by D. L. Carter
“I do not remember. I cannot recall at all. Did I push him? Did I?”
“Do not write that. Surely that would not be your action. I know you well enough that you would not lay hand upon a gentleman unless he gave you significant motivation. Only consider, what do you recall? Go back to the beginning of the day.”
“I remember being angry,” admitted Elizabeth, blushing.
“At him?”
“At his presumption. At my mother. Mr. Collins did not so much as propose to me as to give the strangest speech I have encountered. He described to me, as if I did not know already by his behavior this last week, that he admired this house, which shall be his inheritance. Then he presented the arguments your aunt, his patroness, gave instructing him to gain a wife as if the opinions of a person so removed from me would influence me in any way, and then he outlined how having a wife would suit his health and happiness. The whole of the time he described how it would serve his good, his advantage, his patroness as if I were a… some useful tool he was contemplating purchasing. It was most odd, then, without actually forming a proposal he declared his warm feelings, at which point I decided I could not longer endure the nonsense.”
“He touched you?” asked Darcy, in as disinterested tone as he could manage despite the burning in his chest. How dare that pretentious parson dare aspire to touch Elizabeth? To propose to her? Did he not realize how far above him the woman was? How intelligent? How witty? How wise and beautiful?
That toad married to Elizabeth? The idea was not to be borne!
Elizabeth stared blankly into the past but answered in a voice that did not waver.
“He was about to, I think, but no, not in the manner you think. He might have kissed me, he was preparing to kiss me, but I interrupted and declined his offer. Then he declared my mother had already accepted his suit on my behalf and he was certain that my father would agree. I was so angry with my mother for saying that to him that I declared my intent on making clear my wishes on the subject and I left the room. I had to speak to her. That was my only thought at that moment. I would be firm with her. She would know and accept my refusal.”
“And he followed?”
“Yes. I knew my mother was upstairs and my father was away with the gentlemen, shooting. Otherwise I would have gone to his bookroom and my father would have made clear my refusal would stand.”
“You were certain of your father’s support? Mr. Collins was your father’s heir, after all.”
“I am completely certain. I know my father despised him. No. I cannot say that. It would be misunderstood.”
“But, viewed impartially, it would have been a good match for you.”
Fire snapped in her eyes for the first time during the interview and Darcy rejoiced. His Elizabeth was returning.
“Impartially, do you say? How can you, sir? All sensibilities revolt. He is, was, an ignorant toad. He had no address, no grace, no education at all. I cannot imagine the manner of his preaching, if his conversation is any guide to his ignorance! Impossible man. He is, was, an embarrassment to us. I would never marry where there is no affection and certainly there was nothing in Mr. Collins’ appearance, manner and general address that would induce any woman to expend the effort to learn to like him.”
Darcy’s silence suggested his confusion.
“It has always been my ambition, my dream,” continued Elizabeth with some heat, “to marry where there is true affinity of mind. A true affection. I know that you will despise me for being overly romantic. Marriages between those of your rank and standing will always be to advance in society, but for me, with little to offer my husband beyond myself, I have hoped for some similarity in the turns of our minds, a degree of mutual affection to support us in our daily labors.” She sighed and turned her face away. “Forgive me, I should not waste your time with my romantical nonsense. It is not important.”
“No. No,” said Mr. Darcy, “this makes matters clearer to me and I know that, under the circumstances, you would not be eagerly running to notify your mother of an engagement. Therefore I must ask, your father, are you completely certain that he would have supported your refusal?”
“I know my father despised him. He told me so…. No. I cannot write that. What can I say?”
“Certainly not.” Mr. Darcy rubbed his chin as he considered. “Perhaps you could say that on close acquaintance, a day or so after Mr. Collins’ arrival in your home, your father assured you that he did not think any of his daughters would suit. Are we so fortunate that you can honestly report he did he discuss the matter with you?”
“Oh, yes. It was and he did.”
“But after you left the room this morning, not able to seek your father’s sanctuary, what did you do?”
“I realized arguing with my mother would serve no purpose and since Mr. Collins left the parlor after me, I determined that I should go to my room and lock the door, never to emerge until father returned.”
“Did you fear Mr. Collins would attempt to harm you?”
“No. No. I was fatigued with his company and sought solitude. If I could have left the house I would have but, it is still my home, not his, not yet, and I will not be driven from it.”
“Excellent. Remember to write that down. Now, what happened next? From where did Mr. Collins’ fall?”
“The stairs. He must have come after me. Followed me upstairs, intending, I think to continue to argue his case before my mother.”
“He came after you?” Darcy frowned. “Be careful to phrase it exactly as you did now. He was chasing after you!” When Elizabeth gave him a quizzical stare he continued: “It implies that you were frightened of him. That his manner was aggressive at worst, and impolite at the very best. That you feared his actions. The jury’s sympathy will be engaged.”
“Are you certain I need to perform in such a manner? That I need to imply I was a weak fragile female?”
Darcy smiled. “Those who know you well will know you are strong enough - in your spirit – to deal with any insult to yourself. However, your form, forgive me Miss Elizabeth, is small. Even an ill-made youth as was Mr. Collins might seek to intimidate you with his strength.”
“Very well.” Elizabeth considered the still blank page without enthusiasm.
“And on the stairs, Miss Bennet? When did he seize hold of you?”
“I do not recall. Indeed, until you pointed out the bruises I would have sworn he had not.”
“He left his mark,” Darcy pointed out. “The evidence of touch is proven.”
“Yes. I see.” Elizabeth considered. “I went upstairs. I planned to go upstairs. He followed, still talking. Calling my name. I … I kept my back to him; I was so offended by his manner. Then, when I was about to reach the topmost stair he ... I heard him cry out.”
“Is that when he seized your arm?”
Elizabeth looked down at the bruise. Darcy held her elbow gently and turned the limb.
“I do not remember him doing that.”
“And yet, your arm bears the mark of his fingers. Did he catch hold of you to stop your flight? To continue his argument? Or, to stop his own fall?”
“I do not recall,” whispered Elizabeth. “Truly, I do not!”
“Think of the events. You were walking up the stairs…”
“Running,” corrected Elizabeth.
“Yes, of course,” Darcy grinned at her and was delighted when she grinned back. “And Mr. Collins, was he attempting to catch you up or progressing with dignity?”
“Hurrying. I have the impression he was not pleased with my escape and wanted to reach my mother’s side before I did.”
“A good word to use.”
“Escape?” repeated Elizabeth.
“Yes. You are a lady with delicate sensibilities aware you have just disappointed a young man’s hopes and was seeking to escape. Perfectly understandable.”
“Oh, yes, I understand.”
“So you were running, hurrying to get away, and he was close on you
r heels.”
“No, actually I was a few steps ahead of him when he cried out.”
“He cried out? As he fell or before?”
“I…” Elizabeth considered, biting her lower lip.
Darcy waited, watched, patiently. She was uniformly wonderful. There was no other way to describe it. Despite her trauma she was everything ladylike and charming. His only wish at this moment was to comfort, to protect. The responsibility had been yielded to him by no less person than her father and had the transfer occurred before the altar during a wedding Darcy could hold it no more sacred!
He would not fail her.
“I think I… yes, I was turned away,” said Elizabeth, slowly. “I heard him cry out, I turned and Mr. Collins was already falling. Fallen.”
“The turn, might it be because he caught your arm?”
“Oh yes. Now you say it, yes. I felt him touch me, seize me roughly, pull at me, and was offended by his touch.”
“Did you move away? Brush him away?”
“No. That is, as he was falling. Yes. He was falling and I… I had to… Yes! I caught hold of the banister, to hold it so that I would not fall!”
She was breathing hard, clutching her arms about her body, and shaking. Darcy pressed his hand against her shoulder until the trembling stopped and she looked up at him, gratitude in her gaze.
“Excellent. Now we both have a good understanding of today's events, yes? He caught you by the arm as he fell.”
“Yes, indeed. And I would have fallen if I had not been so fortunate as to catch my fall.”
“That is so. And we must convince the coroner of the truth.”
“I see.”
“Be careful how you write it out, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy for aiding me.”
“It is my honor, Miss Elizabeth. Now, I should like to know what the gentlemen are saying. If you are able, I shall leave you to write out your declaration.”
Elizabeth looked down at the blank sheet and did not answer.
“Thank you,” she said, then as he turned away she added: “Mr. Darcy?”
“Yes?”
“I am certain, that is, I want you to know I do not believe I should ever push a person. Not even Mr. Collins.”
“Miss Elizabeth.” Darcy bowed and touched his fingertips to his chest. “I never doubted you.”
Chapter Four
Elizabeth sat at her father’s desk staring at the closed door while Mrs. Hill picked absently at her apron. The whole morning was a confusion of thoughts and feelings. Elizabeth’s horror at Mr. Collins’ proposal warred with the memories of Mr. Darcy’s unaccounted kindness. Who would have thought such a stern, unyielding man could speak with gentleness? Could hold her wounded arm with tenderness and concern and look at her, after all she’d told him about the morning, as if she were worthy of his regard and respect? Previously, she had thought he looked at her only to find fault and yet this morning, when her conduct did not bear close examination, he was respectful.
Who could account for such a man? Oh, teasing, teasing man, what must she think of him?
Lizzy was confused by his unexampled kindness, but her mind was caught by a struggle with her own memories. Did she push Mr. Collins? Did she mean him to fall?
The picture refused to form in her mind.
How close had Mr. Collins been when she’d reached the top step … had she, in fact, been at the top? Surely not. She’d only just been able to touch the carved wooden ball at the top of the banister and that meant she was on the second riser from the top. And Mr. Collins, where had he been? How odd that she couldn’t recall something that had happened - she glanced toward the Ormolu clock - good heavens, where had the morning gone? Two hours had passed since Mr. Collins imposed his presence upon her in the parlor. It felt as if it could have been minutes. Or days.
Grasping her courage she addressed the page before her and began outlining, as clearly as possible, the dreadful events of the morning. Remembering, of course, Mr. Darcy's wise counsel! She very much wanted to explain to herself, and to Mr. Jeffers and Squire Pennington, how it came about that a man now lay dead.
***
In the hallway of Longbourn, men were standing shoulder to shoulder eagerly looking about, in the case of those who had not previously admitted into this home, or staring at the shrouded body, in the case of those men who were regular visitors.
Squire Pennington located a delicate escritoire and two chairs in the parlor and placed them to the right of the stairs for the use of himself and the coroner. Mr. Jeffers fiddled about with his pens and a large ledger, recording the names of all men gathered, the date, and other such minutiae that were considered vital to the legal mind.
Mrs. Bennet, were she to see the boots scuffing the polished floor, the mud deposited on her rugs, and the use to which her grandmother’s imported escritoire had been put, would have experienced a fit of the vapors as to put all previous flutterings of her heart to shame.
The men fell silent and Mr. Jeffers looked up curiously as Darcy emerged from Mr. Bennet’s bookroom.
“Oh, excellent,” he said. “We are now twelve. Sir, if you are agreeable, you will serve on our jury.”
“I would otherwise be honored,” said Darcy, “but on this occasion I have been engaged in giving advice and guidance to Miss Elizabeth Bennet so must recuse myself.”
“Oh yes, that would be a conflict,” snapped the Mr. Jeffers as he turned to Mr. Bennet, pointing his pen at the inadequate number of men. “Have you another servant, a gardener or such, who knows his letters? We need at least twelve men to hear the case. Twenty is preferred but twelve will do.”
“They are all here,” said Mr. Bennet.
“If I might make a suggestion,” said Bingley. “The stableman who accompanied us from Netherfield can read and figure. Might he do?”
“Fetch him in. Fetch him in, quickly, now!” directed Mr. Jeffers.
Bingley nodded to Mr. Hill who went in search of the last needed juror. While they waited Mr. Bennet tilted his head toward Mr. Darcy and the two retreated to the morning parlor.
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Bennet. “How are matters progressing with my daughter?”
“She is recovering apace, Mr. Bennet,” said Darcy. “Her resilience is remarkable. As is her intelligence and determination. I believe when the time comes she will acquit herself with dignity.”
That brought a smile to the older man’s pale face.
“Yes, indeed. My Lizzy is the delight of my life.” He glanced past to where the body of Mr. Collins lay. “I would not have given her to that fool. What a waste of a good woman! No. Even so, I did not wish the fool dead, above twice a day.”
“A jest the jury does not need to hear,” Darcy advised him.
“I am not that foolish,” said Mr. Bennet. “I do realize the balance of my family have not made the best impression on you, Mr. Darcy, where wit and intelligence are concerned. But I took Honors when I read History at Oxford and my Lizzy has read all the volumes I brought home from that institution.”
“Indeed.” Darcy’s mouth quirked. “She improves her mind with extensive reading?”
Before Mr. Bennet could reply those gathered were called to order by Squire Pennington.
“I have the names of the jurors recorded,” declared Mr. Jeffers. “After discussing the matter with Squire Pennington I see no reason to postpone the inquest. I am ready to begin.”
As Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bennet rejoined the crowd, the muttering and fidgeting ceased and all attention was directed to those seated at the small table.
“Very well, gentlemen. The first order of business is to ascertain the identity of the person here dead.” Mr. Jeffers squinted at the unmoving body. “A formality but these formalities must be observed. Are we certain that all life is departed? Mr. Honeywell, as coroner I require your testimony regarding the status of this body on the floor!”
Everyone turned to stare at the twisted body of the sad Mr. C
ollins. The curate, Mr. Fitzwallace, leaned forward, muttering under his breath. Those furthermost away assumed that he was whispering a prayer. Those closest realized, with some shock, that it was a series of fervent curses.
The sheet was lifted. No one spoke as the Mr. Honeywell stepped forward and held a small mirror before Mr. Collin’s pale lips. The hall clock clicked on measuring a full minute before the Mr. Honeywell came to his feet and nodded.
“I, Joshua Honeywell, member in good standing in the Society of Apothecaries, affirm for the record of the inquest that this man is dead!”
Mr. Jeffers recorded that fact and turned to Mr. Bennet.
“Who is this man? How is it you know him?”
Mr. Bennet stepped forward and spoke in a soft, but firm, voice.
“Seven weeks ago I received a letter directed from a Mr. William Collins, vicar of Hunsford, informing me that he was the son of my cousin, Harold Collins, deceased these three years. Mr. William Collins requested permission to pay a visit to Longbourn. On the date arranged for the visit, this man,” he pointed at the dead body, “arrived at my door. I assumed he was the William Collins who had written to me. Prior to the time of the visit I had not laid eyes upon him in this life.”
There were mutters at this from the jury, delighted to be first with fresh gossip.
“Then you do not know if this is the William Collins of the letter for absolute certainty?” pressed the Mr. Jeffers. “Is he your cousin? How do you know you are related if he is a stranger to you?”
Mr. Bennet moved to stand before the bent and inert body and studied it closely.
“Sadly, I must lay claim to him. You see, gentlemen that his left shoe has fallen off. That is a problem that plagued me often in my early life and is a trait of the men in my family line. You will see, when you examine him, that he is missing the toes on that foot. I, personally, have my shoes particularly fitted for me and weighted at the toe, but Mr. Collins, as you see, has chosen to fill the toes of his shoes with fabric scraps and it makes the shoe loose and the lad, clumsy.”
The apothecary bent again and removed the shoe and sock. There was a general murmuring and swarming as all the men clustered around to confirm, yes, where toes should be were mere stumps. A few gave Mr. Bennet narrow eyed looks but as he showed no interest in removing his shoes for their entertainment and comparison they eventually returned to their positions.
