Darcy By Any Other Name

by Laura Hile

  And before he had completed the first mile, Darcy found himself in hearty agreement. There was no snow, but his nose and cheeks were stiff with cold, and there was no longer any feeling in his toes. Darcy soldiered on, silently cursing both the perverseness of his aunt and the thinness of Collins’ shoes.

  Lady Catherine was waiting for him in the green salon, abusing Bingley’s generosity by maintaining a roaring fire. Darcy stood before it, hating himself for trembling with cold.

  And there was more. Lady Catherine extended her hand to him, palm up. Surely he was not expected to kiss her hand!

  “Well?” she demanded. “You have brought it?”

  “Brought what?” he shot back. “Er, milady.”

  The amendment did not appease her. “Your sermon for tomorrow, of course.”

  Darcy felt his jaw tense, and he willed himself to remain calm. Nothing would be gained by arguing. On the other hand, he was not about to let her order him about. “For what reason?” he inquired.

  She gave an impatient sigh. Was this a commentary on his intellect? “I always look over your sermons, Mr. Collins, as well you know. Just because we are in a different parish, do not think you are exempt.”

  Darcy looked his answer.

  Lady Catherine bridled up. “Now see here,” she said. “We have been over this before, and you know my position. As I am known to be the sole source of your living—”

  Darcy could not let this pass and interrupted. “I should say, ma’am, that God himself occupies that role.”

  Lady Catherine cast her gaze to the ceiling. She looked so much like Lydia Bennet rolling her eyes that Darcy almost laughed. Some of his amusement must have shown on his face, for his aunt gave him a black look.

  “In theory, yes,” she snapped. “But in practice it is I who pay out the money. And if you make a misstep, it is I who stand to be embarrassed. Therefore, I reserve the right to read your sermons and offer helpful hints.”

  Was she serious? Here, Darcy realized, was the reason for Collins’ pre-written compliments. In moments like this, when any normal man would be struck speechless, Collins was obliged to reply.

  But he was not Collins, was he?

  Darcy soon found his voice. “I wonder why I troubled to earn a degree, ma’am,” he said. “Since you wish to rewrite my sermons.”

  “Not rewrite them,” she corrected. “I act as your safeguard. And in light of your recent injury,” Lady Catherine paused to gather several pages from the desk, “I have taken the judicious step of preparing a draft for you to follow.”

  In other words, she had written every word of the sermon he would preach. With effort Darcy swallowed his temper and took the papers.

  Lady Catherine had more to say. “One must, after all, encourage one’s parishioners into proper lines of thought.”

  “Such as keeping to one’s station in life?” Darcy retorted. “With all respect and duty to work? Including,” he added, “the timely payment of one’s rent?”

  Sarcasm was lost on Lady Catherine. “Why, yes,” she said. “What a clever young man you are, Mr. Collins.” She smiled at him. “Yes, at times you can be very clever.”

  Darcy folded the sheets and put them in his pocket. “I will see Mr. Darcy now, milady,” he said.

  She looked startled. “I beg your pardon?”

  “To pray for him, pursuant to your request. It is the least I can do. I am, after all, a clergyman.” Darcy rocked back on his heels, satisfied. This was just the sort of thing Collins would say.

  She opened her mouth to speak and then closed it. At last she said, “Very well,” but she was not happy.

  Darcy did his best to hide his smile, but apparently his control of Collins’ face was not yet perfect. Lady Catherine’s expression became unusually sour.

  g

  The sickroom was much as before, but this time there was no hanging back. Darcy walked directly to the bed and took Collins’ hand in both his own. “Hello, William,” he said softly.

  Again he was struck with the curious sensation of gazing into his own face. Dark circles underlined the closed eyes, the expression was drawn and gaunt. He had not been shaved, Darcy noted. Given the sharpness of the blade, this was probably just as well.

  Lady Catherine came rustling forward. “Fitzwilliam,” she called.

  Darcy looked up. “Softly, milady, if you please.”

  Naturally, this did not please Lady Catherine. “I know my way about a sickroom, Mr. Collins. One must speak distinctly in order to make oneself heard.”

  She would also scare poor Collins half to death! “How are you, William?” Darcy murmured.

  At the mention of his name, the lids fluttered. Slowly the eyes came open.

  “Fitzwilliam!” Lady Catherine cried. “Dear Fitzwilliam, I am come to take you home! All shall be well!”

  Darcy saw the lips move, as if to form words. The face took on a peevish, Collins-like expression, and yet there was honest distress as well.

  “William, lad,” said Darcy gently, and he pressed the hand.

  “Fitz-william,” corrected Lady Catherine. “His name is Fitzwilliam, Mr. Collins. And you will kindly refer to him as Mr. Darcy.”

  Darcy closed his eyes and counted. He must not allow his temper free reign!

  Presently he said, with marked patience, “He is not himself, milady, surely you see that. In such cases, it is wise to treat the sufferer as a child.” His gaze returned to Collins. “A confused and bewildered child.”

  For Collins’ eyes were open and he was studying Darcy’s face, that is to say, his own face.

  “You,” he rasped. “You! But—!”

  “Calm yourself, William,” said Darcy, with quiet authority. “You were injured when you fell. In time, all will come right.”

  Collins drew a shuddering breath.

  “You ought to sleep now,” said Darcy. “Sleep and rest. All will be well.”

  The eyelids closed; Collins let out a whimper.

  So did Lady Catherine, and she wrung her hands. “He does not know me! His own beloved aunt!”

  Again Darcy kept irritation in check. “I wonder at him knowing anyone at all, milady,” he said mildly.

  She began to pace about the room. “This is dreadful, dreadful! Has he lost the use of his rational mind?”

  “Of course not. Only consider,” said Darcy, “that the poor fellow is not in his usual bedchamber here. No wonder he is confused. And I daresay his head hurts like fire. Mine did when I came to myself.”

  Lady Catherine swung round. “Your sufferings are of no interest to me, Mr. Collins.”

  At the mention of his name, Collins stirred.

  “Furthermore,” continued Lady Catherine, “although you are ignorant of the ways of the gentry, it is most unmannerly to refer to such a personal matter in my presence.”

  Darcy returned his attention to Collins. If this was how she spoke to the man, no wonder he cringed! “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “I ought to bear him company for a bit.” He looked to the woman seated in the corner.

  What he wanted was a chance to speak to Collins privately. “I am not unfamiliar with the sickroom,” Darcy said smoothly—as Collins the clergyman, this was not precisely a lie— “and I daresay both you and his nurse would like a respite.”

  Lady Catherine considered this. Then she nodded and went out of the room.

  The nurse gave Darcy a grateful look. “Be sure to ring, sir, if I am needed.” She indicated the bell pull. “I shall not be away long.”

  Darcy answered with a smile. “It makes no difference.” A sudden thought occurred. “And what is your name?”

  “Rosie, sir.”

  “God bless you, Rosie,” Darcy said. This was the sort of thing a clergyman was supposed to say, but Darcy meant it. Caring for an invalid and having to put up with his aunt’s officiousness were wearing tasks for anyone.

  And so Darcy kept vigil, and he was mindful to recite several prayers. Presently his attention began to wan
der, and the door of the wardrobe caught his eye. Darcy had never cared much about clothing—a respectable appearance, with garments of the best workmanship, had been enough to satisfy. But now—

  He glanced at Collins. The man was sleeping deeply; there would be no opportunity for conversation today.

  Ah, but his fingers itched to open the door of that wardrobe, to gain access to what his valet had brought for his months in the country. After all, they were his clothes, purchased with his money. What would it matter if he wore them?

  This appealing thought grew and took shape. The waistcoats were useless, thanks to Collins’ oversized stomach, but the cravats? And the stockings? The gloves? The beautiful hats?

  Then Darcy’s plan suffered a check. His garments would not be in this room, but in his original bedchamber. And although he paid little attention to what he wore, others did. Caroline Bingley was always complimenting this or that, much to his annoyance. And wouldn’t dear Miss Bingley be shocked to see one of his silk cravats around the lowly Reverend Collins’ neck?

  It would be almost worth it to hear her screech. But the cravat would likely not fit Collins’ stocky neck, nor could Darcy manage the intricate knots his valet delighted in making.

  So he would have to purchase what he needed in Meryton. That meant money.

  This he could remedy. With a look to the closed door, Darcy rose to his feet. The wardrobe door creaked when he opened it, but Collins slept on. The shelves were empty, but hanging there was the coat he’d worn to the assembly. At last, a miracle! For in the pockets were coins, at the ready in case he needed to tip the footmen. Best of all, no one else knew the coins were there.

  Ha, look at that. Among the shillings, a half-crown! No, two! And several sovereigns. No wonder the servants were always so attentive. He’d never given it much thought, but he knew now. Mr. Darcy was a very generous tipper.

  Darcy pocketed the coins along with the nagging voice of his conscience. It wasn’t as if he were a thief. He was Darcy, he just happened to be in the wrong body.

  “But not for long,” Darcy said aloud, with another look to Collins.

  Presently he resumed his seat to wait for Rosie’s return. And sometime later, as he left the sickroom, Darcy pressed one of the half-crowns into her hand.

  Here was something else he was learning. It was the poor, not the rich, who knew how to be generous.

  9Petticoat Wag

  After Rosie returned, Darcy did not depart for Longbourn but went searching for a quiet nook. He found a chair under a window at the end of the upstairs corridor, the perfect spot to study his aunt’s sermon. And what a sermon it was.

  Lady Catherine began well enough, with the Light shining into the darkness (for this was the first Sunday of Advent), and she transitioned to the shepherds watching over lambkins on the verdant fields of Bethlehem. But the mention of shepherds launched her into the true purpose of her sermon: moralizing. Here were all her favorite themes: contentment with one’s occupation (no matter how lowly), duty to one’s superiors, and working hard to earn salvation in the afterlife.

  Darcy was no theologian, but he knew that salvation was by grace through faith. And wasn’t she a fine one to talk? How would Aunt Catherine measure up against the Almighty’s holy standard?

  And the sermon fairly dripped condescension. As a listener, Darcy would be angered and offended to hear someone like Collins prose on in this superior way. There was no encouragement here, only pious talk and patronizing. Was this what Collins’ congregation had to endure?

  Not this Sunday! Darcy was still Darcy, and there was no way on earth he would preach this sermon.

  He rose to his feet, stuffed the pages into a pocket, and made for the stairs. Not that he looked forward to the tramp back to Longbourn, but if the weather worsened he would be stranded here, and even Mrs. Bennet was preferable to his aunt.

  Nor did he wish to encounter Charles Bingley. His friend would never guess the truth of his situation, but it was awkward to act the part of Collins in his presence.

  And of course, whom should Darcy meet as he reached the main floor but Bingley coming up. Darcy felt a stab of isolation, and just as quickly cast it aside. He must behave as Collins, the odious rector. Indeed, the man’s inane grin was now forming on his lips. Darcy quelled it, removed his ugly hat, and made a polite bow.

  Bingley came to a halt, what else could he do? “Hallo, Collins,” he said. The pause became awkward.

  Darcy understood what his friend was thinking. What the devil is that bounder Collins doing here? How can I get rid of him?

  But Bingley was a kindly soul; he would be polite to any guest, no matter how unwelcome. Smiling a little, he said, “I daresay you’ve been up to see poor, er—” Flustered, Bingley broke off speaking and coughed.

  “Good morning, sir,” Darcy murmured. “I have been to see Mr. Darcy, yes.”

  “I-I’ve never been one for the sickroom,” Bingley confessed. “And to see poor Darcy like that.”

  Fortunately, Bingley did not require a response.

  “But Jones says Darcy’s improving,” he continued. “Don’t you agree?”

  Darcy’s answer was guardedly optimistic, and he was rewarded with a wave of disjointed talk.

  “His color is better, at least I think it is. A very good sign, I must say. The girl attending him says so too, and so does Caroline.”

  There was more in this line, and Darcy did his best to listen. But it was difficult to keep his face from mirroring his thoughts. Phrases like “struck down” and “looking as weak as a fish” and “a shadow of his former self” did not go down well.

  Bingley kept talking, and Darcy realized with a start that he’d been invited for luncheon. Darcy was touched. Who else but Charles Bingley would invite Collins to share a meal? Darcy certainly would not!

  Collins-like, Darcy stammered his acceptance, and soon he was following Bingley through the rooms of the house as he searched for Caroline. Wouldn’t she be pleased at the news? Darcy steeled himself for a snub.

  “My sister is desolated by Darcy’s injury, but she isn’t much for nursing,” Bingley said over his shoulder. “No experience, for one thing. We Bingleys are a healthy lot.”

  “Your hardy Northern forebears,” said Darcy, “likely had a hand in that.” And then he gave himself a mental kick, for Collins would know nothing of Bingley’s family.

  Charles did not notice the slip. “And that aunt of Darcy’s—what a tartar!” He opened the drawing room door and glanced inside. The room was empty. “Can’t seem to keep her from twitting him. A rum business, that, for she won’t be stopped.” Bingley shut the door and moved on.

  Darcy chose his words carefully. “Lady Catherine,” he said, “is a very determined woman.”

  “Darcy’s described her, oh, in roundabout terms. Not often a fellow can pry information out of Darcy. But he did mention that his aunt wants to marry him off to her daughter.” Bingley gave him a look. “Any possibility of that?”

  Darcy did not hesitate. “None whatsoever.”

  Now why was Bingley looking amused? “I daresay Darcy feels the same,” he added.

  After a look in one of the smaller parlors, Bingley was off again, leaving Darcy struggling to keep up with his long strides. “I believe there’s a nice fire here,” said Bingley, opening a door. He motioned Darcy inside. “I’ll just have a look round for my sister.”

  The Netherfield library was large and comfortably furnished, with windows overlooking the park. Darcy crossed to the mantelpiece and, as was his habit, stood frowning into the flames. His negligent stance was not as easily accomplished, for Collins was not only wider but less dexterous.

  It was bad enough to be fat, but to be clumsy and fat?

  And stupid? Ah, but was Collins as unintelligent as he appeared? Darcy thought over what he had observed at Bingley’s ball. Yes, he decided. Most unfortunately, Collins was thoroughly stupid.

  The library had two doors; the one on the far side n
ow came open. “Charles, you didn’t,” he heard. It was Caroline Bingley, and if she meant to keep her voice low, she failed. This was no surprise to Darcy. Neither Miss Bingley nor her sister knew how to whisper.

  Bingley murmured something in reply; whatever it was did not please her. “As if we have not had enough of provincial society—”she began.

  “Not provincial,” Bingley protested.

  “And now,” Caroline continued, as if he had not spoken, “you must thrust this—this person on me. Honestly, Charles, what will you do next?”

  “Should I let the fellow starve? He has been very good to Darcy, calling every day.”

  Miss Bingley gave an unhappy huff. “I daresay I shall yawn myself to death.”

  “Would you rather hear Lady Catherine gabble on? I thought Mr. Collins would be an improvement.”

  “It is most unfair, Charles! You needn’t sit at the table looking at him.”

  “Caro, do understand.”

  Darcy could hear the pout in her voice. “It isn’t as if he’s anyone important. How I am to converse with him I do not know.”

  “Fine,” Darcy heard Bingley say. “We’ll go up to the billiard room until luncheon is ready.”

  Miss Bingley gave an audible sigh. “I suppose I must now greet the creature.”

  Darcy heard her footfalls trip across the parquet floor until she reached the carpet. He did not turn to look at her.

  “My brother tells me that you are to join us for luncheon, Mr. Collins,” she said. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  From beneath his brows Darcy gave her a quelling look.

  He heard her gasp; her hand crept to her throat. “Why, my gracious,” she said in an altered tone. “Oh, my gracious. For a moment, Mr. Collins, standing as you are, I could have sworn that you were—”

  Darcy raised an eyebrow, but did not smile.

  “But no, that is silly,” she went on unsteadily. “How could you be anyone but Mr. Collins?”

  “How could I indeed,” he said drily.

  “I fear it will be some time until luncheon is served.” She gave a brittle laugh. “We do not keep country hours among ourselves, Mr. Collins. And why should we? As soon as Mr. Darcy is able to travel, we shall return to London.”