by Meg Osborne
“Is there no way the matter can be settled without violence?” Mr Darcy asked, with an anxious glance over his shoulder.
“I have no desire for violence,” Mr Collins said, his voice gaining in strength and volume as he spoke, warming to his subject. “As you can see, it is not I that am at fault, nor I that struggles to control my emotions.”
“Certainly, demanding a duel is the action of an emotionally stable fellow!” Colonel Fitzwilliam called, with a malicious snort. He was bent over his weapons, selecting which he would use, and Mr Collins turned towards his servant, who hesitated, before offering the case that held the rifle that had been fired less than half a dozen times to William’s knowledge, and rarely successfully.
“Come, William,” Mr Darcy said, drawing close enough that his whisper did not exceed their small circle. “Be sensible. This is a fool’s errand and will end badly - for both of you.”
“I am not afraid, Mr Darcy!” he announced, although the pitch of his voice suggested that this was very much not the case. “But if Colonel Fitzwilliam does not care to defend his honour-”
“It is not my honour I defend.” Colonel Fitzwilliam strode forward. “You accused me of acting in a manner that is indefensible. I have not. But in accusing me you also accuse your own wife.” He shook his head, displeasure evident in his scowl. “She is too kind, too good to be deserving such treatment and I can only feel sympathy that her husband thinks her possible of such behaviour.” He straightened. “Now come on and get this over with. Ten paces, turn and shoot. I do not wish to hurt you, sir, and if you insist on such foolishness I will act as a true gentleman ought.”
As a true gentleman? What did that mean? William wished he had brought his books with him, to see if there was some code that he had missed in his hasty researching of the modes and methods of conducting a duel. He realised he had acted hastily, foolishly, and now there was a very real possibility that someone might suffer on account of it.
“Perhaps...” he began, feebly, but before he could form a sentence his servant was pressing his rifle into his hands, and Colonel Fitzwilliam began to bark out his paces.
“One...two...three...”
Hurrying into position, Mr Collins paced out his own decade, turning and squinting his eyes closed as he raised his weapon, unable to bear the sight of what he was about to do. Before his eyelids flutter closed, though, he saw his opponent’s arm raise to the sky. Instinctively, William pulled the trigger without caring to notice where he aimed. His bullet shot into the grass, missing Colonel Fitzwilliam by a clear yard.
“You aim towards the sky!” he exclaimed.
“Of course I did. I am no murderer.”
“Nor a gentleman! Fire straight, and do not seek to spare me!”
“I seek to spare myself the explanation of how it came to be that my aunt’s Curate became maimed at my hand.” Colonel Fitzwilliam exchanged his spent rifle for his second. “If you will have me shoot again, then do not be a fool. Duck!”
William seethed, but secretly he felt a glimmer of relief that neither bullet had found their mark.
“Again?” he asked, not quite willing to be the first to back down.
“If you will not see sense.”
This time William took care to aim, pointing his weapon at Colonel Fitzwilliam. He saw his opponent exchange a glance with Mr Darcy and relished the feeling of power he felt as both gentlemen awkwardly maintained their position. He curled his finger around the trigger and willed Colonel Fitzwilliam to do the same. Before he could complete the shot, however, a light, female voice broke through into the clearing.
“Stop!” Charlotte cried, followed closely by Elizabeth. The two ladies stumbled into the path of the duel. “Oh, please stop!”
“CHARLOTTE!”
Mr Collins was so surprised to see not one but two ladies that he lowered his pistol almost immediately. Sensing his opportunity, Darcy hurried to his side and knocked the weapon from his hands, staying any accident, now that there were ladies present.
“Mr Darcy!” This accusation came from Elizabeth, and she barrelled towards him. “You were party to this - to this madness too?” Her eyes flashed with anger, and Darcy fumbled for an explanation.
“Only at my insistence,” Richard said, hurrying forwards. “He came to ensure neither Collins nor I killed one another. Or ourselves.” He smiled, tentatively, but the expression did not linger under the harsh glare Elizabeth fixed upon him. For once Darcy was relieved not to be the sole object of Elizabeth Bennet’s anger.
“What made you pursue such a thing?” Charlotte Collins asked, reaching her husband and hesitating, not knowing whether to strike him or embrace him.
“How came you to know of it?” he asked, his voice so small that he seemed almost childlike.
“That is hardly the matter we need to discuss. A duel? How could you do such a thing?” She had turned to Richard, then, and directed her question towards him.
“I -”
“The fault is mine, my dear,” Mr Collins said, reaching for her hand. “I sent the letter, I called him out. Indeed, were it not for Colonel Fitzwilliam’s gentlemanly behaviour, I might have done something I regret. I-I am sorry.”
He turned towards Richard himself and bowed his head. “I have acted the fool five times over. I can but apologise, and - and pray you forgive me, sir.” He lifted his eyes to Darcy. “And to you, Mr Darcy, I offer my sincere apologies and ask that you will not judge me for my senseless actions this evening. I do not know what came over me.”
“I do,” Charlotte countered, her lips quirking as if to laugh. “Brandy. I certainly shall forbid your ever taking it again, alone or in company!”
This provoked a ripple of laughter, as much in relief that the crisis had been averted as at the light attempt at humour Mrs Collins had deployed.
“Perhaps, sir, you might escort your wife back to your home,” Richard said, with magnanimous effort. “Darcy and I can see to things here.”
Charlotte glanced at Elizabeth as if requesting her permission, and Darcy was relieved when she nodded and consented to remain with the servants, for Charlotte’s maid had accompanied the ladies in their flight to the clearing, and remained, unsure what to do next.
The immediate crisis averted, Darcy turned towards Richard to ascertain for himself that his cousin was well.
“No injuries here,” Richard grinned. “Of course, if he’d been as good a shot as he is a sermonizer that might be a different story.”
Elizabeth shot the gentlemen a sharp look.
“What possessed you to do such a thing?”
“Mr Collins demanded satisfaction.” Richard shrugged his shoulders as if that were all the explanation needed.
“And you could not possibly merely talk to him?”
“Darcy tried -”
Elizabeth glanced at him, then, disbelieving.
“I attempted to smooth things over. Alas, conversation is not my strongest skill.”
“Indeed.”
“I would never have allowed harm to come to your cousin, Miss Bennet,” he said, truthfully. “Nor to my own. Richard and I had already agreed that no shots would be aimed, and no injuries given.”
“And what if Mr Collins had not been agreeable to such a suggestion?” she asked, her eyes darting to his. “You might have been - that is, either one of you might have been hurt.”
“Your compassion is underserved, Miss Bennet,” Richard said, with a grin. “Come, let us make for home. You will accompany us to Rosings, Elizabeth? I know Anne is eager to see you and you may regale her with our misdeeds.”
The party began a slow walk back to the house in relative silence, and they had drawn quite close before Darcy spoke again.
“I am sorry that you and Mrs Collins were unduly concerned by our behaviour.” He cleared his throat. “How came you to know of it?”
“Mr Collins had made mention of it to a servant. And, upon discovering his study empty we found a note he had begun - I
imagine in preparation for the one he sent you.” She grimaced. “A duel! What nonsense. As if we are all living in some kind of novel.”
“It is more common than you might presume, Miss Bennet. In the regiment, there are few better ways of settling a dispute between fellows.”
“But you are not with the regiment at present, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth remarked, with an arch glare. “And you must have guessed Mr Collins would come off the worse in such a match. You are hardly equal in capability.”
“Hence I threw away my shot.” Colonel Fitzwilliam grinned. “Believe me, Miss Bennet, even had I wanted to, my second here would never have allowed me to cause your cousin to come to harm.”
Something in the way Colonel Fitzwilliam emphasised your cousin caused Elizabeth to stop walking. Indeed it was so blatant that even Darcy recognised it and threw his cousin an irritated glance. If Richard would persist in his meddling perhaps he ought to have allowed him to face the wrath of William Collins with no support whatsoever.
Before Darcy could speak another word to Elizabeth, however, another young woman came flying across the grass towards them.
“You are back! Thank the Lord you are back and unhurt. Oh, Richard - Mama knows. Somehow she knows this has happened and demands to see you.” Anne turned a pale frown towards Darcy. “She demands to see you both at once.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Oh, Charlotte, I am so sorry to have worried you,” Mr Collins said, as husband and wife made their way home.
She had striven to maintain some distance from him, and in this way demonstrate her displeasure at his foolish behaviour. But she could see, from the way he stumbled as he walked, that his nerves were still frazzled, and his head must still ache from the uncharacteristic quantity of brandy he consumed last evening, so that her resolve faltered before they had gone a quarter-mile, and she slid her hand through the crook of his elbow, their pace slowing until they were barely moving at all.
“What possessed you to do such a thing?” she asked, determined, now that they were alone, to discover the truth. She could not have imagined a fellow more unsuited to calling someone out to duel than her quiet, homely husband, and could not thank God more that Colonel Fitzwilliam had stayed his hand. She shuddered. How different matters might have been!
“I do not know!” Mr Collins wailed. “It was love, or, pride, or some foolish human emotion - some temporary madness I wager - that made me act so rashly.” He shook his head. “I am foolish, Mrs Collins, a foolish old man.”
“You are hardly old!” Charlotte said, amusement tugging at her lips. She meditated on his words, and one called her back to it.
“But love? Now you speak in riddles, sir. Tell me what you mean, and speak plainly, as you would to the humblest of your congregants.”
Mr Collins looked askance as if he thought her mocking him, but when he deduced nought but a desire to know the truth, he cleared his throat and began once more to speak.
“I know that our marriage has not been entirely as you wished it to be, and I - I apologise if I have not made your new home as happy as you deserve. I know I am not always forthright with my feelings and tend to say too much, rather than too little. I speak to fill the silence, saying little of importance and leave the most important things unsaid. I love you, my dear Charlotte, and I do not believe I have ever told you that.”
Charlotte’s breath caught in her throat. She had never thought her husband capable of such honest sentiment and it touched her even more than his note had that morning.
“I know I cannot begin to imagine you care for me, not yet in any case, but I saw how easily you conversed with Colonel Fitzwilliam, and knowing him to be brave, and skilled and confident in all manner of gentlemanly pursuits that I have never cared for I confess to being...jealous.” This last word was barely a whisper, and Charlotte felt a flurry of understanding. Had she not felt precisely the same way, over and over again when her friends were selected for dancing, companionship, marriage, and she was overlooked? She knew she could not compete with many of the other young ladies in Hertfordshire for beauty or accomplishments, but still, such disregard stung. Had she not even felt a flare of jealousy at the way her husband seemed to care so utterly for Lady Catherine’s comfort and good opinion, at the expense of her own?
“I can understand that,” she said, reasonably. “But I still do not see why this led to a duel! What can have precipitated such an extreme reaction?”
“I saw that he cared for you, and you for him, and I was driven mad.” He shook his head. “No doubt aided by my pounding head and weariness. My dear, if ever I doubted the wisdom of temperance I shall never do so again. I dare not even drink medicinally in future: it will be water, only, from now on.”
“What on earth made you think Colonel Fitzwilliam cared for me?” Charlotte asked, not wanting the explanation, now that it came, to be derailed. “Or I for him?” She shook her head in disbelief, unsure what surprised her more. That her husband believed her capable of forming an affection so quickly with a man who was not her husband, and with her husband in such close proximity, or that he cared what she did at all! Her mind returned to the note Lizzy had passed her that morning, and what had begun to kindle in her heart grew. Was it possible that Mr Collins truly did care for her after all? Not just for his wife, for the poor fellow had been clear enough in his intent to marry a young woman - any woman - even before he had settled on her. She had known his first attempt had been to win Lizzy’s heart, but as her own interest in Mr Collins had been pragmatic and not romantic she had not been concerned with the thought that he might not care for her any more than was strictly necessary. They were still a little unknown to one another, after all. But Charlotte’s heart was stronger than her mind had given credit to it, and her desire for romance remained, even after pragmatism had won the day. She dreamed one day that her husband might care for her, and she might care for him, but had resigned herself to love’s impossibility. Had she so mistaken her husband’s true character? For what were today’s actions if not those of a man driven half mad with something that might, perhaps, be love?
“I found his note,” Mr Collins said, simply.
“What note?” Charlotte grew suspicious, now, and when Mr Collins cleared his throat and proceeded to recite the very letter she had received that morning - from him - her heart sank as she began to understand.
“But he did not write it!” she protested. “Indeed, I felt certain you had. Lizzy told me as much, she -” Charlotte stopped, her mouth falling open in surprise. Colour burned in her cheeks as she began to realise what must have happened. Her friend, her dear, well-meaning, interfering friend had penned the very letter she thought Charlotte ought to receive from her husband, and had given him the credit for it.
“I shall strike her myself!” she seethed, turning back as if Elizabeth might somehow materialise behind them and enable Charlotte to exact her revenge then and there.
“Who?” Mr Collins was utterly bewildered and looked back to see what had caught his wife’s attention. The motion was too sudden, though, and he groaned, clutching at his head.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam wrote me no note, my dear Mr Collins,” Charlotte said, the absurdity of their situation, at last, causing her to smile, and then, to laugh. “It was all Elizabeth. I wager it was her pen you are jealous of, and yet she wrote on your behalf.”
“She did?” Mr Collins coloured, now. “Whatever - oh! But I gave her quite a different note this morning. I apologised for my behaviour, certainly, but it was not at all so...so...” he waved his hand at a loss for a descriptor.
“And Lizzy took it upon herself to improve things.” Charlotte shook her head. “How foolish I was to believe her! As if you should ever write to me lines from a poem.”
“It did not ever occur to me that you would want me to!” Mr Collins said, stopping walking altogether, and insisting his wife stop too. “Tell me, Charlotte, for my mind cannot cope with riddles anymore. Is that the type
of romance you prefer? Duels and declarations, poetry and romance?”
Charlotte shook her head.
“I am happy with a quiet home, and my husband, if he will love me simply, with his whole heart, and no longer fear to be his own self with me. There is no need to strive to impress me, William, for I am married to you already. Please, do not treat me as you would Lady Catherine, or some other person you are desperate to impress. I am your wife, and you have given me so much already that there is no need to fear my displeasure.”
“You are sure?” William looked searchingly into her face, as if he could not quite begin to trust this little speech.
“You have given me my own home, and a position I had before now only dreamt of. If I might have all that, and your love too, then what more could I possibly wish for?”
“I do not deserve such a wife as you, my dear, wonderful Charlotte.”
Mr Collins’ declaration might not have been poetry, but it was so heartfelt that it served him better than any quantity of recitation, for Charlotte was in his arms and the pair shared a tender embrace, more genuine, now, than any they had shared before.
LADY CATHERINE WAS not to be trifled with, and when Darcy saw Anne fall back behind Richard he felt a childish inclination to do the same, before shaking off the notion and striding forward, ready to meet his aunt head on.
“Good afternoon, Aunt,” he began.
“Good afternoon?” she screeched. “Fitzwilliam, it is neither the afternoon nor good.” She scowled in the direction of the grandfather clock older than time itself and rapped o the arm of her chair. “What have you been about?”
“I?” Darcy was playing for time, and everyone knew it, including Lady Catherine, who shot him a withering glare and turned her attention to the second of her nephews.
“When I invited you to stay, Richard, I certainly did not intend for you to set about starting feuds with my neighbours or drawing my very Curate into disrepute.” She laid her palms face down in her lap, a picture of calm that did not settle either Darcy or Richard’s nerves one iota. “Or have I heard wrongly? Tell me now that you were not set to fight a duel with my Curate.”
