Darcy By Any Other Name

by Laura Hile

  Darcy hid a grimace. “It isn’t mine yet.”

  “Ah yes, the death of the resident landholder. That would be the gray-haired fellow.”

  “A long life to him,” Darcy said. “Inheriting a house,” he added, “that is half falling down and in need of modernization is hardly a boon.”

  “Hardly a boon?” Fleming gave Darcy a long look and rubbed his chin. “You’ve changed your tune, Collins,” he said. “Although I must say the selection of marriageable females isn’t half bad. Now then, let me have a look at your head.”

  Darcy set his teeth, but Fleming’s fingers were surprisingly gentle as he probed the bruised area. “A fine gash here,” he remarked, “and another over here. Healing nicely, though. What caused them?”

  “I fell to the pavement,” Darcy said. “With, ah, Mr. Darcy—” the name sounded foreign on his lips “—beneath me.”

  “Poor devil,” said Fleming.

  This expression summed up the situation nicely. There was only one bed in this room, with nowhere else to sleep but the floor. Darcy had never in his life shared a bed. But his stint as Collins was teaching him that there was a first time for everything.

  “Fleming,” he said grimly,” I couldn’t agree more.”

  13To Crown the Whole

  The silence in the bedchamber had nothing to do with quiet. Like the ocean it roared and growled and hissed. This noise was constant, like the pain behind his eyes and in his ribs. Try as he might, twitch and turn and twist, everything hurt. It was painful even to breathe. Such suffering was grossly unfair, and he felt this deeply.

  Fever had come in waves. Swash and backwash, heat followed by bone-shaking chills, leaving him trembling and weak. There was a fire burning on the grate; he could hear its snap and crackle. A wood fire, yes, with the hiss of pine sap. Every pop was like a slap.

  There were voices, too. Almost an assault, words came at him and he was powerless to resist. Whispers were as loud as shouts, paining his ears. Oh, his head ached worse than anything!

  It hurt like hell, to be precise, though it was beneath his dignity to say so. But would anyone care if he did? What would happen if he thrashed and cursed like a sailor? At the moment, however, he could call no curses to mind.

  That girl, whose name he did not know, was supposed to be of assistance. Did she soothe his fevered brow and offer comfort? Not a bit! She sat in the overstuffed chair—for he’d glimpsed her there—napping for most of the time. A jovial fellow came from time to time, to prod and poke and ask questions. Was he a physician? If so, he was certainly a charlatan, for none of his cures had worked.

  Occasionally a sharp-voiced woman fretted over him, mispronouncing his Christian name and fussing with the bedclothes. She reminded him of Lady Catherine, though this could not be right. His noble patroness, who was charity itself, would never condescend to linger in his bedchamber. Which meant that he was delusional, seeing and hearing things.

  He knew this was so because he’d seen his own face, hovering over the pillow, leering. Easier to surrender to the chills and fever, yes. Still, that ghastly face haunted him.

  He was now damp with sweat and thirsty, too, fair dying of it. His mind formed the word Water, but he could not speak it. He attempted to moan, but no sound came.

  He cracked open a cautious eye to search for the errant girl and gasped in shock. One of the draperies was open! What treachery was this? For he’d heard the jolly-voiced man say that light was harmful. Even the glow from the fire was dangerous, and he’d been carefully shielded.

  The voices started again. Babbling sounds, punctuated by words. He ventured another look at the window. Yes, there was the girl looking out and beside her stood someone in livery. A footman? He had no business to slouch like that!

  Unaccountably, their words formed into sentences that he could understand.

  “Would you look at the snow,” the fellow was saying. “A fair blizzard, I call that. No sign of letting up.”

  “It’s at least waist-deep,” the girl said. “I was below-stairs when Charley came in with the milk and eggs. Covered from head to foot he was.”

  Eggs. A memory stirred. Charley Barley, butter and eggs. Sold his wife for three duck eggs.

  “A point in our favor, being in service,” said the footman. “I feel for Mum and Dad, though. Can’t be easy working the farm in all this, what with the livestock to see to.”

  Livestock. Horses. A farmer went trotting upon his grey mare, bumpety, bumpety, bump.

  “And the farm is where I’d be, sure enough,” continued the footman, “had Netherfield been left empty.”

  “Thank heaven for Mr. Bingley and his sister,” the girl said.

  Netherfield. He turned the word over in his mind. He’d heard the name Bingley, too. These should mean something, but what? He closed his eyes and gave himself to the chore of thinking.

  “Even so,” the girl went on, “it’s a bit rough for you, having to stand about and take orders all day.”

  “From the old lady, do you mean? Huh, when it comes to ranting, Mum outranks her any day. And clonks me with the broom for good measure!”

  The girl broke out laughing.

  “Below the lady’s dignity to do that,” he continued cheerfully, “though it’s well no brooms is handy. She’s in fine form this morning, I must say. The church bells not ringing set her off something awful.”

  Ding, dong, bell. Someone in the well. But who was in the well he could not say.

  Morning bells are ringing, ding, dang, dong.

  “I doubt there’d be Sunday service,” the girl said, “what with the snowstorm and all.”

  At this his eyes blinked open. Was this Sunday? Why, he must lead the Hunsford congregation through the liturgy and officiate the communion. And preach the sermon, receiving afterward, with gracious humility, his parishioners’ thanks and praise.

  There was a disturbance, and he heard the door come open. Someone came or went, but he could not see who. Oh, the wretchedness of his helpless state!

  And so the Hunsford service must be left to his scraggy curate, Doleman, and he knew how the man would muck it up. He had neither dignity nor pulpit presence; Lady Catherine would be seriously displeased. He could hear her now, berating him for being weak and neglecting his pastoral duties.

  Are you sleeping, are you sleeping?

  Of course he was! What else could he do?

  Mercifully, the pair at the window had stopped talking. He next heard a rustling of skirts.

  “What business,” said a new voice, “have you to be loitering at the window, my girl? My poor nephew might be in desperate straits, struggling for his very life, and yet here you are, lollygagging.”

  The girl began to protest, saying that he was sleeping peacefully. Which showed how much she knew!

  “The draperies are to remain closed! Stupid girl, did you not attend to Mr. Jones’ instructions? Not that he knows how to care for an invalid, but that is not for you to decide. Shut them at once!”

  “Yes, milady.”

  “At once, do you hear? Country servants,” the voice added, “are so unbearably slow!”

  Unbearably slow. Snail, snail, put out your horns, I’ll give you bread and barley corns.

  He had no business with nursery rhymes, but it was useless to resist. Here was more proof that he was going mad. He gave a shuddering sigh and surrendered to the embrace of the pillows.

  Quick footsteps crossed the room—did they belong to the sharp-voiced lady? He could sense someone standing beside his bed.

  “See here,” shrilled that same voice, “he’s awake. His eyes are closed, but no matter. Beneath the lids I see movement. You will bring beef tea and a fresh mustard poultice. After that, he will need a wash and a shave.”

  A wash? Had the girl been attending to so personal a matter? The thought that she might wield a razor made him nervous. Still, a shave would relieve the itch of stubble. Yes, now that he thought on it, the itch was uncommonly irksome. Slowly a
nd with much effort he brought his fingers to feel his chin to find whiskers, sharp and stiff. Yes, stiff.

  “Good gracious, look at that! Fitzwilliam, you can move!”

  “Thanks be to God,” said a softer voice—the girl’s?

  Hands gripped his shoulders and gave him a shake. “Say something!” the shrill voice commanded. “Speak to me!”

  Her tone was such that, painful or not, he dare not disobey. Words bubbled up and he said them.

  “Four stiff standers, four dilly-danders.”

  “What did you say?” the woman cried.

  He labored to continue. “Two lookers, two crookers.” He paused, working to remember the rest.

  The hands gave his shoulders another painful shake. “Fitzwilliam, you are speaking nonsense! Dilly-danders, indeed. Pull yourself together.”

  There was a pause, followed by the sound of the bell pull being yanked repeatedly. “Send for Mr. Jones,” the woman said to whoever came in. “At once, do you hear? Never mind the snowstorm, never mind the Sabbath— no one here appears to observe it! He must come without delay. We have reached another crisis!”

  She returned to the bedside. “Say something, Fitzwilliam, I beg you!”

  William, he longed to say. My name is William. But the words would not come out.

  “You must rally,” she ordered. “Do exert yourself and try.”

  Yes, he must try, or else this woman would give him no peace. Summoning his strength, he managed to open one eye and then the other. Slowly the face of his interrogator came into focus. It was strange that someone so ugly and wrinkled would look so familiar. Did he know her?

  Her features were as pinched and sharp as her voice. She wore a dark velvet hat with a large tassel. He watched it swing to and fro.

  “Speak!” she commanded. “Speak to me!”

  To and fro, to and fro. The remainder of the rhyme fell into place. His dry lips formed a grin of triumph.

  “Two lookers,” he recited solemnly. “Two crookers. And a wig-wag!”

  The expression on the old lady’s face was so comical that William Collins began to giggle. “A wig-wag,” he chortled. “A waggy-wig. Bumpety-bumpety-bump.”

  “Madness,” she gasped out. “Heaven help the Family!”

  g

  “Snow, snow, beautiful snow.” Kitty’s singsong chant gave a cheerful air to breakfast. Except that the snow was banked halfway up the windows. And Mr. Collins had chosen this morning to come down.

  Elizabeth stifled a sigh. He would come to breakfast. Of course he would, as would any guest, what did she expect? It was just that since the accident he’d taken his meals in his bedchamber, which was excellent in every way. If only he would only stay there until he was well enough to travel!

  For as his health improved, she knew that his fondness for oratory would revive. Mr. Collins did not converse like other men, he pontificated. If there was a gap in the conversation, Mr. Collins was sure to fill it. Unasked-for advice seemed to be his special delight. By comparison, the silent brooding of Mr. Darcy was not such a bad thing.

  Mr. Darcy? What was she about, to be thinking of Mr. Darcy? Elizabeth became occupied with buttering a piece of toast. Mr. Collins had been more subdued for the past several days. She devoutly hoped this new mood would continue.

  Mr. Collins brought his plate to the table and chose a seat opposite Elizabeth’s. Quickly she averted her gaze. No doubt he wished to begin speaking with her, and he must not be given an opening.

  But after murmuring a polite good morning, he became busy with his fork and knife. Apparently hunger had overcome his appetite for talk.

  From beneath her lashes Elizabeth studied him. Mr. Collins was using his flatware with surprising grace this morning, a welcome change from his usual awkwardness. She watched him cut a single slice from a sausage before spearing it with his fork. He chewed thoughtfully, without attempting to converse, and then sliced off another.

  Where had these table manners come from? Never would she forget Mr. Collins’ first breakfast with the family. She’d seen him fumble with his knife, vigorously sawing all of his sausages into a pile of pieces. He conversed while chewing, too, to the amusement of Elizabeth’s father. According to him, Mr. Collins had boardinghouse manners. Her father’s seat at the far end of the table, out of direct sight of Mr. Collins’ mouth, was a distinct advantage. Elizabeth had been anything but amused at her cousin’s boorish behavior.

  And now? Was Mr. Collins truly changed? Had his injury caused him to forget all his bad habits?

  But that could not be right. A savage, for instance, could not abandon his uncouth ways. Not knowing better, he wouldn’t know how. Mr. Collins was certainly uncouth, but not this morning.

  Mary came into the dining room and took a plate from the sideboard. She hesitated, studying Mr. Collins with an appraising eye. Mary, Elizabeth knew, was keen to engage their cousin in conversation whenever she could. This morning she did not disappoint.

  “What a pity, Mr. Collins,” Mary said, “that you will not be able to preach this morning.”

  Elizabeth saw him put down his fork, and she braced herself. Now the flood of words would come, for surely he must answer.

  But it was her mother who spoke up. “Not able to preach?” she said. “Nonsense! Who minds a little snow?”

  From the far end of the table, Elizabeth’s father gave a slight cough. “Have you looked outside lately, Mrs. Bennet?” he inquired politely. “Two feet on the ground at the very least, with more to come.”

  She waved this aside. “Of course we shall have church,” she said. “What is more, I shall wear my new bonnet in honor of the occasion.” She gave a very pretty smile to Mr. Collins.

  He flushed and looked uncomfortable.

  Mr. Bennet coughed again. “My dear, have you heard the church bells this morning?”

  There was a pause.

  “No, you have not,” he continued, “for they will not be rung. Dr. Bentley is no fool. No one should venture out in this storm.” Mr. Bennet turned a page in his book and marked the place with his finger. “I believe you may count yourself excused, Cousin Collins,” he said. “It must relieve your mind of a weight.”

  It most certainly was a relief, thought Elizabeth. Mr. Collins merely gave her father a nod and resumed eating.

  Had he nothing to say? Not one word about the duty of a rector to instruct those under his care and protection? No lament that his scholarly efforts would be wasted or that his eloquent admonitions would remain unspoken?

  Elizabeth could not allow this to pass. She leaned forward. “Confess the truth, Cousin,” she said. “You are disappointed to postpone your sermon.”

  His eyes met hers. “I have no intention of postponing it, Miss Elizabeth” he said.

  “Of course you do not,” cried Mrs. Bennet. “Lizzy, what an excellent idea. At eleven, we’ll arrange our chairs in rows like pews so that you may preach to us, Mr. Collins.”

  “Oh, but Mama,” Elizabeth said.

  Mr. Bennet looked down the table. “There you are, Mr. Collins. A captive audience—or shall I say congregation? —who will doubtless admire your grandiloquence.”

  Her father’s tone held gentle sarcasm, but Mr. Collins did not appear to notice. “I thank you, sir, for the suggestion,” he said, “but I think not.”

  Mary brought her plate to the table. “We will never believe that you are not a skilled speaker, Mr. Collins,” she said. “After all, we were present to hear you at the assembly. You do recall,” she added helpfully, “the admonitions that you gave us in the Music Room?”

  Mr. Collins did remember, for Elizabeth saw him flinch. Could it be that he was embarrassed by how he had behaved? Surely not! He was too self-absorbed and stupid.

  She watched him blot his lips with the napkin. “My, ah, humble efforts, Miss Mary, are most unworthy. And when one considers the extent of the snowstorm, apparently the Almighty agrees.” He flashed a look to Elizabeth. “My poor sermon has been effectiv
ely silenced from on high.”

  Elizabeth nearly laughed. Hastily she composed her features. “We shall all be disappointed, nonetheless,” she said politely.

  Just then the dining room door opened and Lydia came in, arm and arm with Miss de Bourgh. “Who will be disappointed?” she demanded cheerfully.

  “We shall,” said Mary. “For because of the snow there will be no service, and Mr. Collins refuses to preach his sermon to us.”

  “Is that all?” Lydia shared an amused look with Anne de Bourgh. “I daresay you have heard him preach often enough, Anne. Is he very dull?”

  Miss de Bourgh dimpled but said nothing.

  Lydia led her to the sideboard, where together they began to fill their plates. Suddenly Lydia turned round. “Mama,” she said, “do you know where our copy of The Castle of Ontranto is? Anne has never read it. She has never read any novels, can you imagine? We’ll soon fix that!”

  Mr. Collins made a strangled sound. Elizabeth eyed him carefully. Of course he would disapprove.

  “Who am I to look after your books?” Mrs. Bennet said. “Perhaps Hill knows.”

  Lydia giggled. “Imagine Hill, reading! You needn’t look so disapproving, Mr. Collins. Ontranto is quite acceptable, something a grandmother would read.”

  “If that is the case,” he countered, “I am surprised that you would recommend it.”

  “Never mind Mr. Collins,” Lydia said to Miss de Bourgh. “It’s tremendously exciting and you’ll love it. One has to say something to the elderly naysayers.” She gave a slanting look to Mr. Collins.

  Miss de Bourgh merely giggled, and Lydia joined her.

  Kitty spoke up. “Just because it is a novel does not mean it is wicked, Mr. Collins.”

  Mr. Collins spread his hands. “Did I say anything?”

  “No, but you would like to. I can see it in your face,” said Lydia. “Any lady would enjoy Ontranto.”

  “If she has a great deal of time to waste, yes,” said Mr. Collins.