by Meg Osborne
He lifted his chin, glancing over to where Anne was sitting with her mother, a faint smile etched onto her delicate features as she patiently attended to her mother's running observations of the evening before them.
“Where did I spring from?” Richard snorted, recalling him to the present. “My dear fellow, I have been here even longer than you have, or did you fail to notice me over yonder, rapt with attention on dear auntie’s concerns?” He lowered his voice, lifting its pitch a clear octave in a muted, but incredibly accurate, impression of Lady Catherine.
“I am glad you and Fitzwilliam are able to enjoy time out of doors, but alas, both Anne and I are far too delicate to risk such forays into the bitter winter cold...”
The impression was so accurate that Darcy could not help but crack a smile, as had doubtless been his cousin’s goal, for he chuckled and abandoned his mimicry.
“What do you find so amusing, gentlemen?” Lady Catherine’s voice disturbed their sanctuary and with a wrap of her knuckles on the wooden arm of her chair, she summoned them to her corner. And eyes barely rested on Richard, but she turned directly to Darcy, imploring him to sit near to her and tell them a little of this Elizabeth Bennet that would be joining their party that very evening.
“I am hardly the person of whom to inquire. We knew each other but a little in Hertfordshire, and cannot have shared more than a dozen words of conversation.”
“Stay your effusive praise, cousin!” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, his eyes flashing with fun. “Anne, I was privileged to make Miss Bennet’s acquaintance this afternoon and found her to be quite charming. There is no comparison with yourself, of course, or with Mrs Collins. Goodness, Darcy! What good fortune we have to be surrounded by such a gaggle of charming women.”
Lady Catherine harrumphed, saying with no words at all everything that Darcy wanted to, and far more eloquently than he might have managed. Instead of taking his cue and falling silent, however, Richard turned a devilish grin towards his aunt.
“And you, Aunt Catherine, are Queen of them all. The most charming, the most elegant, the most intelligent, the most accomplished-”
“Richard!” Colonel Fitzwilliam's abundant adoration was bid to stop by the sound of a carriage's approach, and Darcy wondered how he dared to act so with their usually stoical and reserved aunt. Even when they were boys, Richard had been the one to charm everybody, and to talk his way out of far more deserved punishment than he had received. It was a talent and skill Darcy envied, barely possessing ability enough to make people tolerate him, let alone like him, and with such immediacy.
“Well, I think it likely we must take Richard's words with a pinch of salt,” Anne said, as the party readied themselves for their guests’ arrival. “And, as you are reluctant to share yours, Fitzwilliam, I see I must be introduced to Miss Bennet myself and make my own decision.”
Darcy stood, obediently offering his arm to Anne, and ignoring the self-satisfied smirk that rested on Lady Catherine's face whenever she perceived even the tiniest hint of affection between the pair she had matched from their cradles.
“If it is an introduction you desire, Anne, I am more than willing to oblige. Although I feel certain you will receive a kinder picture of Elizabeth Bennet than I have thus far. I fear a misunderstanding has us already on the back foot with one another and I am at a loss for how to undo it.”
Darcy had not intended to speak so plainly, and had he and Anne not already walked a few steps towards the door away from Colonel Fitzwilliam and Lady Catherine, he would not have risked saying anything at all. Now he had spoken and it was too late to take back the words, but Anne’s eyes flashed with compassion and not the teasing amusement that would have been only too evident in Richard's. Her hand tightened almost imperceptibly on Darcy's arm, in an unspoken encouragement.
“Things are always problematic when one cannot make one's feelings plain. I'm sure any misunderstanding between you will easily be remedied. Come, introduce me, for I long to make a new acquaintance. I so rarely have the opportunity!”
Anne's request was made so sweetly and accompanied by so genuine a smile, that Darcy could do nothing but oblige her. It was his greeting, then, that was the first to reach the ears of their guests, as the door to the parlour opened, admitting first Mr Collins with his wife on his arm, and then Elizabeth.
She seemed, to Darcy, still prettier than he remembered, and he cursed himself for noticing it. Why did I bother fleeing to London, he thought. I ought to have known that she would not be so easily forgotten. Here, it seemed, he might be afforded the chance to acknowledge the feelings he had attempted to hide from these past weeks, if only he might find an opportunity to speak.
“TELL ME, MISS BENNET, how do you like Kent?”
Ordinarily, Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s evident interest in his cousin would be a cause of some anxiety to Mr Collins, such that he would be hanging on their every word of conversation, seeking to determine from her reactions whether Lady Catherine approved of his cousin and whether Elizabeth, in turn, was acting to endear herself to his patroness.
That particular evening, however, his attention was utterly preoccupied with another corner of the dining table. Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, newly arrived in Kent and known to Mr Collins only by reputation before today, was regaling his audience, consisting of Miss Anne de Bourgh and Mrs Charlotte Collins, with a particularly terrifying tale of bravery and danger from the war. Both ladies were absorbed in both tale and teller, but William sensed that Mr Darcy, like himself, was less enamoured with his cousin’s exhibition. Seeking to engage himself in the conversation and sensing he had a better opportunity of finding some common ground with Mr Darcy than with Colonel Fitzwilliam, that gentleman became Mr Collins’ target. He cleared his throat once, then, when it gained him no notice from his dining companions, did it a second time, more loudly.
“Dear me, Collins, what a ferocious cough. Would you like a glass of water?”
Richard Fitzwilliam broke off from his tale and poured a drink into his own, unused, water-glass, passing it over to Mr Collins with an infuriating grin. The latter took the glass but did not drink it, and opened his mouth to speak, grudgingly grateful that Colonel Fitzwilliam’s notice had given him the opportunity he sought to break into their conversation.
“I wonder -”
“What happened next?” Charlotte pressed, barely glancing over to reassure herself of her husband’s well-being.
Mr Collins closed his mouth, as Richard began to speak once more, and set his glass down.
He could not recall a time when he had seen Charlotte so animated around the Rosing’s dining table - or, indeed, around any dining table since that first fateful evening when he had dined at Lucas Lodge and asked her father for his daughter’s hand in marriage. An uncomfortable sensation settled in the pit of his stomach as he watched the expression of interest dance across his wife’s features, as her companion’s words summoned up a great adventure in her imagination. She was utterly rapt, as was Anne, and for perhaps the first time William Collins felt an unfamiliar sensation pricking at the back of his neck. He was not a jealous man by nature, nor had he ever been particularly possessive of his wife’s attention. It was not becoming in a gentleman to be so lovelorn as to care very much what fickle women thought, or so the young William had been taught by his father. The elder Mr Collins had possessed vaguely disparaging opinions relating to the fairer sex and he had never shied away from sharing them in the hearing of his son, in hopes it would guard him against future errors of the kind he saw being committed the world over. That the monster of jealousy should rear its ugly head this very evening, in this very room, was unfortunate indeed, and Mr Collis did his best to quell it.
If my wife can enjoy an evening of conversation, then I might endeavour to do the same, he thought, turning abruptly away from their corner, feeling that if he were not forced to look upon Colonel Fitzwilliam he would no longer feel a strange and rising urge to lash out at the fellow.
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br /> He fixed his attention on the conversation at the head of the table and was pleased to hear Elizabeth comport herself well in the company of Lady Catherine. She was polite and engaging and not a bit silly, as her sisters had a tendency to be on occasion. More than that, he detected no trace of the mocking light in her eyes that he had come to recognise all too evidently whenever she addressed him. Such treatment had never been a cause for anger in William Collins, nor for despair, for once he had realised that in refusing his proposal of marriage, he was freed from ever trying to win Elizabeth Bennet’s respect, he was likewise freed from attempting to attain it. Even the cross is considered foolishness to those who are perishing, he had reminded himself, seeking comfort, as was his habit, in words of scripture.
“And how long do you intend to remain at Hunsford?” Lady Catherine asked, lifting her glance momentarily to William before returning it to Elizabeth.
“As long as my gracious hosts will have me!” Elizabeth laughed, and, noticing her cousin’s presence, moved to include him. “It was very generous of you to invite me at all, Mr Collins.”
“Nonsense,” William demurred. “You are family, and my Charlotte’s dear friend. There was no question of you not coming to visit us.” An idea lodged in his brain and he had spoken regarding it almost before he had finished thinking it. “And the fact that Mr Darcy is here in Kent at the same time, why, that is providential indeed!”
This observation, made with a smile and the confidence of a happy reception from his audience was instead met with stony silence from both ladies. Mr Collins laughed, but it was a weak sound, dying away to nothing almost immediately.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, stiffly.
“Were you aware that my nephew would be situated at Rosings, Miss Elizabeth? I thought his visit had rather more to do with the presence of his cousin.” Lady Catherine did not differentiate which cousin she alluded to, and Mr Collins leapt forward, hoping to undo whatever damage his light-hearted comment had wrought.
“Oh, I am sure Miss Bennet was quite unaware -”
“I have not spoken to Mr Darcy since he departed Hertfordshire for London,” Elizabeth said. “Before Christmas.”
This confession did not appear quite satisfying enough for Lady Catherine, and Mr Collins’ patroness fixed Elizabeth with an unrelenting stare for such a long moment that Willian felt quite uncomfortable, although he noticed that Elizabeth met her gaze unflinchingly, and wondered what silent communication was occurring between the two women that he was not privy to.
“Indeed.” Lady Catherine laid down her fork, apparently satisfied with Elizabeth’s explanation. “Well, I do not doubt you will be far too busy with Mrs Collins to spend any time with either of my nephews, Miss Bennet. And I believe I heard tell you are fond of walking out of doors? I was always a great walker myself, when a younger woman, but of course lately my health is not quite so robust...”
“I am sorry to hear that, Lady Catherin,” Elizabeth offered, her voice ringing with genuine concern. “And Anne, what are her hobbies?”
“Oh, Miss Bennet! Miss de Bourgh is the most wonderful musician. I am sure she will display her talent for us this evening, and you, like all of us, will be utterly charmed by her performance. Charming!”
There, William thought. That has turned the conversation in a much more favourable direction.
This complimentary mention of her daughter had soothed whatever had unsettled Lady Catherine, and she launched into an effusive discussion of music, in which Elizabeth just about managed to hold her own. Mr Collins allowed the words to wash over him, never having a great deal of interest in music beyond what sounded pleasant, and that which he selected for his services, the simple choruses which kept men’s hearts fixed on heaven.
He found his attention straying once more to the other corner of the table and found that this time, Mr Darcy, too, had been drawn into Richard Fitzwilliam’s circle of adoration. William’s stomach turned over and he struggled to swallow, his appetite gone. So the man is a soldier and a brave one. Bravo! he thought, with a cynical smile. It hardly takes brains to march and climb and shoot! Better to spend oneself on behalf of the church, and enter into glory knowing one has done the Lord’s work. These ideas had given him courage in times past, whenever he had doubted his worth as a gentleman or a Curate, for his father’s voice still rang in his ears, thick with disparagement for his son’s chosen career. It is no better than I suppose I should have hoped for you, William. You hardly have the talent for anything more!
There was a clatter as the fork slid from his grasp, striking his plate, and the rest of his dining companions turned to regard him curiously.
“Forgive me,” he muttered, his cheeks hot with embarrassment and remembrance.
“My dear fellow, are you quite well?” Richard asked, turning and summoning a servant who returned, after a whispered question, with a glass carafe. “Perhaps something a little stronger than water.”
“Oh, no -” William opened his mouth to refuse, but Charlotte beat him to it.
“My husband is a temperate man, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and drinks rarely, and even then only medicinally.”
Her profession to know what was best for him, at that moment, rankled against William’s nerves, and he squared his shoulders, making a decision he would perhaps come to regret.
“My wife is mistaken,” he said brusquely. “Just because one does not make a habit of drinking does not mean one is opposed to it.” He nodded towards the carafe. “I believe, on this occasion, I will take a small brandy, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Perhaps you will join me?”
Chapter Seven
Mr Collins had become louder as dinner continued, and Elizabeth felt certain that she could not be the only person who let out a sigh of relief when the meal concluded, and they adjourned to the sitting room.
Anne was commissioned by Lady Catherine to play for them, and Mr Darcy was dispatched “to be of assistance”, which both he and Anne accepted with reluctance but a certain amount of meek obedience.
“Mrs Collins, what do you think of our newest arrivals? They bring quite a change to our small party here at Rosings, do not they?” Lady Catherine announced, as she settled herself into a chair, in the manner of a Queen, surveying her subjects.
“Oh, indeed,” Charlotte said, stepping lightly around her husband, and finding a seat for herself within Lady Catherine’s circle. That she pointedly chose to ignore her husband did not go unnoticed by Elizabeth, and she puzzled over how best to help her friend. It was clear all was not well between husband and wife if their silences were any indication even before the evening’s meal. They did not dislike each other, rather, it seemed to Elizabeth that they simply did not like each other. They had married quickly but were not strangers to one another. Surely the matter might be remedied if only she could think of a way.
She was turning the matter over in her mind when a word from Lady Catherine caught her ear.
“How do you like the book of poetry I recommended to you?”
“Oh, very well,” Charlotte said. “Mr Collins found a copy for me almost immediately you said you liked it. I find it very uplifting, and the language is quite beautiful.”
“There is too much romantic poetry in the selection for my tastes,” Lady Catherine said. “I much prefer religious texts, for that is where the heights of literature can truly soar. But for one less accustomed to reading poetry, such as yourself, Mrs Collins, I believe that it is a fine introduction to form and style.”
Charlotte’s smile remained fixed in place, but Elizabeth knew her friend well enough to know that the slight on her education had not gone without note.
A note! There, Elizabeth’s mind found an idea and seized upon it. How easy it might be to stir some feeling of affection between husband and wife with so small a thing as a note. And here, had Lady Catherine not given her the very tool she might use? Some romantic piece of poetry, copied from the very book Mr Collins had bought for his wife! Why, it would be enough to
turn Charlotte’s heart towards him in an instant.
Elizabeth was so delighted with her plan that she began to smile as Mr Collins and Colonel Fitzwilliam joined their party, and the latter took the expression for an invitation, selecting a chair beside her and folding his long legs beneath it.
“Good evening, Miss Elizabeth.”
“How long do you intend to remain in Kent, Colonel Fitzwilliam?” Elizabeth asked, hoping that some conversation might dispel the awkwardness that had settled on the group. It was at that moment that Anne began to play, so Elizabeth earned a sharp look from Lady Catherine, and, with an apologetic smile, fell silent.
Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned closer to her, his voice a low whisper.
“I shall stay as long as I can manage it,” he said, with a slight smile. “For you cannot imagine how different this is to barracks life.”
“I can well imagine!” Elizabeth whispered back, explaining that there was a regiment stationed at Meryton and that she had often been in society with its members. She did not mention that this society was a little more frequent than she might have chosen herself, for her younger sisters were utterly enamoured with the militia and could hardly be kept from visiting them, regardless of the scandal they might be storing up for themselves.
“Ah, then you have seen regimental life up close.” Colonel Fitzwilliam shifted in his seat. “And yet, I wager, you have seen but one side of it, for the men will have been on their best behaviour in presence of a lady. I assure you, left unattended things are far less civilised.”
