Darcy By Any Other Name

by Laura Hile

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  And so on the following morning, Mrs. Bennet’s plan was carried out, and Jane and Elizabeth went to service to pray. Offering supplications, even silently, on behalf of these two men put Elizabeth’s Christian charity to the test.

  As the weather was fine, they had opted to walk. “I suppose venturing out has been beneficial,” said Elizabeth, coming out of the church into the autumn sunshine. She linked her arm with Jane’s.

  “The sooner we arrive home the better I shall like it,” confided Jane. “Oh, Lizzy, how uncomfortable this is!”

  “I do feel rather like that Pharisee,” Elizabeth agreed, “praying before men in order to be noticed.”

  Jane sighed heavily. “The most endearing virtues in the eyes of God,” she said, “are yet unseen by men.”

  “Not if Mama has any say about it.”

  “Dear Mama. This was not,” said Jane, “one of her better ideas. I would rather have prayed in a closet!” She indicated her gown. “And if I am mourning Mr. Darcy’s injury (and truly, I am most sincerely sorry for him!), should I not be wearing black?”

  “But periwinkle is so much more becoming!” Elizabeth said, smiling. “And so it is left for me to wear black. On behalf of two men for whom I could not care less.”

  “I am persuaded you do not mean that.”

  “Not entirely,” admitted Elizabeth. “Like you, I am sorry for Mr. Darcy, for surely he is in pain. And the sooner Mr. Collins is restored to health, the better it will be for us.”

  “For you,” said Jane. “But not, I think, for Mama.”

  Now it was Elizabeth’s turn to sigh. “Dear Mama,” she said.

  The sound of horses and carriage wheels came from behind. Jane hid her face beneath the brim of her hat. “Let us hope,” she said in a low voice, “that it is no one we know.”

  But the chaise slowed as it passed and then drew up. It was an elegant vehicle, Elizabeth noted. She took a swift glance at the occupants. “A man and a woman,” she said, “and well-dressed at that.

  Jane kept her eyes averted. “Lizzy,” she whispered. “Why has it stopped?”

  “Hallo and good morning!” called a familiar voice. “Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth! Where are you bound? May we take you up?”

  Jane took a peek. “Mr. Bingley,” she whispered. “And his sister.”

  “Mama knows best,” quipped Elizabeth. She lifted a hand and called, “Good morning!”

  “How mortifying,” murmured Jane.

  “Chin up,” Elizabeth whispered. “Leave this to me. You needn’t speak unless you wish.”

  Mr. Bingley had come out of the chaise and was now strolling toward them. “Out and about, I see,” he said. “Doing a bit of shopp—” He broke off speaking and his steps slowed.

  Elizabeth followed the direction of Mr. Bingley’s gaze. Ah, yes. He’d noticed the prayer books they carried. And she noticed something else: Charles Bingley had a sweet smile. He was probably blushing just as much as Jane, but more than admiration shone in his eyes. Here was sincere gratitude.

  “Have you been to prayer service?” he said softly.

  Elizabeth glanced to her sister. Did she wish to answer?

  “The accident,” Jane faltered, her eyes gazing into his. “Our cousin. And your poor friend.” She paused. “I am so very sorry.”

  Mr. Bingley took one of Jane’s hands in both of his. “God bless you,” he whispered.

  “It is the least we can do,” said Jane.

  Meanwhile Caroline Bingley was left to wait. The window came down. “Charles!” she called.

  Mr. Bingley dropped Jane’s hands. “My sister,” he said. “I should not—” He glanced back. “Shall we join her?” He and Jane turned together, and Elizabeth followed.

  “Caroline has been having a difficult time,” Mr. Bingley explained. “First with Darcy’s injury and now with the Hursts.” He lowered his voice. “Mr. Hurst is a singular fellow, repelled by sickness and suffering. The point is, he is easily cast down.”

  He smiled at Jane. “I know you are not so, Miss Bennet, and can bear any hardship. But the long and short of it is that Hurst and Louisa are for London.”

  Jane was all sympathy. “Miss Bingley must be so disappointed,” she said. “I daresay she depends upon her sister more than you realize. Indeed, without my sisters I would be very lonely. That is—” she stopped, flustered. “I mean, not that I would be unhappy without them, but...”

  This was Elizabeth’s moment to rescue Jane, and she greeted Miss Bingley with particular friendliness. Caroline looked taken aback, and then motioned for her brother to come near. She whispered something in his ear.

  When he turned to them, Elizabeth noticed that his face was pink with pleasure. “May I invite you ladies to join us,” he said, “for an impromptu luncheon?”

  “Please say you will come,” urged Caroline. “The Hursts are packing up, and without Louisa I am simply desolated.” Her expression sobered. “There is no question that we shall go with them,” she added, “though Mr. Hurst was most insistent.”

  “Not for anything will we leave Darcy,” said Mr. Bingley. He handed Jane up, and Caroline made room for her. Elizabeth took the seat opposite, with Mr. Bingley beside her.

  “You will be encouraged to know,” said Jane, “that Mr. Collins has been awake since yesterday afternoon.”

  Caroline’s smile was polite. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, “can sometimes be roused to swallow a bit of broth, but then he lapses into sleep. And I do believe,” she added, “that Mr. Darcy’s injuries are much more extensive than Mr. Collins’.”

  Soon the chaise passed through the gates of the Netherfield estate and along the sweep of gravel drive. “There,” said Caroline, pointing to a traveling coach waiting in front of the mansion. “Do you see? They are leaving.”

  “How you will miss your sister,” said Jane.

  “Then again, autumn is not the season for London,” Caroline said bracingly. “One might as well molder away on one’s country estate as anywhere. Although I must confess, I shall miss the entertainments: the opera, the theater, and the private balls with select friends.” Caroline looked at Jane with an appraising eye. “I take it you have been to London?”

  “Oh, yes. My aunt and uncle live there. How much I enjoy the Vauxhill Gardens, especially on a summer night.”

  “Vauxhill Gardens,” repeated Caroline Bingley. She did not sneer, but Elizabeth knew exactly what she thought of Vauxhill Gardens. And also of visiting the Metropolis during an unfashionable season!

  Elizabeth kept her gaze fixed on Netherfield’s wide lawns and trees. Charles Bingley seemed content with silence, and so she was free to listen.

  “Do you know,” Caroline went on, “I have spent an hour searching the shops for one similar to this?” She indicated the paisley-figured shawl that graced her shoulders. “The finest silk chiffon, so soft,” she paused to stroke it. “Imported from India, of course. The edging,” she added, “is worked in genuine gold. But alas, my time was quite wasted. I ought to have known that Meryton would have nothing like it.”

  Jane’s praise for the shawl was sincere, however Elizabeth noticed that she wisely did not touch it.

  “Louisa loves it even more than I, and I was so hoping to find one like it.” Caroline lowered her voice. “Charles did not wish to go out, but the need, as you see, was urgent. And now I have no parting gift for Louisa.”

  “Perhaps,” said Jane shyly, “you might consider giving her this one?”

  “Oh no,” said Caroline, and Elizabeth could hear as well as see the curl of her lip. “A gift,” she explained, “must be new.”

  “But as between sisters?” Jane suggested gently. “Mrs. Hurst might value it all the more because it has been yours.”

  Caroline Bingley’s brows went up. “I daresay she would not! In our family we do not give such presents. A gift must be not only appropriate, but also costly. A true mark of affection, and not something discarded by its former owner.”r />
  “Oh,” whispered Jane.

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  Presently Charles Bingley spoke. “I say, that’s odd. We are being followed.”

  Since she shared the rear-facing seat, Elizabeth was able to see a barouche enter through the gates.

  Bingley continued to frown at it. “Caroline,” he said, “are we expecting anyone?”

  Miss Bingley’s look was scornful. “Do you mean now? Of course not.”

  The Bingley’s chaise came to a halt in front of the mansion. At once the main door opened and Louisa Hurst came out.

  “Caroline, dearest!” Mrs. Hurst cried, extending her hands to her sister. “There you are at last. I am simply desolated. Mr. Hurst says we must leave at once!”

  As if on cue, Mr. Hurst’s head appeared in the open doorway. “Louisa,” he bellowed. “Do you intend to take all of these blasted bandboxes? A fellow could trip and break his neck! Come sort them out!”

  “Oh dear,” said Mrs. Hurst. “Excuse me,” and she hurried away.

  Mr. Bingley assisted each of the women to descend, but instead of going into the house, they stood watching the barouche approach. When it came to a halt, one of its footman jumped down and let down the steps.

  Mr. Bingley’s pleasant greeting received a curt nod. “Is this Netherfield Park estate?” said the footman. “Residence of the Bingleys?”

  “I am Charles Bingley, and this is my sister.”

  The footman opened the door and relayed this information to the occupant. He slewed round. “One Mr. Darcy is a guest?”

  “That he is,” said Bingley. “But how on earth did you—”

  But the footman cut him off. “Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings Park,” he announced. “Sent here from Longbourn House at the Master’s recommendation.”

  Elizabeth looked to Jane. “Can he mean Father?”

  The passenger was a woman, richly dressed in black—a widow? Her face held a pinched expression.

  “Is this right?” she inquired of the footman, as he assisted her to descend. “Dear Fitzwilliam is convalescing here?” She peered up at the mansion.

  Charles Bingley stepped forward. “How do you do, ma’am?” he said, and made a bow.

  “Never tell me that you are Mr. Bingley,” she said. “Mr. Bennet informed me that Netherfield had been taken by a family named Bingley, but you are just a youngster.”

  Bingley hastened to present his sister. She swept a gracious curtsy. “My brother and Mr. Darcy,” she said, “are the very best of friends.”

  “I do not believe that for a moment,” said Lady Catherine. “If your brother were half the friend he claims, why did he not at once apprise Mr. Darcy’s family of his injury?”

  Lady Catherine turned to Mr. Bingley. “A slop-shod way you have of handling correspondence, young man.”

  Charles Bingley began to stammer. “Indeed, ma’am, the apothecary says it’s early days yet.”

  “Early days? Is this not just like a man? And so I must come myself, a journey of many miles, at great expense and inconvenience, to see how matters stand. If not for Mr. Bennet, cousin of my rector, I would know nothing. He had the decency to write.”

  Lady Catherine paused to draw breath. “My dear nephew at death’s door with no one the wiser!” She threw a dagger glare at Bingley, drew out a handkerchief, and blew her nose.

  Elizabeth and Jane exchanged a look. Lady Catherine’s handkerchief was edged with black. Clearly she was expecting the worst.

  “Not at death’s door, ma’am, surely,” protested Mr. Bingley.

  Lady Catherine emerged from the handkerchief. “And my poor, dear, sweet Anne,” she continued, “who may never see him again in this world! Is her happiness to be blighted by catastrophe?”

  Suddenly Lady Catherine rounded on her driver, who stood respectfully beside the footmen. “You,” she said, “shall send for Sir Henry Fleming, my personal physician, and convey him to this place.”

  “But our apothecary, Mr. Jones, is quite competent,” said Mr. Bingley.

  Again Charles Bingley underwent scrutiny. “I know what passes for medical care in these countrified places, and I will not have it!”

  “But—” said Charles Bingley.

  Just then Mr. Hurst came stumbling round the corner of the house, the capes of his driving coat flapping. “Bingley,” he bellowed. “Where’s that case of burgundy you promised me?”

  Mr. Bingley looked from his brother-in-law to Lady Catherine and back again. His pleasant smile slipped.

  “When a fellow travels,” Mr. Hurst shouted, “he needs sustenance!”

  Except Mr. Hurst said shush-tenance and swayed on his feet.

  Lady Catherine took in his flushed cheeks and red nose. Her lips compressed. “I beg your pardon, young man?” she said to Mr. Hurst.

  She rounded on Charles Bingley. “That man,” she said, pointing, “has been drinking, and it is barely noon. Exactly what sort of establishment is this?”

  5Rufty Tufty

  Darcy was feeling somewhat better. His head still ached and his stomach did too, for there were limits to what bone broth and gruel could do. By this time he had discovered the name of his jailer. Not Mrs. Bennet, who came in only to flutter and flatter and scold, but the formidable Hill.

  Mrs. Hill was stout and capable, though she often wore a harassed expression. And no wonder! Serving under a mawkish and emotional tyrant would drive anyone mad. (Indeed, Darcy had learned her name not through introduction, but from hearing it echo through the house.) But Hill was one to stand her ground, and she would put up with no nonsense from Mr. Collins.

  Darcy, however, was wise in the ways of her kind. Not for nothing had he endured nannies and nurses and governesses! She put him in mind of Mrs. Reynolds, his housekeeper at Pemberley, a gracious woman with a rhino’s hide and a lamb’s heart.

  Darcy also knew that if provoked, Hill would take action, for he was wholly in her power. If she guessed his intention to escape the house (for he was keen to examine the scene of the accident), she would probably take away his clothes!

  So in his guise as Collins, Darcy was mindful to be meek and pleasant. He drank every drop of broth, was effusive in complimenting the cook, made cow eyes of submission, and endeavored to be cheerful.

  Here Darcy made an important discovery. By allowing Collins’ body to do what came naturally, his lips formed Collins’ simpering smile and his voice climbed to Collins’ tenor whine. It was painful to hear, but convincing.

  Darcy’s eyes studied Hill as she moved about the room. In order to escape he might have to climb out a window and slide down the drain pipe. Not that he hadn’t done this before, but how would Collins’ flabby body respond? He’d caught glimpses of Collins’ thighs, each one plump and rounded like the body of a seal. Could he climb with such legs? Could he manage to ride?

  Darcy watched Hill stir the coals and add wood to the fire. How many stone was Collins? Did the Bennets have a horse that would bear his weight?

  Presently Hill went out, and at once Darcy sat up, wincing a little at the way his head hurt. Steeling himself against pain, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Secretly he had practiced standing to gain strength and balance. Now it was time to venture farther.

  Darcy took a sliding step in the direction of the wardrobe. He found that by holding on to the bedstead and then bracing himself against the nearby wall, he could reach the wardrobe door. Hanging inside were a black frock coat and a single pressed shirt. The shelves held smallclothes, stockings, and a cravat, clean and nicely folded. Darcy gathered these and made his way back to the bed.

  With a weather eye on the unlocked door, he managed to dress himself. The effort left him weary and winded. He glanced at the clock. No wonder, it was almost time for the midday meal—more bone broth. Wonderful.

  One of the things he’d noticed about Collins’ body was how hungry he was. Continually he was craving food, especially sweets. This, Darcy decided, was something that would have to change. He would not
be a slave to a voracious appetite.

  Darcy draped the frock coat over the back of the chair and eased into a reclining position. His first step toward escape had been accomplished.

  When he heard the latch of the door, he immediately drew the blankets to his chin.

  Hill came in bringing Mr. Jones. “Say now,” the apothecary called. “This is fine! You’ve got your color back, Mr. Collins.”

  Darcy had no idea what color he had been, for he’d purposely avoided the looking glass. It felt bad enough to be in Collins’ body; he’d no desire to see it. But Hill was still in the room, so Darcy decided to smile. Of its own accord his face arranged itself into Mr. Collins’ foolish grin.

  “That’s the spirit!” said Mr. Jones.

  Hill went out and Mr. Jones began his examination. He expressed surprise that Darcy was dressed.

  Darcy shot him a look. “In a household of females,” he said, “I daresay you’d do the same. I’d like to dispense with the bedpan, if you don’t mind.”

  “Certainly, certainly.” Mr. Jones’ grin became conspiratorial. “Caged among women. They will be ministering angels, eh?”

  Angels was not the word Darcy had in mind. Mrs. Bennet and her two youngest daughters were harpies in disguise! Continually they were calling to one another or else laughing and talking with loud voices.

  “Since I am able to walk,” Darcy said, “I would like to venture out of this room.”

  “Cabin fever, eh? Very good, very nice. A sign that you are recovering. Have you the head-ache?”

  Darcy winced. “Haven’t I just?”

  “And weakness? Difficulty concentrating? Difficulty remembering things?”

  What did Jones mean by that, Darcy wondered.

  The man patted Darcy’s knee. “These are to be expected,” he said soothingly. “Loss of memory and confusion often result from a knock on the head.”

  Perhaps loss of sanity, too? “I do remember what it is to eat,” Darcy said. “If I could manage to gain the dining room and have a meal instead of broth, it would do wonders.”