by Laura Hile
“Is he indeed?” said Elizabeth. “But you should not make use of the man who has so cruelly wronged you.”
Smiling, he spread his hands. “It worked like a charm, I assure you,” he said. “No danger there! The slightest mention of the Darcy name—and also that I was old Mr. Darcy’s godson—brought splendid results! As you see.”
Elizabeth answered Wickham’s ingenious smile with a look of reproach. “I cannot believe you mean that.”
Wickham became confiding. “In truth, dear lady, I was forced—through circumstances quite outside my control! —to be resourceful. How else could I have my coat made up so quickly? And, might I add, so well?”
Colonel Forster called from the adjacent table, “Wickham outshines us all. That gold braid is especially fine, and I daresay set you back plenty.”
“Not at all practical for engaging the enemy, gold,” Denny quipped. “Unless your goal is to blind them!”
Laughter followed, with calls for sunny weather, but Darcy did not join in. If Wickham had used the Darcy name, he had surely mentioned Pemberley’s steward—who would, no doubt, be receiving the tailoring bill. Such tactics were nothing new for George Wickham.
Darcy watched as he simpered over his cards, laughing at nothing and everything. To see him flirting so openly with Elizabeth made Darcy’s blood boil.
It occurred to him that he’d not observed Wickham, in situ with the ladies for years. Oh, the man was as handsome as ever and the women admired him, but there was a new, almost reptilian hardness present. The boyish charm Wickham had used to such advantage at Cambridge was not wearing well.
Wickham leaned across the table to tap Elizabeth’s wrist. “Yours is the lowest draw,” he teased. “You are first dealer.”
She cast him a laughing look, cut the deck, and passed it to Mr. Denny to shuffle. Soon the cards were in play.
“Speaking of Mr. Darcy,” said Wickham, sorting his hand, “does anyone know how he is faring?”
Lydia, who was Denny’s partner, spoke up. “Ask Mr. Collins. He called at Netherfield today.” She dimpled. “By special order of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
“Ah, my dear Lady Fault-finder,” cried Wickham. “Still alive and kicking, eh?”
Darcy needed no prompting to purse up his lips. “Her ladyship is very well, thank you,” he said primly.
“Worried sick about Mr. Darcy, apparently,” Lydia supplied. “She came all this way and was very cross about it.” She leaned in. “She called here and put Mama into a rage.”
Wickham laughed, and the others with him. “Why am I not surprised? Darcy’s her nephew,” he explained, “as well as her favorite relation. Her darling choice as husband for,” he paused to make a face, “her daughter, the wall-eyed Anne.”
“Mr. Wickham,” protested Elizabeth, laughing. “The poor girl!”
Wickham cast down a card. “There’s nothing poor about Anne de Bourgh, Miss Elizabeth. She comes with a wagon-load of ready cash, a mammoth estate, and a sour disposition. I have not seen her for years.”
“Then perhaps she has changed.”
“I doubt it,” said Wickham. “She and Darcy are perfect for one another.”
Mr. Denny was in high spirits. “I say, he’s not married to her yet! Present me to the maiden! Might as well put the red coat to use, eh?”
“Not a chance,” countered Wickham. “Your family’s not noble enough, for one thing. And for another, Miss de Bourgh rarely leaves the country.”
“So my chance to meet an heiress is practically nil?” Denny grinned and played his card. “Doesn’t it figure”?
“You are not to run off and get married, Mr. Denny.” Lydia gave his arm a friendly pat. “We need you here to dance with us!”
“A most excellent point, Miss Lydia,” he said. “As the saying goes, good friends are better than pocket money.”
Wickham glanced in Darcy’s direction. “Say, Mr. Collins,” he said, very off-hand, “were there other guests at Netherfield? In addition to Lady Catherine?”
Elizabeth played her card. “Should there be?”
“I’m only wondering whether Miss Darcy will be joining her aunt.”
“Mr. Darcy’s sister?” said Elizabeth. “Has the family been summoned?”
Denny’s merry face instantly sobered. “They say he has not improved, poor fellow,” he said. “Under the circumstances, I expect they would gather round, yes.”
“Aha,” crowed Wickham. “Now there’s an heiress for you, Denny! And if the brother’s out cold, who’s to object?”
“But one can’t court a girl while her brother’s dying,” Denny protested. His teasing smile reappeared. “Even if she is ugly,” he pointed out, “she’ll be in no mood for a flight to Gretna.”
“Ah, but Miss Darcy is not ugly. In fact,” said Wickham, “I know a little secret about her.” He paused, a smile playing on his lips. “Would you like to hear it?”
Darcy lowered his magazine.
Wickham leaned in. “Very few people know this, and I daresay it’s a family secret, but—” He looked at each of his listeners in turn. “In truth, Miss Darcy is my namesake.”
Darcy gasped aloud. He couldn’t help it.
Wickham did not notice. “As a boy,” he went on, smiling broadly, “I was Little Georgie, and old Mr. Darcy loved me like a son. And so,” he paused to place a sentimental hand on his breast, “when his daughter was born—many years later, this was—he named her Georgiana.”
The others at the table burst out laughing. “What will you say next?” cried Denny. “That dear old Prinny was named after you?”
More laughter. Wickham graciously inclined his head. “But of course, old fellow, of course!”
Darcy was fuming. This old taunt, bandied about during their student days at Cambridge, had lost none of its sting. Georgiana was the only near relation Darcy had, and he guarded her with every ounce of his being. And here was Wickham, who had set out to force her into marriage and defraud her of her fortune, strutting and crowing.
It took every bit of willpower to remain seated. Slowly Darcy raised the periodical, his thoughts racing.
At Ramsgate he’d been mindful only of Georgiana’s honor, of her reputation and wounded feelings. Instead of enacting revenge against Wickham, he’d quietly removed her and had sent him a scathing letter. What an ill-considered, shortsighted course of action! Obviously words had had no effect on Wickham, he had simply scuttled away.
He ought to have shot the man.
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. Yes, that is what he should have done.
And now that he was Collins, perhaps he could! Darcy felt his lips curl into a smile.
Ideas came surging forward, all of them delightful. An unfortunate hunting accident, nicely staged, yes. And Georgiana need know nothing about it, why should she? Better yet, the Darcy name would not be implicated in any way. As for Collins, who doubtless could not shoot any better than he could throw a rock, why, who would believe it? Collins had no motive for murder!
Darcy glanced again at Wickham as he simpered over his cards, darting coy glances at Elizabeth. Was this the reason he’d been put into Collins’ body? To enact revenge? A righteous act to rid the earth of a lying menace? It was a pleasant thought.
The memory of the ruined Folly rose in Darcy’s mind. Moses, toppled, John the Baptist with his hand outstretched. And on the other side, the statues of Cain and Abel.
Cain and Abel, brothers. Men who were so very different in spirit, with widely divergent destinies. He and George Wickham were raised almost as brothers, in that they’d played together on the estate. Not precisely Cain and Abel, but—
Blast it all, what was he thinking? He, who prided himself on honor and honesty, was now planning to murder a man in cold blood! What was it about being in Collins’ body? On every hand it seemed to lend itself to dishonesty and deception!
Or had dishonesty been present within Fitzwilliam Darcy all along?
So occupied was Darcy with thi
s new thought that he did not notice the presence of a seatmate. He glanced up to discover a young woman beside him on the sofa. She looked to be about his age. What was her name?
She leaned in to better see the cover of his periodical. “Bell’s Court and Fashionable Magazine. Addressed Particularly to the Ladies,” she read aloud, smiling. “Such fascinating reading, Mr. Collins. Are you enjoying it?”
La Belle Assemblée? He’d been reading La Belle Assemblée?
Darcy felt a blush rise to his cheeks, and he thought quickly. “Not in my usual line,” he admitted. “In fact, nothing female is in my line.”
“And now you are surrounded by us. Poor Mr. Collins. Are you a cat among pigeons? Or,” she added, “are you rather a pigeon among cats?”
Did Collins have sisters? Given the shabby state of his clothing, probably not. Darcy decided to risk it. “We have precious few girls in my family,” he improvised.
“I see.” Her smile was kind “So this is the perfect opportunity to investigate feminine reading material.”
Though not beautiful, she was most understanding. It seemed she would not make sport of him before the others. They’d been introduced, he knew it. If only he could recall her name!
“If I might make a suggestion?” She took the magazine from him and turned it right-side up. “Elizabeth dislikes being observed so closely.”
“I...” he began, and stopped. Had he been so obvious?
“Perhaps we might move to another location?” She indicated a pair of chairs on the other side of the room.
A gust of Wickham’s laughter sealed Darcy’s choice, and he cast the magazine aside. “That,” he said, “is an excellent idea. Conversation is more to my taste, and I have much to learn about Meryton village and its inhabitants. I expect that you,” he added, “are an expert.”
He rose to his feet and offered his arm. Sudden memory brought a wave of relief. “Lead the way,” he said, “my dear Miss Lucas.”
8 What I Suffer
The long case clock on the landing struck four. Wincing, Darcy turned over in the bed. His knee ached and so did his shoulder—and his shin and his wrist and his ribs. And for some reason the lump on his forehead was destined to collide with the headboard repeatedly.
To add insult to his injuries, the bedchamber was freezing. Darcy was accustomed to the cold, as was every country gentleman, but this was intolerable. The fire had likely burned to ash, and he was in no mood to get up to remedy it. If there was firewood available, which he knew there was not. Mrs. Bennet might talk a good game, but she was a stingy, tight-fisted hostess. For instance, he could certainly do with another blanket. But to Mrs. Bennet’s grasping little mind, guests were a nuisance, or perhaps it was Mr. Collins who was the nuisance. If he froze in his bed and the next day went flouncing off to an inn, so much the better.
Darcy was sorely tempted, until he remembered the state of Collins’ purse. Beggars could not be choosers (as the saying went), and William Collins was certainly a beggar. Therefore until Darcy was restored to his proper identity, he must remain as a guest at Longbourn.
Unless, of course, he happened to freeze to death in the night, a happy thought.
What little sleep Darcy snatched was punctuated with memories from the evening before: Miss Lucas, speaking to him with motherly patience. Elizabeth Bennet, her alluring eyes sparkling as she smiled behind her playing cards. Her mother, as noisy as ever, talking to anyone who would listen. And George Wickham, with curled lip and braying laugh, delighting the ladies with his sallies.
Wickham. What was he supposed to do about Wickham?
The man’s joining the militia and coming to Meryton had been pure chance, this Darcy knew. But Wickham’s pointed interest in the Bennet family was not by chance. Why had he sought out the Bennets again and again? Oh, the company of the daughters was a draw, and Wickham was never one to forgo the society of young women or the offer of a free meal. But hope for financial gain—always Wickham’s object—was markedly absent.
For there was simply no money to be had; Mrs. Bennet had made that abundantly clear. In the privacy of the family circle, it was a favorite theme. And there was another like it, though Darcy had pretended not to hear. That he, William Collins, would one day drive the family from their home.
Fortunately for everyone, Mr. Bennet seemed an unusually healthy specimen. Besides, by the time he passed on, Darcy would no longer be trapped in Collins’ body. There was a solution, a way to switch back, and he would find it. He had to find it.
The clock struck again, and Darcy made another attempt to find a comfortable position. Naturally, he failed to do so and was left with the cold and his thoughts.
g
Darcy’s eventual decision to get up and dress brought little relief, for Collins’ clothes were as thin as they were shabby. As to choice, there was nothing to decide. Other than two white shirts, everything Collins owned was black: black waistcoat, black knee-breeches, black stockings, and black shoes with black laces. Trust Collins to ape a spindle-legged black beetle!
In the bureau Darcy unearthed a wool muffler (also black), wrapped it around his neck, and went hunting for warmer gloves. Small consolation to know that at Netherfield, his physical self would be in much greater comfort!
Darcy crossed the room and drew aside the window curtain. Even if he could see Netherfield (which he knew he could not), the view would be obstructed by hoar frost on the panes. It seemed symbolic somehow: Through a glass darkly. Shakespeare, wasn’t it? Or was this from the Bible?
And how was he faring at Netherfield? Had his body, with Collins inside, regained consciousness? And if so, what was the man saying or doing?
This situation had all the makings of disaster.
Darcy paced the length of the room, thinking. The night of Bingley’s curst assembly—and then the two or three days he had slept away. So this must be Saturday morning. And tomorrow—
Darcy came to a sudden halt. If this was Saturday, tomorrow was Sunday. And on Sunday, confound it, he must give that sermon! There would be no getting out of it, not if he knew his Aunt Catherine.
Darcy resumed his pacing. The sermon would have to be endured. He was not a complete novice, he had given addresses at Cambridge, although not very comfortably. Ah, but here was a thought. As Collins, no one would expect him to be comfortable in his delivery, or brilliant, or even passible. He could probably mumble the entire time!
This might not be so bad.
Ah, but Collins would not mumble. No, the man would be a model of oratorical elocution. Darcy rubbed his hands together to warm them. What he needed was a place to prepare. There would be no quiet in any of the common rooms—no wonder Mr. Bennet kept to his bookroom—so the cold of the bedchamber must be endured.
Darcy lit another candle and went hunting through the bureau. He found Collins’ Bible and notebook, and sat down on the bed to work.
And here he paused, arrested by the contents of the notebook. Poor, foolish Collins. His penmanship was uneven, and his spelling choices were laughable. It was unfair, Darcy knew, to judge a man by his jottings, but he could not help himself. Here was a treasure-trove of insight into the workings of Collins’ mind. Fascinated, Darcy continued turning pages.
The man had complied lists on any number of things, each carefully titled: Sermon Topics. Impressive Turns of Phrase. Qualities for a Goodly Wife (no doubt dictated by Lady Catherine). There was also a page titled Qualities Possessed by My Noble Patroness.
This Darcy read with particular interest: Beneficent. Generous. Insightful. Worthy. Noble. Gracious. Unselfish. Forgiving. Merciful.
These were suited not to his opinionated aunt, but to the Almighty! Darcy could make a list of his own in reference to Lady Catherine, oh yes.
On the other hand, what must it be like to have a patroness like Lady Catherine to please?
Burn it, there was no wondering about it. At present he was Collins, and if he could not find a way back to his own body, Collins he w
ould remain.
Darcy pushed this disquieting thought aside. He must make it easy for Collins to resume his identity. Therefore the sermon must be preached in Collins’ own style. Now then, what was that text Dr. Bentley had mentioned? Something in Isaiah? Yes, about sheep.
Handel’s melody came surging forward: All we like sheep have gone astray. Here was an excellent beginning! What else? Psalm 23 and also that text about Jesus the Good Shepherd. And the hireling shepherd who deserted the sheep when danger came.
And then there were the characteristics of sheep themselves. Darcy discovered that he was smiling. Collins the bumbling rector might not know much about sheep, but Darcy the resident landowner did.
g
The summons from Lady Catherine arrived just as Darcy was finishing the breakfast Hill had brought in.
“Came from Netherfield it did,” she said. “And if you are expected, Mr. Collins, to tramp up there in all this cold, why, I have nothing to say except that the woman is plain inhuman.”
Darcy looked from the note to Hill’s sour face. “I am, after all, a clergyman,” he said. “Duty is duty.”
“And is it your duty, Mr. Collins, to die of exposure?”
“I’m afraid my aunt—er, patroness, will not take no for an answer.” He added, a little wistfully, “Her ladyship did not happen to send a vehicle?”
“That she did not. The poor man who came was near to freezing when he arrived. And so shall you be if you walk all that way, Mr. Collins. You must ask the master for the carriage.”
But this Darcy would not do. “The walk will do me good,” he said. Hill looked doubtful.
He said the same thing to Mrs. Bennet later, as he fastened the buttons of Collins’ overcoat. Fortunately Collins’ clothes were no longer so tight, enabling him to wear both sets of breeches and two of Collins’ waistcoats. He would have worn two sets of gloves, but Collins’ fingers were too fat.
Mrs. Bennet stepped aside as James the footman opened the door for him. “What a pity that you do not ride, Mr. Collins,” she said.
