by Laura Hile
Thus Miss Bingley made her recovery. Bumbling Collins, her disdainful gaze said. What care I for you?
Darcy had seen this expression in Elizabeth Bennet’s eyes. But then Darcy remembered Collins’ behavior at ball; perhaps Elizabeth had reason. But what had Collins ever done to Miss Bingley?
No, her contempt was solely because Collins was beneath her. She could claw higher on the social dung hill by putting someone like Collins beneath her feet.
Conversation lagged. Darcy was of no mind to break the silence.
At last Bingley came to the rescue. “Do you play billiards, Mr. Collins?” he chirped.
g
William Collins was probably as ignorant about billiards as he was about everything else. It would never do to show skill, or even aptitude. While the lamps were lit and a second footman ironed the green baize table, Darcy selected his cue stick. He made an awkward business of it, first gaping at the rack like a yokel and then taking down one stick after another. He asked a greenhorn’s questions, too—about the cue ball, the spot, the red ball, and the rules by which they would play. Bingley showed remarkable restraint, answering each of his questions with kindness. At last Darcy became ashamed of himself.
Collins’ hands were not as large as Darcy’s, so he chose a stick with a smaller shaft. And he made sure to hit Bingley’s ball during the lag, giving his friend the advantage. Darcy hesitated and chewed on his lower lip; he moved around the table and sighed like an old woman.
But once the game was in play, long years of habit and competitive spirit took precedence. Without thought, Darcy assumed the correct striking stance; his follow through was straight and relaxed and therefore all wrong. He felt Bingley’s eyes on him as he moved round the table. Blast!
And so before he took the next shot, Darcy chalked up with vigor, twisting the chalk on top of the cue stick like a rustic. He then studied the position of the balls from multiple angles, leaning over the table and waggling his hind end to and fro.
He heard Bingley choke back laughter, disguised as a cough.
When Darcy finally took his shot, he struck the ball with an abrupt hit so that it bounced. A foul! Fortunately his stick did not damage Bingley’s baize-covered table.
Charles took his shot and then set aside his cue stick. He said, with studied nonchalance, “Bye the bye, how is Miss Bennet?”
Darcy’s stick went clattering to the floor. So the wind was still in this quarter, was it? “Miss Bennet?” he repeated, with Collins’ goggling stare.
“Yes, Miss Jane Bennet. I trust there has been no relapse of her sickness?”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. Hadn’t Charles seen Jane at the ball? On the other hand, perhaps as Collins he could learn the extent of Bingley’s infatuation. “Her sickness?” he repeated.
The story of Jane’s stay at Netherfield was related, with Jane as the central emphasis. Her sister Elizabeth, who had so captured Darcy’s attention, was not mentioned by name. Indeed, to hear Bingley’s version, Elizabeth had been as a passing shadow.
“And how does Miss Bennet spend her time?” Bingley went on. “Does she sew or paint? Or play the pianoforte?”
How should Darcy answer? He was not about to encourage Bingley’s interest in Jane!
Bingley was smiling, his cheeks were flushed. “You cannot tell me that she does not sing. She has, I am sure, the voice of an angel.”
And the devil of a harpy for a mother!
“She, ah, helps her mother with the management of the house,” said Darcy. “And she oversees her sisters.”
“Charming!” cried Bingley.
Darcy knelt to retrieve his cue stick from the floor. He did not call keeping Lydia from pulling Kitty’s bonnet to bits—and intervening in the resulting cat fight—charming. Mrs. Bennet had taken Lydia’s side! What a household! What a family!
While Bingley was blissfully gazing out the window—no doubt daydreaming of Jane—Darcy made sure to take a solid swing shot.
g
By the time luncheon was served, Darcy was exhausted. A look out the windows brought more bad news: it had begun to snow.
And of course, as soon as the meal was served Lady Catherine began to complain. Here was one benefit to being Collins, Darcy realized. He was no longer related to Lady Catherine!
“A French-trained chef, my dear,” she said, with a look to Caroline Bingley, “is worth the expense. There is far less waste. To illustrate, this soup is quite inedible. Although,” she added, “you might find it acceptable. I have no idea what people from the North prefer.”
“Potatoes and savory puddings, perhaps?” muttered Darcy.
Lady Catherine glared a rebuke. Collins-like, Darcy became occupied with his soup.
Since they could not speak of the convalescing Mr. Darcy (for fear of upsetting the ladies), topics for conversation were limited. “Looks like sleet tonight,” Bingley remarked, “or so the servants say. Not good if that physician of yours is traveling over the road, ma’am.”
“Sir Henry Fleming knows what I am due,” was Lady Catherine’s reply. “I have every expectation of seeing him.” She continued to eat the inedible soup.
“For my part,” said Miss Bingley, “I long to return to London, most especially the theater.” She smiled condescendingly at Darcy. “Such an enchanting diversion. I hear that Artaxerxes will soon be presented at Covent Garden.” She gave a sigh. “How vexing that I must only read of it.”
“I believe,” said Darcy, “that Madame Catalani was considered for the role of—”
Conversation at the table stopped.
Caroline Bingley lowered her spoon. “Good gracious! Do you follow the theater, Mr. Collins?”
“Mr. Collins,” corrected Lady Catherine, “did not understand you properly. He never goes to London, much less to the theater.”
Darcy thought quickly. “Er, during my school days, milady. Before coming to Hunsford.” He felt a blush mount to his cheeks. What an idiot he was for mentioning school! Where the devil had Collins studied? Not Cambridge or Eaton or Harrow. His aunt certainly knew. Darcy braced himself for a round of awkward questions.
Ever the host, Bingley came to the rescue. “There’s nothing I enjoy more than a night at the theater,” he said, and he forced a laugh. “Pantomimes are my favorite. You know, Harlequin, Colombine, Pantaloon...”
“Afterpieces,” said Lady Catherine, “are contemptible. And the theaters themselves? Death traps.”
“Oh, surely not, milady.” This was from Caroline.
Lady Catherine rounded on Miss Bingley. “The Theater Royal, Drury Lane? And your precious Covent Garden? I remember those fires, if you do not, Miss Bingley. Burnt. Such tragic loss of life.”
Poor Bingley was now pink in the face. “Eh, Mr. Collins,” he chirped. “How is the family at Longbourn? They are all well?”
“We are all rather cold, what with the weather,” Darcy replied.
“As are we.”
“Charles!” Caroline objected.
“Well, we are. We might burn a forest of logs, and still we freeze.”
“It’s this house,” said Caroline. “Which is why we must go to London. If not for poor Mr. Darcy, we would be there now.” Her voice caught. “Poor Mr. Darcy. Poor, dear Mr. Darcy.” She dabbed at her eyes with the napkin.
There was a pause, during which Lady Catherine gazed at her. “Mr. Darcy is dear,” she said slowly, “to me, but not at all to you. I wonder, Miss Bingley, that you would use so personal an appellation.”
“Oh, but milady,” Caroline protested, blushing furiously. Darcy had never seen her so out of countenance.
Lady Catherine studied her. At last she said, “If you have designs on becoming mistress of Pemberley, I advise you to banish them.”
During this awkward pause the soup plates were taken away. Darcy had the misfortune to break out coughing.
“And it is not necessary,” Lady Catherine went on, “to invite Mr. Collins to every meal. I certainly do not.”
Charles Bingley looked pained.
“I am not about to do so,” Caroline retorted. She transferred her gaze to Mr. Collins. “He is, after all, a man of no relations, other than the Bennets. And who are they?”
“You are a fine one to talk,” said Lady Catherine. “Mr. Bennet, who is Mr. Collins’ cousin, is a gentleman, in both birth and behavior. You will recall that was he, and not your brother, who informed me about my nephew.”
Caroline Bingley was struck speechless. Darcy sat silent, as Collins would no doubt do, taking in every morsel of the exchange. The butler and footman moved with noiseless precision. They were obviously drinking in every word.
“You,” continued Lady Catherine, “are a new creation from the North, according to my nephew. In other words, you are no one.”
Caroline found her voice. “I beg to differ!”
“Whom do you know, apart from my nephew?” said Lady Catherine. “No one.”
Miss Bingley put up her chin. “Our circle of acquaintance is most extensive, ma’am!”
“I see. That explains why you have taken this desolate house in humbug country. And have invited no one besides my nephew (and your drunken relations) to stay.”
Caroline’s eyes were bright with anger. “Upon my word!”
Lady Catherine cast her napkin upon the table. “So we come to it with the gloves off, as the gentlemen say. You are no doubt thinking that I, as your guest, have no right to say such things.” She narrowed her eyes and went on.
“As if I did not know that you have written to everyone in your circle that Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings Park is staying at your country house.”
Caroline had the misfortune to wince.
Lady Catherine smiled at her discomfort. “Ah, but you see, I saw the stack of letters on the hallway table.
“And you will be polite and take your medicine, Missy,” she went on. “Or I shall write to the friends of my circle—who are considerably better-placed than yours—and tell them exactly what I think of you. And of your unseemly matrimonial ambitions.”
“Oh, but I haven’t—” Miss Bingley’s words caught in her throat.
“Yes, I thought so,” said Lady Catherine. She rose to her feet; Bingley and Darcy did the same. “And now,” she announced, “I am quite exhausted. You will therefore please excuse me.”
The remainder of the luncheon was consumed in silence. And as soon as he could manage it, Darcy made a hasty exit.
10Step Stately!
The Netherfield butler had Collins’ ugly overcoat and hat at the ready; Darcy could guess what he thought of them. As the man opened the main door, Darcy wound Collins’ black muffler around his neck and settled his hat. Outside it was snowing furiously, with flakes the size of shillings, a good four inches blanketing the ground. A gust of cold air pushed at Darcy, sending snowflakes swirling about his shoulders. He hesitated. Perhaps this was unwise. Bingley would put him up for the night.
And then a sharp voice came travelling down the stairway, and it echoed through the vestibule. “Is Mr. Collins still here? Bring him up at once. I have something more to say to him.” It was his aunt, and she did not sound pleased.
That settled it. Turning his collar against the cold, Darcy lowered his head and set out.
Before he reached the gates and the lodge, he was again wishing he’d borrowed that horse. The animal would know its way home, for one thing. Darcy marched through the snow on what he hoped was the road to Longbourn. There were no birds to break the silence, only the whisper of falling snow and his own footfalls. Gusts of wind made visibility difficult; snowflakes stung his cheeks and eyes. At length he wearied of brushing snow from his coat and simply let it remain.
His trek took almost two hours. Clucking and fussing, Hill drew him inside, helped him remove his overcoat and then took it away to dry. He stood in the vestibule, blinking and stunned with cold. The under-maid came in carrying a broom, and she gave him a dark look. This was rather startling.
“Might as well dump a bucket a snow right there on the floor,” she grumbled, and she began to sweep. “If that ain’t a man all over.”
What was this? A maid-of-all-work, who should have been glad of employment, had no business giving him a scold. Was Collins such a worm that even servants felt free to berate him?
He attempted a rebuke, but his face was still stiff with cold; he could not speak. And then he glanced down at his feet.
He felt a little ashamed then, for he had brought in rather a lot of snow. He felt a sudden stab of pity, not for the maid but for Mrs. Hill. It was a struggle to keep this house clean and in order, a thing Darcy had never considered. At Pemberley, mud and dirt simply happened and were dealt with.
Hill returned, but not before the maid-of-all work had given Darcy another look. The snow on Collins’ muffler had thawed and was now dripping freely. She went out and came back with a towel.
And of course, being inhabited by Bennets, the house was anything but quiet. “I do not see why James must be out in the barns with Ned,” he heard someone say above stairs. It was Lydia Bennet.
She descended to the landing. “Do help us, Hill,” she called down. “We must have James come back. He cannot help with the livestock all day.”
“After all,” said Kitty, hard on Lydia’s heels, “he is an inside servant. He belongs here.”
“Except when there’s a bitter storm, Miss,” said Hill mildly, “as there will be tonight.”
Lydia gave a huff of disappointment. “But we need that trunk, Hill.”
“We must have a proper game tonight,” added Kitty. “Cards simply won’t do!”
Lydia turned to look at Kitty. “Won’t Denny find it amusing? And Wickham?” She made a face. Both sisters dissolved into giggling.
Wickham again. Wordlessly Darcy stripped off Collins’ muffler and passed it to Hill.
Lydia came down to the vestibule. “Oh, look,” she called to her sister. “It’s Mr. Collins.”
“What luck,” said Kitty, smiling at him. “You are just the person to help us.”
“Now Miss Kitty,” said Hill, “don’t you be bothering Mr. Collins. He ought to be in bed with a hot brick and a glass of milk.”
Darcy was nettled. So he was to be wrapped up and tucked in like an old woman? Was this the sort of thing Collins preferred? Not on his watch, Darcy decided. After all, his arm was out of the sling. He looked inquiringly at Kitty.
Lydia caught the meaning in his look. “It’s a crisis, Mr. Collins, that’s what it is. We’re simply perishing with disappointment. And here you are, a gentleman, ready to be of service. Famous, I call it.”
“Miss Lydia,” Hill protested.
“I daresay,” Lydia went on, “that any man can help us. Save for Papa, as he is rather old.” Two pairs of eyes surveyed Darcy. “You are not too old, are you, Mr. Collins?”
“Miss Kitty, your cousin is in no condition to be hauling down a trunk.”
Lydia eyed Darcy appraisingly. “He looks fit enough to me. He looks stronger than James, who is so skinny.”
“Come now, Mr. Collins, you cannot refuse,” said Kitty. “For we’re to play Shadows after dinner, once the officers come. And we need costumes for disguise!”
Speaking was still difficult due to the cold. “S-shadows?” Darcy managed to say. Gad, he sounded like a half-wit.
Lydia frowned at him. “Surely you know how to play Shadows,” she said. “We disguise ourselves and parade before a branch of candles, making shadows on a sheet. And the person on the stool has to guess who it is. Hill,” she added, “do give us one of the big white tablecloths. It needn’t be the best.”
“Not the one with stains!” said a voice.
Mrs. Bennet came rustling into the vestibule with all flags flying, like a ship of the line.
“The largest, nicest cloth has gravy stains,” Mrs. Bennet announced. “Such a shame. What does that girl do for her wages, Hill? It cannot be so very difficult to remove a common gravy stain. Even
if it is particularly large.”
From the dark look Mrs. Bennet gave him, Darcy realized that Collins was probably to blame. What had he done, upset the gravy boat?
“Very well, Mama,” said Lydia, “we’ll use a bedsheet. Hill can choose which one, won’t you, Hill?”
Meanwhile Darcy felt Kitty’s appraising gaze. “Mr. Collins is tall enough to help us hang it.”
“Gracious me, not now, Kitty,” protested Mrs. Bennet. “If you must hang a sheet in the drawing room, hang it after dinner.”
“I daresay we could cast shadows on one of the walls instead,” Lydia said. “Mr. Collins can take down all the pictures.”
“No, that he cannot,” said Mrs. Bennet. “You girls will turn this house topsy-turvy. My poor nerves.” And she gave a shudder.
Not that either of her daughters noticed. “We must collect all the lamps and the stool from the kitchen. And the hall table, too, the narrow one.”
Hill returned Darcy’s wet gloves. “You’ll be needing these when you lift the trunk,” she said quietly. “Once these girls have their minds set on a thing, they don’t relent.”
“So I understand,” Darcy said. He turned. “Where is this trunk to be found?”
“In the attic,” said Lydia. “Which is at the very top of the house, above even the servants’ rooms.”
Mrs. Bennet gave a great sigh. “You might as well take him,” she said. “Look over all the house while you are at it, Mr. Collins, as it will be yours one day when Mr. Bennet is dead.”
Darcy scarcely heard this last. Three flights of stairs, or four? Collins’ spongy body was in for punishment. And how unfair that Darcy should be the one to feel the pain.
Lydia and Kitty had him by the elbows and pulled him toward the stairs.
“I’ll thank you not to scratch the walls, Mr. Collins,” Mrs. Bennet called after. “And don’t put the trunk in the drawing room.”
“But Mama,” the girls protested.
“I will not have that horrid old thing where it can be seen. Put it in the back parlor.”
