by Laura Hile
15Picking of Sticks
As Darcy dragged himself across the final snowy mile, images swarmed in his mind: bright fires and tasty food, warmth and safety and cheer. Well, perhaps not cheer, for at journey’s end was Aunt Catherine. Why had he and Fleming come on this trek? Ah, yes, because of Collins. Asinine, chuckle-headed Collins, trapped in Darcy’s own body.
Darcy was now so cold and so weary that coming to Netherfield no longer seemed worth the effort. His respect for Fleming, who had no personal stake in the matter, increased tenfold.
At last they gained the yard, and Netherfield’s shoveled-out service entrance came into view. And if Darcy had not been so weary, he would have shouted along with Fleming. As it was, they had to pound on the kitchen door repeatedly before it was opened.
Their snowshoes were a source of wonder to Mrs. Nicholls.
“Just this morning,” she said, relieving Darcy of his coat, “Hobbes set off for Meryton, as her ladyship felt the need was urgent, but the snow was too deep. Before he’d even reached the lodge he had to turn back. In the process he sprained an ankle.”
Mrs. Nicholls handed off Darcy’s coat and signed for someone else to assist Fleming with his. Then she paused. “Knowing her ladyship as you do,” she said, “what is to be done?”
Darcy had stripped off Collins’ gloves and was rubbing feeling back into his hands. The cold had made him stupid. Was Mrs. Nicholls asking his advice?
“If you will kindly permit us to borrow the snowshoes,” she went on, “one of the footmen can be sent. I daresay the return trip will be difficult for Mr. Jones. You gentlemen are much younger than he.”
This got Darcy’s attention. Had something happened to Collins? “Do you mean Jones, the apothecary?” he said.
Fleming, who was warming himself at the kitchen fire, glanced in their direction.
“It’s Mr. Darcy, sir,” said Nicholls. “According to her ladyship, he is saying nonsense words.”
Fleming came over. “This is the other man who was injured?” he said to Darcy. “Confusion after a head injury is not uncommon.”
Nicholls pursed up her lips. Her reaction was hardly surprising, for Darcy had omitted the introduction. “This is Mr. Fleming, physician to Lady Catherine,” he said.
Her reserve vanished. “A physician?” she repeated. “Lady Catherine’s physician? Why, this is remarkable. We needn’t send for Mr. Jones after all.” She brought a hand to her breast. “Her ladyship will be so pleased.”
“We’ll just put on dry stockings,” said Darcy, “and you can take us up.”
“If you please, sir,” said a small voice at Darcy’s elbow. “It’s Hobbes, sir. If you wouldn’t mind saying a prayer for him?”
It took Darcy a moment to remember that he was a clergyman.
She was a slip of a girl, perhaps the scullery or maid-of-all-work. “He’s just there,” she said, and pointed to a chair where a boy sat huddled under blankets.
Were there tears in her eyes? He was forcibly reminded of Georgiana.
“Not now, Kate,” said Mrs. Nicholls. “The rector has more important matters to attend to.”
And so he had. Still Darcy hesitated. The girl was trembling. She was quite young, perhaps eleven or twelve. The work apron she wore hung on her thin frame.
“I apologize for her manners,” Mrs. Nicholls said briskly. “Kate and her brother are new to us. If you will just follow me, please?”
“Just a moment,” said Darcy. He bent to address Kate. “Hobbes is your brother?” She nodded. “We’ll have a little word, then.”
Collins’ shoes were wet; as he walked the leather made spongy sounds. And no wonder, for his stockings were soaked through.
“If you please,” chided Mrs. Nicholls. “We should not keep Mr. Darcy waiting.”
Did everyone feel free to order Collins about? “In a moment,” Darcy told her. He turned to Kate.
“As you see,” he confided, “I am in need of dry stockings. Fortunately, Mr. Fleming has thought ahead.” He retrieved a pair from the valise and returned to the fireplace. Hobbes was a year or two older than his sister and was also quite thin.
“Hello, Hobbes,” said Darcy, finding a seat near the hearth. “Hats off for braving the snow and without snowshoes too. A courageous feat, to soldier on so far. No wonder you’re worn to the bone.”
“T’ain’t nothing, sir,” said Hobbes. His eyes found the floor.
“Having walked those miles myself, I cannot agree. And now you are injured.”
“Not much, sir.”
“Fleming?” Darcy said over his shoulder. “Have a look?”
While Fleming examined Hobbes’ foot, Darcy removed Collins’ shoes and stripped off the socks. The dry pair felt heaven-sent.
“Not a bad sprain,” Fleming remarked. “Mind that you keep off your feet for several days.”
At this Hobbes looked truly frightened, and Darcy understood it. Employment at Netherfield meant a great deal to this family.
“I’ll speak to Mr. Bingley on your behalf,” Darcy promised. “And in the meanwhile, while you are off your feet…” He dug in Collins’ pocket and pulled out several coins. “This is for your trouble,” he said. “A brave deed deserves a reward.”
Color came into Hobbes’ thin cheeks. “Thank you, sir.”
“Not at all. Now then, your sister wishes us to say a little prayer.”
“Mr. Collins?” called Mrs. Nicholls from across the kitchen.
Darcy gave her a quelling look. “Shall we pray?” he said crisply. At once she bowed her head and shushed the others in the kitchen.
Collins would have had a prayer book to read from, but Darcy was not so equipped. He would have to improvise.
“Father in heaven,” he said, scorning to use Collins’ unctuous tone, “I thank You that You are…”
He opened one eye. It occurred to him that Hobbes and his sister were country people.
“…that you are the Good Shepherd,” Darcy went on, “and that You watch over your sheep. You saw Hobbes, here, when he was struggling alone in the snow, and You brought him safely back. We pray for his healing, and for the health of his family, and we thank You for his sister’s loving care.
“Thank you, too, for bringing a physician for the, ah, gentleman above-stairs. And that no one else need venture out on his behalf. In the name of our Savior.”
The others echoed his Amen. Darcy tied Collins’ shoes and rose to his feet. The eyes of Hobbes and his sister were shining. “And now I must obey Mrs. Nicholls,” he whispered, “or face a scold.”
He was answered with a pair of shy smiles.
At Darcy’s request Nicholls took them up the back stairs. “Who would have guessed it?” said Fleming, speaking low. “The mercies of Providence, if you will. I am cast, not as a villain, but as a savior. Perhaps our Lady Cat will be mollified.”
Darcy did not answer. His aunt’s true nature did his family no credit.
Once inside the sickroom, Fleming took the lead. He was gentle with his patient and spoke soothingly.
Darcy’s valet was in attendance; apparently he had just finished shaving Collins—or rather, Mr. Darcy. The mental correction made Darcy wince, for he was losing track of who was whom. He introduced Fleming to his valet, Holdsworth, and stepped away.
“An apoplexy is what we think, sir,” said Holdsworth, in answer to Fleming’s questions. “As he is not speaking like himself. Meaning no disrespect,” he added, “but her ladyship thinks he’s gone mad.”
Her ladyship, thought Darcy ruefully, had no idea how true this was!
Fleming returned to his examination, and delivered his verdict. Collins’ responses were merely childlike. He was not mad, and his incapacitated state would not last. When he’d spoken with Collins there had been comprehension. He would be up and talking soon enough.
Before returning to Longbourn, Darcy decided to engage in bit of subterfuge.
He studied Fleming and Holdsworth. They would be occupied for
some time.
Darcy slipped from the sickroom and headed down the hall. The door to his former bedchamber was closed. There was no need to have the room looked after, so until Holdsworth returned he would be unobserved.
He opened the top drawer of the dressing table; his keys were where he had left them. From the wardrobe he brought his writing desk and unlocked it.
Out came paper, pen and ink, and sealing wax. His signet ring was still on Collins’ finger—that could not be helped. But Darcy had to risk writing.
The date would present a problem, or would it? Darcy counted back to the day of his accident, yes, that would do nicely. He would slip the letter into a pocket, produce it in Holdsworth’s presence, and request that it be posted on Mr. Darcy’s behalf.
He sat thinking for a minute, and then set to the task of writing to his steward.
Bellowes,
A circumstance has arisen that requires your immediate action.
My aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, has lately retained a rector for the Hunsford parish.
Not that Bellowes would care, but some explanation seemed in order.
While in Hertfordshire, he and I have had the occasion to become acquainted. I have reason to suspect that my aunt has not provided for him as she ought. Therefore I would like to establish an annuity, effective immediately, of one thousand pounds per annum, to be paid quarterly to Rev. William Collins of Hunsford parish, Kent. Additionally, he is to receive by return, a letter of credit in the amount of one hundred pounds.
Darcy gave the direction for Longbourn House and brought his letter to a conclusion.
Please understand that I do not wish my name to be mentioned in connection with this matter. Mr. Collins, ever a grateful recipient, tends toward volubility in his praise.
As always, I rely on your discretion.
Darcy signed his name and waited for the ink to dry. Carefully he folded the sheet, sealed it, and wrote the address.
Ten to one Bellowes would not check the seal. And if he did, Darcy’s own signature, so familiar, would clinch the matter.
So that would take care of money for the time being. His next worry was Georgiana. The best course of action would be to write to Fitz—and say what?
Precious minutes ticked by as Darcy considered what could be done. None of his ideas were sound. In the end, he wrote and requested that his cousin call on Mr. Collins at soon as possible. Somehow he would make Fitz understand. And if Collins-as-Darcy was declared insane? Fitz would take sole guardianship over Georgiana.
He closed and locked the writing desk, and replaced it and the keys. As there was no sign of Holdsworth, Darcy allowed himself one last look at the bedchamber he’d occupied. It was nothing special, or so he’d thought at the time. Now he wondered if he would ever again have a room so nicely appointed.
Of course he would! There had to be a way back.
Collins was still awake when Darcy returned, though he appeared vexed and muddleheaded. Fleming seemed to regard this as a good sign.
Darcy drew nearer and studied his own face. He’d never realized that his features could assume so petulant an expression. Collins had complaints about everything, from careless attention he’d received from the girl to the bedding.
“Try sleeping in that lumpy bed at Longbourn,” Darcy muttered. And then he realized that Collins had slept there. There was no satisfying some people. Apparently the man was born to complain.
Holdsworth’s ability with the razor came under fire next, and Darcy’s hand stole to finger his chin. He had been shaving himself of late, with dubious results. What he wouldn’t give to enjoy the services of a valet!
And then it happened, Lady Catherine came in marching in. “Why, Mr. Collins!” she remarked. “Nicholls said that you had come.”
Was she pleased to see him?
“I told her that someone could get through, snow or no snow. And I was right.” Her eyes narrowed. “The trouble with servants, Mr. Collins, is that you must do all the thinking for them. What was called for was a little effort.”
Holdsworth was no fool. Darcy noticed him rapidly packing his gear. A hasty retreat was certainly in his best interest!
“And it is the same with my nephew.” Lady Catherine indicated the bed. “If Fitzwilliam bothers to exert himself, he will overcome whatever madness has seized him. Wig-wag, indeed.”
Darcy stole a look at Collins; his lower lip was protruding. Was the man pouting?
And how long would it be before his aunt noticed Fleming? The first to strike in battle gained the advantage, so Darcy decided to take the lead. “Mr. Fleming has been telling us about jolts to the brain,” he said, “and—”
“Mr. Fleming?” Lady Catherine interrupted. “No, as usual you are wrong, Mr. Collins. Sir Henry is the man you mean, and I must say, he has kept me waiting long enough!”
And then she caught sight of Fleming sitting beside the bed. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded of Fleming. “I sent for your father, not you.”
Fleming’s hand slipped into a pocket. “He has been ill, ma’am. I have here his letter for you, explaining it.”
Lady Catherine tore it open.
“We did the best we could,” Fleming explained, as she read. “Mr. Darcy is progressing nicely. He is a bit confused, but that is usual for the nature of his injuries. I suggest he be given something to eat.”
“Not Darcy,” said the man in the bed. “Collins.”
“Mr. Collins!” called Lady Catherine. “Come here. My nephew is asking for you!”
She came nearer and took hold of his hand. “Fitzwilliam, can you hear me? We are here. Even Mr. Collins.”
“Softly, milady,” said Fleming. “Mr. Darcy is sensitive to sounds.”
“Perhaps it is better if I am left alone with him?” Darcy suggested. “If you do not mind, Fleming?”
“Indeed, I have a great many things to say to this man,” said Lady Catherine, “so it is just as well.”
“I shall join you presently,” said Darcy. “And together we’ll share with Lady Catherine the news—all the news—of Longbourn.”
“I have not the least interest in Longbourn or its inhabitants.”
“But you will,” Darcy murmured, as the pair left the room.
He turned to the figure on the bed, who was gaping at him. “All right, Collins,” Darcy said sternly.
The man on the bed twitched. “Yes, I know who you are. And you know who I am.”
“But—” said Collins.
“You are not going mad, nor am I. I have become you, and you have become me. I do not know who is to blame for this mishap. Until we can manage to switch back, let’s get a few things straight.”
“I am Darcy?”
“In name only, Collins. As far as I can tell, none of my skills devolve on you. So if you cherish ideas of spending my fortune, banish them. Indeed, you cannot even sign my name.”
“I am Darcy,” Collins repeated. In his rasping voice was a note of wonder.
“And you will keep your mouth shut, do you understand?” continued Darcy. “You will say nothing about what has happened. The risk of being locked up as a lunatic is very real.”
“I am not mad. I am Darcy,” Collins whispered.
“And for the present time, I am Collins,” said Darcy. “And let me tell you, what I have had to put up from Aunt Catherine would try the patience of a saint!”
Collins smiled a little.
“I am doing my level best not to ruin your life or call attention to the problem. I almost had to preach a sermon this morning, crafted by my officious aunt. What right has she to dictate what you preach?”
Collins’ mouth was working.
Darcy leaned in. “You must not make a misstep, Collins. We must make it easy for the other to resume his rightful place, once this situation is remedied. And there will be a remedy, Collins.
“I am Darcy.” The pleasure in Collins’ voice was disquieting.
“Kindly recall that I can m
uck up your life quite thoroughly if I wish. What would happen if I were to tell my supercilious aunt exactly what I think of her? Never mind the preferment, she would toss me out. You would have no income.”
“Inherit Longbourn,” Collins rasped.
“Not if you are declared mad,” said Darcy. “It will devolve on some other sorry relative.”
“Elizabeth,” Collins whispered.
Darcy thought back to Bingley’s assembly. He’d seen the man’s infatuation with his own eyes.
“Luckily for you,” Darcy said drily, “Miss Elizabeth loathes Fitzwilliam Darcy. You have a better chance with her as yourself, old fellow.”
He heard sounds in outside the door. His opportunity was almost over.
“When Lady Catherine returns, I will not be able to speak freely,” Darcy said. “Keep your mouth shut and do your best to act like me. Grow a backbone, man. And for heaven’s sake, stop complaining. It is undignified.”
“But—”
Darcy leaned in. “It will do neither of us any good to be shut up in Bedlam,” he said darkly, “so guard your tongue.”
He heard the door open. “And now, my dear Mr. Darcy,” he said in his most unctuous tones (and he had the satisfaction of seeing Collins recoil), “let us pray together, shall we?”
16Drive the Cold
Winter Away
Kitty and Lydia burst into another gale of laughter. Apparently Anne de Bourgh had never played Spillikins, and they were determined to rectify the omission.
Elizabeth’s gaze drifted from the pages of her book to the clock. Six hours. That was not so long a time, was it?
“Mother attempted to teach me loo,” she heard Anne confess. “But I took an instant aversion to it.”
“Why?” said Kitty. “We love loo, even if Lydia cheats.”
Lydia bounced up in her seat. “I do not cheat,” she cried. “Or if I do, I take care not to get caught. Every woman for herself is what I say, especially when playing for penny points.”
“But loo,” said Anne, “is a game of strategy.” And she sighed and looked away.
