Darcy By Any Other Name

by Laura Hile

  Shortly after supper the officers arrived. Of course her younger sisters were jubilant, Anne most especially. Elizabeth’s gaze traveled to the far corner of the drawing room. William Collins was sitting close beside a branch of candles with a notebook and a Bible. What had he found that was so absorbing?

  A short time later the door came open again, and Mr. Bingley was announced. At once Elizabeth rose to her feet. “Do take my seat, Mr. Bingley,” she said. “I have forgotten my workbox in the other room.” He seemed happy to comply.

  “Where is your sister?” she heard Jane ask.

  “Caroline prefers Mr. Darcy’s company this evening,” said Mr. Bingley. “If you can believe it, they have embarked on a fierce backgammon competition. Quite unlike Darcy. But then again he has not been his usual self since the accident. And so,” he added, smiling, “I rode over alone.”

  Mr. Wickham, meanwhile, had not been idle. He was seated beside Anne, talking and laughing, much to the amusement of the others. Elizabeth wandered over and took a seat near Mr. Collins. He was muttering to himself.

  “P 16:18,” she heard him say, and he scowled at his notebook. “Must be Proverbs, not Psalms, it has to be. But why isn’t there an R?” His fingers turned pages. When he came to the place he was looking for, he sat staring.

  “What have you found that is so absorbing?” Elizabeth said, smiling.

  He glanced up, surprised. Was it her imagination, or did he seem pleased that she had come? “A—text,” he said. “Inscribed on the Folly at Netherfield.”

  “A text on the Folly? I had no idea there were any. Should I know it?”

  “I believe everyone knows this one,” he said. “Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.”

  “Sounds ominous.”

  “It is ominous,” said Mr. Collins, “for pride is common to us all.”

  “Most especially to Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth. “He is an expert when it comes to being haughty. Indeed,” she added, “I do not believe the poor man can help it.”

  William Collins looked worried. “Do you think so?”

  “Mr. Darcy is both stubborn and fond of holding a grudge. I take it your apology did not go well?”

  “Apology? Ah, no.” He smiled a little. “Our conversation was, shall I say, disappointing. I only wish—”

  Elizabeth leaned forward. “What do you wish?”

  “It’s this text. Inscribed right above the statues of Cain and Abel. It’s got to be the cause. But how to affect a solution?”

  “Is that where the storm damaged the Folly? Mr. Bingley should see to the repairs. Shall we ask him?”

  Mr. Collins looked worried again. “No, not just yet,” he said. “He—seems to be enjoying your sister’s company. We won’t disturb him.”

  “He is not the only one enjoying himself,” Elizabeth pointed out. “Mr. Wickham is once again monopolizing Anne de Bourgh’s company.”

  William Collins gave a sigh. “Wickham. I had forgotten him.”

  “You were right, Cousin William, about his preference. But must he be so obvious in his pursuit?”

  “George Wickham overrates his abilities. It does not occur to him that he will fail.”

  “He shall if I can help it,” Elizabeth said. “I believe they have sat together long enough.”

  But William Collins was not listening. His fingers were busy turning pages.

  “Who was the fellow who lived like an ox?” he said. “You know, eating grass for seven years and living in that paddock?”

  “No one I know.”

  He looked up and smiled. “I mean in Bible times. A Persian king. No, it would have to be earlier, a Babylonian. Strutting on the parapet of his castle, proud as a peacock. And in a flash, humbled by the Almi—by God.”

  “Do you mean Nebuchadnezzar?” said Elizabeth.

  “That’s the one. Humbled because of his haughty spirit.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Darcy should be on his guard,” she said, smiling. “As for Mr. Wickham, what do you say about putting an end to his tête-à-tête with Miss de Bourgh?”

  “By all means. What to you propose?”

  Elizabeth rose to her feet and faced the others. “What about dancing?” she announced. “I believe there are gentlemen enough for all.”

  A joyful chorus agreed, and soon furniture was being pushed back and rugs rolled.

  “Five gentlemen!” counted Lydia. “Where is Mr. Fleming?”

  “Five? No, there are six,” called Wickham. “Mr. Fleming had better stay where he is, for he would be very much in the way. As it is, poor Pratt will have to sit out.” Laughter accompanied this announcement.

  Soon Mary was playing the introductory chords. Elizabeth went directly to her cousin and claimed his hand. “Your studies will have to wait, sir,” she announced. “For tonight it is your duty to dance.”

  Would he refuse her? Would he be put off by her bold invitation? William Collins gazed solemnly into Elizabeth’s eyes for a long moment, and then he smiled. “I am delighted to oblige.”

  An hour later refreshments were brought in and the dancing concluded. The dancers sat about on disarranged chairs, enjoying cake and talking.

  “A happy end to a most pleasant evening,” said Mr. Denny, and Elizabeth agreed. The dark cloud that had hung over William Collins had fled away.

  “Not an ending! It’s far too early,” cried Lydia. “I know, let’s play Shadows. Who will fetch the costumes?”

  Lydia’s suggestion was met with delight, most especially from the officers. Hill brought in fresh coffee and the decanter of sherry was passed round. Captain Carter, Mr. Pratt, and Mr. Denny proposed various toasts.

  Elizabeth discovered that the chair beside hers was empty, and warmth rose to her cheeks. Obviously the others left it vacant for William Collins. She also noticed something else. Mr. Wickham was nowhere to be seen—and neither was Anne. Elizabeth stiffened. She now knew that time alone with a man meant kissing!

  “Is something wrong?” Mr. Collins was now seated in his chair.

  “It’s Anne,” whispered Elizabeth. “She is no longer here, and neither is Mr. Wickham.”

  He reacted at once. “Where would they go?”

  “Perhaps to fetch the costumes for Shadows. You remember, from the trunk you carried down from the attic?”

  “I believe Ned and James did that,” he said. “Is it in the back parlor?” He rose to his feet.

  So did Elizabeth. “Do you mind if I accompany you? Being confronted by the rector is bad enough. Anne deserves some dignity.”

  He did not answer. Indeed, he must have been feeling quite crabby, for when he arrived at the parlor door he pushed it open without knocking.

  The room was lit by a single candlestick. Sitting on the trunk was Anne, with George Wickham bending over her. He held her hands in his.

  “What is all this?” demanded Mr. Collins.

  A most unnecessary statement, for obviously they had been kissing. Mr. Wickham was not even flustered. Without turning a hair, he said, “Just the man we need, Collins. I find I am unable to carry this trunk without help. Do lend a hand.”

  Here Elizabeth was surprised. For instead of reading Mr. Wickham a lecture, Mr. Collins took hold of the trunk. He and Mr. Wickham went out with it, leaving Elizabeth to face Anne. She was blushing rosily.

  Elizabeth could guess how Anne was feeling, but had little compassion. After all, Mr. Wickham was not William Collins. “I would not put much confidence in Mr. Wickham if I were you,” she said lightly. “He is an outrageous flirt.”

  Anne said nothing and flounced out of the parlor.

  Back in the drawing room Elizabeth poured herself a cup of coffee. Jane came over. “Lizzy,” she said. “What has happened? What is wrong?”

  Was her irritation so obvious? “We caught them kissing,” she whispered.

  “Who?”

  “Anne and Mr. Wickham.”

  “Lizzy, no! Where?”

  “In the back par
lor. They were supposedly fetching costumes from the trunk.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Jane.

  “I no longer trust Mr. Wickham’s intentions. He is obviously after her money. What else is there to attract him?”

  “Poor Anne.”

  “She, of course, suspects nothing,” Elizabeth went on. “I daresay she has been warned about fortune hunters for years.”

  “This must be the first time she has met one,” said Jane. “He appears so charming and handsome.”

  “Charm and looks are not as important as I once thought. Intelligence and honor count for much more. Your Mr. Bingley is all of these, and in the best way.”

  “He is not my Mr. Bingley, Lizzy,” said Jane softly.

  “The hats,” cried Kitty to the room at large. “Where are the hats?”

  “Oh, those.” Lydia was busy sorting the costumes, helped by a rosy-faced Anne. “They must be in that basket in the parlor, do you remember? I believe it’s in one of the corners.”

  “I shall fetch them,” Jane offered, and she rose to her feet.

  g

  The drawing room was now a tumult of activity. Furniture was again being moved, a sheet was fetched and hung up. All was laughter and merriment. Hill brought in more cakes.

  Elizabeth felt a touch on her arm. “No doubt you will say that Wickham has given me a suspicious mind,” William Collins murmured. “But does it occur to you that your sister has vanished?”

  “Lydia is over there, and so are Kitty and Mary and—” Jane was no longer in the drawing room.

  “And where is Charles Bingley?”

  Elizabeth looked round and caught her breath. Had Jane taken him to the back parlor? Jane?

  “What ought we to do? If they are in the parlor together, I do not wish to—”

  William Collins drew out his timepiece. “They have three minutes by the clock to return. At the end of that time, I go in.”

  Elizabeth grasped his arm. “William,” she whispered urgently. “You will knock this time, won’t you? After all, Mr. Bingley is not Mr. Wickham. And they deserve a quiet moment to—”

  What was she saying? This was the man who had himself stolen kisses! Those eyes of his were too intelligent and much too comprehending. He knew exactly what she meant.

  He had the audaciousness to lift an eyebrow. Any hint of solemnity was gone. Indeed, those eyes of his were smiling.

  “To—express their affection,” Elizabeth said in a rush. “She loves him dearly, you know.”

  “Does she? I see no evidence of it.”

  “Jane is reticent to display her feelings before others, the very opposite of our youngest sisters, who at the slightest disturbance must howl at the moon.”

  He laughed.

  “Jane is a dear,” Elizabeth went on. “And she has been pining dreadfully for Mr. Bingley. Have you not seen this?”

  It appeared that he had not. He stood gazing at her, holding his timepiece. And she was clutching his arm—she had forgotten this until his free hand covered hers. His fingers were warm and comfortable.

  “As you wish,” he said quietly. “Three additional minutes. We’ll allow them a proper kiss.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes found the floor. By proper he did not mean polite, but thorough.

  The lights were extinguished, save for a branch of candles behind the sheet. “Come along, then,” called Lydia. “Let’s line up and disguise ourselves. Who shall be first to guess? Denny? Excellent. You’ll find a chair just there, ready and waiting.”

  Elizabeth now discovered that she was holding William Collins’ hand, very quietly and without fuss. How had this come about? He was not even looking in her direction. To the casual observer, there was nothing amiss. This man was not only thorough, but also intensely private.

  With some noise the drawing room door came open. Jane sailed in, carrying hats. Mr. Bingley followed with a large basket. Though the darkness concealed much, Elizabeth could see that Jane was smiling and her cheeks were flushed. Mr. Bingley seemed unusually cheerful.

  “So,” rumbled William Collins in her ear, “it appears that our assumption was correct.”

  Elizabeth turned and met his gaze. Even in the dark she could see that his eyes were dancing.

  “What?” Elizabeth demanded, even though she knew the answer. “What are you thinking?”

  He bit his bottom lip, probably to keep from laughing. “I was merely wondering,” he whispered back, “whether they brought in all of the hats. Perhaps several were left behind?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “They brought in every one,” she said evenly.

  “Are you quite certain? Shouldn’t we check?”

  “Only,” she whispered back, “if Mr. Bingley is willing to time our absence. And I daresay you would require more than three minutes.”

  His laugh rang out, and heads turned in their direction.

  He released her hand. “Touché, Elizabeth,” he said and smiling, he moved away.

  She rather wished he hadn’t.

  25 A Matter of Pride

  The trouble with being alone was that he was prey to his thoughts—and what a fine feast was to be had! That remark he’d made yesterday, for instance, about stealing a kiss from Elizabeth. What was he thinking? He hadn’t been thinking. And wasn’t this an apt illustration of the root of his struggles? The absence of rational thought. It was as if being Collins gave him an excuse not to think, and his heart had taken full advantage. Emotions were untrustworthy, he knew this now, both his own feelings and hers. For she would have welcomed that kiss—

  No! At all costs he must avoid Elizabeth’s adorable presence. This morning the cost was breakfast.

  And so instead of loading his plate at the sideboard, he wandered the fogged streets of Meryton, feeling cold and rather hungry. The baker’s shop was open for business and deliciously warm, so Darcy parted with a few pennies for muffins and a pot of tea. There he sat at a tiny table with an out-of-date London newspaper.

  Steam from his cup curled invitingly, and Darcy bit back a sigh. In Elizabeth’s presence he must laugh and jest and flirt. Yes, flirt—he, Fitzwilliam Darcy! As William Collins he was outrageous! Collins had none of Darcy’s dignity, and wasn’t this a cruel twist of fate? The real Collins craved dignity. Darcy, who had always had it, found that he no longer cared.

  And didn’t Meryton present a different face to the Reverend Collins? Among the gentry Collins was ignored, but here in the village he was avoided. Oh, respect was given—Darcy had been greeted numerous times in the street (for his parson’s hat was unmistakable, even in the mist)—but it was politely done. Too politely and therefore forced.

  Darcy removed Collins’ threadbare gloves in order to consume one of the muffins. He ought to have asked for a fork—and if he were himself, one certainly would have been offered. But apparently Collins was the sort of man who must eat with his fingers. And be satisfied with a paper that was over a week old.

  The door’s bell tinkled as customers came and went, each bringing in a wave of cold air. Darcy rested his fingers on the warm teapot.

  “Morning, Parson.”

  Darcy looked up and acknowledged the greeting, wondering who the fellow was. Too well-dressed for a laborer, too worn around the edges for a servant. And with a hint of insolence in the tone. A tavern keeper, perhaps?

  “Doing the Lord’s work, are you?” the man said with a wink. The implication was clear: that he did no work at all.

  Which, knowing Collins, was probably very true.

  What else could Darcy do but smile? The man paid for his purchase and went out. Darcy refilled his teacup and, sighing, applied himself to the newspaper. Was there anything as dull as old news? At length he put it aside and with one of Collins’ gloves dried a pane of the window glass. Through the fog various figures appeared, including one fellow who was obviously newly-sober and heading home.

  Could this be Wickham?

  Darcy wiped the pane for another look. No, the man was too stocky. But the t
hought opened a new line of thinking. After he left Longbourn’s drawing room, where did Wickham go? Surely not home to bed.

  The thought of Wickham made Darcy tired.

  And wasn’t the man leveling at the moon by flirting with Anne de Bourgh? He would never succeed in winning her. Today Anne would return to her mother’s watchful care—sooner rather than later, if Darcy knew his officious aunt—and heaven help Wickham’s plans then. The moment he showed himself at Netherfield, Lady Catherine would send him packing.

  A smile tugged at Darcy’s lips as he pictured her scorn. If his aunt recognized Wickham as the son of Pemberley’s late steward, so much the better. Such a thing, however, was too rich to hope for.

  Was Anne in danger from Wickham? Not in the way Georgiana had been. There simply was no way to—what was the term? Cut her out of the herd? Darcy also drew comfort from Wickham’s indolent cowardice. If exertion was required—storming the battlements to seize fair maiden—Wickham would shy off. He was after the low-hanging fruit, the easy conquest. Anne’s lonely heart would likely be bruised, but not her virtue.

  By now the tea in the pot was tepid. Darcy finished the last muffin, drained his cup, and left the bakery. The cold struck him like a slap, prickling through Collins’ coat and shoes and thin gloves.

  Less than three weeks until Christmas. Would he face the New Year as Collins? Darcy sighed heavily, and his breath hung in the air. Very probably. It had been almost that long already. He could well be Collins until his dying day. Darcy wound the muffler more securely around his neck, thrust his hands in his pockets, and went trudging along the misty street.

  g

  Collins crept down the staircase toward the breakfast room, but did not go in right away. Darcy was a careful, cautious fellow, and Collins was beginning to understand why. His main concern this morning was to avoid Lady Catherine. Through the door he could hear Caroline Bingley complaining to someone, perhaps her brother? Collins put his ear nearer to the opening.

  “Her ladyship will be bringing her daughter here,” said Miss Bingley, “and without as much as a by your leave. If they were not so intimately connected with the Darcy family, I would turn them out, Charles. You know I would.”