Darcy By Any Other Name

by Laura Hile

  Darcy began to climb. Sure enough, by the time they reached the landing, he was gasping for breath.

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  A small window lit the attic, brightened by reflected light from the snow outside. It was not only dirty here but also freezing. It took the girls some time to locate the trunk they wanted.

  Amid the detritus of generations, Darcy stood frowning through the dust. There was no order here! When an item was unwanted, it was brought up and dropped in any empty spot. And that would be the last anyone thought about it.

  Presently Kitty gave a crow of victory, and Darcy picked his way over to her. The trunk she indicated was uncommonly large and made of heavy oak, with corners reinforced by iron brackets. The lock was unfastened; heavy iron latches held it closed. He could in no way carry such a monster down even one flight of stairs.

  “No,” he said. “I am sorry to disappoint you, dear cousins. But to carry that behemoth would require an army of men.”

  “Oh, Mr. Collins! How can you be so disobliging?”

  Darcy raised an eyebrow. “When was the last time this, ah, colossus was carried down?”

  “Oh, never,” said Kitty. “We take what we need and go down.”

  “But we were so hoping that you could help us,” said Lydia. “Are you quite certain you are not strong enough?”

  The attic door opened, and someone holding a candle came in. “Who is not strong enough?” she said.

  Darcy swung round to see Elizabeth.

  “Mr. Collins isn’t,” said Lydia, with a pout. “He promised to take the trunk down to the parlor for us, and now he refuses.”

  “He says it is too heavy,” added Kitty.

  “I daresay he is right,” said Elizabeth. “Gracious, it is freezing here.”

  “Have a care, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said. “It is quite dirty and there are any number of spiders’ webs.”

  “Spiders!” cried Lydia and Kitty.

  Elizabeth put down the candlestick. “Mr. Collins,” she said, giving him a look, “is only funning. At this time of year the spiders are dead.”

  Darcy was stung by this rebuke. “Not necessarily,” he countered. “Their egg sacs are everywhere. See here, there is one attached to the hem of your gown.”

  Lydia and Kitty screamed, and Elizabeth looked annoyed. She brushed at her skirt.

  Darcy turned to the younger girls. “Let me see if I can get the trunk open.”

  “It would be warmer to open it downstairs,” Kitty pointed out.

  Darcy brushed dust from it using Collins’ handkerchief, and then knelt and tried the latches.

  “Do hurry, Mr. Collins,” Lydia complained. “It is beastly cold.”

  “Don’t I know it,” he retorted, working at the latch. “But it’s a long shot better than being outside.”

  At last he was able to pry each one open. Grasping the leather straps of the lid lift, he opened the trunk. It was lined with cedar. The scent transported Darcy to his dressing room at Pemberley.

  Straightway the girls began pulling out garments and hats, crowing over their finds. Elizabeth located a large basket for their use.

  “I fear I have destroyed your sisters’ confidence in me,” Darcy remarked to Elizabeth, aside.

  Elizabeth’s eyes flashed, and Darcy smiled. “You are perfectly right, Miss Elizabeth. I never had it in the first place.”

  “I did not say so, Mr. Collins.”

  “And,” he continued, “while I am prepared to sacrifice a great deal for my fair relatives—”

  “Such as,” she retorted, “entering into matrimony?”

  Darcy’s brows went up. Had Collins hinted at marriage to Elizabeth? No wonder she hated him.

  “While I am perfectly willing to do even that,” he admitted, smiling a little, “I draw the line at injuring my back.”

  “You are not very gallant, Mr. Collins,” she said.

  “I have long been a selfish creature.” He took from the trunk an old-fashioned tricorn hat and clapped it on his head. “Shall we go down?”

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  The younger girls trooped down the stairs, whooping and giggling in a most unladylike manner, leaving Darcy to manage the unwieldy basket.

  Lydia opened the door of the back parlor and went in. “How jolly it will be.”

  It was all Darcy could do not to roll his eyes. She’d been saying this again and again. Talkative young ladies, he decided, made his head ache.

  And yet there was one fact he wanted to have clear. “I take it,” Darcy said innocently, “that the officers will be coming? In spite of the storm?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Kitty. “Of course.”

  “And why not?” said Lydia. “Why should they be cooped up in their quarters, or wherever they stay, when they can be here, amusing us?”

  Officers did not sit around in their sleeping quarters, they lounged in taverns. But Darcy did not say so to Lydia. “Will, er, Mr. Wickham be of their number?” he said.

  “Oh, I hope so,” said Kitty.

  “If he is not, I shall have words with Colonel Forster,” added Lydia, laughingly. “And so will Lizzy.” She twinkled at her sister.

  “Lydia, really!”

  Darcy found a spot for the basket and set it down.

  “Why so glum, Mr. Collins?” said Lydia. “Oh, wait. Is it because Wickham beat you handily at loo?”

  More giggles.

  “I did not play cards with Mr. Wickham,” said Darcy frostily. “Or with anyone.”

  “Oh but you did. Don’t you recall? At Aunt Phillips’ soiree.”

  Darcy grimaced at the slip. But no one noticed; they thought him that stupid.

  “Poor Mr. Collins,” said Elizabeth. “I’m afraid you were not a very good loser.”

  In reply Darcy made a small, tight bow. He might have lost to Wickham once, but that would not happen again.

  Accompanied by the music of their laughter, Darcy left the parlor. A warm brick and a glass of milk were sounding better and better.

  11Rose is Red,

  Rose is White

  To Elizabeth’s surprise, several of the officers braved the snowstorm for after-dinner coffee. She came into the drawing room shortly after they arrived and found a seat on the sofa beside Jane.

  “Poor Lydia,” she said to Jane. “This isn’t quite the evening she had planned.”

  For Sir William had come, though Elizabeth could not guess why. Mr. Bennet remained in the drawing room to speak with him, forestalling Lydia’s game of Shadows.

  Even so, it was an amusing evening. Scorning Vingt-et-un and Loo, Lydia and Kitty convinced Mr. Wickham and Mr. Denny to build a house of cards. A lesson was now in progress, with dubious results.

  “The slightest nudge, the lightest breath,” Mr. Denny was saying. “Disaster!”

  Mr. Wickham took the lead. “Now then, Miss Kitty,” he encouraged. “You must have a steady hand. Place the card you’re holding—yes, that’s the one—atop the box Denny has made.”

  Kitty sounded uncertain. “Do you mean as a roof?”

  “Exactly,” said Mr. Denny.

  “But—” Kitty hesitated, looking from him to the card. “It’s the queen of hearts. Does that matter?”

  “Not a bit,” said Mr. Denny.

  “And hideously ugly she is,” agreed Mr. Wickham. “Place her face-down if you prefer.”

  “Off you go,” said Mr. Denny. “Take no prisoners!”

  Mr. Pratt drew up a chair and put his oar in. “Faint heart never won fair lady!”

  And yet still Kitty hesitated.

  “Oh, lord,” said Lydia. “What a goose you are, Kitty. Place the card!”

  “I shall call for reinforcements,” Mr. Wickham told her. “Miss Elizabeth,” he called.

  Elizabeth gave a start; George Wickham was smiling broadly. “Do step in for your poor sister,” he said. “Your nerves are steady enough!”

  Kitty protested, and the others laughed.

  Elizabeth returned the smile, but remained where
she was. She would rather converse with him apart from the noise of her younger sisters.

  The banter around the card table resumed. “Nerves?” Lydia crowed. “What a very good joke. Just like poor Mama. Plagued by nerves.”

  “Do you mind?” Kitty said. “This is not as easy as it looks.” She stretched out her hand and immediately drew it back.

  “She cannot do it, Wickham,” Lydia pointed out. “What did I tell you?”

  Elizabeth’s gaze wandered to her cousin, Mr. Collins. There he sat, solemn and silent. He held a periodical, but he did not read. Where was his insincere smile? His desperate attempts to insinuate himself into every conversation? It seemed to Elizabeth that Mr. Collins’ attention was fixed on the group at the card table, and his eyes held an unfriendly glint. What in her sisters’ behavior could have offended him?

  Mr. Pratt cleared his throat. “My dear Miss Kitty,” he said, and he took hold of a leg of the card table, as if to steady it. “Try not to breathe on the cards.”

  Lydia gave an unladylike snort.

  Poor Kitty sucked in her breath, steadied her hand, and broke out giggling. The would-be house of cards collapsed.

  Wickham laughed at her discomposure, and the others laughed with him. Elizabeth glanced again at her cousin. His brows had descended into a thundering frown.

  “How stern he looks,” she whispered to Jane.

  “Mr. Wickham? Oh, surely not.”

  “No, Mr. Collins. He is so grim and disapproving.”

  Jane’s gaze traveled to where Mr. Collins sat. “He is probably in pain, Lizzy. Perhaps his head aches.”

  “I think he dislikes Mr. Wickham,” Elizabeth said. “Do you suppose he is jealous?”

  Jane considered. “Of what would he be jealous?” she said at last. “Of Mr. Wickham’s red coat?”

  Elizabeth had to smile. “I had in mind his easy manners or his conversation. Our cousin has neither.”

  “Mr. Wickham is a pleasing companion,” Jane agreed. “And yet we know so little about him.” She paused. “We know so little about any of these officers.”

  Elizabeth would not be drawn in. Their new friends were exactly as they should be, amusing and well-mannered. Her gaze returned to her cousin. “Mr. Collins,” she said to Jane, “has no business to be so morose. He quite spoils the evening.”

  “He isn’t spoiling my evening, Lizzy. He’s in no one’s way where he is. And he isn’t pushing to be the center of attention, as he did when he first came.”

  “Before his injury, do you mean? I suppose it has taught him a sense of proportion.”

  Which was nonsense. Mr. Collins knew nothing of proportion or subtlety or nuance. A thing had to be strikingly obvious for him to even notice. And yet now he was all subtlety. That answer he had given about marriage, for instance. There had been a look in his eye, a flicker of comprehension.

  Elizabeth’s lips compressed. No, it was quite impossible. William Collins was what he always had been, a fool.

  And there he sat, quietly turning the pages of one of her mother’s magazines. It wasn’t as if he were looking at the pictures. In fact—

  Elizabeth excused herself and rose to her feet. Mr. Collins, intent on the party at the card table, did not see her until she stepped into his line of vision. He gave a start and dropped the magazine. Immediately he rose to his feet, but not without wincing.

  “I did not mean to disturb you, Mr. Collins,” Elizabeth said sweetly, and she sat in the chair opposite his. “Please continue with your reading.” She gave him a pointed smile, and was rewarded with a wary look.

  “A fashion periodical, is it not? Miss Lucas has told me of your interest.”

  He grimaced, and Elizabeth fought to conceal a surge of triumph. So the man could be embarrassed after all! She reached for the magazine. “May I?”

  With reluctance Mr. Collins surrendered it.

  “What lovely pictures.” Elizabeth did not bother to conceal her sarcasm.

  He raised an eyebrow. “They look better upside down, you know.”

  She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  Mr. Collins took back the periodical and turned it. “Like this,” he said. “Or did Miss Lucas not tell you?”

  Charlotte had, and how Elizabeth had laughed. Was Mr. Collins now laughing at himself? Her eyes narrowed. “How do you mean?”

  Mr. Collins stretched his feet toward the fire and gave her a sidelong look. “By viewing from a different angle, one’s observation is enhanced.”

  She knew he was lying, but she decided to play along. “By looking at these upside down? I rather doubt it.”

  He did not hesitate. “Certainly. As a printer reads the text of a book in reverse to spot errors.” He paused. “Now that I think on it, the print itself is set backward, so perhaps it isn’t so unusual a practice. But I find it helps me notice memorable features.”

  “Of gowns?” she scoffed. “Mr. Collins, you quite surprise me. Why would memorable features be important?”

  “Why, for compliments.” Mr. Collins’ lips twisted into a half-smile. “Ladies are always hanging out for compliments.”

  “Oh, certainly,” said Elizabeth. “And you are happy to oblige.”

  Mr. Collins spread his hands. “Why, of course.”

  “Very well.” Elizabeth indicated the page. “How would you compliment this woman?”

  “The one in pink?” He studied the illustration. “On a night like this, I would think she’d be half frozen, as well as exposing an unflattering expanse of gooseflesh.”

  Elizabeth choked back a laugh. Had Mr. Collins made a joke? When she stole a look at him, his eyes held a twinkle.

  “I daresay the designers of gowns are heartless fellows,” he continued. “Observe the caption: Costumes for February.”

  “Perhaps,” Elizabeth said unsteadily, “it is a dress for dancing.”

  “In that case, she would jolly well be more comfortable than I, not having to wear a coat and be half-choked by a neck cloth. By the end of the evening, a crowded ballroom is stifling; the gentlemen are sweating like pigs. Which is one of the reasons I dislike dancing.”

  Now she knew he was lying. “You, dislike dancing?”

  He made a little bow. “Present company aside, of course.”

  “The Netherfield ballroom,” Elizabeth pointed out, “was not at all stifling.”

  “On that occasion, no. But there are times, such as at Almack’s—”

  “Mr. Collins, really. When were you at Almack’s?”

  He looked rather taken aback, and Elizabeth rejoiced. She had caught him.

  But he made a quick recovery. “In my younger days,” he said, with an elaborate shrug. “When I was a student I, ah, attended in the company of friends.”

  “Who, most conveniently, provided vouchers,” she countered. “And who were, most fortunately, acquainted with the patronesses.”

  “Well, yes,” he admitted. “Something like that. It was a most uncomfortable evening.”

  This Elizabeth did not doubt. With his finesse at dancing, he would have been roundly drummed out of this exclusive club! But of course, he was lying.

  “Now, to return to your original question,” he said, “I would tell this woman that she looks lovely. And if pressed for details—”

  “Yes?” said Elizabeth. “Although I must point out that it is most ill-mannered to demand specifics.”

  He leaned forward. “My noble employer is keen on the specifics, Miss Elizabeth.”

  “And to oblige her, you concoct compliments beforehand? Ah, you see, we know about that. Don’t you recall? Papa taxed you with it on your first day here.”

  Elizabeth’s intent was embarrassment, but Mr. Collins actually smiled. “A survival tactic that has proven helpful,” he said, “for Lady Catherine has peculiar tastes in clothing. Extemporaneous compliments are, shall we say, a challenge. I daresay you would do the same.”

  “I? Never!”

  He raised an eyebrow. “No doubt you have
thought out what to say,” he continued, “when Miss Mary asks your opinion of the yellow gown she wears. Which, though new, is an unflattering shade and with sleeves three years behind the current trend.”

  Elizabeth was struck speechless.

  “As to this lady,” he continued, indicating the illustration, “I would begin by mentioning that the drape of the fabric calls to mind the Elgin marbles.”

  “The Elgin marbles?” scoffed Elizabeth. When had he seen the Elgin marbles?

  Mr. Collins had the grace to look sheepish. “A difficult comparison, that,” he confessed. “For most of them are missing their heads, are they not? As well as their hands and feet.”

  “Why let that stop you?” said Elizabeth. “You might as well say that she is Venus de Milo, of whom we have heard so much.”

  Mr. Collins made a strangled sound. “I fear not,” he said unsteadily. “For she is missing most of her clothes.”

  Lydia’s shrill voice interrupted, which was a very good thing because Elizabeth nearly laughed. And it would never do to laugh with Mr. Collins!

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  “Lizzy,” Lydia called across the drawing room. “Do come. For Denny says he and the officers cannot stay. And it is far too early, for we have not played Shadows.”

  “Miss Lydia, please understand,” Mr. Denny pleaded. “The snowstorm.”

  Elizabeth rose to her feet and, without a word, abandoned Mr. Collins.

  “If Sir William had not come when he did,” Lydia complained to her, “and if Papa had not remained in the drawing room forever, we would have had our game!”

  “Another time, Miss Lydia?” Mr. Pratt said.

  Lydia was now pulling at Elizabeth’s arm. “Convince Wickham to stay, Lizzy. They’ll listen to Wickham. And Wickham will listen to you.”

  Mr. Wickham made a charming bow. “I am yours to command, Miss Elizabeth. What care we for snow and ice?”

  “For ice, a great deal,” said Mr. Denny. He walked away to make his farewells to Mrs. Bennet.

  “I am sorry my comrades are such cowards,” Mr. Wickham told Elizabeth, smiling. “For we’ve scarcely spoken all evening.”

  Elizabeth felt a flush mount to her cheeks. “I was taken up with entertaining my cousin.”