Darcy By Any Other Name

by Laura Hile

  “It certainly would.” Mr. Jones eyed Collins’ gut. “You’ve much to keep up, haven’t you, my boy? Very well, let’s get your coat and shoes on. Down we go for a nice chat with the ladies.”

  Darcy hesitated. Would Elizabeth be there? “How do I look?” he said, in Collins’ anxious squeak. Without thinking he ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Ah yes, the hair wants a little work,” agreed Mr. Jones. He opened the door and called for Mrs. Hill.

  Darcy, who had submitted to the hands of a valet for years, found himself blushing. But what did it matter? It was only Hill, and he was not the master of Pemberley but the bothersome Mr. Collins. And if Elizabeth was there she would see him as such. And she would be, without a doubt, revolted.

  g

  The morning room was bright and pleasant, and fortunately the sunlight did not pain Darcy’s eyes. Mrs. Bennet and her third daughter were there—Mary, the girl who had made the attempt to play and sing. Yes, Darcy remembered her. She was looking hard at him and smiling. He darted an anxious glance to the pianoforte. Would she attempt to sing today?

  “Mr. Collins has the head-ache, as expected,” announced Mr. Jones. “But he needs to be up and about. Being a young man, he is making a fine recovery.” Mr. Jones turned to Darcy. “You are steady on your feet, very good.”

  Silently Darcy added the missing very nice. Mr. Jones did not stay, and Darcy sank into an upholstered chair by the fire. The clock on the mantelpiece told him it was well past noon—and he fervently hoped that the Bennets kept country hours for midday dinner.

  “You find us quite alone,” Mrs. Bennet told him. “Lydia and Kitty have ventured out to Meryton, and Elizabeth and Jane are at morning service.”

  “To pray for you, Mr. Collins,” Mary supplied, “and for Mr. Darcy as well. I would have gone with them, for prayer is an important duty, but Mama wished me to remain.” Again Mary smiled at him.

  Darcy kept his features under tight rein. Not for anything would he allow Collins’ lips to simper!

  The door opened and Hill came in with letters, brought by messenger. The first was for Mrs. Bennet, and she pounced on it. “It is just as I predicted, Mary,” she crowed. “What fine news! Elizabeth and Jane have been invited to share midday dinner at Netherfield! They will be brought home in Mr. Bingley’s chaise.”

  Darcy stole a look at her. Mrs. Bennet was openly gloating, as if savoring a victory.

  She caught his eye. “So you see, Mr. Collins,” and she waggled her finger at him. “Our Jane is very much in the way of being engaged. You must set your sights on Lizzy instead.”

  This was not precisely unpleasant advice! Even so, Darcy squirmed in his chair. A cough in the corner caught his attention. Over the pages of her book, Mary Bennet was gazing at him with rapt attention. He quickly looked away.

  The other letter was addressed to Collins, and Mrs. Bennet held it out to him as if it were a treat. Darcy could feel her curiosity.

  He turned it over to break the seal and paused. He’d never noticed the state of Collins’ hands. They were none too clean (although this might be due to the accident), but Collins had gnawed the nails down to stumps. Here was another habit that would change.

  Darcy unfolded the page and glanced at the signature. His brows went up.

  Mr. Collins (it began),

  I understand from the local apothecary that you are a good deal less injured than my much-loved nephew, Fitzwilliam Darcy. Therefore, I desire you to wait upon me at Netherfield this afternoon.

  My nephew, the sole son of his late and honorable father, is in need of spiritual intercession, and you are uniquely equipped and providentially at hand to provide this. I will send whatever vehicle Mr. Bingley can spare, as I understand that Netherfield is some miles distant. It would be best to arrive after you have had your midday meal, so as not to be an inconvenience.

  I shall expect you promptly at two o’clock.

  Darcy read the letter through twice. What was his aunt doing at Netherfield Park? Giving Bingley a world of trouble, no doubt. To Netherfield he must certainly go. It seemed that events were deciding themselves.

  He folded the letter and slipped it into a pocket. “Lady Catherine summons me to wait upon her at two o’clock today,” he said. “She will send, ah, transportation.” Knowing his aunt, it could well be a pony-cart!

  Mrs. Bennet bounced up in her chair. “What effrontery! She came here earlier today, and Mr. Bennet was summoned—yes, summoned, by her footman, bold as you please! —to speak with her in her coach. Outside, as if he were a common lackey!”

  “She is a very important lady, Mama,” Mary protested, with an anxious eye on Mr. Collins.

  “With no manners whatsoever!”

  Darcy decided not to comment. His stomach rumbled, and he glanced at the clock. “Would it be possible,” he ventured to ask (in Collins’ timid voice), “if I might eat a meal before I go, ma’am?”

  Mrs. Bennet turned on him, lips compressed and eyes snapping. “Oh, very well, Mr. Collins. I daresay Hill can scrape together something. Soup or bread or I don’t know what.”

  Darcy, who had been fancying standing rib roast with Yorkshire pudding on the side, humbly expressed his thanks.

  g

  Lady Catherine had installed herself in the best sitting room at Netherfield. She sat at an elegant writing desk, frowning over her correspondence, and did not look up when Mr. Collins’ name was announced. Darcy shifted from one foot to the other. As a dependent, he must wait for her to break the silence.

  It was some minutes before she spoke. “That Dolson person will handle your pastoral duties in Hunsford,” she announced, without preamble. “That is the name of your curate, is it not? Dolson?”

  Darcy remained silent. He had no idea who Collins’ curate was.

  “Your duty,” Lady Catherine went on, “is here at my nephew’s bedside.” She glanced at him. “You look well enough.”

  Well enough? Was she jesting? His face was bruised and scratched, and his left arm was supported in a sling supplied by Hill. So much for an employer’s kind consideration!

  “Is Mr. Darcy awake?” he said and held his breath.

  “From time to time he rouses to swallow beef tea,” she said, “but almost at once he resumes sleeping. When he shall gain full consciousness we do not know. I have sent,” she added, “for Sir Henry Fleming—not his hasty son; I have no use for medical degrees! —to attend him. My nephew deserves the best of care.”

  How could Darcy argue with this? “You are kindness itself, milady.”

  Lady Catherine dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “I loathe the sickroom,” she stated, “perhaps because I am never ill. I daresay if I had ever learnt to nurse someone—”

  Darcy set his teeth, for he knew where this remark was heading. The audacity of his aunt, to give voice to such an outrageous thought! Was she truly so self-absorbed?

  “—I would have been,” she continued, “a great proficient.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that, ma’am,” Darcy said, before he could stop himself. “It occurs to me that you have had many opportunities to nurse and encourage your daughter.”

  Darcy snapped his lips shut. Curse his unruly tongue! He knew that he ought to follow up with one of Collins’ babbling compliments, but he could think of nothing to say.

  Of their own accord, his lips came to his rescue and formed Collins’ simpering smile. “So you see,” he heard himself squeak out, “you are proficient at nursing, milady, er, without realizing it.”

  Lady Catherine stood blinking, trying to determine if this was a compliment.

  Darcy hid a grin and added (in his best Collins-like manner), “Such fundamental skills must surely descend from your ancient, noble, and exalted family lineage.”

  Ha, this was rather fun!

  Before Darcy could say more, the butler came in and announced one Dr. Bentley, who was apparently the local rector. He had come at Lady Catherine’s request, which was fine
with Darcy. If his aunt wished to call for a bigger gun (so to speak), she ought to have a rector who was not a sham!

  A small elderly man came in and made a precise and old-fashioned bow. “My dear Lady Catherine,” he said, wheezing a little, “I came as soon as your note arrived.”

  Dr. Bentley turned aside to cough, and then, smiling, added, “Mr. Darcy has been in our prayers, dear lady. How right, how wise you are to come to him.”

  This, Darcy knew, was how a rector ought to behave, and he drew aside to allow them private consultation. They spoke together for some minutes, their conversation punctuated by Dr. Bentley’s rasping cough.

  “Mr. Collins,” Lady Catherine announced, “we have a Situation.”

  Darcy sensed trouble was coming. Was there to be another edict from on high?

  “Dear Dr. Bentley has contracted a cough,” she said, “as you have no doubt noticed.”

  Of course he had. And how had this kindly old man suddenly become so dear?

  “Most irritating, coughs,” she went on. “I find them to be both disturbing and noxious, especially during a sermon. They quite destroy the fluidity and lyric beauty of the prose.”

  Lady Catherine paused, looking at Darcy as one would examine a horse. “You will therefore give Sunday’s sermon, Mr. Collins.”

  Darcy’s mouth fell open. Oh he would, would he? She might at least have asked! But no, as always his aunt must be high-handed. What did he know about preaching a sermon? And today was—why, this was already Friday!

  Head-ache forgotten, Darcy found himself babbling incoherently like Collins would. No need for pretense here!

  Lady Catherine appeared satisfied. “Shall we go up to my nephew now?” She led the way out of the sitting room and made for the wide staircase. Darcy followed, still talking. Indeed he could not help it!

  “But my books,” he protested. “My, er—” He broke off speaking. What did rectors use to prepare sermons? Darcy thought fast. “My commentaries! They’re in Hunsford.” Surely this would get him out of it.

  Lady Catherine did not pause in her ascent. “Dr. Bentley, I am sure, will open his library for your use.”

  Darcy followed after, breathing heavily. With the aid of the banister rail, he hauled himself up the stairs. When they reached the first level, Darcy stole a look at Dr. Bentley. The man smiled kindly at him and coughed.

  Blast that cough!

  “But Holy Communion,” said Darcy. “I should feel most uncomfortable offering that! Ah, in a parish not my own.” A sermon was bad enough, but to perform a Sacrament while not being ordained?

  At last they reached the level where the bedchambers were located. “I shall be most willing to officiate at Communion,” Dr. Bentley assured him. He paused to cough into his handkerchief.

  “And your assignment,” he continued, whispering, “is not a difficult one. This week’s text is from the Old Testament, with several related texts in the New.” Dr. Bentley drew a volume from his coat pocket and opened it. “Isaiah 53:6.”

  Darcy squinted to read the tiny print. Burn it, did Collins need spectacles? All of us like sheep have gone astray, he read. Each of us has turned to his own way.

  Darcy had to work to keep from gaping. He was to preach on the topic of sheep? He loathed sheep! They were not only ugly but stupid! Not all that different from Mr. Collins, now that he thought on it!

  Mr. Collins, in whose body he now resided. Darcy drew a long breath. He ought to be more respectful, for the alternative was—

  No, he would not think about the alternative. He must live, and Collins must live. There must be some way out of this dilemma, there must!

  “I shall be willing to give the sermon, sir,” he told Dr. Bentley. He hoped, most devoutly, for an unseasonable down-pouring of sleet, or hail, or a plague of locusts—anything to keep people away from church!

  “I look forward to hearing you,” Dr. Bentley replied, and he meant it. Darcy had the grace to feel ashamed.

  Lady Catherine put her hand on the door latch. “Shall we go in?” she said.

  “I shouldn’t wish to disturb.” Dr. Bentley turned aside to cough.

  “Of course you must stay out here. Mr. Collins will do all that is necessary. He knows some beautiful prayers and will recite them at dear Fitzwilliam’s bedside.”

  She paused to smile at both men. “The efficacious prayer of a righteous man availeth much,” she recited.

  Darcy’s eyes narrowed. Somehow that quotation did not seem right. Why was that?

  “And while Mr. Collins is not as righteous as he ought to be,” Lady Catherine went on, “he is certainly efficacious.” Before she opened the door, she hunted up a clean handkerchief. “Poor, dear Fitzwilliam,” she said with a tiny sob. “The hope of his family line.”

  Recalling his uncle’s second son, Fitz, and various distant, but hopeful, cousins, Darcy was tempted to laugh. Instead he kept his head down and worked to come up with an appropriate prayer. It would certainly be fervent!

  But nothing could have prepared him for the sickroom. The air was slightly sour, and a fire roared on the grate. The bed dominated the room, with massive pillars and heavy curtains. As they entered, a young woman rose to her feet. Darcy assumed she was the nurse.

  “He’s sleeping yet,” said she. “We’ve been able to get down a bit of broth from time to time, but he remains as you see.”

  Darcy walked over to the bed. The sight of his own body made his skin crawl. The mouth was slightly open; a trickle of saliva ran down the cheek. And the breathing was uncommonly labored, or so it seemed to Darcy. He reflected now that he had no experience with sickrooms. Even when his dear mother was ill, he took pains to see her only for brief moments.

  Not unlike his Aunt Catherine!

  His gaze slid to where she stood, grim and resolute. There would be no quick escape this time. “You may now pray, Mr. Collins,” she commanded. She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.

  This was the very definition of awkward. As Collins, how was he to address the Almighty? With flattery and officiousness, certainly. But he was not merely giving a speech as Collins, he was speaking to Deity. About providing badly needed healing, and not only healing of the body. He, Fitzwilliam Darcy, needed restoration to become once again himself.

  Darcy knelt beside the bed. Cautiously he took hold of Mr. Darcy’s hand, his own hand, the left one. His fingers closed over the familiar signet right, worn also by his father and grandfather. “Almighty God, Creator of heaven and earth,” he intoned, in what he considered a proper pulpit voice. He heard Lady Catherine sigh. “We humbly and sincerely beseech Thee—”

  It was a good beginning for Collins, Darcy thought. He was shocked by the next thought that flashed across his mind:

  More flattery, more obeisance. Is this what people think I enjoy?

  Darcy was stunned to silence. His mind was playing tricks on him, it must be! For these were his words! He’d thought them in the garden in reference to Collins. Why had they surfaced so vividly? It was if a voice had spoken.

  Darcy drew a long breath and began again, this time without flattery. “Father God,” he said simply. “Please heal Fitzwilliam Darcy, both in body and in spirit. And,” he added, “make any changes You feel are needful to set everything right.”

  His request was anything but eloquent, but it was heartfelt.

  Lady Catherine did not share his view, and when they were outside in the corridor she told him so. “What do you mean, heal him in spirit? There is nothing, absolutely nothing, wrong with Mr. Darcy’s spirit!” And she said a good deal more, not only about how to address Deity, but also about the impertinence of using her nephew’s Christian name.

  Darcy listened with head unbowed, another text flashing in his memory. What I have written, I have written. Pontius Pilate had said that, hadn’t he? How many texts did he know without realizing it? It must have something to do with wearing the clerical garb, he decided. But it gave him the perfect reply to Lady Catherine.

/>   “What I have prayed, I have prayed,” Darcy said quietly. “And now if you will excuse me, ma’am, I have a sermon to prepare.”

  He did not wait to be dismissed but turned on his heel and made for the staircase. He could not miss his aunt’s unhappy huff.

  It would be a slow, weary walk back to Longbourn.

  6Whirligig

  Darcy descended the staircase as quickly as his legs would allow. Even so, he was plagued with the unfamiliar sensation of self-doubt. Had he said the wrong thing? If Lady Catherine called him back, should he obey? Darcy had never had an employer, but he suspected that he was obliged to offer more than lip-service. He was also acquainted with his aunt’s imperious temper. Preferment or no, would she find a way to dismiss him? Collins would thank him for nothing if returned to his body as an out-of-work rector!

  When he returns, Darcy reminded himself. Not if but when.

  He paused on the landing, debating. Should he turn back and apologize? Collins would undoubtedly take this course. On the other hand, Collins was a mouse and not a man! Why should anyone apologize for the contents of a prayer?

  Then too, Collins had had a knock to his head. The symptoms Jones mentioned were formidable and also convenient! He could plead insanity, a pleasant thought. Darcy stood on the landing, biting his lips. Without thinking, he thrust his free hand into a pocket. Lydia Bennet’s impertinent question rose in his memory: What has Collins got in his pockets? Here was the chance to find out. A pebble, a piece of thread, and two slim coins.

  There on his palm, a meager hoard: tuppence. Yes, Collins had every reason to cower before his aunt.

  Darcy resumed his descent. As he neared the ground level, voices, bright and friendly, drifted up from one of the rooms. After the gloom of the sickroom, this refreshing sound pulled Darcy like a magnet. In a flash, the events of the past three days were forgotten.

  Sure enough, there were Bingley’s cheerful tenor and Caroline’s drawl. And there were other voices, female voices, pleasing instead of shrill and demanding. Darcy moved toward the open room door and looked in. The unknown voices belonged to Jane and Elizabeth Bennet.