Darcy By Any Other Name

by Laura Hile

  “There’s no sense in making a mountain out of a molehill,” Collins heard Charles Bingley say. He sounded unhappy.

  “I tolerate them for dear Mr. Darcy’s sake. As well as for dear Georgiana’s,” she added.

  There was something about the way she said Georgiana that Collins did not understand, but no matter.

  “And for mine as well, I hope,” said Bingley. “There is little I would not do for Darcy.”

  There was a pause, during which Collins strained to hear. The chime of silverware against china, the rattle of a newspaper.

  “I simply cannot believe the reports about the roads and flooding,” Miss Bingley said at last. “Mr. Darcy is improving by the hour. I do not see why we cannot leave for London today.”

  “He is not fit for travel. And, more importantly, he is not fit for polite company. If you had seen how he behaved yesterday at Longbourn!”

  Collins felt a flush mount to his cheeks.

  Miss Bingley said nothing more, and Bingley pressed his point. “Yesterday evening,” he said, “how was he at backgammon?”

  There was a pause. “Passable, Charles,” she said slowly. “His play was passable, but not brilliant. Does it seem to you that poor Mr. Darcy is rather…?” Caroline Bingley hesitated. “Oh dear, how shall I put this? Rather less intelligent?”

  “If you ask me, he is a great deal stupider.”

  Collins had been taught as a child not to eavesdrop; he now knew why. Miss Bingley was a fine one to call him stupid!

  “Everyone has noticed the change,” Bingley went on. “I fear the poor fellow may never recover.”

  “Of course he shall recover,” Miss Bingley said stoutly. “I shall make certain of that.”

  “Caro,” her brother said more seriously, “given Darcy’s present state, Lady Catherine intends to take him with her to Rosings.”

  Collins gasped. He would rather face prison than Rosings!

  For there would be no rest, none at all. At every meal he would endure the company of Anne and Lady Catherine. And he would spend each evening with them in the drawing room, a boredom so complete that even visits from Darcy would be welcome.

  Again came that stabbing thought, which extinguished his delicious dreams: Might you not be better off as yourself?

  But an exchange was clearly impossible! What if he were stuck being Fitzwilliam Darcy forever?

  Caroline Bingley interrupted his thoughts. “Mr. Darcy will be far happier with us than with his aunt, Charles. I think we ought to leave at once.”

  “Abscond with him, do you mean? It is not easily done, not to mention being in rather bad form. You have been reading too many romances.”

  “As to romances,” she replied, and the archness in her tone was unmistakable, “I think that you wish to remain for another reason. Jane Bennet is a sweet girl, Charles, but I hardly think she is worth losing your heart to. I daresay you will survive without her. Mr. Darcy,” she added, “seems to have recovered from his preference for Elizabeth Bennet.”

  Collins’ head came up.

  “Shall we consign Miss Elizabeth Bennet to her bumbling cousin?” Miss Bingley gave her trilling laugh. “Yes, we shall trust Mr. Collins to be taken captive by her fine eyes,” she said.

  “Caroline, really.”

  “But they shall do very well together, Charles! A match made, dare we say, in heaven? She, a fishwife in the making and he, a paltry rector without two shillings to rub together.”

  She laughed again. This time Charles Bingley reluctantly joined in.

  The conversation turned to more conventional topics—what was to be served for dinner and should they invite Dr. and Mrs. Bentley—but Collins did not go in. He had never thought of himself as having a pugnacious temper or vengeful ambitions, but this much was clear: he would exact payment from Caroline Bingley for those words. Paltry rector indeed!

  g

  Through the mist rose the form of Meryton’s parish church, and on a whim Darcy tried the door. It was open, so he went in. There was not much warmth here, but it was someplace to be other than Longbourn.

  The church was built in the traditional cruciform shape. Darcy wandered down the center aisle and slipped into a pew. At once he removed Collins’ hat. It would surely keep him warmer, but if Dr. Bentley (or anyone else) happened by he did not wish to be recognized. Much better to remain anonymous.

  Behind the altar was an arched glass window, and Darcy sat gazing at it. The church was solemn and silent, unlike the baker’s shop or any of the rooms at Longbourn, leaving Darcy alone with his thoughts. Oddly enough, in this setting he did not mind.

  He checked his timepiece. Morning vespers were at, what, eleven? Until then he would be undisturbed.

  He cast his thoughts back to the Folly, intent on reasoning out what he’d discovered. But the text he’d found yesterday did not leap to mind. Instead, another crowded forward: Not my will but Thine be done.

  The Savior’s prayer at Gethsemane: Thy will be done.

  Darcy sat for some time, listening to the sound of his own breathing. Thy will. Was he meant to be Collins, then? Was he meant to be humbled to this extent?

  Before extinguishing his candle last night, Darcy had located the story of King Nebuchadnezzar and found in it much food for thought. The man lived in a paddock eating grass, thoroughly mad. His sanity was eventually restored, but not until seven years had passed. Wouldn’t seven days have been sufficient?

  When God did a thing, Darcy realized, He was frighteningly thorough. And if Collins must likewise be humbled, it would take not seven years but seventy!

  Darcy gave a sharp sigh, and his breath rose in a cloud. He could not solve Collins’ part of this puzzle, but he ought to be responsible for his. Did this mean willingly embracing life as Collins? Not only as pertaining to Elizabeth (the sole benefit!), but in every area of life?

  An accompanying thought was just as bad: Should he prepare Collins to do the same?

  Never! Let the man fall on his face.

  The silence swallowed this waspish thought. Too late he realized his own latent arrogance. Again Darcy sighed.

  It had been a long time since he had knelt down to pray of his own accord, especially in a public spot like church. Apparently it had been too long.

  26 Rag, Tag, and Bobtail

  The insistent rapping at the main door took everyone by surprise.

  “Dear heaven, it’s Mother,” cried Anne de Bourgh.

  “But it can’t be; it’s too early,” protested Lydia. “And besides, we would have heard her barouche in the drive.”

  “Your mother would never walk all this way,” said Kitty.

  “Or ride a horse,” added Lydia.

  Even Elizabeth listened for the scrape of the main door as it opened. There were voices in the vestibule and then a hearty, “Thank God.” It was a distinctly male voice.

  Elizabeth laid aside her book. This was not William Collins. Could it be—?

  Lydia bounced up. “It’s Wickham! Anne, he has come. And from the sound of it he is not alone.”

  With him was Denny, and when Hill brought them into the drawing room Kitty and Lydia cheered.

  “We are in time,” said Mr. Wickham, smiling. “Never was I so relieved to see trunks stacked in a vestibule.” He crossed the room, took Anne’s hand, and kissed it soundly. “We are not too late to say good-bye.”

  “It is no such thing,” said Mrs. Bennet. “Dear Miss de Bourgh goes only to Netherfield.”

  There was a small silence, and Mr. Denny filled it. “I say, let’s play cards, shall we? Better than sitting about waiting for the other shoe to fall. Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty, do help me clear a space. Miss Mary, you must sit down with us.”

  Elizabeth remained with her book. Very nimbly did Mr. Denny keep the others occupied while Anne and Mr. Wickham sat together on the sofa, whispering. Miss Jenkinson sniffed and looked disapproving. Anne not only ignored this but turned her back to the woman.

  Over the pages of
her book Elizabeth covertly studied the pair. He was talking, while she blushed and hung upon every word. Then from the corner of her eye Elizabeth saw a movement. Mr. Wickham was looking at each of the others in turn. At once Elizabeth lowered her gaze, every sense on the alert.

  She turned a page and raised her eyes in time to see a folded paper pass from his hand to Anne’s. This disappeared beneath the folds of Anne’s gown.

  Thanks to Mr. Denny’s antics, no one else had seen the exchange. Elizabeth sat and considered what to do. Was this a love note?

  Presently she closed her book and rose to her feet. “What a surprise it is to see you up and about so early, Mr. Wickham,” she said pleasantly.

  He gave his easy laugh and spread his hands. “In truth, a miracle. A pity your cousin is not here to appreciate it.”

  “And here I thought you never rose before noon.”

  “An exercise in efficiency, Miss Elizabeth. Breakfast and luncheon rolled into one meal. Old habits,” he added, “die hard.”

  He turned his smile on Anne. “I have yet to learn country habits and hours.”

  “That or return to London,” said Elizabeth flatly. “Miss de Bourgh, might I impose upon you to—”

  But Elizabeth never finished her sentence, being interrupted by the sound of an arriving coach. At once Lydia and Kitty threw down their cards and rushed to the windows. “Oh, no!” cried Kitty. “So soon?”

  Anne was on her feet at once. “I must introduce you to Mother,” Elizabeth heard her say to Mr. Wickham.

  “Perhaps—another time,” he said. “If she has not been happy to have you here, she will not be pleased to meet me.”

  “Of course she shall,” protested Anne. “For you are Cousin Fitzwilliam’s very good friend. Promise, please promise, to call on Mr. Darcy soon.”

  Wickham looked uncomfortable. “I—do not wish to intrude.”

  “It would be no intrusion, believe me,” said Anne. “After spending so much time with Mother, Cousin Fitzwilliam will welcome a friendly face. And,” she added, “so will I.”

  Mr. Wickham gallantly kissed both of Anne’s hands before surrendering her to Lydia and Kitty. Hill came in to say that Miss de Bourgh’s trunks were being loaded, and that her mother was waiting in the coach.

  This struck Elizabeth as a cowardly maneuver. But as tears were flowing freely, perhaps it was for the best. But what had become of Wickham’s letter?

  There was the usual commotion involved with saying farewell. When it was over, the younger girls stood at the windows and waved the coach down the drive.

  “And that, my dears,” said their mother, “is that. I daresay you will write to dear Miss de Bourgh.”

  “Oh, certainly,” said Kitty. “I shall write at once. And Mr. Collins will take my letter for me, since he goes to Netherfield every day.”

  Elizabeth was careful to keep her tone light. “Is that where he is? I thought he was keeping to his room.”

  “He came in, oh, perhaps an hour ago,” said her mother. “He said something about riding with Mr. Darcy, and off he went.”

  “Riding with Mr. Darcy,” echoed Mr. Wickham, sliding into a chair near Elizabeth’s. “It seems that my old friend is recovering. But I thought your cousin does not ride.”

  “Of course Mr. Collins rides,” Kitty interrupted, “for we have seen him. Now then, I must begin my letter.”

  Lydia cast herself onto one of the sofas. “You may write, if you wish. I do not find letters amusing, unless they are written to me. And most especially,” she added, “if they are love notes.”

  “What do you know of love notes?” scoffed Kitty.

  “Girls!” cried Mrs. Bennet.

  Elizabeth studied the floor. Was what Mr. Wickham had given a love note? Surely not.

  g

  It was only to avoid Caroline Bingley that Collins had agreed to Darcy’s scheme. He now stood in the paddock, looking from Darcy to the saddled horse. “But I do not wish to ride,” he protested.

  Darcy had the bad taste to ignore him and took the horse’s bridle from the groom. “Come and stroke the horse,” he said.

  “Do what?” Collins was not about to come any nearer to such an enormous beast. He could see it twitch and move its eyes. “Why should I?”

  “Because she is an animal, not a piece of furniture. She needs to know you, to trust you.”

  “I have no desire to trust her. And I daresay the feeling is mutual.”

  “My dear fellow, you are forced to trust her.”

  “Not if I do not ride,” Collins pointed out. “I’ll drive about in a chaise-and-four. I do own a chaise?”

  “Several,” said Darcy. “Put out your hand and stroke her shoulder. Like this.”

  Inside his fine leather gloves Collins could feel his palms sweating.

  “Come along,” said Darcy, more softly. “Must I hold your hand?”

  Collins consented to touch the horse, but with shrinking fingers.

  “There. Is that so bad? Bingley says she is an excellent mount for a lady. Meaning that she is very gentle. Just the thing for you until you recover.”

  “Not very clean, is she?” murmured Collins, examining his gloves.

  “Nonsense,” said Darcy. “She has been well-brushed and is in perfect form.”

  This was a complete lie, for there were hairs on his glove! Then Collins remembered that the stable boys were watching, so of course Darcy had to say this.

  Darcy led the horse to the mounting block. “Up you go,” he said to Collins. “Always mount on the left side, if possible.”

  Collins reluctantly obeyed. From the corners of his eyes he could see the stable boys grinning at one another.

  “Place your left hand on the mane, while your other hand holds the front of the saddle.”

  Was Darcy serious? He must do both at the same time?

  “Your left boot goes into the stirrup, there. Then swing your right foot over.”

  “Swing my right foot over,” Collins repeated.

  “As you do,” continued Darcy, “make sure not to kick the horse.”

  Collins placed his hands where Darcy indicated. His knees were knocking together. “I—do not think I can do this,” he confessed.

  Darcy gave a long sigh. “If things remain the way they are, this is a skill you will be expected to have mastered. We’ll get you settled in the saddle first, to give you the feel of keeping your seat.”

  “Keeping my seat?” said Collins. “At the moment I’m working on keeping my breakfast.”

  Somebody coughed to disguise a laugh. Gathering his courage, Collins took hold of the mane and somehow managed to struggle into the saddle.

  “It’s so high,” he said, gasping. He could feel the horse moving beneath him. He was going to faint, he knew it, or slide off and be trampled to death. Why had he allowed Darcy to persuade him? And what had happened to his hat?

  “Your injuries,” said Darcy distinctly, “have increased your awareness, that is all.”

  Collins could feel his knees trembling, and he wondered if the horse could feel it too. How he hated his own cowardice!

  “I’ll walk the horse around the paddock for a bit,” said Darcy. “Later we’ll move on to the trot.”

  “Later,” faltered Collins. He devoutly hoped that later would never come.

  g

  After spending what felt like hours in the paddock, Collins was cold and worn to the bone. He did not see how Darcy’s suggestion of a bath would cure any of these, and he had said so to anyone who would listen, most notably his valet.

  Oddly enough, Darcy was right. Collins was restored to his rooms clean, dry, and feeling remarkably well. The exertion of the ride, while nerve-wracking, must have been beneficial. Even so, he hoped that Darcy would forget his promise to return tomorrow for another lesson.

  The fire was crackling merrily when Collins drifted off to sleep. When the knocking at his door woke him, the fire was a bed of bright embers.

  Collins rubbed his
eyes. Was this a dream, or was Lady Catherine standing there? He scrambled to his feet. “Yes?” he said politely.

  But Lady Catherine had turned back to the doorway. “Of course you will speak with your cousin,” she said to someone Collins could not see. “Why are you so reluctant? And for goodness’ sake, close the door.”

  Whoever it was made a reply that Collins did not hear. And then he realized that Lady Catherine was addressing her daughter. He knew that Anne was due to arrive today, but he did not figure it would be so soon.

  “If a gently-bred girl,” he heard Lady Catherine say, “makes a perilous journey to see her fiancé…”

  “He is not my fiancé!”

  “Hear, hear,” said Collins. Not softly enough! Lady Catherine turned and gave him a dark look.

  She rounded on Anne. “Then why did you tell the Bennets that he was?”

  “To explain my journey, of course.” There was insolence in Anne’s tone, something Collins had never heard. He angled his position to get a better look.

  “You felt the need to rush to Fitzwilliam’s side?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Why?” demanded Lady Catherine.

  Anne put up her chin. “A week ago I was a very different girl.”

  Lady Catherine’s fingers fastened on Anne’s arm. “How do you mean?”

  “I was desperate to leave Rosings! I was desperate to see something of the world! So when Mr. Fleming told me where he was going, I made him take me with him.”

  “Foolish girl! You are too ill for travel.”

  “I am not too ill. For the past days I have danced and played games and laughed and—”

  “And what else?” Lady Catherine said waspishly.

  “Nothing,” said Anne. Her eyes studied the rug.

  “You have been in the company of men!”

  “No men worth mentioning. Only Mr. Collins and Mr. Fleming.”

  Collins set his teeth. A fine tribute to his manhood!

  “Did you dance with Mr. Collins and Mr. Fleming?”

  “In a large company, yes,” said Anne. “What of it?” But there was something evasive about her manner.

  “The fact remains, my girl, that you left your home to rush to the bedside of a man. Therefore, to prevent a scandal, you will return to Rosings as a married woman.”