my head Lydia is the mother of Major Sholto, who stole the Agra Treasure in The Sign of Four.

Re: Too Much of Honour

Lynette — Thu, 16 Apr 2026 12:56:49 +0100

I like the Colonel’s way better
Thanks for sharing the story DA

Re: Too Much of Honour

Anne V — Wed, 15 Apr 2026 23:24:54 +0100

Great story. I like a story where Jane ends up with the Colonel. And I preferred the Colonel's way of dealing with Wickham.

Re: My Trip to Austen:: A short story

Micha — Wed, 15 Apr 2026 20:52:34 +0100

Soo funny (especially for somebody who lives in Frankfurt and spends days on the big book-fair and laughs about the cos-players :-) )!

My Trip to Austen:: A short story

Stanton Fenwick — Tue, 14 Apr 2026 22:03:23 +0100

Blurb: A salute to the comedic genius of Jane Austen’s plot work, shifting the backdrop to a modern book fair.

Prideful.

And prejudiced.

There could be no other interpretation of the committee’s response after I offered to deliver a lecture on Victorian comedy at their science fiction book fair.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that organizers of sci-fi book fairs are in desperate need of more interesting speakers.

I told them so.

They told me to get out.

Ruffian interns shepherded me to the street.

I received a call.

“Did you hear they approved a symposium on Jules Verne?” asked my agent.

Another blow.

I had been drawn to Texas, confident of the community’s embrace. Thousands would attend the fair, each a potential fan of my work.

I needed to be heard.

The moment the fair opened, I rushed inside.

As the Jules Verne panel was preparing to convene, I climbed onstage and claimed one of the seats.

The host of the panel—a minor publisher’s rep—opened the event by reading a prepared statement by Catherine Martin, VP of Classic Literature at HarperCollins.

Partway through her remarks, another panelist arrived. There were no available chairs.

The flustered host asked, “Who are you?”

“Andrew Bingley,” the newcomer replied amiably.

There was applause.

His popularity did not bode well.

Names were requested. Schedules were checked. Guards were called.

I was marched out of the fair, finally receiving the attention I deserved, though poorly timed.

My early efforts to reenter were rebuffed.

(My photo had been distributed to security.)

Thank God for cosplay.

I approached a local seamstress and informed her that I required a costume in a rush. Something bland. I wished to be disguised without attracting attention.

She cut a triangular wedge from a huge block of yellow foam, then carved out a hollow for me to fit inside.

The outfit was absurdly bad. I looked like a slice of cheesecake.

Per our agreement, I gave her my iPad.

Three additional pieces of foam were then affixed to my face, giving me the sort of seamless appearance only a professional can deliver.

The disguise allowed me to waddle discreetly past security.

Roaming the fair, I encountered a familiar face. It was one of the authors from the Jules Verne panel. I cautiously approached.

“Hey,” he greeted me, “I feel bad about what they did to you. They shouldn’t have embarrassed you like that.”

I agreed.

I offered him a free copy of my novel. He examined the back cover, then returned it.

“Interesting,” he observed, “but not interesting enough to tempt me.”

I was about to share some observations of my own when he stopped me cold.

“Is this how you make a living?” he inquired, scanning me up and down. “Restaurant promotions?”

I began to experience doubt.

Perhaps attending the fair dressed as cheesecake had been a professional mistake.

I mumbled a clumsy goodbye and wandered off to a dark corner of the convention hall, where I stood beside an equally morose cosplay cheeseburger.

“Another writer?” the burger inquired.

I admitted that—to my increasing chagrin—I was.

“Don’t let that guy get to you,” he encouraged me. “Panelists only think they’re special because they win a lot of awards and sell a lot of books. But that’s entirely superficial. Craft, not art. The entire industry is rigged, designed to lock the genuine creatives out of opportunities.”

I had never agreed more with a cheeseburger.

“I’m Stanton Fenwick,” I announced, maneuvering my wedge to extend a friendly hand.

“Wickham,” the burger replied, shaking it.

“Did you write a cookbook, too?” he asked.

“No, Victorian comedy.”

After a brief silence, I asked, “Who was that guy I was just talking to?”

Wickham frowned.

“You don’t know him? That’s Darcy Pendleton. Stole one of my book ideas once. Won a Hugo with it.”

Wickham told me his story, and I told him mine.

We soon realized our time was being wasted complaining to one another rather than to the public. The two o’clock writers’ symposium on world-building seemed to offer us the best opportunity to be heard. We proceeded thither.

I would never have attended had I known that Darcy Pendleton—the poseur who slighted me in the lobby—was one of the facilitators, along with Andrew Bingley and the publisher’s representative.

It was a Jules Verne panel reunion.

Fortunately, the rep didn’t recognize me, though Darcy clearly did. He glowered when I entered.

Wickham had dignity. He didn’t enter the room behind me.

The rep from HarperCollins kicked off the event by sharing the many lessons she had learned from Catherine Martin, VP of Classic Literature, on the importance of proper world-building.

The baton was then passed to Bingley.

Andrew Bingley was a happy man. After a series of bestselling novels, he had just completed his tug-at-the-heartstrings autobiography, Confidence Building through Wealth.

Darcy Pendleton followed. It turned out his “claim to fame” was a book about a guy who gets stuck on Mars. It sounded terribly boring.

Only afterward were attendees permitted to speak. As an exercise, we were instructed to “build a world” in the form of a book pitch.

I proposed a Regency comedy about matchmaking.

Their stares said, “Why are you here?”

Fine.

I pitched the fanatics a story called Last Ship from Lydia.

“On the geologically unstable planet Lydia, soon to explode, five people are placed in the unenviable position of deciding who will escape death on the final available spaceships. They each choose themselves, secure in the knowledge that no one will ever know. But a final transmission leaks out.”

The publishing representative’s jaw dropped.

She loved it.

I was terribly depressed.

The rest of the hour was too boring to relate. People talked about their books. Nobody cared.

As I was leaving the symposium, Darcy grabbed me by the wedge and whispered, “That cheeseburger is bad news.”

I wriggled free.

“He told me you stole his book idea,” I challenged.

“No, the truth is very much the opposite. Wickham is notorious for his unethical behavior.”

I cleared my throat.

“Just so you know, I was unsatisfied with the symposium and will be giving you a one-star rating,” I said.

Darcy sighed.

I marched out.

When I found the burger in question, I shared Darcy’s accusations.

Wickham scoffed.

I asked, “What plot idea did Darcy steal from you?”

“A guy goes into space,” he replied.

There was an unexpectedly long pause.

“And?” I prodded.

“Well, see, he runs into technical issues. He spends the book fighting them.”

“How does it end?”

“He fails and dies. He is found, five hundred years later, mummified in his spacesuit.”

Another unexpectedly long pause.

“That’s very dark,” I suggested.

“Thanks!” he replied.

The HarperCollins rep came running up.

“How fortunate it is that I was able to find you,” she observed.

I was wearing a gigantic foam costume in a large open space. How fortunate could it have been?

“I was just on the phone with Catherine Martin, our Vice President of Classic Literature,” the rep said. “You might have heard me mention Catherine before.”

I had.

“I told Catherine about your fun, sciencey book idea. She loved it.”

The rep paused, allowing me to bask in the praise of some random publishing veep.

“Your book is just the sort of timely starter project I need to get my foot in the door,” the rep continued. “Space is hot, so we should act quickly. I want a sample to take to Catherine. How soon can you have that ready?”

I explained that I wasn’t interested in writing Last Ship from Lydia.

Besides, I didn’t have a single fun, sciencey idea in my head.

The rep wouldn’t accept my refusal. After considerable back and forth, I told her I would write a treatment for a fifty thousand dollar advance.

I then gave her my agent’s number so she could negotiate with him.

It was a harmless bluff. Such a ridiculous demand should have been enough to scare her off. But it cost me a friend. She left to give him a call.

Wickham asked what the conversation had been about.

I told him about my gag novel proposal and the rep’s enthusiastic response.

He laughed rewardingly. He called me a brilliant satirist. Wickham was a burger with taste.

Tired on my feet, I made my way out of the fair to remove the foam suit. After grabbing a bite to eat, I refoamed and headed back in to attend the evening gala.

While cosplay wasn’t atypical during the day, it was almost de rigueur at night. Never had I been more at one with the crowd while less among my people.

The HarperCollins rep spotted me. I quick-waddled in the opposite direction.

I found my agent.

“Did a woman from HarperCollins call you?” I hurriedly asked.

“Yes, she told me you wanted a huge advance on your sci-fi concept,” he confirmed.

My agent studied me closely.

“You really don’t want to write the book, huh? I mean, your preposterous demands aside, I probably could have gotten you a few thousand dollars.”

“No, I don’t. And the rep is here at the banquet. I think she wants to harass me about it.”

“She wants to talk to you, Stanton.”

After a pause, he added, “We both do.”

What was that supposed to mean?

I found out when the rep arrived and handed me a legal document and a pen.

It seemed my agent had written a book of his own—a scandalous tell-all, spilling his clients’ shameful secrets.

HarperCollins had signed him to a deal.

Now the rep wanted me to grant him permission to include stories about me.

Legal formality or not, I refused.

(Just as you should refuse to purchase that tawdry collection of slanders, published without my consent.)

As we talked, Darcy Pendleton and Andrew Bingley passed by.

I acted as nonchalantly as one can in cheesecake.

“Oh, Mr. Pendleton! And Mr. Bingley!” the rep called out. “Won’t you join us?”

They did so with visible reluctance, revealing an enthusiasm gap between the meeting’s organizer and the other attendees.

The rep observed how fortunate the encounter was, as she wanted to solicit their opinions of my workshop idea. She hadn’t given up on Last Ship from Lydia.

“Put it out under a pen name,” Bingley advised.

“You can’t be thinking of publishing that book, can you?” Darcy asked. “We all heard the pitch. You’ll ruin the poor man. Can you imagine what gibberish he would produce?”

His comments drew blood. So arrogant. I lashed out.

“Just because sci-fi isn’t my thing doesn’t mean I’m incapable of…”

“What genre do you write?” he interrupted.

“Victorian comedy,” I explained.

The group roared with laughter.

Even my agent, who already knew that I did.

“You’re fired,” I told him.

“I figured,” my ex-agent shrugged.

“Stick to your weird brand, Fenwick,” Darcy advised. “No attempt of yours to write sci-fi will ever sell.”

“I’ll bet Last Ship from Lydia would sell if you wrote the foreword,” my ex-agent prodded, out of habit.

“If I did,” Darcy scoffed, “you might as well call it Last Words from Pendleton.”

“True,” my ex-agent agreed. “Stanton would be terrible for your brand…for anyone’s, really.”

I stormed out.

Physically and spiritually exhausted, I returned to the sanctuary of my motel room.

In the morning, I suited up and raced back to the book fair. I wanted to reach the breakfast buffet before they ran out of scrambled eggs.

The person ahead of me cleaned out the chafing dish.

I registered my displeasure.

A convention center employee was hurriedly dispatched to the kitchen for a refill.

I was thus trapped in line, for what seemed like forever, next to Andrew Bingley, who was a morning person, in the worst way.

(Retreat was unthinkable. I would not relinquish my claim to the eggs.)

To my shock, Andrew offered to write an introduction to the Lydia novel.

“Provided,” he added, “it isn’t total crap.”

(To think, the man had won literary awards. I was hoping for better dialogue.)

My integrity, at that moment, could be purchased for a very low price. I shook Andrew’s hand with an enthusiastic smile and stepped out of line, yielding my scrambled egg rights to him, in perpetuity.

I dashed back to my motel.

A morning spent crafting my best sci-fi, ruthlessly editing, and honing the product to a fine edge left me with an outstanding opening sentence.

I was anxious to share it with Andrew, to prove my worth.

He didn’t respond to my text messages.

Knowing that people appreciate a warm, in-person visit after a text, I returned to the book fair, but Andrew was nowhere to be found.

Instead, I was accosted by Darcy Pendleton.

“Are you busy?” he asked, rhetorically.

“What do you want?” I groused (wondering where I could go to escape him).

“I was informed that my treatment of you could be misconstrued as rude.”

“So you’re here to prove it?”

“No, I’m here to make a peace offering. I want to help you, with the least potential reputational exposure to me. As so few people are aware you exist, my publicist and I agreed the risk of association is tolerably low for someone in my position.”

I marveled at the man's arrogance, conceit, and selfish disdain for my feelings.

“So here’s the deal: if your science fiction writing isn’t hideously embarrassing, I’ll write a foreword for your book under a pseudonym. Though, if I do, I’ll be brutally honest. I’ll pull no punches.”

I have rarely felt such powerful antipathy for someone, but then I don’t get out much.

“I would pull my book from the market before I’d ever let your name appear on its cover,” I announced haughtily.

He blinked. I could hear the shock in his voice.

“You can’t be serious. Against my better judgment, I am offering to lend my prestige to your book. And not only do you refuse it, but you show no gratitude whatsoever? This, from some weirdo with a Victorian comedy fetish?”

I detest a genre snob.

“I never asked for your pity. I plan to write a legendary sci-fi novel. After all, how hard can it be?”

He turned to walk away.

I twisted the dagger.

“Also, Bingley offered to write an introduction for me, so I don’t need you.”

Darcy turned back.

“Andrew won’t be doing any such thing, Stanton. He told me so himself.”

I felt reputational exposure.

“That can’t be! Why would he change his mind?”

“Because I talked him out of it. Life is finally going so well for him. He doesn’t deserve a…you.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“I won a Hugo. Try again.”

“Then what is it?”

“I told you. I’m protecting Andrew.”

“I think the actual reason you drove Bingley away…”

“I wasn’t influenced by what your agent wrote,” he assured me.

“…is that you’re planning to steal my book like you stole Wickham’s. Wait, what did you just say?”

“You should have taken whatever money that publisher’s rep was putting on the table, Stanton. She’s a go-getter. She got your agent ten minutes on the main stage after lunch, to read excerpts from his book. Invaluable publicity. As an author at your level, that’s not the sort of mistake you can repeat.”

After a pause, he added, “At least he’s getting your name out there.”

“For public humiliation,” I replied coldly. “What did that traitor say about me?”

Darcy sighed.

“Stanton, a writer must develop a thick skin. The slings of critics and the arrows of gossip...”

“So now you’re Shakespeare?” I mocked.

“No, I’m a successful author, something you’ll never be.”

“You may be successful, but you couldn’t write a decent Victorian comedy in a million…”

“I’m done,” he replied.

He stormed off.

Technically, he had not withdrawn his offer to write a foreword for my book.

I pulled out my cell phone to make sure the conversation had recorded properly.

It had.

It never hurts to have insurance.

I was in a workshop about writing narrative from an alien’s point of view, hoping to ask a question about Victorian comedy, when my phone vibrated.

A series of text messages from Darcy Pendleton arrived in quick succession.

“Look, I don’t mean to cause further offense,” the chain began, “but I would strongly suggest you stick to your genre. If Victorian comedy is your passion, that’s what you should write. Strive to be as authentic as possible, while remaining marketable, if extremely niche.”

I’m unique, not niche.

He was blind to the distinction.

“And I must repeat my warning about Wickham,” the messages continued. “You are aware of my hit novel? Well, Wickham stole my original idea for it. I planned to have my hero die at the end.”

What was with these modern authors and their depressing endings?

“I was new to the book-fair world when I met Wickham and trusted him with the plot. He released it as a sloppy novella before I could publish. That’s the only reason my protagonist lives. I was forced to make the change.”

I had no idea why he thought I would care.

“Wickham once hurt a young writer I cared for by leaving her a viciously cruel book review, in person, at a book signing. She was so hurt she gave up writing entirely. Mind you, Wickham was correct. Her book was absolute rubbish. But you don’t say that to someone’s face at a public event.”

I struggle to reconcile his Wickham stories with the burger I knew.

“On that note, since I genuinely can’t remember, I’m sorry if at any point I’ve called you, or your book, rubbish. I know how hard it is to hear critique when you’re an absolute nobody. Please understand I bear you no ill will. Best of luck, Darcy Pendleton.”

This was followed by a screenful of social media links.

After waiting a full minute to ensure the barrage was over, I replied, “We should talk. Call me.”

Then I blocked his number.

Returning to my motel, I found a package waiting for me at the front desk: a signed first-edition Darcy Pendleton novel.

I was disgusted, though I considered the resale value when electing to keep it.

I plopped into my motel room’s uncomfortable chair and opened Darcy’s book with relish.

It was horrifying. I kept laughing. I didn’t want to.

He cruelly failed to be unfunny.

I set the book down and stared at the ceiling. Perhaps, as others had suggested, I knew nothing about literature, after all.

It was a somber thought.

Momentary, but somber.

I considered returning to the convention center, but since my costume was giving me rashes in unsettling places, I decided to skip disco night.

The following morning, I once again donned the foam and headed back to the fair.

My former agent ambushed me near the entrance.

He said, “I know you’re in a hurry, Stanton, but what I have to tell you is more important than scrambled eggs. I’ve been made aware of something extremely damaging to your reputation. You may not believe this, but I still want to help. Can you come with me to a short meeting?”

I followed him to a small side room.

Within, at the head of a long conference table, sat an imperious woman, who glared at me.

My agent made introductions.

“Stanton, this is Catherine Martin, Vice President of Classic Literature at HarperCollins.”

“I demand you explain yourself,” she greeted me politely.

Her desire for further self-expression delayed my response.

“First, my quisling comes forward with an intriguing book idea—from you, of all people—attached to an outrageous price tag. Then I ask five important people their opinion of it, only to watch you throw my hard work away.”

She turned her computer around.

On the screen was a book listing.

Specifically, it was a listing for Last Ship from Lydia, by Stanton Fenwick.

I felt like I had stepped into a seminar on parallel universes.

“I didn’t write that,” I protested.

“So you made a book proposal in public, followed by the sudden appearance of the very book, with your name listed as the author, and you have no idea where it came from? That’s the best you can come up with on the spot?”

She scoffed, “I can see why you needed AI to write Last Ship from Lydia.”

Catherine was my new least favorite person.

I pointed at the listing.

“Lady, I may have my authorial deficiencies, but I wear them proudly. AI doesn’t write for me. I would never publish something like that.”

“Then we have something in common,” she observed.

“Now, if you want to consider a book I actually wrote…”

“The Stone Age comedy?” she interrupted.

“Victorian.”

Another scoff.

“What if it had a foreword by Darcy Pendleton?” I tempted her.

“That’s not happening.”

I felt a rising dread.

“Is Darcy…”

“…a HarperCollins author? Yes, he is.”

“So you…”

“…would never allow him to do something so reckless? Correct. There will be no foreword to any novel you self-publish by Darcy Pendleton.”

We closed the scrum with a mutual exchange of indelicacies.

I staggered out.

Back in the hallway, my ex-agent said, “Wickham.”

Right. It had to be.

I wandered off in a daze. It felt like a setback.

In addition to angering an industry giant, Wickham had rendered my name mud in the sci-fi book fair world.

I was no longer viewed as the man I once was, dignified even when dressed as cheesecake.

Now I was considered an AI cheat.

I walked to the end of a long hallway and rode an escalator to the second floor. I wished to be alone.

Above the book fair, a hospital association was hosting a conference. I found myself in a crowd of surgeons, none of whom had chosen to engage in cosplay.

As nothing could be more demeaning than returning to the book fair, I lifted my nose and shuffled past, to the sound of medical snickering.

The crowd’s amusement drew the attention of a security guard. My identity was compromised. He began his approach.

I scurried back the way I had come, but my foam suit was generating too much friction against the escalator walls. I was embarrassingly easy to catch.

Keeping a firm grasp on my arm, the law marched me back toward the convention center’s main exit.

I put on a huge grin as if enjoying the situation immensely.

It was all I could do.

The guard led me straight into the belly of the beast. Half of Texas seemed to be in the lobby. There was much pointing, both of fingers and camera phones.

Suddenly, before us, stood Catherine Martin.

She stared down the security guard.

“I demand you follow me,” she introduced herself.

He was immediately taken with her (as I had been).

“Lady, get out of my way,” he ordered. “Who on earth do you think you are, anyway?”

“I’m someone who provides money—and I mean a lot of it—to the people who pay your salary,” Catherine replied, “for now.”

The woman, to her credit, was an effective communicator. She had his attention.

“I am heading upstairs to speak with the event organizers. They are meeting with representatives of the convention center, as we speak. They need to know their biggest sponsor was just insulted.”

She snapped a photo of the security guard.

“I will be sharing my side of this story,” she informed him. “Whether you wish to relate yours is for you to decide.”

She turned and strode away.

With a grunt, the guard followed. We caught up with her at the elevator.

As soon as the doors closed, the veep laid into me.

“Mr. Fenwick, you are an intolerable nuisance. I don’t know precisely what you’ve done, but you have made my stable of authors very upset. Darcy Pendleton practically blackmailed me this morning! He threatened that if I didn’t use HarperCollins’ weight to get your plagiarized novel pulled from the market immediately, he would boycott the rest of the book fair. The fool!”

“Darcy? Are you sure?”

“I am. We had a long chat. Darcy made me aware that you’re nothing more than a patsy…a simpleton…an easy mark. Wickham started this trouble, and I will have my revenge. I signed that cookbook of his to a development deal. I plan to make his life a torment. I can string him along for years.”

She smiled.

“But it will never be published.”

I considered a career change.

The elevator arrived on the second floor. We followed Catherine to Bluebonnet Meeting Room B.

She threw open the doors, entered, and began speaking over the person at the whiteboard.

There was general shock.

A man detained in cosplay cheesecake might have registered as highly unexpected, but Catherine's story was genuinely stunning. Apparently, someone was still trying to write Victorian comedy.

“So you see, this sad, little man was a victim of fraud,” Catherine sniffed. “If you forcibly remove him, it will cause no end of headaches for HarperCollins. I demand you release him, at once!”

It is a truth universally acknowledged that organizers of sci-fi book fairs are reluctant to issue apologies.

But I was set free.

I staggered from the room, only to encounter Darcy pacing the hall.

“You?” I gasped. “You’re the reason I didn’t get thrown out?”

Darcy took a bow.

(I found it a bit much. I mean, it was only a book fair.)

“I did something better than that,” he revealed. “I got you a reserved slot on the schedule to deliver your talk on Edwardian Comedy.”

“Victorian,” I corrected him.

“No,” he corrected me. “I read your book. It’s Edwardian.”

“You…read it?”

He chuckled.

“I did. You may not write well. You may not be well. But I couldn’t help but laugh.”

“At my book?”

“Of course! You have a knack for writing the comedic fool. Most authors would struggle to write such a ridiculous protagonist. You make it look effortless.”

I smiled, hoping for more.

“It was…surprisingly good,” he added.

I didn’t agree with the entirety of Darcy’s appraisal, but he was a very successful author. Who was I to question his judgment?

If he said my book was a classic, I had to accept it as fact.

I thanked him, unblocked him, then hurried away to research Edwardian comedy.

(He was correct. My book is Edwardian. I researched who Edward was.)

The organizers assigned me the coveted 6:45 to 7:00 AM slot at the small stage near the concessions area on the fair’s final day.

Many, many people passed by. I think I reached them.

My mission completed, I returned home.

I missed my iPad.

Desperate for money, I self-published Last Ship from Lydia under a pen name. Darcy Pendleton wrote a foreword, also under a pen name. But everybody knew it was him.

It remains my best-selling work.

Re: Too Much of Honour

Steph D — Fri, 10 Apr 2026 05:08:00 +0100

Delightful!

Re: Too Much of Honour

Micha — Thu, 09 Apr 2026 22:00:10 +0100

Thank you for posting this short story - I enjoyed it very much!

Re: Too Much of Honour

EvelynJean — Sun, 05 Apr 2026 00:23:01 +0100

Just to check: I noticed at about half way through your story, that the word "impudent" was used, but I think you may have meant "imprudent" instead, as I think it fits more. But I apologize if I have misjudged it.
Thank you again for sharing you marvelous story.

Re: Too Much of Honour

DavidG — Sat, 04 Apr 2026 18:05:00 +0100

Thanks. Glad you enjoyed it. I thought I'd seen a similar way of handling Wickham elsewhere, but now can't find it.

I'm working on a longer version of A Haunting at Hunsford, so trying out some stuff that may go into that. I don't think I'm quite hitting the right balance between dialogue and description. Writing romance also doesn't come easily. But I'm encouraged that you enjoyed it.

Re: Too Much of Honour

EvelynJean — Fri, 03 Apr 2026 23:57:26 +0100

I really enjoyed your story. I definitely prefer your version of how Wickham was "handled".
Great job!

Too Much of Honour

DavidG — Thu, 02 Apr 2026 21:12:32 +0100

Too Much of Honour

By DavidG

Blurb: A short story in which Colonel Fitzwilliam takes a more pragmatic approach to dealing with the problem of Lydia and Wickham.

Epilogue Abbey, P&P.

Author’s Note: This story may be unsuitable for pre-teen readers due to heavily implied (though not absolutely explicit) reference to mature themes regarding Lydia’s fate.

Comments and feedback welcome. I’m trying out a few ideas which I may use in a different setting.

Too Much of Honour

Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped out of his favourite coffee house on Cornhill with a spring in his heels. It was the best place to go to hear what was happening in the City. He liked these jaunts, these carefree days where he got away from the stuffy atmosphere of his parents’ townhouse in Mayfair. He took a moment to savour the bustle of the street, the wheels of the carriages, the cries of the merchants. This was London. This was what he had taken a shot in his leg to protect.

He began to walk in the direction of his club, spying a well-dressed, tall gentleman striding quickly further up the street. He was astonished to realise it was Darcy. Darcy, in this part of London! And without a carriage! Had it been a pig marching beneath that hat, he couldn’t have been more surprised.

‘Darcy!’ he shouted. ‘Darcy, wait!’ But his cousin didn’t seem to hear.

He began to run to catch up, feet pounding on the pavement, cursing his limp as he did so. He grasped Darcy’s shoulder. The man spun around, anger in his features, before softening as he saw who it was.

‘Edmund. What do you do here?’

‘I was about to ask you the same question,’ replied the Colonel. He took a moment to properly survey Darcy. He looked pale and worn. Haunted. The darkness under his eyes spoke of nights without rest.

‘Good God, man, what on earth is the matter? Is it Georgiana?’

‘No, no, Georgiana is fine,’ Darcy mumbled. His quiet voice was so unlike his usual booming tone. ‘If you will excuse me, Edmund, I am detained on a matter of business.’ Darcy moved to walk off.

‘Oh no you don’t.’ The Colonel put a restraining hand on his chest. ‘Georgiana would never forgive me if I left you like this. Come, there is a respectable inn nearby. You can tell me what troubles you.’

He continued, seeing Darcy’s hesitancy. ‘Come and have a drink at least.’

At this he practically frogmarched Darcy into Simpson’s Tavern. As they entered he tossed the innkeeper some coins and told him to send them something to drink. They went into a small private room at the back. Darcy closed the door carefully before slumping into a chair, unusually cowed.

A serving maid entered with some brandy, placing a decanter on a table before the fire. The Colonel poured himself a glass and handed another to Darcy.

‘Drink this,’ he ordered.

Darcy downed it in a single gulp. It was then that he knew something was seriously wrong.

‘There is only one man who has ever driven you to drink like that. It is Wickham, is it not?’ The narrowing of his cousin’s eyes told him all he needed to know. ‘So it is about Georgiana. Really Darcy, I am her guardian too, you know. You might at least have informed me.’

Darcy slammed down his glass. ‘It is not about Georgiana,’ he said fiercely.

‘I will be the judge of that,’ snapped the Colonel. ‘Speak’. His commanding officer voice had slipped out. It rarely failed to elicit a response.

‘Wickham has… has come to London with a young gentlewoman of my acquaintance. They have been quite alone, if you take my meaning.’ The Colonel did. He knew Wickham’s habits too well to have any doubt about it.

‘I mean to persuade him to marry her,’ Darcy continued.

‘Ha! Good luck with that!’ the Colonel replied without thinking. Seeing Darcy flinch he cursed himself, resolving to be more careful with what he said.

‘If this…’ he stopped himself from using the word chit, ‘... if this lady has been with Wickham alone she cannot have proper morals. Let her family deal with her. If Wickham has deserted the militia he has likely fled from his debts, which will catch up with him soon enough. I do not see why it should be your affair.’

Darcy clenched his fists. ‘It was by my pride, my unwillingness to open up my affairs to the world, that this has happened; that Wickham has not been exposed for what he is.’

His younger cousin had always been a proud man. Colonel Fitzwilliam had chastised him for it oft enough. But there was more to this tale, and he would get to the bottom of it.

‘So I have told you many times, yet never before have you acted. Why now?’

Darcy looked pained. His voice fell to almost a whisper. ‘The family… the family is the Bennets.’

The Colonel could only think of one Bennet who was at all well acquainted with Darcy. He could not understand it. That lady was lively to be sure, too lively for his taste, but her conduct had been everything proper.

‘The lady is Miss Elizabeth Bennet, who I met in Hunsford?’

‘NO!’ shouted Darcy, springing from his seat. ‘The lady in question is Miss Lydia Bennet, Miss Elizabeth’s youngest sister. I had just come from seeing her uncle in Gracechurch Street when you accosted me.’

‘Ah,’ the Colonel replied. Foolish girl. Her conduct would reflect on her entire family. An elopement was bad enough. An elopement without marriage would be their utter ruin. The Bennets were not rich or well connected enough to weather such a scandal. All the Bennet sisters would be shunned. It was a tragedy. But he still didn’t see why Darcy was entangled in such a sordid business.

‘I was under the impression, Darcy, that you did not approve of the Bennets. You and Miss Elizabeth did little but argue at Rosings.’ He recalled a rather heated conversation he had held himself with that lady. ‘And you separated Bingley from her sister, did you not? A mercenary family, you said, with an ill-bred mother.’

‘Do not remind me of what I said,’ replied Darcy. ‘I neither spoke nor acted like a gentleman. Elizabeth has taught me that, at least.’

Elizabeth! The plot thickened.

‘And since when do you refer to Miss Bennet in such familiar terms?’

Darcy poured himself another brandy and sat down. He stared, unspeaking, at the shifting hues of the fire. Colonel Fitzwilliam said nothing. He merely stood watching for some minutes. Darcy shifted and began to fidget. The Colonel said nothing. As he had learnt in Spain, sometimes silence was the best interrogator.

‘I love her, Edmund,’ Darcy said eventually. The Colonel met his eyes, and saw pain reflected back. ‘I love her, God help me. And now, just when I had started to hope, she has slipped even further from my grasp.’

And then the whole tale came stuttering out. Their meeting in Hertfordshire and reunion in Kent. Darcy’s proposal. Miss Bennet’s refusal. Her anger over his pride, over Bingley and Wickham. Darcy’s answering letter. Their meeting again at Pemberley. His attempt to improve his conduct. Her changed manner towards him.

The Colonel almost wanted to laugh - a country miss, turning down the most eligible bachelor in London! - but the misery on his cousin’s face stopped him. He had never been in love, but he had seen too much of sadness. Too much of grief.

‘Well Darcy, you have certainly got yourself into a pickle. I liked Miss Elizabeth a good deal. If you think she will accept you, I shall do all I can to help you in your suit.’

He raised a hand to stop Darcy from interrupting. A pause before the hammer blow.

‘But Wickham cannot marry her sister.’

‘But –’ began Darcy.

‘No, Darcy, on this I must insist, as Georgiana’s guardian. Think, man! If you were to marry Miss Elizabeth, Wickham would be your brother. Georgiana would ever be reminded of her greatest shame and disgrace. And the power he would hold over you both…’ A suspicion dawned in his mind. He folded his arms.

‘Just how were you planning to persuade Wickham to marry Miss Lydia?’

‘I was to pay him. Enough to cover his debts, and a modest allowance.’

‘How much?’

Darcy wouldn’t meet his eyes. He mumbled a non-committal answer.

‘How much?’ the Colonel pressed.

‘We have agreed on £10,000,’ said Darcy finally.

‘TEN THOUSAND POUNDS!’ the Colonel bellowed. ‘A modest sum indeed! Do you know, cousin, I have always had the greatest respect for your intelligence, but I fear I was mistaken. I now think you may be the greatest fool in Christendom.’

He continued, ignoring Darcy’s protests. ‘I suppose it has not occurred to you that Wickham, who knows you so well, may have discerned your partiality for Miss Elizabeth? That he may have targeted Miss Lydia to spite you, or indeed in hopes of payment? Yes, that could be it. After all, it is what you did with Georgiana.’

The Colonel had still been abroad during that unhappy business. Only he and Darcy were aware of what it had cost to buy Wickham’s silence over Georgiana’s near elopement. He had been furious when he learned of it. He would have called Wickham out and shot him, not paid him off. That feeling came back to him now.

‘Why not try the same trick twice, when he is dealing with such a gullible mark?’

Mr Darcy took a deep breath, swallowing his anger. ‘If that be the case, then I am bound by honour to ensure they marry.’

‘You think too much of honour and not enough of sense,’ retorted the Colonel. He sighed. For all his high and mighty ways, his cousin knew so little of the world. His was a life of order and duty, not lies and secrets. It was time to take him in hand.

‘Come, take me to my club. On the way I will tell you my plan.’

***
The next day the two men returned to the building where Darcy had indicated Wickham and Lydia were staying. Colonel Fitzwilliam eyed it in distaste. It was a medieval structure, all oak beams and plaster. Its tiled roof looked on the verge of caving in. It stood in a dirty back alley on the edge of Covent Garden. The air was foul. Beggars lay idly in the muck. Twice the Colonel had to expose his sword to pickpockets, to whom Darcy was quite oblivious. Men went into the building at intervals. Some glanced around furtively before they entered. It was not a place he would want a relative of his to even see, let alone reside.

They moved inside. The owner, a short, rough looking man with one eye and a muscled neck, was bribed to make himself scarce. As they had agreed, Darcy moved to a room at the back where he had arranged to meet Wickham. The Colonel climbed the rickety stairs, the wooden boards squealing in protest beneath him. On the landing women with sallow skin and yellowing teeth emerged from doorways and called out to him, exposing their stockings. He ignored them.

He barged into the room he knew was Wickham’s, not pausing to knock. He was not there, having left to meet Darcy. Good. A girl with loose dark hair lay on the bed, facing away from him. She was dressed only in her chemise.

‘Back so soon, Wicky,’ she cooed. ‘Come into the bed.’

‘Get dressed,’ he ordered. Lydia turned around and screamed, clutching some blankets around her. He was shocked by her youth. She could only be fifteen or so. Darcy had not mentioned she was as young as that. As young as Georgiana.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded, her fear giving way to a defiant pout.

‘I am a… friend of Mr Darcy. He is downstairs, speaking to Mr Wickham. As their discussion concerns you, I think you should listen to what they have to say.’

He was surprised when she moved to obey. Indeed, she seemed almost eager to comply.

‘Is Mr Darcy to give my Wicky the living he promised?’ she asked.

‘The discussion will certainly be to your advantage,’ he replied.

He left to give her privacy to get dressed. This was no unwilling victim. How such a creature could be related to the genteel Miss Elizabeth was beyond his understanding. Any qualms about his plan had been quashed upon seeing her.

She quickly emerged and he led her downstairs, to outside the door of the room where Darcy and Wickham sat. ‘You will stand here and listen in silence,’ he said. ‘These gentlemen will keep you safe.’ He gestured to two burly corporals from his regiment, who emerged from the darkness. They were good lads, who knew to keep their mouths shut. They should. He paid well for their discretion. That they were there more to keep Lydia from running away than to protect her went unsaid.

He pushed open the door and entered the room.

Wickham saw him, and went white.

‘Fitz… what a surprise.’

‘That’s Colonel Fitzwilliam to you, Lieutenant Wickham. Did the militia not teach you how to address a superior officer?’

Wickham stammered, off his guard. Excellent. That was exactly what he wanted.

‘I expect you are wondering what I’m doing here, Wickham?’ At the man’s answering nod, he continued. ‘I have been discussing this matter with Darcy and we have concluded that £10,000 is far too plentiful a sum. £3,000 should be enough.’ He bared his teeth. ‘After all, we have Georgiana to think of.’

Wickham seemed to grow even paler, before he rallied. ‘If you want me to marry the chit, I shall need £10,000. Not a penny less.’

‘Really, Wickham, you disappoint me,’ said the Colonel. ‘Your… betrothed holds you in a great deal of affection. You do not return the sentiment?’

‘Chah!’ replied Wickham. ‘Hardly. I have scarcely met a sillier girl in my life.’

‘That was all I needed to hear.’ He turned to the door. ‘Let her in, lads.’

Lydia rushed into the room, tears streaming down her face. She ran to Wickham. ‘Wicky, I don’t understand. You said–’

‘Oh, do shut up!’ Wickham said, pushing her away.

Lydia went red. She slapped him. Hard across the mouth. Hard enough to leave a mark.

His hand went to his face, before he moved to hit her back. His arms were caught by the corporals. He wriggled fiercely, like a fish on a hook, before he stilled.

‘What is the meaning of this? Unhand me at once!’

Colonel Fitzwilliam turned his cane over in his hand, savouring the weight of the handle. He began to tap it on the floor.

‘You are a scoundrel, Wickham.’ Tap.

‘And a deserter.’ Tap.

‘And, more to the point here, a debtor.’ Tap.

‘Darcy here and I have purchased some of your debts. Already they form quite the sum. And we have sent to your regiment for more. These gentlemen are to take you to the Marshalsea. Enjoy prison, George. I doubt you’ll emerge for some time.’

He nodded to his sergeants, who began to drag Wickham away.

‘Darcy! Darcy! Stop this! I will speak! I will tell all about Georgiana!’

The Colonel replied. ‘You would not be believed. Just another insane prisoner, ranting a sorry tale. And if you do talk, well - when you are inside such a place, there are ways of stilling your tongue.’

Darcy looked at Wickham sadly. ‘I am sorry it has come to this George.’

The Colonel realised that even now Darcy held his childhood friend in some affection. Even now he could not see the true devil that hid behind that charming mask. Both men looked on as Wickham was led out the door. They could still hear his cursing halfway down the street.

After he was gone Lydia ran to the Colonel and began beating on his chest.

‘You beast! You foul beast! Bring my Wicky back at once!’

He let her take out her rage, before eventually grabbing her arms. ‘Sit down, you silly girl. As you heard, Wickham had no intention of marrying you. He was simply using you. To him you were merely a diversion, nothing more.’

‘It is true, Miss Lydia,’ intoned Darcy.

‘But he said we would marry…’

‘If he wished to marry you he would have gone to your father, not brought you to a place such as this.’ At her confused look the Colonel was reminded she was still a girl, naive to the wickedness of the world. He led her back through the doorway and up the stairs.

‘Tell me, Miss Lydia, where do you imagine you are?’ He gestured to the women that were standing around, the ill-dressed men who eyed her lustfully as they went past.

‘A tavern?’ ventured Lydia.

‘No.’ He was almost sorry to disillusion her so completely. Almost. ‘A bawdy house.’ She looked back at him blankly. ‘A place of ill repute,’ he explained, ‘where men pay women to do what you have been doing with Mr Wickham.’

Lydia’s hands went to her mouth. ‘You should not speak of such things!’

‘And you should not do them,’ he retorted. ‘He would have left you here, when he was tired of you. He has done it before. Perhaps he would have sold you to the owner. You would have been defenceless, alone, with no protector. A sorry fate indeed.’ He shook his head, leading her back to Darcy.

‘But what am I to do?’ she asked as she sat down. ‘Mr Wickham said….’ She began to sob, violently, her little shoulders shaking.

Darcy shook his head impatiently. ‘Your thought should be for your sisters, who must partake in your disgrace,’ he said sharply.

She looked up at them both, misery in her eyes.

‘Do not fret, Miss Lydia,’ said the Colonel. ‘We have a plan to save both you and your sisters. I am acquainted with three upstanding officers, convalescing in England. All are prepared to marry you. You will go to your Uncle and Aunt’s house on Gracechurch Street and they will be presented to you, an hour each. At the end you will choose one.’

It was a happier fate than he thought she deserved. Any of the men would make a much better husband than Wickham. Two were Lieutenants, one a Captain. All wished for commissions at higher rank, a matter far cheaper to arrange than ten thousand pounds. That Darcy had promised this and future advancements Lydia did not need to know. Nor, as yet, did she need to be made aware that the commissions would involve a hasty transfer to India, where news of any further scandalous conduct on her part was unlikely to reach ears in England.

The men themselves were only too glad to escape further wounds in Spain. The Captain had pulled a bleeding Colonel Fitzwilliam from the line of battle at Albuera, taking a musket shot himself in the process. When the Colonel woke at night he could still taste the powder, could still hear the screams of dying men.

He shook himself, realising that Miss Lydia was protesting the plan.

‘Why should I marry someone I have not met?’ she asked.

‘It is marriage or ruin,’ the Colonel replied. ‘For you, and all your family.’

He had expected questions as to why they were aiding her, but none were forthcoming. She was, he realised, a shallow and entitled girl. Her head had no doubt been full of officers and balls and parties. He had seen her type before.

‘All the men are most handsome, Miss Lydia.’

Lydia seemed to perk up at that, until her face fell. ‘It will not work,’ she said sadly. ‘I left a letter for Harriet Forster. All will know I planned to elope with Wicky… with Mr Wickham.’

‘We owe much to Colonel Forster’ said Darcy. ‘He wrote to your father, and prevented his wife from telling anyone of the letter. Only your Aunt and Uncle and your family at Longbourn know of what occurred. But that will not hold for long, if you do not marry.’

Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped in. ‘If there are questions, we thought to explain your journey from Brighton as a desperate attempt to meet your lover, to whom you were secretly engaged. You might have persuaded Wickham to aid you in your plight. It would be chalked up as the actions of a romantic and foolish girl; impudent, yes, but not totally scandalous.’

She still seemed hesitant. ‘There will be funds for a fine dress, and a trousseau,’ he added. ‘And the officer would be married in his regimentals.’

At this final carrot she finally seemed to accept her fate.

‘Why, I shall be married before any of my sisters! Well, gentlemen, it seems I am quite in your hands. Show me these officers of yours.’

***
The Colonel was pleased that Miss Lydia had the sense at least to choose his friend Captain - soon to be Major - John Sholto. A tall man of five and twenty, he was possessed of a winning smile and charming manner. A scar running beneath his right eye seemed only to add to his handsomeness, hinting as it did at his bravery. The younger son of a knight who resided in a fashionable new villa in Norwood, he wanted only funds to rise high in his chosen profession.

He and Sholto travelled to Hertfordshire so that the latter could meet Mr Bennet and ask formally for Lydia’s hand. Their journey was an easy one on horseback. As the road from London opened he led Artemis beneath him into a gallop, revelling in the wind in his hair. It was nice to feel such speed, away from a cavalry charge. They soon reached Meryton, a bustling place, and asked for directions to Longbourn. As they approached the house he saw Miss Elizabeth outside the door.

‘Colonel Fitzwilliam!’ she exclaimed. ‘How pleasant to see you. What brings you to Hertfordshire?’

He introduced Sholto. ‘The Captain and I must see your father, on a matter of some delicacy.’

Something in his manner must have given him away, for anxiety immediately entered her eyes.

‘Is it about my sister Lydia? Oh, please tell me she is well!’

‘I believe all will be well, Miss Elizabeth. Do not worry. But we must see your father first.’ At this she led them straight to his study.

‘Some gentlemen to see you, Papa,’ she said gravely before withdrawing.

Mr Bennet was sitting behind his desk. He looked up above his spectacles in surprise as the two officers entered the room. Worry was etched on his face as he rose and the two men introduced themselves.

‘I believe I have read of your conduct in the Gazette, Colonel. Yours too, Captain. It is not often that two heroes of the war grace my study. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?’

‘I am a man known for my frankness, Mr Bennet, so I will come straight to the point,’ said Captain Sholto. ‘I wish to marry your daughter Lydia.’

Mr Bennet sat back down again in surprise. ‘Marry my Lydia? Impossible!’ After a moment he explained, ‘I am afraid, Captain, that there are circumstances that prevent it. Entirely prevent it.’

They explained that they knew all about Lydia’s conduct with Wickham. Sholto impressed upon Mr Bennet that he wished to marry her anyway.

Mr Bennet began to absent-mindedly polish his spectacles. ‘You strike me as a man of sense, sir,’ he said, ‘and no man of sense would marry Lydia without inducement. You are aware, I presume, that she has but a meagre dowry? I can certainly not offer more.’

The Captain nodded. ‘I wish nothing of you, sir, only your consent. Should you grant it, I shall endeavour to repay your trust in me.’

‘Well, sir, I am hardly in a position to refuse. It is a better end to this business that I could have hoped for. If the price is that you keep your secrets, so be it. You shall see me later to discuss the settlement. I shall leave to you both the daunting task of explaining all this to Mrs Bennet.’ He rose to show them out. ‘Although, if you change your mind after doing so, I shall not blame you.’

‘Come, sir, we have faced a battlefield. I dare say the good Captain here can brave an enthusiastic mother,’ replied the Colonel.

At this Mr Bennet just smiled wryly, and closed the door. A servant led them into the parlour. Elizabeth introduced them to her mother and sisters, glancing worriedly at them both. Only Miss Jane Bennet seemed calm.

Captain Sholto explained why they had come. At this there was an outpouring of exclamation. Mrs Bennet’s voice was by far the loudest.

‘Marry Lydia? But she is to marry Wickham!’

‘Mr Wickham is… indisposed, ma'am,’ explained the Colonel. ‘In debtor’s prison, in fact.’ This elicited a further round of gasps. He continued regardless. ‘I can assure you the Captain here is a far better catch. His gallantry is renowned.’

Sholto flashed Mrs Bennet a smile, before producing a fine jasperware brooch and handing it to her. ‘A small gift for my future mother-in-law. I can see where Lydia gets her beauty.’

Mrs Bennet looked at it. ‘Oh, how lovely!’

Her keen matrimonial instincts were awakened. She proceeded to ask Sholto a series of questions about himself, learning all about his income and connections. The Colonel sat back admiringly. The next time Wellesley captured a French General, he would recommend they be sent to Hertfordshire. He had never seen such a thorough interrogation.

Mrs Bennet had been thoroughly won over by the end of their visit. ‘Mrs Sholto! How well that sounds. Soon to be a Major! The son of a knight! I shall go distracted,’ she cried. ‘Hill, Hill, where are my salts?’

Elizabeth smiled at the men and led them out. ‘I am happy for you and my sister, sir,’ she said to the Captain. ‘I am intrigued, however, as to how this came about, and as to how you are involved, Colonel’. She turned inquiringly to him.

‘On that matter, I am sworn to secrecy, Miss Bennet. However, I am sure your keen mind can fathom it out.’

It began to rain, but her answering smile helped to sustain his spirits through the journey back to London.

***

The men returned the next day with Lydia in tow. A few hours with Sholto had seemed to cure her of Wickham. She clung happily to his arm as they stepped out of the carriage.

‘Well, Mama, what do you think of my beau? Is he not handsome? And look at what he has given me!’ She flashed her engagement ring, a gaudy thing of gold and turquoise. Mrs Bennet and Kitty cooed around it admiringly.

The men were led into the house. Miss Jane Bennet politely offered them tea. The Colonel admired the kindly way she spoke to the maid, the grace with which she poured them each a cup. She was certainly a rare beauty.

He had planned to stay only briefly, enough to ensure Lydia’s return, but he found himself agreeing to help chaperone her and Captain Sholto on a walk. Miss Jane was sent by Mrs Bennet to accompany him. It was a warm day. He enjoyed the feeling of the sun on his face, the sight of things growing in the fields.

As they walked Miss Bennet asked him gentle questions about himself. He found himself enjoying their discussion. Other women would have asked him about his father the Earl, the people he knew, the balls he attended. Miss Bennet asked him about London, about the coffee houses and theatres.

He reconvened with Sholto, falling behind the ladies. He was pleased to see that the Captain was quite reconciled to the match. As he looked ahead he saw Miss Jane and Miss Lydia stop. A pair of labourers were working by the side of the lane, gaping impertinently at them. He closed the ground quickly, feeling a rare anger.

‘About your business, gentlemen,’ he said. He was pleased to see them skitter off.

Jane wouldn’t meet his gaze. ‘Thank you, sir’ she whispered.

He wished for the smile to return to those eyes. As they crossed a field he decided to engage in a little mild flirtation.

‘You must take my arm, Miss Bennet. The ground is uneven. And I must protect you from these cows.’ He gestured to one in the distance. ‘That fellow there looks most fearsome. Look at his horns.’

He was pleased to elicit a giggle. ‘I can see you are not a country gentleman, sir, if you cannot tell a cow from a bull!’

He laughed out loud. So there was a quiet wit hidden underneath that beauty. And a demureness, too, for she did not take his arm. There was nothing mercenary about her. Bingley was a fool.

As they crested the hill known as Oakham Mount, and looked out at the view, he decided he liked Hertfordshire. He might stay a while, just to help Sholto of course. It had nothing to do with a pair of blue eyes, and hair that sparkled like diamonds in the sun. Nothing at all.

A day passed into a week, and then two. He walked with Jane every day.

She was beautiful, to be sure, but it wasn’t that which drew him to her. It was her soothing manner. She radiated calm. When he was with her, the horrors of the battlefield seemed to recede.

For the first time in his life, the Colonel was contemplating matrimony.

Despite what he had told Elizabeth at Hunsford, he was quite capable of supporting a wife. The fifty thousand pounds he had quoted her was a small ruse he adopted, put up to deter the many women who saw him only as an Earl’s son. In fact he lived quite comfortably on his officer’s pay, and had a further thousand a year, a gift from his favourite grandmother. It was not much, but it was something.

But what could a grizzled and haunted soldier offer a woman like Miss Bennet?

***
As the wedding approached Darcy surprised him with a visit. ‘I am staying at the inn in Meryton,’ he explained. ‘I thought to see this business with Miss Lydia completed.’

‘And this has nothing to do with a certain Miss Elizabeth?’ he teased. ‘She has asked about you several times.’

Darcy smiled, but said nothing. They called at Longbourn. It was one of those rare cloudless days where the sun seemed to make everything younger. A fine day for a walk. Darcy soon secured Miss Elizabeth’s company. They walked together with Jane, with no particular destination in mind.

Before long Elizabeth spoke up. ‘I can go no further, gentlemen, without thanking you both for the part you played in securing my sister from Mr Wickham, and in bringing about her forthcoming marriage. It was most generous of you, sir,’ she said, turning to Darcy.

His cousin frowned. ‘I would not have your gratitude, Miss Elizabeth. Without my arrogance, my mistaken pride, your sister would not have been in danger from Mr Wickham. I had thought I had impressed upon her a wish for discretion in this matter.’

Elizabeth stopped in the road. ‘You must not blame Lydia, sir. She has been unusually tight-lipped. Seeing the Colonel’s involvement, I could not rest until I knew all. I wrote to my Aunt Gardiner, and received her reply yesterday. Jane I told this morning. Please, please let me thank you on behalf of the rest of my family, for they do not know to whom they are indebted.’

Darcy looked down at her beseechingly. ‘If you must thank me, let it be for yourself alone. As much as I respect your family, I believe I thought only of you.’

The Colonel thought to give the couple space. He led Jane away until they were out of earshot. She looked at him enquiringly.

‘I believe my cousin is about to propose to your sister, Miss Bennet.’

‘Oh! How wonderful. Lizzy will be delighted!’

‘Indeed, ‘tis a happy day. Darcy thinks too much of duty, and has not enough joy in his life. Your sister’s lively spirit will do him good.’

At this Jane beamed. ‘I am pleased to hear you say so, sir. I had hoped for such an outcome, but had worried that Mr Darcy’s relations would not look kindly on the match.’

‘Darcy’s sister Georgiana will adore Miss Elizabeth, I assure you. She is the only relative besides myself to whom Darcy pays any mind. Now it is true that the great Lady Catherine de Bourgh will be seriously vexed.’ He had changed his tone to an imperious one, and was pleased to see that his mimicry of Lady Catherine had Jane laughing. ‘But that will not signify. One benefit of being a man of independent means is that we can marry where we wish.’

‘And your parents, sir? How will they feel about Mr Darcy’s marriage to a penniless country miss?’

‘They would undoubtedly prefer a Duchess, Miss Bennet, but I imagine their reaction will be one of indifference. My father thinks of little but horses and grouse. Since my brother married and had children they rarely stir beyond the grounds of Matlock, and care little for what happens outside its walls. No, we need not worry about them.’

‘We, sir?’

Here was the moment. Jane had warmed to him, he was sure. She had become comfortable teasing him, and glanced at his figure when she thought he was not looking. But he was still unsure whether she would wish him for a husband.

He screwed up his courage. He had faced cannon fire. That was easier than this.

‘Darcy is not the only man to have found romance in Hertfordshire, Miss Bennet. We have not known each other long, but in that time I have come to greatly admire your kindness, your grace and your beauty. I know that you recently loved another, but if you would give me the chance, I would do all I could to win your heart.’

Jane smiled. The memory of that smile would always bring joy to his heart.

‘I have come to realise I did not truly love Mr Bingley. Indeed, I have not thought of him at all these past weeks. I was in love with the idea of being in love, I think.’

She paused thoughtfully. ‘When I was a girl, I used to love walking these lanes. I would stop and pick the flowers. That stopped when I came to womanhood. Men began to look at me differently. You saw an example of that recently, a small taste of what I endure. I no longer felt safe, even here near Meryton. But with you I find I can walk with comfort. I did not feel that with Mr Bingley. I did not laugh with him as I do with you. You need not work to win my heart, sir. You have it already.’

This reply brought him more happiness than he could ever remember feeling. He could almost burst with it. ‘If that be the case, Jane, would you do me the great honour of becoming my wife?’

‘YES,’ she cried. ‘A thousand times yes!’

He caught her by the waist, and spun her around laughing. They twirled and twirled. And then they stopped twirling, and their mouths met, and they spoke no more.

***
The news that her two eldest daughters were to marry so advantageously did much to revive Mrs Bennet. Upon learning that her darling Lydia was to leave for India, that lady had suffered a fit of nerves so violent it had sent her to bed for days.

‘India! So far away! She shall be eaten by a tiger, I know it! Oh my nerves!’

Surprisingly it was Lydia herself who was most enthusiastic about this plan. She was so taken with the idea of being the first of her sisters to go abroad that she pored over the globe in Bennet’s study, and even read some of his books on the subject. She spent much of her time wondering if she might see elephants and other exotic sights, and discussing the jewels and servants she would have. Captain Sholto joined in indulgently. The reality of being an officer’s wife would be much more mundane. But he saw no reason to disillusion his betrothed. She spoke with such passion that even Mrs Bennet was partly won round.

‘You must be sure to write often, and send us the best silks. But watch out for tigers! Oh my darling Lydia!’

It was some comfort that after the wedding and departure of the newly minted Major and Mrs Sholto, Mrs Bennet could plan a double wedding for her elder daughters. That event came without any interference from Lady Catherine - who they simply failed to inform.

The wedding took place on a glorious day. The Colonel was told afterwards that Elizabeth looked radiant. He didn’t notice. He had eyes only for Jane. Her yellow dress matched the sun outside. It shone with hope.

Whilst Elizabeth and Darcy left for Pemberley, Jane and the Colonel spent their wedding trip at Weymouth. He would always recall the look on Jane’s face when she first saw the sea. They discovered that she loved the beach, though Jane teased that they saw too little of it. He promised they would take a trip there every summer, renewing pleasant memories. Very pleasant memories, indeed.

They settled in a fine townhouse not far from St. Paul’s. Their children, two boys and a girl, would grow up as true Londoners, born in earshot of Bow Bells. The Colonel decided to resign his commission. To the disappointment of his parents he became involved with trading in the City, aided by his new Uncle Gardiner, with whom he and Jane were on excellent terms. Jane did much good for the poor of the capital, helping to found a charity for invalided former soldiers.

In the summers they resided at Pemberley, occupying a small lodge on the edge of the estate, surrounded by wild flowers. With the Darcy’s occupying their London townhouse in the winter, Elizabeth and Jane had the advantage of living within walking distance of each other for much of the year.

Of Mr Bingley they saw little. He and Darcy had a blazing row when he learned of the latter’s interference and Jane’s marriage. He later married a society heiress, satisfying the wish of his sisters. The new Mrs Bingley promptly threw those ladies out of her house. The London gossip was that she soon cuckolded Bingley with a Duke. ‘Poor man,’ wept Jane at the news. The Colonel’s pity went only so far. If Bingley was so indecisive and easily led as not to recognise Jane’s worth, he had no great opinion of the man.

Lydia was a poor correspondent. Major Sholto kept them updated sporadically, his letters sufficient to assure them that their marriage was tolerable to both parties. With Darcy’s assistance he rose to become a Colonel. The couple made only sporadic visits to England, preferring to make their lives in the subcontinent. To this day Pemberley and Longbourn are full of Indian trinkets.

The Colonel’s military connections were sufficient to find Kitty a fine redcoat for a husband. Mary, the last Bennet sister to remain at Longbourn, surprised her family by caring diligently for her parents, growing closer to both as a result. After they died she caused a minor scandal by becoming, at the age of thirty-seven, the second wife of the Meryton vicar, two decades her senior. They lived happily.

It was at Pemberley, two years after Jane and Fitzwilliam’s marriage, that they had news of Mr Wickham for the final time. It came in the form of a letter. The Colonel opened it, and frowned down at the name of his correspondent.

‘What is it, Edmund?’ asked Jane.

‘A letter from my old acquaintance Colonel Williamson’.

As he read he narrated the letter. ‘It seems that Wickham has escaped the Marshalsea by enlisting in the regulars. Williamson writes that he has been telling tales of you and I, Darcy.’

At this both Elizabeth and Jane gasped. A nervous Georgiana was about to make her debut into society. Any scandal could be ruinous to her chances.

The Colonel held up his hand for calm. ‘Williamson writes that he has had Wickham flogged for his insolence. He reports that he has a poor reputation in the regiment, and none believes his lies. He has been placed on duty digging the privies as a punishment.’

Darcy hit his thigh with mirth. ‘Somehow that seems oddly fitting.’

The Colonel did not say that the regiment in question was at the front lines.

The army was always in need of cannon fodder. Somehow he doubted they would be hearing from Wickham again.

He penned a brief reply and tossed the letter into the fire. He would pay it no further mind.

All in all, things had worked out very well indeed.

FINIS

Re: Are there two (or even three) sketches of Addisonian hyper-pigmentation?

jeremybnt2 — Sat, 28 Mar 2026 16:12:20 +0000

Great!

Re: Excessively Attentive - 44-48 - FINISHED

GGAC — Tue, 17 Mar 2026 23:41:52 +0000

Hi, where can I find the whole of this story to read? It's not listed on JAFF Index when I checked.

When Mary Takes a Stand

Kimberly F. — Sat, 28 Feb 2026 01:09:17 +0000

LizzyS,

Will there be an Epilogue to this story?

Re: Excessively Attentive - 44-48 - FINISHED

A Lucy — Wed, 25 Feb 2026 23:21:05 +0000

Thank you for this wonderful story! I enjoyed reading it as it came out in pieces, and I enjoyed the re-read and ending as the story came together. It was so much fun.

It’s going straight to my list of favourite dwiggie stories to revisit! <3

Thanks again for creating something so joyful!

Re: Are there two (or even three) sketches of Addisonian hyper-pigmentation?

taragenen9 — Wed, 25 Feb 2026 16:18:45 +0000

Yes

Re: Excessively Attentive - 44-48 - FINISHED

Lynette — Thu, 05 Feb 2026 11:00:13 +0000

Thank you so much for this incredible story!
What a journey for Elizabeth and her family, really makes you think about how seemingly small decisions can affect an entire lifetime.

Re: Excessively Attentive - 44-48 - FINISHED

Steph D — Sun, 01 Feb 2026 04:36:40 +0000

So delighted you reached the end! Thank you for persevering over the years. Now to read it again from the beginning...!

Re: Excessively Attentive - 44-48 - FINISHED

Micha — Tue, 27 Jan 2026 14:15:04 +0000

Thank you for this story which introduced so many interesting additional characters. I went back to the archives for the earlier part of the story and then finished here :-). This way I did not have to wait long for the end <3

Re: Hurricane at Netherfield Chapter 32 and Epilogue

Steph D — Sun, 25 Jan 2026 05:20:35 +0000

Delightful ending! I am finally caught up and enjoyed it very much.

Re: Excessively Attentive 37-39

Steph D — Sun, 25 Jan 2026 04:59:47 +0000

This was one of the first stories I started reading that was unfinished, way back when I began lurking here. So excited to see it finished! I've often wondered where the plot would go.

Re: Excessively Attentive - 44-48 - FINISHED

mcepl — Wed, 21 Jan 2026 09:46:49 +0000

What about for many other reasons as well sweet story https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14186319/1/The-Lady-Said-No ?

Re: Excessively Attentive - 44-48 - FINISHED

Anne V — Wed, 21 Jan 2026 01:09:50 +0000

Thankyou for finishing the story. I've fully enjoyed reading it and I think you wrapped it up nicely.

I also like seeing stories where Lydia is saved from disgrace.

Re: Can anyone recommend a good Jane Austen forum?

Alida — Tue, 20 Jan 2026 20:41:57 +0000

"Plain Jane" offers read-along and commenting opportunities, while also having some expert contributions. Last year all 6 novels were read and commented on. Often links to earlier articles were provided.Zoom meetings were offered. I think you'll find the substack of interest to you.

Enjoy!

Re: Was James Stanier Clarke trying to seduce Jane Austen?

Alida — Tue, 20 Jan 2026 20:35:07 +0000

I think you have answered your own question! It does look as if he was quite besotted. There is a small possibility that he meant her to stay in his 'cell' while he was absent, but then he should have made that clear. I think he was quite naive about romantic entanglements.

Re: Excessively Attentive - 44-48 - FINISHED

Ginna — Mon, 19 Jan 2026 00:49:24 +0000

Yay!

Re: Excessively Attentive - 44-48 - FINISHED

JessicaS — Sun, 18 Jan 2026 21:51:42 +0000

I think most of the typos are artifacts from trying to convert it. Word formatting does not translate well into BBCode. I'll see about trying to double check those and fix.

Re: Excessively Attentive - 44-48 - FINISHED

EvelynJean — Sun, 18 Jan 2026 21:22:38 +0000

Nice wrap-up. Thank you for sharing this story, and more thank yous on your finishing it for us!

Note: quite a few typos in these last chapters, but I imagine you were anxious to have it all done. Thank you again!