The Darcy Connection [Paperback]

Aston's latest foray into Austendom (after Mrs. Darcy's Daughters) follows the children of Elizabeth Bennet's friend Mrs. Collins, who married the uninspired vicar Collins, now an uninspired bishop. Their eldest, Charlotte, has grown into rare beauty; Charlotte's sister, and our heroine, is Eliza—Mrs. Darcy's goddaughter. Eliza has ill-advisedly acquired a tendresse for Anthony Diggory, the son of the local squire, which is passionately returned. Sent off to London as companion for Charlotte, however, Eliza opens her eyes both to the possibilities of the larger world and her own place there, thence lessening the desirability of a Yorkshire life and of Anthony. Assisting this process is the handsome but proud banker, Bartholomew Bruton, with whom Eliza first becomes annoyed and then enamored. If she can save Charlotte from a cad and fend off Anthony, among other complications, Eliza may just find happiness. More development of Charlotte and one or two fewer complications would have helped, and some ends are simply too tidy. But the results are still utterly charming, with all the verve, humor and Austenian turns of plot one expects from Aston. (Apr.)
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In The Darcy Connection, Mr. Collins of Pride and Prejudice is now the Bishop of Ripon, living with his wife, Charlotte, and their two daughters, who have reached marriageable age. The elder, another Charlotte, is extraordinarily beautiful, and her parents hope her looks and connections will ensure a brilliant marriage. Her sister, Eliza, while not as handsome, possesses a lively intelligence that, in Mr. Collins's opinion, is too like her godmother, Mrs. Darcy.

In London, Charlotte's beauty wins her many admirers, despite her small fortune. But Eliza's wit and attempts to interfere in what she considers an unsuitable marriage for her sister infuriate her family and Charlotte's suitor -- until Eliza herself meets her match. New and old fans alike will relish this witty, romantic, thoroughly entertaining novel from a highly talented author.

Elizabeth Aston is a passionate Jane Austen fan who studied with Austen biographer Lord David Cecil at Oxford. The author of several novels, including Mr. Darcy's Daughters, she lives in England and Italy.

Visit www.elizabeth-aston.com for more information.

Chapter One

"They cannot marry! It is impossible. Out of the question. I will not have it."

The bishop, for once shocked into silence by the vehemence of Squire Diggory's words, stared at his neighbour, his mind divided into alarm at the prospect of losing the goodwill of a man of consequence and influence, and displeasure at the folly of his younger daughter.

Sir Roger Diggory and his neighbour the Bishop of Ripon were sitting in deep leather armchairs in the library of Diggory Hall, a rambling mansion dating from the days of Queen Elizabeth, which had been shaped into some semblance of modernity by the addition of a noble classical façade and here in the library, by a remodelling in the style of Adam.

It was Sir Roger's mother and the present Lady Diggory who were responsible for these improvements; for himself, the squire was perfectly content to have his house and possessions just as they had been for generations of former Diggorys, who now lay in seemly ranks in the Diggory vaults of the nearby church.

A church that would not, Sir Roger insisted, thumping his fists on the arms of his chair, ever celebrate the nuptials of his son and Bishop Collins's daughter.

The bishop found his voice at last. "No, no, it is not to be thought of." No such marriage could possibly be countenanced! Yet, was Sir Roger perhaps making too much of a mere friendship? Anthony Diggory and the bishop's daughter Eliza had known one another for several years, were accustomed to being in one another's company. For himself, he had no idea of anything stronger than a kind of brother and sister affection.

"That's because you're a fool, Bishop." Sir Roger had a reasonable respect for the cloth, but first things first, and his family and his ambitions for his children far outweighed any need for civility to a man simply because he wore gaiters and a bishop's apron. Clergyman or not, the man needed to be sharper than that. "Maybe Miss Eliza wasn't making sheep's eyes at Anthony when he went away to Oxford. That don't signify; it's what she's been up to since he got back that worries me. And his mother. And should worry you."

Bishop Collins squirmed in his seat, which creaked at the pressure, causing the dog lying before the fire to raise his head and look at him. A look that seemed to say, Take care, Bishop.

Sheep's eyes! What had Eliza been up to behind her parents' back? That he should live to hear a daughter of his described in such a fashion. "I have no wish to defend my daughter's behaviour, if it is as you say -- "

"It is, or I would not have said it."

"However, Anthony cannot be entirely... He is older than she, and -- "

"Pooh! Older by some eighteen months, what's that?"

"He has a wider experience of the world, and surely -- "

"Are you suggesting that my son has wilfully set himself to win the affections of your daughter? Are you calling him a seducer, sir? A rake, perhaps?"

Sir Roger was a bulky man, and his normally florid face was assuming an even more alarming hue; he might be about to succumb to an apoplectic fit. The bishop was quick with his protestations that he meant nothing of the kind. "Eliza is young, and young for her years. She is inclined to be impulsive -- "

"Any inclination to impulsiveness should have been whipped out of her when she was a child."

"What I am saying is that we should not mistake high spirits and innocence for anything worse."

Sir Roger glared at the bishop from beneath bristly eyebrows. "I am not in the habit of making mistakes. The mistakes, sir, lie with your daughter in presuming to lay out her lures for my son, and with you for not having seen what she was up to, and putting an immediate end to it."

"I will speak to her directly we are home. I assure you that she will feel the full weight of a father's anger and disappointment."

The squire grunted. "All very well, but what needs to be done is to separate them."

"You think Anthony should go away for a time?"

"Anthony? I do not. Why should he be driven from his home, just when I need him to learn about the estate? No, no, that's not what I mean at all. Eliza must go. Send her away. Send her to Derbyshire, to those grand connections of yours, send her to stay with the Darcys."

Send her to Pemberley? It was a tempting thought, an easy way out of a difficulty -- only, how to justify such an action to his daughter, or his wife? Mr. Darcy's daughters were all away from there, all married -- one way or the other -- Mr. Collins made it his business to know all the secrets of the Darcy family. Mr. and Mrs. Darcy were not in Derbyshire at present, he recollected. They were abroad again, on government business, Austria once again. Eliza would not want to go to Derbyshire to stay with her two youngest cousins, that was certain.

Sir Roger rose, hitched his breeches up over his spreading waist, and kicked a log into the fire. "See to it, Bishop. Talk to your wife, she don't want for sense. And now we must join the others, or they'll begin to wonder what we're so busy about, here in the library. Ecclesiastical business, we shall tell them, that'll put a stop to any questions. Ha!"

It had been a large gathering for dinner at Diggory Hall, for Sir Roger and his lady enjoyed entertaining and were on good terms with most of the inhabitants of houses within visiting distance. A full moon made driving easy, the Diggorys' cook was a master with the substantial viands that pleased Yorkshire people, and Sir Roger's cellar was famous; no one refused his invitations to dine.

The party from Ripon filled the bishop's carriage. Apart from Bishop Collins and Mrs. Collins, their two daughters accompanied them: Charlotte, who was twenty-one, and Eliza, who had just had her twentieth birthday. In addition, making rather a crush on the seat, was the formidable presence of Lady Grandpoint, Mrs. Collins's aunt, who was paying a visit after taking the waters at Harrogate. The bishop had set off in good spirits, feeling his consequence enhanced by a ladyship in the family; now, on the way home, he was silent and gloomy.

The carriage rattled through the stately gates and up the drive to halt with a flourish before the doors of the Palace. Usually, the bishop gave a sigh of contentment at this point. A man of little intellect and less understanding, he felt vastly satisfied with his lot. Advancement in the Church had been more rapid and taken him further than he could ever have hoped, and until this last week, he would have defied any churchman in the kingdom to be more pleased with his life.

Tonight there was no long exhalation of prelatical breath, no expansion of his chest, decked in purple, no gracious nod to the coachman or to the waiting butler.

"Old gas and gaiters is in a mood tonight," the coachman observed to the groom as he swung down from his perch.

The groom, who had swiftly and expertly removed the carriage horses from their traces, paused in his work of rubbing one of them down. "Dined up at Diggory Hall, didn't they? Squire's in a rare taking on account of Mr. Anthony being sweet on our Miss Eliza. I dare say they had words about it." He gave the horse a slap on its broad rump to emphasise his point.

"It'd be a good match for her, she'd be Lady Diggory one day."

"It won't come to that, her ladyship has other ideas for Mr. Anthony, you mark my words."

Neither of the girls paid any attention to their father's brooding mood. Had Eliza thought about it, she might have wondered why, after a convivial evening, with plentiful wine, her father should be so morose, why his heightened colour spoke of temper rather than joviality. As it was, she cared nothing for how anyone looked or felt, since she had no thoughts for anyone except Anthony.

She had looked forward to the dinner party with the keenest anticipation, revelling in the delight of the hours to be spent in Anthony's company. He would contrive it so that they would sit next to each other at dinner, and then later there might be dancing, Sir Roger loved to see young people enjoying themselves, and Maria Diggory's governess was a dab hand at playing waltzes and country dances upon the pianoforte.

Until she entered the great hall at Diggory Hall, where the company was assembled, it never occurred to her that Anthony might not be there. As she dropped her curtsy to Lady Diggory and greeted the numerous company, all known to her, her eyes scanned the room, as though Anthony could be lurking in the shadows.

He was not. Anthony, Sir Roger blandly informed Mrs. Collins in Eliza's hearing, had gone away for a few days, to Udall Farm, where a few matters needed attending to on his father's behalf. Too far for him to ride over for the dinner party, although he had been eager to do so.

"No, no, I told him. There's no one here this evening that he won't see again while the good weather holds, and he's not to be riding twenty miles each way for a party at his father's house. I dare say he'll have found some like-minded young men around there to pass a pleasant evening with, no need for a young man to sit alone when the day's work is done."

It was all said in a light-hearted tone, but Eliza knew that his beady eyes were regarding her with no great liking. She turned away to find Charlotte standing beside her.

"You were set for an evening's flirting," her sister said. "Instead, you look as though you couldn't find yourself in more disagreeable company."

It was amazing that Charlotte could be so blind. If Eliza didn't know her so well, she would have said Charlotte was being malicious, but Charlotte was never malicious. Eliza knew how little notice her sister took of other people, and she suspected that Charlotte, wrapped in her own remote world, cared too little about most of her fellow human beings ever to need or to want to be malicious. Charlotte clearly had no idea how things were between Eliza and Anthony; well, that was all to the good, otherwise she might feel obliged to mention it to Mama, and then there might be trouble. No, would be trouble, a...