Darcy By Any Other Name

by Laura Hile

  This, Darcy knew, would be extremely unwise, and he said so. Another strike of lightning crackled like gunshot. Darcy leaned against the side of the arch. “You have only recently come to the Rosings parish?” he said conversationally. For Miss Elizabeth’s sake he should make an attempt.

  “Why, er, yes.” Collins got hold of himself soon enough. “And wondrously generous Lady Catherine has been,” he went on, “inviting me to tea and dinner at the estate—” There was more in this vein. Darcy did not comment, even when the pelting rain changed to hail.

  More flattery, more obeisance. Was this what people thought he enjoyed?

  And why, in heaven’s name, was he standing here conversing with this man? A stray thought appeared: had Collins resumed his hand-wringing? Darcy allowed his gaze to slide in Collins’ direction. Of course he had!

  Where did his aunt find these fellows?

  At last Darcy felt he had to say something. “Gratitude and humility,” he offered, “are necessary requirements of your profession, especially in my aunt’s eyes.”

  Collins’ chin lifted. “Why, yes,” he said. “Never forget that the meek shall inherit the earth, Mr. Darcy,” he said primly. He laid a kindly pastoral hand on Darcy’s shoulder.

  Darcy shrank from the man’s touch. How dared Collins quote a biblical text to him! Conversation was bad enough, but a thinly-veiled rebuke?

  “Very true,” Darcy replied through shut teeth, for how could he argue with theology? Nevertheless, the de Bourghs and the Darcys would inherit the landed estates. Collins, inept and bumbling, would be master of nothing!

  Another gust of wind struck the Folly.

  The sky flashed white. Bits of stone and mortar went flying, and thunder exploded. There was a second flash as lightning struck again. This time the very stones of the Folly were dislodged. Mr. Collins gave a shriek, and Darcy felt the push of his hands as the man shoved him aside.

  Then Collins went down, a quivering bulk of wet and howling black wool. “Mercy,” he screamed. “Mercy!”

  Darcy was unable to prevent himself from falling. He hit the pavement heavily and knew no more.

  2 A Fine Figure of a Man

  There were sounds in the garden—shouts or calls, as if a shooting party had lost its way. But this could not be right, Darcy decided. No one would be hunting in the middle of the night. For it was night; the moon was shining—or was it a lantern? Darcy worked to untangle his thoughts. What had happened?

  He must have fallen asleep, he decided. But was he now awake? He should be able to see and to move, and he could do neither. But he could hear.

  And what he heard was the sound of wings. Birds, large birds—could they be ravens? Or vultures? —came flapping and hopping round. He could feel them pulling at his clothing with their beaks. They had voices, rough and shrill like crows. Were they crows?

  “Is he dead? Is he dead?” they called to one another.

  Of course he was not dead. Couldn’t they see that? He now realized where he was lying—in the garden at Netherfield beside the Folly, or what remained of it. There had been a storm, hadn’t there? With rain and lightning and hail. Darcy summoned his strength to drive the birds away, but could not. The crows continued to squawk and caw.

  Corbies, said the voice of memory. These were not crows, they were corbies. Darcy knew a rhyme about corbies; he’d learned it as a boy.

  As I was walking all alone, I heard two corbies making a moan;

  Yes, that was it. These crows were certainly doing that.

  One unto the other did say, “Where shall we go and dine today?”

  Darcy knew the answer: they would dine on human flesh! In fact, he could hear Mrs. Allan chanting the rhyme in her raspy brogue. This, his rational mind added, was what came of having a Scot to mind young children! Gruesome rhymes at bedtime!

  And Mrs. Allen would say the next bit slowly, as if relishing every word:

  In behind that old turf wall, I sense there lies a new-slain knight;

  And nobody knows that he lies there, but his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair.

  But Darcy was not a knight! The rest of the story involved the crows plucking out the dead man’s eyes and thatching their nests with his hair.

  And o’er his white bones, when they are bare, the wind will blow forevermare.

  Even now these words made Darcy’s skin crawl.

  Meanwhile, the birds around him were not silent. “But who is he?”

  “Who? Who?”

  Darcy struggled to work this out. Had the crows now become owls? Or were they men? Men, he decided, although how birds could become human was beyond him.

  “He don’t look dead. Ha, dead drunk, do ye think?”

  “He’s nobody I’ve seen before.”

  Darcy became aware of something else, the tang of tobacco smoke—someone had lit a pipe! These men were standing about and smoking? Calmly discussing him as if he were downed game or a tree stump?

  “I’m Darcy!” he wanted to shout. “Confound it, I’m Darcy, and I’m not drunk!” But his voice would not work.

  “He’ll catch his death out here,” another person said. “It’s nigh unto freezing.”

  Finally, someone with sense!

  “How long do you suppose he’s been here?”

  Darcy worked to remember. He’d come out of the house after the dancing to clear his thinking, and Collins had followed.

  Collins. He had a list of gripes about Collins—and he had voiced a few to the man’s face, hadn’t he? Well, he oughtn’t to have followed. Collins got what he deserved.

  “Look here,” someone said. “It’s that parson! Him as is staying with the Bennets!”

  Which meant that Darcy was experiencing a nightmare, for Collins was in it.

  “Once the boys get back from carrying that Mr. Darcy into the house,” someone said, “we’ll have a go with this one.”

  “A shame about Mr. Darcy,” another voice said.

  Oh, a shame indeed, thought Darcy. But why didn’t these men help him? And why didn’t they know who he was?

  “I’ll throw out my back, I will, if we carry him.”

  “Carry him?” someone else said. “Are you daft?” Darcy tried to ignore the sneer in the voice.

  “We’ll need the pony cart if we’re to haul him all the way to Longbourn. That’s a good two or three mile, that is. He’s no lightweight.” Against the small of his back Darcy felt the nudge of a foot.

  Why would they take him to Longbourn? Netherfield, Darcy protested. They ought to take him to Netherfield! Why couldn’t they hear him?

  “A regular bonehead, to be out in a storm like that. No sense, these gentlemen, for all their fine ways.” Someone gave a push to Darcy’s hip—was he trying to turn him over? A wave of pain surged through his shoulder and arm.

  “Tsk, tsk, would you look at that. A case for Mr. Jones, this is,” a voice said. “That shoulder don’t look right. Broken bone, do you think?”

  Darcy could feel the men’s growing curiosity as they gathered round to see. Nausea followed the pain. Why wouldn’t they leave him alone?

  And then Darcy felt his head being lifted. He was being forced to drink—brandy? Liquid slid down his throat, and somehow he managed to swallow. The warmth of the liquor spread through his chest.

  “It’ll be a long wait,” a voice said. “And a cold one.”

  Darcy found he no longer cared, so long as the pain stopped. The men continued to talk, but their voices slipped away. All was blissfully dark and quiet.

  g

  Sometime later—how long he did not know—Darcy became aware that the quiet had changed. This was no longer the silence of the garden, but that of a house. He drew a long breath and attempted to open his eyes. Somehow he hadn’t the strength to do this. No matter, he was dry and warm. His left shoulder hurt tremendously. It was just as well that he could not move it.

  He soon became aware of more sounds: the crackle and pop of a wood fire and footfalls on a wooden f
loor. He was not alone! Was a housemaid in the room? There, the chime of a spoon against a glass tumbler! Had someone brought in breakfast? That person was stirring...what? His coffee?

  And there was more: the distinct rustle of cloth. Darcy strained to hear. He discovered that he could make out whispering voices. Again he struggled to open his eyes. Why was he so weak?

  “Pray don’t disturb him. Let him sleep, poor man.”

  This was a woman’s voice; was she one of the Netherfield housemaids? And very sound advice she offered. Sleep would be most welcome, if the pain would go away.

  “But his eyelids,” said another voice. “Do you see? They’re moving. So he isn’t dead.”

  Of course he was not dead! And wasn’t it humiliating to be the topic of conversation among servants?

  “At least,” the same voice continued, “he isn’t dead yet.”

  Darcy did not like the emphasis she put on the word yet.

  “Lydia, hush!”

  Lydia? What was this? He knew no Lydia, save for Lydia Bennet, Elizabeth’s pert sister. And this certainly could not be her. What would Lydia Bennet be doing at Netherfield?

  Lydia (or whoever she was) went on speaking. “How Mama would rejoice if he were!”

  If he were dead, did she mean? Why would a housemaid’s mother be glad about that?

  There was a pause, during which Darcy waited. “And he’s been snoring so,” she complained. “It’s enough to wake the dead.”

  Darcy felt himself stiffen. He did not snore!

  “Lydia, please,” said the first voice. “He shall not die; he merely needs rest. Such a shocking accident,” she added.

  So there had been an accident. The storm, the Folly, the lightning. It was not a dream.

  “But you must admit, Jane, that it would be a wonderful thing if he never woke up. He could not inherit then.”

  Was this Jane Bennet? No, it was impossible. But how could two of Bingley’s maids be named Jane and Lydia?

  No, this sort of coincidence was too much. He must be dreaming again. Yes, that was it, he was dreaming. For if Jane and Lydia Bennet were at his bedside, he could not be at Netherfield. But he must be at Netherfield. The corbies had said they had taken him there.

  Corbies again. Was he losing his mind? They were men, he remembered. And they said they had taken Mr. Darcy to Netherfield.

  “It makes no difference, Lydia. We would not benefit in the slightest. Some other male relation would inherit, that is all.”

  This was a new voice, and Darcy struggled to identify its owner. This was not Caroline Bingley’s sophisticated drawl, though if he were at Netherfield she would certainly wheedle her way into his sickroom. Nor did she sound like Louisa Hurst.

  Her voice was clear and pleasing. Could she be...Elizabeth? Elizabeth Bennet in his bedchamber? Darcy felt his heart give a thump. Since this was a dream, it was very possible!

  “Poor man,” the voice known as Jane said. “He’s lost weight.”

  “As if losing weight could be a bad thing!” said Lydia. She gave a muted giggle. “Imagine what will happen if he continues this way. His clothes won’t fit!”

  “Lydia, really.”

  “But how shall we manage? Father won’t lend him anything, not that I blame him. And can you imagine the talk if we trot into Meryton and place an order? Or have the tailor call to take measurements?”

  There was a pause. “What a thought,” she added. “Like measuring a corpse for a coffin.” The relish in Miss Lydia’s voice was unmistakable.

  “He is not a corpse,” said the unknown voice. “I daresay he will recover soon enough, once he regains consciousness, for then he’ll be able to eat.”

  “And eat and eat and eat! Poor Mama, did you see her face when dear Mr. Collins consumed quite half the ham? Not to mention three helpings of bread pudding and most of the rum sauce.”

  What did Collins have to do with anything? And why should he eat half a ham?

  “Mr. Collins eats like, well, like gentlemen do.”

  Jane, Darcy decided, was a natural diplomat. “He must keep up his strength, as they say,” she went on.

  “Indeed,” said Lydia laughingly, “the man needs plenty of strength to haul about that stomach of his.”

  “Haul?” Jane’s voice carried mild reproof. “Those officers are corrupting your speech, Lydia.”

  Lydia merely giggled. “Oh, lord, not even Denny eats like Mr. Collins does, and Denny is as thin as anything. Father says Mr. Collins eats like a poor relation.”

  “Father,” said Jane, “has an appetite which is more refined than most. And Father enjoys poking fun, you know that.”

  Darcy heard a door open. “Girls! What is the meaning of this?”

  All doubts were banished now. This was certainly Mrs. Bennet.

  “I’m surprised at you, congregating in a gentleman’s bedchamber. Most irregular!”

  “It isn’t as if he’s a threat to our virtue, Mama.” This was from Lydia. Darcy felt someone lift one of his eyelids. “See?” she said. “He’s still out. Dead to the world.”

  There was a pause. “Perhaps,” Lydia added hopefully, “he’ll stay out and save us a world of trouble. I was just telling Lizzy, Mama, that he’ll eat us out of house and home before he leaves.”

  Lizzy? Darcy’s heart gave a thump, and he strained to hear more.

  “We came in to change the bedding, Mama,” he heard Elizabeth’s voice say.

  “As well you should,” replied Mrs. Bennet. “Very right and proper, Lizzy. And if you happen to be here when he comes to himself, so much the better.”

  “Mama, really.”

  “You might give Mr. Collins a bit of encouragement. Think of what it might mean to your future—to all our futures.”

  “I am thinking of it, Mama.” Elizabeth’s tone was dry.

  “Well!” Mrs. Bennet said. “Turning up your nose at a gentleman with prospects is most unhelpful. By your standards no one is good enough!”

  Elizabeth must be standing very near to the bed, for Darcy heard her murmur, “Even Mr. Darcy.”

  “Mr. Collins’ prospects,” Mrs. Bennet went on, “are as good as anyone’s! Without having to inherit Longbourn, he has quite a snug situation.”

  Darcy held his breath. Collins was to inherit Longbourn?

  “You would do well to mind that, Lizzy,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “before he slips through your fingers!” On the strength of this remark, Mrs. Bennet left the room.

  “What I say is that his so-noble patroness, Lady Whoever-she-is, must be a penny-pincher.” This was from Lydia. Darcy felt someone’s fingers close around his wrist. “Look at the cuff of his nightshirt. Imagine, wearing something so frayed! Mama would never permit it.” There was a pause. “Now I wonder—” she added.

  There was a mischievous lilt in her voice. What was she planning?

  “Do you suppose,” said Lydia, “that the elbow has been patched as well?” Darcy felt the blankets being moved aside. Was Miss Lydia intending to have a look?

  Just as quickly the blankets were twitched back into place. “Lydia, really,” Jane chided. “Allow the man some dignity.”

  “Everyone deserves that,” Elizabeth added. “Even Mr. Collins.”

  Collins again. Why must people keep bringing him up?

  “But Lizzy,” said Lydia, “this is our chance to check! Quick, where is his coat? What has he got in his pockets? How much money is in his purse?”

  “Nothing that interests us.”

  “But Lizzy!” Lydia pleaded.

  “Off with you,” Elizabeth said, and Darcy could hear the smile in her voice. “I daresay the poor man can hear everything we say.”

  Lydia gave a giggle. “Oh, surely n—” she stopped mid-sentence. “My gracious,” she said, in an altered tone. “His fingers are so fat. Like sausages.”

  There was another pause. “If he’s so eager to find a wife,” she added, “I wonder that he’ll be able to get a wedding ring to fit!” And then D
arcy heard Lydia’s skipping step go out of the room.

  “Will she never learn to hold her tongue?” This was from Jane.

  “I think not. Shall I open the window a bit? It seems rather close in here.”

  Darcy heard the rasp of the sash being raised. At once the door came open and brisk footfalls crossed the room. “Merciful heavens, he’ll catch his death,” Mrs. Bennet’s voice cried. The sash was then forced down.

  “Mr. Jones is here to attend him. You’d best come away, girls, for that bone might need setting. Mr. Jones,” she added, “is known for putting members of the family to use.”

  At this all the women went into motion, or so it seemed to Darcy.

  “I am willing to assist Mr. Jones, Mama, if he requires it.”

  “No, Jane dear,” said Mrs. Bennet. “That is for Lizzy to do.” There was a pause.

  “A ministering angel you’ll be, Lizzy,” she went on, and Darcy could picture her wide smile. “The first face to meet his eyes after his ordeal.” And then Mrs. Bennet went out of the room.

  “I am willing to assist you, Lizzy, if you wish it,” said Jane. She did not sound at all willing, but Darcy had to admire her spirit.

  He felt the bedclothes being smoothed—by Elizabeth?

  “Better not,” he heard her say. “I was there when he set John Miller’s arm last year, and the first thing Mr. Jones did was to make poor John very drunk.”

  Elizabeth hesitated. “Can you imagine Mr. Collins in the same state?” she added.

  Collins again. Yes, Darcy could imagine it all too vividly.

  Both girls left the bedchamber. It was then that Darcy discovered something wondrous: he was able to open his eyes. A miracle, he could see! Eagerly he took in his surroundings.

  The bedchamber was entirely new to him, small and sparsely furnished—and unlike anything at Netherfield, unless it belonged to one of the servants. The walls were painted, not papered, and an ancient wardrobe stood in the corner. On the dressing table rested a wide-brimmed parson’s hat, though what it was doing here Darcy did not know.