by Laura Hile
“Yes, and a very fine one. Georgiana must have its oversight by now, along with your army of gardeners.” She paused. “You do remember Georgiana?”
Collins hazarded a guess. Darcy was not married. “My sister,” he said.
Miss Bingley clapped her hands in delight. “Yes, yes, you do recall. She is so lovely and plays the pianoforte with exceptional artistry.” She paused. “Our dearest wish is that she will come to see Charles as more than your friend.”
Did Miss Bingley wink? Collins was not sure. At any rate, hearing about Darcy’s sister made him nervous. He devoutly hoped that she would remain at Pemberley, or London, or wherever it was she lived and not come here.
“How does the interior of the house strike you?” he inquired.
“As large and spacious and very fine,” said Miss Bingley. Here she hesitated. “The interior is, shall we say, reflective of the taste and style of previous generations? It would be improved, in my opinion, with a bit of modernizing.
“You will forgive my saying so, Mr. Darcy,” she added quickly. “I have long lived in London and am accustomed to everything in the first style.”
“But of course,” said Collins. “I appreciate your candor. What do you mean by of the first style, precisely?”
“I mean, since you ask, the addition of furnishings that strike a note of true opulence, as is suitable for your family’s wealth and prominence. I’ve long thought that the vestibule cries out for a larger chandelier. Cut crystals, as you know, fairly dance with light and are so elegant. Also, the draperies are not quite rich enough.”
“For myself,” said Collins, “I favor the style of Rosings Park. There is a carved chimney mantelpiece in one of the parlors that is very fine.”
Again Miss Bingley gave her tittering laugh. “Rosings Park,” she echoed. “I have not had the privilege of seeing that estate. Nor am I like to, unless…”
She gave him a sidelong look. But even that was gratifying, for she smiled so warmly.
Collins crossed one shapely calf over the other and returned Miss Bingley’s smile.
“Do go on,” he invited. “What else would you modernize?”
As she spoke, Collins’ gaze came to rest on the humidor on one of the bureaus. Darcy smoked cigars, fragrant and costly. Here was a habit Collins had longed to indulge, even since university days. And now he could. Cigars and elegant clothing and fine wines. And beautiful women as well?
Miss Bingley was not precisely beautiful, but she was well-dressed in every detail. No one could find fault with the costliness of her lustrous pearls, and she seemed to be well-connected socially.
This brought to mind something else. “Tell me something about my house in town,” he said, for surely Darcy had one. “And if you wouldn’t mind just refreshing my tea?”
The eagerness with which she took his cup and saucer was entirely gratifying.
g
Mr. Collins gazed at her, wide-eyed and solemn. Clad in that sturdy overcoat he looked like a large brown bear.
“Our neighbor’s stable boy, Robert Miller,” Elizabeth gasped out, “had his face burned by an exploding gun! Do have a care!”
To cover her embarrassment, Elizabeth added, “Here are your gloves and cap.” She placed them on the piled-up snow.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “I’ll know more after I’ve fired several shots. Often a gun throws to one side or the other.”
How should she answer? For he obviously was not deterred by possible danger. “Practice makes perfect,” she said lamely.
“That it does,” he agreed. He just stood there, looking at her.
“And you will avoid the lock-side?” she added, hoping he knew what that meant. Why did he not put on the cap and gloves? Why did he just stand there?
She searched in vain for something else to say. “I have not seen many birds. You might not have success. But it does not matter,” she added quickly. “Mama can do without pheasants.”
“Or else Mr. Bingley will send them.”
So he’d caught that remark. She was afraid that he had.
“Ah, but this is survival,” he confided, smiling. “Therefore I will not take a sporting approach. I will broadcast oats and barley, which I’ll borrow from the stable, onto the snow. Then I will hide until the birds come.”
Elizabeth returned the smile. “Very pretty. So long as the birds are not intelligent.”
His eyes twinkled. “What a bumbling incompetent you think me.”
“Not incompetent,” she protested.
“According to you, I am incapable of doing even one thing. I shall prove you wrong.”
She spread her hands. “Aside from dabbling in music, I have not seen you do anything. Not even preach a sermon.”
“You have seen me clean a gun,” he suggested.
“I daresay I could do the same, given rudimentary instruction.”
He laughed and slung the powder horn from his shoulder. “What a skeptic you are, Elizabeth,” he said. “My harshest critic. My most severe censor.”
“I speak only of what I see.”
“In your eyes, I have no skills.” But his eyes were laughing.
“No masculine skills,” she corrected. “Singing and playing one note at a time do not count.”
“Not one ability,” he said, moving nearer. “Aside from potentially causing an explosion.”
“Or being struck by lightning.”
He laughed. “There is always that.”
He looked more like a bear than ever. A smiling bear.
“The only ability I can see, and it might not be always beneficial,” she said, dimpling, “is stubbornness, Cousin William. There seems to be little that deters you from something you want.”
“I thank you for the vote of confidence.” She felt his fingers brush her chin. His eyes were warm. “Not one manly skill?”
“Alas, no,” she said softly.
“Skeptic!” he said. And then he bent and kissed her.
His lips were on hers, warm and soft and surprisingly tender. He did not immediately pull away, nor did she.
“Forgive me,” he whispered. “I am not in the habit of kissing.”
She ought to have pushed him away. She ought to have run into the house. Instead she just stood there, her fingers stroking the lapel of his bearlike overcoat.
The second kiss was tenderer, less tentative, and longer lasting.
She was kissing Mr. Collins, a man she loathed!
Those lips of his were on hers, and she did not mind. No she did not mind at all. That she hated him only added to the thrill.
He was solid and warm and—passionate? Was this passion?
His arms came round her, pressing her against his chest. Was Mr. Collins, by turns foolish and reserved, also seriously earnest? Elizabeth abandoned trying to decide and surrendered to the kiss.
And after he had seen her to the door and gone his way, Elizabeth was left to blush and scold herself. What had she done?
She had kissed William Collins. Not once—that was forgivable, since she was taken unawares. But twice?
Had anyone seen, or was she hidden by piled-up snow? Would anyone suspect? Kissing Mr. Collins! Her mother would be thrilled.
And yet Elizabeth was the one to be thrilled. A staid and steady rector, so buttoned up and solemn. And yet he had kissed her like that!
At one time she had wondered whether George Wickham might kiss her—he had looked as if he wanted to. And a kiss from him would be a light, flirtatious gesture, nothing more.
There was nothing flirtatious about William Collins’ kiss.
Elizabeth pressed her hands to her flaming cheeks. Such a thing could never be repeated. “I shall take this,” she vowed, “to my grave.”
19The Jovial Beggars
What began as light drizzle quickly changed to sheeting rain, hissing as it struck the snow. Darcy took aim and fired, but this time nothing happened. The firepan and the flint were soaked, and the pheasants lived on to
finish their meal. With a sigh, Darcy lowered Mr. Bennet’s rifle.
Returning to the house was out of the question, for he could not face Elizabeth. Why had he kissed her? He’d asked this question countless times, and the answer was always the same. Weak, he was weak—and thoroughly stupid as well. If he ever had a hope of winning Elizabeth as himself, that hope was gone. For it was Collins she had kissed.
Collins, the man who would inherit her family’s home. Collins, who would provide an income and stability. It was a prudent move on her part, but there was more to it than that. Elizabeth had loathed Collins and had spurned him without a second thought. But not anymore. Those kisses told Darcy everything.
Meanwhile the rain continued to fall, soaking his coat and cap, running down his face and neck, pooling beneath his collar. Held prisoner by self-accusation, Darcy scarcely noticed.
For who was responsible for Elizabeth’s beguiling change of heart? No one but himself. For some perverse reason he was unable to resist the delight of her company. Like a fool, he’d abandoned all sense and rushed headlong into love.
For love this was, it could have no other name. To see Elizabeth smile, to join with her in laughing, to spar with her and share confidences—what happiness! And in the end, she preferred him above all men, even George Wickham.
Like a madman, Darcy stood smiling in the rain. Yes, she preferred him to Wickham.
By the time he had slogged to the service door, he was in a pitiable state. He was confronted by Hill, who stripped him of his sodden coat and cap and the birds he had managed to shoot. The loaded rifle he delivered carefully to Ned.
“The Master’s cold worsening by the hour,” said Hill. “And I daresay your fate will be the same.”
Darcy began to protest, but Hill interrupted. “And for what have you caught your death?”
“Five pheasants?” Darcy offered.
Hill was not impressed. “I trust the Mistress will be satisfied with her meal. Come along, Ned.” And, taking up a stack of towels, Hill shooed Darcy from the kitchen.
“We have meat aplenty,” she scolded, following close on his heels, “without you being soaked to the skin to shoot birds. Why did you not come in at once?”
How could Darcy tell her his reasons?
Up the back stairs they went, with Ned trailing behind. “It’s been scarcely a week since you were struck down,” continued Hill, “and what must you do but walk for miles in all weather!”
Yes, he’d been a fool, and Hill’s accusations stung. “But Lady Catherine,” he protested.
“And Mrs. Bennet,” said Hill. “And that physician. It isn’t right, being at everyone’s beck and call the way you are.”
Darcy had to smile. “Including yours?”
Hill was not amused. She followed him into the bedchamber, looked around with distaste, and put down the towels.
“When you are finished with Mr. Collins, Ned, you will bring more wood. The future Master of Longbourn should not be made to freeze in his bed.”
Ned went to work building up the fire.
Darcy stood there, making a puddle on the floor. What did Hill expect him to do? He could hardly remove his waistcoat and breeches while she was present. He then noticed that she had the wardrobe open and was removing his garments.
“Ned will take away your wet things and help you into a dry nightshirt,” she said. “And then, Mr. Collins, you will remain in this bed, with a hot brick, until morning.” She folded his spare coat, breeches, and waistcoat and piled them on the chair.
“But my clothes,” protested Darcy.
“They are sadly in need of taking in,” said Hill. “Which I shall do while you are in bed.”
“I cannot lie about all afternoon.”
“You most certainly can.” Hill put her hands on her hips. “I have trouble enough with one sick gentleman, and I do not wish for two.”
“But I am not ill.”
“You had no business allowing yourself to be out in that icy rain. You are not trustworthy, Mr. Collins. You are too obliging. I daresay you will dress yourself and sidle into the drawing room to keep the young ladies from feeling lonely.”
This drew a reluctant laugh. “I am incapable of sidling anywhere, Mrs. Hill,” said Darcy. “Or haven’t you noticed?”
“You are a shadow of your former self,” said Hill. “And I daresay Miss Elizabeth has noticed the improvement. She can do without your company for one day.”
Darcy’s eyes found the floor. Shame was present—for how much had Hill seen? —along with relief. As Hill’s prisoner, he would not have to face Elizabeth.
Hill crossed to the door. “I’ll not worry the family with melodrama, if that’s your concern,” she said. “It does no harm to be cautious. Sarah will bring soup and a hot brick presently.”
Soon Darcy was alone, dry and warm and bundled into bed, with the snap of the wood fire and the drumming rain to bear him company.
How thin were Longbourn’s walls! For he heard voices in the corridor, Hill’s and Elizabeth’s, and his cousin’s concern was palpable.
Darcy’s heart warmed. How he longed to reassure her!
Ah, but Hill would give no quarter. Mr. Collins must be allowed to rest.
“Which is a very good thing, Lizzy, you know it is,” said another voice. “For when the roads are clear he will be well enough to go back to Hunsford where he belongs.”
Sadly, Darcy realized that this solution might be the very one he would have to take.
g
It was becoming a habit of Miss Bingley’s to visit Mr. Darcy after every meal. Collins knew that Lady Catherine would not condone this practice, but Miss Bingley was an evasive creature. Besides, there was nothing improper, since Holdsworth was usually at work in the dressing room.
That was the thing about Netherfield, there was always someone lurking about. Collins supposed that this was only to be expected, since Netherfield required an army of servants to function. He was coming to realize that the size and style of Longbourn House, though not as impressive, was more to his taste.
That evening Miss Bingley was jubilant about the rain. “For once the snow is washed away,” she said, “we shall travel to London, as we were planning to do.”
His confusion must have been evident, for she added, “Surely you recall that Charles has business there. Something about his properties and investments. He is keen to have your advice.”
“My—advice?” stammered Collins.
“But of course. You are such a competent adviser.”
She went on talking, but Collins did not listen. He knew nothing about business, save for the general wisdom about investing in the four-percents, whatever those were. Having no fortune of his own, he’d never paid attention. Now that he was Darcy, the troubling world of finance must be dealt with.
The thought made his head hurt.
“We were supposed to depart for London immediately after the ball, you know,” she added.
No, Collins did not know. He sighed heavily.
Caroline Bingley’s face grew solemn, and she laid a sympathetic hand on his arm. “Please do not think it was any trouble for us to remain, Mr. Darcy. We could not leave you to suffer alone.”
Of course Collins thanked her. What else could he do?
“As soon as you are well enough to travel, we shall return to London. And after that?” She paused to give him a sidelong look. “I daresay you will wish to spend Christmas at Pemberley.”
Her hand remained on his sleeve, and her smile was coy. Was she angling for an invitation?
As for Pemberley, Collins could only imagine what horrors awaited him. His sister would be there and his business manager and his housekeeper. And a fleet of servants and tenants and God only knew who else, all of whom he was supposed to know by sight.
Collins closed his eyes and drew a long breath. There was only one way to manage this sort of trouble, and it was beautifully effective.
“If you will excuse me, Miss Bingley,”
he said. “My head has begun to ache again. Would you mind summoning Mr. Fleming to administer another dose of medication?”
Caroline Bingley looked crestfallen, and Collins breathed a sigh of relief.
g
It rained steadily all night. On the following morning the view from Darcy’s window showed that the blanket of white had subsided. Longbourn’s paddock was threatening to become a pond.
Hill advised breakfast in bed, and Darcy gratefully accepted. He would encounter Elizabeth later in the morning, safely in the company of others. Should he come upon her at the breakfast table, alone, there was no telling what his weakness might allow.
But his time was not wasted. Darcy studied Collins’ little notebook and, with paper unearthed in a drawer, practiced copying the man’s handwriting. Fortunately the foolish fellow had signed the flyleaf.
Presently Ned came up with hot water for shaving and Collins’ clothes. Hill had done an admirable job with the alterations. It was wonderful to have clothes that fit. Aside from having to wear black, Darcy was feeling more like himself.
The bedchamber door swung open with a clatter. Fleming stood on the threshold, red-faced and wet, his physician’s satchel in hand.
Darcy came out of his chair. “Upon my word! Have you come all the way from Netherfield?”
Fleming gave him a wan smile. “Haven’t I just? On horseback, no less.”
Ned came in with towels and stood at the ready. Darcy was unsure about what to do. As himself, he would have retired to a discreet corner. But as Collins he held the wet clothing that Fleming struggled to remove.
“I never arrive at this house but what I am grateful,” said Fleming, after Ned went out “As if the rain were not enough, we must have mud and standing water. It’s a wonder that the horse did not fall and break a leg.” He grimaced. “The gamekeeper’s most reliable mount.”
“It’s a wonder that you ventured out at all.”
Fleming spread his hands to the fire. “Her ladyship gave me no alternative. I bring letters for her daughter and the unhappy Jenkinson.”
“One can guess the contents,” said Darcy.
“A sound scolding to be had by all.” Fleming straightened. “And now that I am dry and somewhat warmed, I am to duty-bound to deliver them.”
