Belinda Roberts - Mr. Darcy Goes Overboard: A Tale of Tide & Prejudice

“It’s not fair! It’s so like not fair!” cried Kitty.

Wickham, who would of course be returning to South Sands for hard lifeguard training, came to say “hello” and “cheerio” to Lizzy. He could not help probing her for a little info: “Were there any other guests while you were at Little Rosings on the Rocks?”

“We had the pleasure of Mr Darcy and the delightful Colin staying at Rosings on the Rocks, both of whom we saw a great deal, and both of whom appeared only the more delightful the more one saw of them and learnt of their true natures and histories.”

“I… oh… um… well, cheerio then,” said Wickham in confusion, and he left, only tripping over his own feet so as to tumble out headfirst into Island Street.

Lydia away, Kitty in constant tears about not being away, Mary with her eyes glazed and nose in a book, and Jane bravely trying not to be upset, Lizzy was grateful to be invited on a trip north with her uncle and aunt, during which they planned to visit Durham University. The day came for her to leave, and Mr Bennet took her up the estuary in Angelica to Kingsbridge, where she would catch the Tally Ho! bus to Totnes, and thereafter, having breakfasted in the splendid, greasy-spoon station café, take the train up to Durham, where she would meet her uncle and aunt.

Lizzy had considered all universities with care and had still to be tempted north, but Aunt G’s glowing reports about Durham, and in particular, University College, which was situated in Durham Castle, the ancient palace of the Prince Bishops of Durham, aroused her curiosity.

“The students actually live in the castle,” Aunt G had enthused. “And what an historic and impressive home! Nine hundred years old and placed high on the Bailey, with Durham Cathedral just across Palace Green, and almost totally surrounded by the River Wear. And as for the little cobbled streets and ancient buildings, my dear, you will be enchanted.”

The journey north was long but pleasantly spent in completing her racy blockbuster, texting old pals, listening to Duffy on her iPod, and dozing, and before she knew it, Lizzy was opening the door of her carriage and throwing herself into the arms of her uncle and aunt as they waited excitedly on Durham station. Without further ado, they set off for the castle.

When at last the massive structure of Durham Castle reared into view, Lizzy’s spirits were in a flutter. Its great stone turrets rose high above the small city, only rivalling in height the spires of the adjacent medieval cathedral. The trio walked across Elvet Bridge and turned left into Saddler Street. Lizzy was glad of her stout shoes, for the cobbled streets could undoubtedly cause a twist to anyone in high heels. They turned up the Georgian passage of Owengate, and there before them, rising dramatically to the right, was Durham Castle, the flat, beautifully mown Palace Green before them and Durham Cathedral to their left. Lizzy hardly knew which way to look.

“Now, my dear,” explained Aunt G, “the students, of course, have not yet returned for term, but I understand that if we ask at the gatehouse, the porter might show us round the castle itself.”

“Oh, I do hope so!” breathed Lizzy, captivated.

The little party walked down the cobbled entrance to the castle, where they enquired at the ancient gatehouse whether it would be possible to have a tour. The porter was a delightful gentleman who explained that normally students would take tours for prospective students, such a prospective student he presumed the lovely young lassie before him to be; but since the regular students were off on their holidays, traipsing round Vietnam and Goa and such places, enjoying themselves catching malaria, scabies, leprosy, and the like, he would have the great pleasure of taking the tour himself. With that, he got out a massive key that swung from a great belt round his girth, locked the gatehouse, and invited the party to follow him. The porter, who introduced himself as “Reynolds”, was a mine of information and an overflowing pot of enthusiasm for the place. “Howay, man, I’ll show you round with pleasure,” he promised and led them down to the ancient Tunstall Chapel.

“Fifteen forty this was built, pet. These days it’s packed out down here at Christmas, all lit by candles, a comforting gloom, and then the singing starts! Enough to raise the spirits of the dead by its beauty, it is! Oh, that it is!”

Reynolds then led them up the winding stone stairs to the Norman Chapel, where all admired its stained-glass windows, then on they went down to the Undercroft.

“Very popular, the Undie, packed out all year, this is—not surprising, being the student bar!”

On they went into the Great Hall.

“Very popular with the students, this is. It’s where they get their porridge after they’ve been out rowing on the Wear that early in the morning the mists have hardly lifted, and they come in with fingers all frozen, and blue on the nose.”

Up they went to the Tunstall Gallery.

“Very popular with the students, this is. Study bedrooms as you’ve not seen the like along here. Some of them have arrow slits for windows. Not used so much for their original purpose, of course, these days.”

Along the Tunstall Gallery, Aunt G noticed some portraits.

“Ah yes, pet,” said Reynolds. “All the important folk who helped build the castle throughout the ages, starting of course with William the Conqueror. He set it all going with a little mound in 1072.”

“I say! Come and look at this, Lizzy!” Aunt G was staring at a board at the far end of the gallery. On it were a number of photographs of young men and women.

“Isn’t that Wickham, Lizzy?”

“You know young Mr Wickham?” asked the porter, his tone changing. “Of all the students I’ve known come through these mighty walls, he is the most gormless gawk, rotten to the core, nowt good to be said of him. Expelled he was for deeds dark and dismal, which I will not repeat in front of this delicate young lassie, mind. But what his picture is still doing on our College Board of Student Officers, I do not know.”

And with that, the porter ripped the photograph of Wickham off the board, tore it into little shreds, jumped up and down on it, then kicked the little pieces into a mouse hole that he had spotted between two large stones in the wall.

“Good for nothing little…”

“Oh, but, Lizzy! Do you not know that gentleman, too?” asked Aunt G, interrupting Reynolds as she recognised the name of one of the other student officers.

“Fitzwilliam Darcy!” exclaimed Reynolds, immediately recovering his good humour. “Now, hinny, there’s a fine fellow. He was First Knight of the Castle last year, captain of rowing, rugby, wrestling, debating, and jousting, and the best young fellow anyone could wish to meet. Clivvor, chivalrous, fair, kind, compassionate, strong, brave, resilient, courageous, generous, wise, intelligent, bold, valiant, industrious…”

“…and do you not think him very handsome, too, Lizzy?” interjected Aunt G.

“Aye, pet!” replied Reynolds on Lizzy’s behalf. “He is a most handsome young man. All the fresher maidens here are madly in love with him, and I dare say some of the chaps, too. Whoever captures his heart will be a lucky lassie indeed.”

Lizzy, throughout, was dumbstruck. She had no idea that Darcy was at Durham, let alone University College. In all their conversations, it had never arisen. She could never apply now. He would think she was chasing him! Oh, the embarrassment! And the disappointment when she had quite lost her heart to the place.

“I think the young lady’s besotted already!” teased Reynolds.

“No! No! You are much mistaken!” replied Lizzy, her emotions in turmoil. Then another thought struck her. “When did you say the students returned?”

“Not for a week or so, pet. And then all hell lets loose, but until then, the ghosts of the past have the castle all to themselves.”

Reynolds took them down the grand staircase and out into the central courtyard. It was a most sensational place. Lizzy, her mind awhirl with what she had seen and heard, moved away from the group to gather her thoughts. As she wandered towards the portcullis, she saw a mysterious tall, dark figure outlined against the sky, walking directly towards her. When he was but twenty yards away, the light shifted, and she could make out his shape and his features at the same moment as he saw hers. Their eyes met instantly. Darcy!

It was indeed Darcy, who stopped abruptly and stared, unable to move, momentarily transfixed in surprise. Was this an apparition? A ghost of the woman who had bewitched him and whose hold over his being he had so desperately tried to fight off? He trembled.

Lizzy, but ten paces away, felt the cold hand of regret squeeze her heart. This was what she had spurned. She trembled.

A raven high up on the parapet swooped down, squawking, awakening Darcy from his momentary paralysis. He strode forward and grasped Lizzy’s pale white hand in both of his. His eyes burned into hers.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet! Welcome to Durham!”

“Darcy!” Lizzy could hardly breathe. “What are you…? Why are you…? Where are you…?”

Her words faded as they were uttered. She was enfeebled in his powerful presence. He towered over her like the ancient turrets pushing to the sky behind. Her throat was constricted. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts—yet through it all, she became aware of a dampness. To her surprise, she realised Darcy was wet through, his clothes stuck to his body like limpets, revealing his fine, muscled torso as well as if he was completely naked. Lizzy was astounded and found herself unable to peel her eyes away.