Darcy By Any Other Name

by Laura Hile

  “You look to be on the mend.” The man gave an awkward laugh.

  “Do be quiet,” the woman said. “Poor Mr. Darcy. He has been very brave.”

  She came forward and sat in the chair beside the bed.

  At last, sympathy! Not that Collins was feeling brave, but if this fine lady said so, who was he to disagree?

  These strangers were obviously his friends. How disquieting it was to have everything turned upside down! Collins fingered Darcy’s gold signet ring, heavy and solid and real.

  On the other hand, he must keep in mind that there were benefits to this new identity. Yes, he must rise to the occasion.

  “Soon enough, Darcy, we’ll be riding again,” said the man. “A gallop to Longbourn will do you good, put heart into you.”

  “Gallop?” repeated Collins. Did he mean they would ride at breakneck speed on horses? The thought made him shiver.

  The lady must have noticed because she said, “Charles, stop. You are scaring him. Indeed,” she added, bending nearer, “you shall not go anywhere until you are ready, Mr. Darcy. You are welcome to remain with us until you are completely well.”

  “Not—Longbourn,” Collins managed to bleat. He could not face his cousins, not yet.

  “Oh no,” she said, smiling. “Certainly not Longbourn. There is nothing of interest there.”

  “Actually—” the man called Charles said.

  The woman gave him a look. She turned to Collins with a smile. “You have everything you need right here with us,” she said.

  By Jove, it paid to be Darcy! No one—with the possible exception of his long-deceased mother—had ever smiled at him like this lady did.

  She was expensively dressed and wore an amber necklace, which complimented her gown. “Beautiful,” Collins said, gazing at her, and he brought his fingers to his neck. “Amber?”

  She understood! He saw her finger the beads.

  “Your gown, exqui—” It took several tries to work out the pronunciation, but he managed it.

  “Exquisite?” she cried, and turned to the man. “Charles, he said exquisite! This shows great improvement. Indeed, his aunt’s fears are quite unfounded.”

  “No harm to his intelligence, eh?” Charles said. He gave another awkward laugh.

  There was a look exchanged between them that Collins did not understand. He returned his attention to her.

  “Set a fashion,” he said, indicating her gown. “In London. Among the Nobs.” And because she smiled, Collins smiled too.

  “Oh, Mr. Darcy,” she said. “This dress is nothing special.” But Collins could see that she blushed.

  He fastened his gaze onto her face. “You are,” he said solemnly, “Diana. No, not Diana, the other one. Venus. Beautiful like Venus.”

  He saw her eyes widen. Not in revulsion like his younger cousins, not in amused skepticism like Elizabeth, but in wonder. Such a simple compliment, too. Of course she did not look like Venus, but he knew ladies liked hearing that they did.

  And Collins couldn’t help but laugh in delight at her response. Except it came out as a giggle. But she did not seem to mind.

  Yes, being Darcy certainly paid.

  g

  Mary slid into the seat beside Elizabeth. “Really,” she said. “Miss de Bourgh has better uses for her time than reading novels.”

  Elizabeth had to agree, for Anne had done nothing but lie on the sofa all morning. Apparently she was reading a romance, for her sighs were audible.

  “To be fair, there is little else to do,” said Elizabeth. “A walk to Meryton is out of the question.”

  “There are other pursuits in life besides shopping,” said Mary.

  Elizabeth turned a page. “Not according to Kitty and Lydia.”

  Mary gave a sniff and returned to her book, their father’s well-worn collection of Shakespeare’s poetry.

  Mr. Collins got up and added several logs to the fire. Mary’s eyes followed him. “Perhaps you ought to read to us, Mr. Collins,” she said.

  He just stood there, blinking. If Elizabeth did not know better, she would say he was reluctant. “Very well,” he said slowly. “What do you suggest?”

  “A selection from Fordyce’s sermons would be most welcome. I forget where you left off.”

  “Where I left off,” he echoed. “Better yet, what are you reading, Miss Mary?”

  “Shakespeare’s sonnets.”

  “Ooh, sonnets!” called Mrs. Bennet from the other side of the room. “Just the thing. Read us a sonnet, Mr. Collins.” She brought a hand to her breast. “Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments,” she quoted.

  This was the only line of Shakespeare that her mother knew. Elizabeth tried to ignore her emphasis on the word marriage.

  But surely Mr. Collins wished to read sermons and was waiting to be urged. She was determined to be disobliging.

  “Do you mean to imply, Mr. Collins,” said Elizabeth, “that you actually read poetry?”

  He gave her a look. “Of course I do. I’ll go one better. As a boy, I was made to memorize several of Shakespeare’s sonnets.”

  Elizabeth felt her lip curl. “I daresay you were. Very well, we are listening.” He looked surprised, and she bit back a smile.

  “Which one?” Mary wanted to know, her book at the ready.

  “The 73rd,” said Mr. Collins. He came and stood before Elizabeth, his expression faintly mocking. He paused, as if to collect his thoughts, and then began.

  That time of year thou mayst in me behold

  When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

  Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

  Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

  In me thou seest the twilight of such day

  As after sunset fadeth in the west,

  Which by and by black night doth take away,

  Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.

  In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire

  That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

  As the death-bed whereon it must expire

  Consumed with that which it was nourish’d by.

  This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,

  To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

  “An unusual choice for a schoolboy,” was Elizabeth’s only comment. He had recited well, handling the cadence easily and with feeling.

  “Lizzy,” whispered Mary. “He was word-perfect.”

  Elizabeth sought refuge in her book.

  g

  Lady Catherine came to see Collins after dinner. Tonight her smile was more unattractive than usual, and it put him on his guard. Her next words clinched matters.

  “I believe it is time that we had a little talk, Fitzwilliam.”

  “Oh?” said he, with sinking heart. These little talks never turned out well.

  “You are much recovered, and the situation is so perfectly arranged that I believe it is time to move forward,” she said. “You cannot be in the dark as to my meaning.”

  Of course he was in the dark! Darcy had told him not to be an idiot, and he was trying. But Lady Catherine’s specialty was being incomprehensible.

  “As you know, Anne—your cousin—has come to into Hertfordshire.”

  Collins managed a polite nod. He did not know this, and he did not see how Anne’s coming involved him. Apparently it did.

  “When Anne heard the news of your accident,” Lady Catherine went on, “she was so overcome with worry that she forced Mr. Fleming to bring her here. Along with Mrs. Jenkinson, of course.”

  She looked closely at him.

  Was he supposed to respond? Several phrases extolling Anne’s virtue leapt to Collins’ mind, but Darcy had warned him not to flatter. It was just as well that words were still so difficult to pronounce.

  “Of course,” he said.

  Her expression told him that this response was not precisely right. “I would not wish you to have the wrong idea,�
�� said Lady Catherine crisply. “Anne was properly chaperoned at all times.”

  Collins murmured assent. How else could he reply?

  “I find your attitude remarkably blasé,” snapped Lady Catherine, “considering that Anne is your fiancée.”

  Collins’ mouth fell open. “My what?” he said.

  “Mr. Fleming tells me,” said Lady Catherine, taking a seat beside the bed, “that my Anne has been telling everyone that you are her fiancé, Fitzwilliam.”

  Darcy had said nothing about being betrothed, nothing! Collins’ lower lip pushed out. This was most unfair. Darcy ought to have given him warning.

  “Therefore, I assume that you and Anne have settled it between yourselves, without consulting me.”

  Collins attempted to object, but without success.

  “I beg your pardon?” she demanded.

  Anger stirred in Collins’ breast. He was not a child! Thunder and turf, he was Darcy of Pemberley! Not some down-at-the-heel rector, hat in hand, hanging on her every word! Who was she to govern his life?

  He put up his chin and returned Lady Catherine’s glare. “Her consent—is what matters,” he blurted out. “Not yours.”

  Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed. In spite of being Darcy, Collins’ knees began to shake.

  “Very well, have it your way,” she snapped. “The point is, you have come to your senses at last and have acceded to your mother’s wishes and to mine.”

  Did Darcy not wish to marry Anne de Bourgh? Collins could certainly see why, for Anne was sickly and cross.

  “And so I have been thinking,” continued Lady Catherine, and she fastened her gaze upon him.

  Collins felt himself cringe. What scheme had she hatched? In truth, he had no need for this alliance. He was Darcy of Pemberley!

  A vision of his lovely cousin Elizabeth flooded his mind, and Collins’ heart nearly leapt from his chest. Why, now that he was Fitzwilliam Darcy, Elizabeth would welcome his attentions! He would have to get out of marrying Anne.

  Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed still more. “Fitzwilliam, are you listening?”

  “No-oh,” he said, but it came out as a moan.

  At once Lady Catherine’s expression changed. He saw a stab of fear cross her features, and he knew precisely what to do.

  Collins had sometimes wondered whether Anne took refuge in illness. He now knew that she did. He allowed himself to breathe heavily and moaned again, this time quite distinctly. “My head,” he rasped. “Pain in my head. No-oh.”

  Lady Catherine fled the room, and he heard bells ringing to summon help. Collins settled back on the pillows, congratulating himself for being so clever.

  No longer would he be a lowly rector, begging for crumbs and favors as if he were a dog. Darcy he was, and Darcy he would be!

  In the candlelight, the gold of the signet ring gave an answering twinkle.

  g

  By nine o’clock that evening, Darcy was thoroughly tired of his book and of listening to the foolish gabble of the younger girls. They had been talking all afternoon, throughout dinner, and most of tonight on the same subjects. Even the presence of the loathsome officers would be a welcome relief.

  It was up to him, apparently, to introduce variety. Darcy rose to his feet and strolled to where Elizabeth sat. She did not seem to be engrossed in reading any more than he.

  “Time to pay the piper, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, looking down at her. “I recited that sonnet. Now you must play the pianoforte.” He saw her lips part to object, but he held up a silencing hand. “I know that you play, for your mother told me.”

  “I cannot deny it,” she said. “I fear, however, that you will be disappointed. I am sadly out of practice.”

  “Not at all,” he said politely.

  As she opened the instrument, she threw him a look. Open speculation was there, along with a challenge.

  “What?” he whispered suspiciously.

  “To cover my deficiencies, Mr. Collins,” she said, smiling archly, “I would like you to sing as I play.”

  There were groans all round. Mr. Collins, sing?

  Darcy groaned as well. But since Elizabeth had acquiesced to his request so gracefully, he could not squirm out of it.

  Besides, who knew if Collins could sing? The man had been trained in oration, and he was accustomed to speaking. His body might be flabby with disuse, but perhaps not his voice?

  And wasn’t Elizabeth a minx to taunt him? Darcy decided to risk it. “I am not afraid of you,” he said, returning the smile. “I would be happy to sing.”

  “A Christmas carol, perhaps?” suggested Mary quickly. “It would be easier for you, Mr. Collins,” she added. Obviously she expected him to make a fool of himself.

  Darcy glanced at Elizabeth. She was now looking uncomfortable. Apparently she had expected him to refuse.

  But what was there to lose? Not dignity, not respect—Collins had neither. Once again Darcy was struck with how freeing it was to be ordinary and obscure. If he made a fool of himself, who would care?

  Darcy lifted the music books from the rack and paged through them. What would Elizabeth know how to play?

  He paused at Purcell’s If music be the food of love. He’d heard Georgiana sing this one often enough. The melody line was challenging. Still, he might try a bit of it.

  “If music be the food of love,” Darcy sang under his breath, “sing on, sing on, sing on, sing on. Till I am filled, am fill’d with joy.”

  Collins’ voice held! Up and over the high notes it sailed.

  Elizabeth turned to him with a started expression. “You know this song?”

  “Too well to inflict it upon an audience.”

  “But this is a family party,” she pointed out.

  He gave her a look. “Even family members have ears. And they deserve to have their hearing remain intact. See here.” He set the score on the music rack and pointed. “Those high notes are murder.”

  Open challenge was in her eyes.

  “Very well then,” he said, “allow me to demonstrate. Your eyes, your mien, your tongue declare, that you are music—ev’rywhere.”

  Sure enough, on the word music his voice cracked.

  “Enough of that,” said Darcy, smiling. He continued turning pages. “This one is rather good. I’ve heard it done in school.” He threw her a laughing look. “Quite appropriate under the circumstances, wouldn’t you say?”

  Elizabeth looked as if she did not know how to respond. “I-I’ve never learned the accompaniment for any of these,” she confessed.

  “Nor have I,” he said. “If you will kindly make room for me to sit—” Darcy broke off speaking. Collins would never fit on the bench beside Elizabeth. He procured a straight-backed chair and brought it close beside her.

  “Now then, we’ll both be readers, shall we?” he said. “And see here, the wonder of the Baroque. Your part is basso continuo, that is to say figured bass. Meaning you play only chords, Miss Elizabeth. As soloist I do all the heavy lifting. Most unfortunately.”

  He reached across and placed his right hand on the keys. “I’ll just run through my part,” he said, “before I make a complete fool of myself.”

  He worked through the melody line. Yes, it was as he remembered it. “I will probably slide over these sixteenth notes,” he admitted.

  She listened with obvious astonishment. “You play the pianoforte, Mr. Collins?”

  “Only one note at a time,” he said, twinkling. “Much to the disappointment of my sainted mother. She was most insistent about lessons.”

  “But your mother died when you were very young,” she protested, “or so Father was given to understand.”

  Darcy refused to be deterred by this slip. “Ah, but one is never too young to begin learning to play,” he quipped. “And how clever of you to guess her last words to me. ‘William,’ she said, ‘you must practice!’”

  Elizabeth broke out laughing. “How wretched you are! To jest about your poor mother!”

&
nbsp; “Thus I am saved from weeping. Dear Mother. I hated practicing and would much rather ride my pony. Shall we begin?”

  “Your pony?” Elizabeth sounded astonished. “But I thought—no, Mr. Collins, you told us that you do not ride.”

  “A mere conversational gambit, that. To, er, save myself from embarrassment.”

  Elizabeth was openly doubtful. “What embarrassment?”

  He spread his hands. “How was I to know that you would not make me mount a raging stallion and go galloping across fields?”

  “As if we had such an animal!” she said, laughing. “Even our carriage horses are used on the farm.”

  “Ah, but I did not know then what lived in your stables. If you have a pony, Miss Elizabeth, I will gladly ride him. Although,” he paused to pat his abdomen, “it would be rather a kick in the teeth for the pony.”

  Elizabeth continued to laugh, and he joined her.

  “Now then,” he said at last, “shall we begin? Miss Lydia is looking impatient.” Actually, it was Anne de Bourgh who was staring at him. Obviously Collins had never been pressed to sing at Rosings Park.

  He pointed to the page. “Here we are.”

  She leaned in to read the words. “I resolve against cringing and whining.” Again Elizabeth broke out laughing. “Very well, Mr. Collins.” She struck the first chord and shot him a challenging look.

  “I resolve against cringing and whining,” Darcy sang. He broke off to point at the score. “You have a chord just there,” he whispered.

  “I—was taken up with the excellence of your singing,” she whispered back, and spread her fingers over the keys.

  “You should know better than to lie to a clergyman,” he countered. “Shall we begin again? And go straight through?”

  “I resolve against cringing and whining,

  In a lover’s intrigue so unfit.

  ‘Tis like saying grace without dining,

  And betrays more affection than wit.

  To kneel and adore, to sigh and protest

  And there to give o’er, whereabout lies the jest?”

  Again Darcy stopped. “It is bad enough that I must carry the melody, dear Cousin. But if I am left to sing a cappella because you cannot stop giggling long enough to play…”