by Laura Hile
“That I shall not!” cried Anne.
“Lady Catherine,” Collins protested.
She silenced him with a glance. “You will marry Fitzwilliam,” she said to her daughter. “If the roads were better I would already have sent for a special license.”
“Mother, no! Fitzwilliam dislikes me as much as I dislike him!”
Lady Catherine was not deterred. “You will find him sadly changed,” she admitted. “But perhaps that is for the best. You and he can be ill together.”
“But—I do not love him!”
“Since when is love important in marriage? Scores of married couples do not get on in private. This is why a large estate is beneficial.”
“Mother!” pleaded Anne.
“Leaving each of you free to pursue your own interests. Fortunately,” added Lady Catherine, “Fitzwilliam’s interests will not bring shame on the family.”
Anne flashed him a dark look.
“Come, take his hand,” Lady Catherine coaxed. “Let us make a beginning.”
Anne recoiled. “No! He will only look at me in that cold way of his. I marvel that I ever thought him attractive.”
It was all Collins could do to keep from sneering. Darcy, unattractive? Anne was hardly a prize!
“Fitzwilliam is not amusing, Mother,” Anne pleaded. “When he comes he scarcely speaks. Does he entertain us with games or stories or dancing?”
“Is it necessary,” Collins broke in, “to speak of me as if I were not present?”
This Lady Catherine ignored. “Of course he does not dance at Rosings. Even if he wished to, there would be no one to play. And with only one couple…”
“Mrs. Jenkinson can play. As to couples, there is Mr. Collins.”
“Please,” said Lady Catherine. “How on earth would you make a proper set? Enlist the housekeeper? The footman? You are being nonsensical. Come here and speak with Mr. Darcy. His thinking may be muddled,” she added, “but he knows his duty.”
“Would you marry me to a half-wit, Mother?” Anne wailed.
“No one of our ancestry,” said Lady Catherine, “can ever be a half-wit.” She gave Collins a look.
It was well that Collins was skilled in acting dumb, or he would have replied in kind. Anne turned on her heel and went storming out.
27If All The World Were Paper
No hot bath awaited Darcy when he returned, and as usual Longbourn was calamitous. This time it was Mrs. Bennet, fussing in the vestibule with Hill. Or rather fussing at her. Mrs. Hill, who valued her position, would not dare to argue back. It took Darcy a full minute to realize that Mrs. Bennet was almost enjoying herself.
“I do not see,” she was now saying, “why we cannot have chicken.”
Chickens again! If he was ever restored to his proper identity, Darcy vowed to send Mrs. Bennet a wagonload of chickens.
“And yet,” she went on, “I learn that you have cooked several.”
Hill took Darcy’s hat and coat. It seemed to him that she was looking unusually distraught. “For the Master, ma’am,” she protested. “It was Mr. Fleming who ordered it and rightly so. My old grandmother swore by chicken broth.”
“I care this little—” Mrs. Bennet snapped her fingers, “—for what your ancestors thought. Sarah,” she called, hailing the girl as she passed by. “Fetch Mr. Fleming, I would like a word with him. At once, do you understand?”
“Mr. Fleming is with the Master, ma’am,” said Hill, “and shouldn’t be disturbed.”
Mrs. Bennet’s response was to flounce into the drawing room. Darcy followed, but at a distance.
It seemed to him that Fleming was looking drawn when he came in and stood before Mrs. Bennet. There were dark circles under his eyes. He suggested a private conversation, but she would have none of it. Her grievance about the chickens must be heard by all.
“I fail to see,” she began, “why our hens must be fed solely to Mr. Bennet. Eggs are difficult to come by at this time of year, and yet you must have laying hens slain to gratify him.”
“Your husband’s appetite has fallen off,” said Fleming, “and yet he willingly takes the soup.”
“Thus we are deprived to gratify his whims?”
Fleming did not return her smile. “If Longbourn is unable to provide the chickens for his broth, then we must purchase them elsewhere.”
“Spend good money when we have chickens here? Nonsense.”
“You fail to understand, ma’am, that your husband’s health has taken a turn for the worse, which is why I suggested a private conversation. But as everyone is here, it is perhaps best to state the case plainly.”
“A turn for the worse?” faltered Mrs. Bennet.
“Please understand,” said Fleming, “that there is no cause for alarm. Mrs. Hill and I are managing his care nicely. But in all honesty I must inform you that your husband is not out of the woods.”
“Not out of the woods?” echoed Mary.
There was silence in the drawing room as the gravity of those words came home. And then Mrs. Bennet began to wail.
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“First Miss de Bourgh is taken away,” Mrs. Bennet said, mopping her eyes. “Such an opportunity for my girls, and to what end? Then Hill must rage at me over chickens. And now Mr. Bennet is dying!”
“Mama.” Elizabeth sat down beside her mother and took her hand. “That is not what Mr. Fleming said.”
“It is what he meant! Not out of the woods, he said. Not out of the woods!”
Darcy did not have to guess what would come next.
“At any moment Mr. Bennet could be gone, and what will become of us? We shall be put into the street, that’s what. Cast from hearth and home.”
Darcy’s eyes met Elizabeth’s. “Please do not distress yourself, ma’am,” he told Mrs. Bennet.
Mrs. Bennet lowered her handkerchief. “Oh, Mr. Collins,” she said. And she made a play with her wet lashes.
That soulful look! She was waiting, Darcy knew, for his assurance that Longbourn House would always be her home. This he could not (and would not) promise, for it was unfair to commit Collins to such a course. When the time came—many years from now—he would make provision for Mrs. Bennet.
“Have faith, Mama,” said Elizabeth. “Father needs rest and quiet and Hill’s wonderful broth.”
This opinion was soundly seconded by a gentleman’s voice: Wickham’s!
Darcy swung round. Had Wickham been here all along? There he sat at a card table with Denny and the younger girls, taking in every morsel of information. Darcy turned his gaze elsewhere.
There came the sound of chairs scraping against the floor. In a rare display of tact, Wickham and Denny were leaving. Darcy watched them approach Mrs. Bennet. “Your husband is in need of quiet, and I daresay you are wishing us at Jericho,” said Wickham smoothly. “Please accept our best wishes for his speedy recovery.”
“But you cannot go,” protested Lydia. “Otherwise we’ll sit staring at one another. And nothing is as dull as that.”
“Lydia, really,” said Mary.
“Father has a cold, that is all,” said Lydia. “Please tell them to stay, Mama. At least until we have finished our game.”
But Lydia’s protests fell on deaf ears. The officers took their leave, and Mrs. Bennet sat twisting her handkerchief.
“We shall be forced to live on my money,” she lamented, “which amounts to almost nothing. Barely enough for a set of rooms in Meryton, Mr. Collins. After the comforts of Longbourn, it will be insupportable!”
Darcy shifted in his chair. Accommodations in town, or a cottage on the Longbourn estate, were precisely the style of provision he would offer.
“And what a thing for my girls,” Mrs. Bennet went on. “To have to wear the same gowns year after year, with no money for hats or dancing shoes or anything fine. Not even books, Lizzy.”
“Mama,” said Elizabeth, “Mr. Fleming said nothing about—”
“Don’t you tell me,” Mrs. Bennet flashed. “Mr. Fleming w
as being polite, not wishing to upset me. All is certainly not well. I have a sense about these things.” She took refuge in a fresh onslaught of sniffing.
“Oh dear,” Elizabeth whispered to Darcy. “I’m afraid there is no dealing with her in this state.”
“Perhaps,” he suggested, “she should see for herself how your father is faring.” Darcy turned to Mrs. Bennet. “Once he awakens, ma’am,” he said, “you might like to sit with him.”
Mrs. Bennet’s head came up. “Me, enter the sickroom?” she cried. “Witness poor Mr. Bennet’s sufferings as he thrashes about and struggles to breathe?” She paused to blow her nose. “Certainly I would like to be of comfort to him,” she added, “as it is a wifely duty. But my nerves will not allow it.”
An awkward silence descended on the drawing room, broken only by Mary’s dry cough. Presently Elizabeth rose to her feet, and Darcy did the same. Jane approached, embroidery frame in hand.
“Dearest Mama,” Jane said, taking Elizabeth’s empty seat. “Might I have your advice?” She indicated several skeins of silk.
Mrs. Bennet waved her away. “What have I to do with fripperies? Soon enough every pretty trifle will be banished. Or, more likely,” she added, with a look to Darcy, “sold to pay for food.”
But Jane persevered in her gentle way. “Which shade of pink would be best? The lighter or the darker?”
Mrs. Bennet pinched up her lips, but her gaze was drawn to Jane’s embroidery. “Primrose and violet?” she protested. “Why did you choose such colors?”
“Because of the flowers themselves. But as for the rose blossom, Mama, what do you think of…”
Jane continued speaking, and Darcy followed Elizabeth to the windows. “I’ll have a word with Fleming,” he told her quietly. “I doubt that your father is in serious danger.”
“No, of course his is not, but—” She caught hold of his arm. “He gave her a letter,” she whispered. “I saw it.”
Darcy was at a loss. “Fleming?”
“No, Mr. Wickham. He gave a letter to Anne this morning, just as Lady Catherine came to take her away.”
Darcy felt his lips compress. He could guess what the letter contained. “As usual, Wickham’s timing was perfect.”
“As usual? What do you mean?”
It was no good talking here. “Come into the dining room,” he said. “I’ll go first, and after a bit you follow.”
She gave him an exasperated look.
“Listening ears,” he whispered. He then raised his voice and said, “I’ll have a word with Fleming about your father, then.”
“Oh,” cried Mary, bouncing up. “Please do.”
Darcy heard Elizabeth give a sharp sigh. “As you wish,” he heard her whisper.
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She saw him place a chair for her and draw another forward for himself. There was a short silence. “I daresay the note is harmless,” Elizabeth said. “Nothing more than an expression of regard. But I thought you would like to know.”
He shifted in his chair. It now occurred to her that William Collins was looking both tired and unhappy.
“And if it is more than that,” she added, “why, Anne de Bourgh is an heiress. She must be accustomed to receiving notes from admirers.”
“I doubt whether she has encountered a man of Wickham’s ilk.”
Jane had said the same, and to hear it repeated irked her.
“For that matter,” he continued, “I doubt whether you—” He broke off speaking.
Elizabeth’s chin came up. “Whether I what?”
He did not answer but instead studied the floor.
“I know you think him a fortune hunter. Do you blame him for being tempted by her wealth? Any gentleman would be.”
He gave her a look. “Any gentleman?”
“Just because the man is a flirt does not mean he is a reprobate!”
“This rug,” he remarked, “has a rather unfortunate stain.”
“Stop trying to change the subject.” She leaned in. “You have always disliked Mr. Wickham, even from the first.”
“The word mistrusted would be more accurate.”
Elizabeth gave a huff of frustration. “Just now you remind me very much of Mr. Darcy.”
William Collins looked thunderstruck.
“He has always hated George Wickham,” Elizabeth added.
“Mr. Darcy,” he said grimly, “has his reasons.”
“How decided you are in your opinion! On the face of it, one would suppose that both you and Mr. Darcy are envious.”
“Envious?” he broke in. “Of Wickham?”
“Disliking him for his looks,” said Elizabeth, “or his accomplishments—”
“What accomplishments? He has none!”
“—or his manners or his easy address or his skill at cards.”
“You must be joking.”
“Or,” Elizabeth added, smiling a little, “because he is attractive to women.”
“He most certainly is that, and for reasons I cannot fathom.”
But he was looking so unhappy that Elizabeth’s irritation vanished. She reached for his hands and took them in her own. “But your objection runs deeper than envy. Do tell me, William. Why do you dislike him so?”
Again he fell silent. “The answer to your question,” he said at last, “involves information that is not mine to share.”
“Your position as a clergyman compels you to silence?”
“Something like that.”
She drew a long breath and let it out. “George Wickham is an incorrigible flirt, and he is wrong to encourage Anne’s affections. But her mother will put a stop to it.”
William did not look convinced. “Anne is both foolish and persuadable.” He hesitated. “I fear he will persuade her into an elopement.”
“That is an unfair assumption. Always you assume the worst.”
“With George Wickham, yes.”
“Then we must read that letter, if only to clear Mr. Wickham of suspicion.”
William Collins made a sound that was very like a snort.
Elizabeth put up her chin. “It is only right to know the truth. The question is, how do we obtain it?”
“How indeed?”
Elizabeth lapsed into thinking. “If what you suspect is true, Anne will guard it carefully. We must therefore obtain the sequel. For surely she will reply, and then we shall know.”
“And how do you suggest we do that?”
“You will become Anne’s courier, of course.”
He looked astonished. “Me?”
“Who else will Anne find to deliver her letter? None of the Netherfield servants; the risk of discovery is too great. Unless Anne is able to pay.”
“I doubt she has access to money,” he said. “You are suggesting that I present myself at Netherfield and offer my services? Rather an aggressive strategy.”
“Won’t it be Anne’s part to enlist your help? You will simply show up and—what is the word? Ah yes, hobnob.”
His scowl dissolved into a grin. “You do realize that Anne loathes me,” he said. “She thinks I am the greatest bore in nature. Not that I blame her.”
“You are nothing of the sort,” said Elizabeth.
“But I am! Rational conversation is impossible, for anything I say Lady Catherine pounces on and adds to her armory. Thus I take refuge in flattery.”
Elizabeth had to laugh. “Do be serious. Tomorrow you must find a reason to go to Netherfield and spend time in the drawing room. Overstay your welcome. Force Miss Bingley to invite you for a meal.”
“In other words,” he said, smiling, “I will make a nuisance of myself. That should not be difficult.”
“Your fulsome compliments will be put to good use.”
“Must I compliment Miss Bingley?” he wanted to know. “I will have to begin thinking now, for an extemporaneous remark will be hopelessly bad. And then there is Anne, who never looks well. Along with Lady Catherine’s questionable taste.”
“Your s
kills will be sorely tested,” Elizabeth admitted. “If only I could be in the drawing room to watch you work your magic. But alas…”
The dining room door came open. “Lizzy!” someone hissed.
Too late Elizabeth realized that she and William were sitting with their heads together. At once she drew back and released his hands.
The messenger was Kitty. “Mama wants to know what has become of Mr. Fleming. Lady Catherine’s coach has come to take him to Netherfield.”
“In other words,” Mr. Collins murmured, “our dear Anne has suddenly become ill.”
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But Darcy could not find Fleming anywhere, until he entered the bedchamber they shared. There he lay, fully clothed, stretched out on the bed. He was fast asleep and no wonder. How long had it been since he had slept?
Darcy found a blanket to cover Fleming, and then went out. He found Hill standing in the vestibule. “Mr. Fleming is asleep,” he told her, “and I am not about to wake him. Lady Catherine can wait.”
“But if the need is urgent,” Hill protested.
“I rather doubt that it is,” said Darcy. “Anne was perfectly well when she left us this morning. Ten to one she has shut herself in her bedchamber and is feigning illness. Either for attention or to avoid her mother.
“And under ordinary circumstances,” he continued, “I would not object. If Lady Catherine wishes to pay Fleming to dance attendance, so be it. However, Fleming’s expertise is needed here.”
“We are able to care for the Master in his absence,” said Hill. “There is no crisis, sir.”
Darcy smiled a little. It had been like an eternity since anyone had called him sir. “But it will worry Mrs. Bennet, and her anxiety will impact everyone in the house.”
Hill’s expression confirmed the truth of this.
“Invite her ladyship’s coachman in for a hot drink and some of your pie, Mrs. Hill. Lady Catherine can wait. An hour or two will make little difference to Anne de Bourgh.”
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Supper that evening was somber. According to Hill, Mr. Bennet was sleeping soundly. But Mr. Fleming was now at Netherfield, and Mrs. Bennet felt his absence keenly.
