by Laura Hile
“Not with Father so ill.” Elizabeth rose and walked with him to the door.
At the threshold he paused. “I wonder,” he said. “Would he dare to call at Netherfield? Lady Catherine would have his hide.”
“But Mr. Wickham does not know Lady Catherine.”
“Ah, but he does. As a boy he threw rocks at her coach and was soundly thrashed. He’ll give her a wide berth.”
“How do you know what Mr. Wickham did as a boy?” said Elizabeth, smiling. “Or were you listening at doors again?”
He looked surprised, but only for a moment. “Nothing so dramatic,” he said. “Darcy told me, ah, when we rescued his sister. A cherished boyhood memory.”
g
And it was. How Wickham had howled! Even as a youngster he was a sneak and a bully, and he knew just how to get round Darcy’s old father.
Darcy discovered that he was smiling. There would be no getting round for Wickham this time.
The Rose and Crown smelled of stale smoke and was almost deserted. Darcy nodded to the barkeep and passed through the taproom. At the door to the inner parlor he paused. Sure enough, there was Wickham, nursing a cup of coffee. The buxom barmaid hovered nearby. Her glances in his direction left no doubt as to the nature of their relationship.
And it must have been quite a night, for Wickham did not look well. When he noticed Darcy, his bloodshot gaze was watchful.
Watchful, that was what Wickham had been as a boy. Alert to opportunity.
The man took another sip of coffee and licked his lips. “Hello, Padre,” he said. “What brings you here? Have you come to hear my confession?” He turned to wink at the barmaid. She giggled.
“Merely a pedestrian errand,” said Darcy, giving Wickham Collins’ most bovine stare. “I am charged with the delivery of this.”
When Wickham saw Anne’s letter his eyes narrowed—like a snake’s, Darcy thought. He held it out, and Wickham snatched it. Desperation made him greedy.
Here was evidence of the wisdom of Elizabeth’s advice. Even hung-over, Wickham was sharply observant. He examined the seal before breaking it.
Deliberately obtuse, Darcy said, “Will there be a reply, sir?”
“Why, yes,” said Wickham. “But I do not like to keep you kicking your heels here. Call for it in, say, half an hour?”
Darcy did Holdsworth proud. “Very good, sir,” he said woodenly. “I appreciate your consideration.”
“In fact, here.” Wickham reached into a pocket and drew out several pennies. “Have a cup of coffee on me.”
It took all Darcy’s strength to appear grateful.
As he went out he heard someone say, “Good news?”
“Very good news.” The exultation in Wickham’s voice was unmistakable. “I mean to win at cards tonight, for there will be calls upon my purse.”
And later, with his reply to Anne in Darcy’s pocket, Wickham’s laughter rang in Darcy’s ears all the way to Longbourn.
g
Mr. Bennet had not withheld Elizabeth’s news from his wife. And when she learned that Mr. Bingley had come to ask for Jane’s hand, there was no containing her.
“We must have a dinner, Lizzy,” she gushed, “to announce the engagements. So you must hurry and get well, Mr. Bennet. Mr. Bingley has promised chickens, as many as you can eat. So you may gorge yourself to your heart’s content.”
Her pent-up anxiety found relief in talk, and later that morning she filled the drawing room with it. “Two daughters about to be married; was there anything more wonderful? Such splendor for you, Jane. Carriages and gowns and pin-money! And a fine residence into the bargain. And for you, too, Lizzy,” she added kindly.
“Thank you, Mama,” said Elizabeth. If jubilation took her mother’s mind from her father’s illness, so much the better.
“Let me see,” Mrs. Bennet went on, “we need three Sundays for the banns to be read—”
“But Mama,” said Mary.
“Do be quiet, Mary! Your father and I have talked everything over. The banns are to be read as soon as may be, with no shillyshallying.”
“Shilly-what, Mama?” said Elizabeth.
“It’s an expression. It means delaying,” said Mrs. Bennet. “Your father was most insistent.”
“Mama, really,” said Mary. “Given Father’s condition—”
“Of course he shall recover. News such as this puts heart into anyone. Mr. Collins is nothing to Mr. Bingley, but we are no less pleased. We are settled at Longbourn forever!”
“Mama,” protested Mary.
“Now that the threat of being driven from our home is past, your father will live for many years.”
Mrs. Bennet paused, struck by a sudden thought. “Could Mr. Bingley or Mr. Darcy or one of Mr. Darcy’s fine relations contrive to get a special license? Three weeks is too long to wait.”
“Mama,” said Jane.
Mrs. Bennet glanced at the clock. “What a shame that it is so early. I cannot wait to share the news with Lady Lucas. If only she weren’t so ill. Perhaps I should write her a note, yes.”
“All of Meryton will be buzzing,” said Kitty, “once Lady Lucas gets wind of it.”
Elizabeth heard her younger sisters laugh. It felt good to have laughter in the drawing room again.
“Jane must have clothes made, Mama,” Lydia pointed out. “And Lizzy too, although the need is not so pressing. In Hunsford, who will there be to see her?”
“Mr. Collins’ parishioners,” said Mary loyally.
Lydia’s comment sent Mrs. Bennet into a frisson of happy anxiety. How could not one but two sets of bridal clothes be made in so short a time?
How could they be paid for is what Elizabeth wondered, as her mother went out with Jane.
Sometime later Ned came in, looking ill at ease. “Miss Elizabeth,” he said, “one of them officers—not one as is known to us—is asking for Mr. Collins. What do I say to him?”
“Oh, lord,” said Lydia. “Tell him Mr. Collins is not at home.”
Elizabeth set aside her mending. “I shall see him, Ned, thank you. Do show him in. And,” she added, “if you could inquire as to his name?”
“Ah!” Ned’s face brightened and he held out a card. “He did give me this, Miss.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam, the card said—a beautifully correct card, with the name engraved on expensive paper.
The gentleman was just as correct and dressed in regimentals. His eyes, Elizabeth noted, were unmistakably blue. Immediately Lydia and Kitty began whispering.
He made a graceful bow. “I beg your pardon for intruding,” he said easily. “My cousin Darcy has written the most shambling letter.” He indicated a folded paper.
“Mr. Darcy?” said Elizabeth.
The man brightened. “Fitzwilliam Darcy, yes. Do you know him?”
“He is a guest at Netherfield Park. We have met on several occasions.”
His smile widened. “Then I can be easy about forcing my presence upon you.”
Elizabeth could not help but smile as she introduced her sisters.
Lydia interrupted. “Do call her Kitty. Everyone else does.”
Elizabeth saw a twinkle in the Colonel’s eyes. She invited him to be seated and cast a speaking look at Kitty. Ned would never remember to have tea brought in, but Kitty might. Unfortunately, she showed no signs of recognizing the hint. The lure of an unknown officer was too strong.
“It’s the most confounded thing,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, settling into a seat opposite Elizabeth. “And quite unlike my cousin. Ah yes,” he added, “Darcy is my cousin, you see.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam unfolded his letter. “He tells me that I am to see Mr. William Collins, a man I wouldn’t know from Adam. Apparently this Collins holds the key to some mystery.”
“You’re in luck,” crowed Lydia. “Mr. Collins is our guest. Isn’t it funny? He is also our cousin.”
“Mary,” said Elizabeth, “would you have tea brought in? I fear that Ned has forgotten.”
&n
bsp; She turned to Colonel Fitzwilliam. “We are rather out of sorts this morning. Our father is ill and so is our footman.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s smile fled. “No doubt you are wishing me at Jericho, Miss Bennet. I do apolg—”
“Mr. Collins,” interrupted Kitty, “is probably at Netherfield Park. He usually is. Lady Catherine de Bourgh is there, you see. She is his patroness.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam blinked in surprise. “My aunt is here?”
“She came when she learned of Mr. Darcy’s injury,” Elizabeth explained.
“Injury? When was this?”
“About a fortnight ago,” said Kitty.
“He was struck by lightning,” added Lydia. “But he has recovered, if one does not count his outrageous proposal to Lizzy.” She broke out giggling.
“Proposal?” cried Colonel Fitzwilliam. “A proposal of marriage? Darcy?”
“Lizzy blames the laudanum,” Lydia continued, “but we are not convinced.”
“Lydia,” warned Elizabeth. She turned to Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Mr. Darcy hit his head when he fell, sir. Mr. Fleming—Lady Catherine’s physician—tells us that his prospects for recovery are excellent.”
“Eventually,” said Lydia.
“Poor fellow,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, shaking his head. “I am behind on every hand, it seems.”
“Excuse me,” said Lydia, “but have you lately joined the ___shire Militia? Your uniform is so very fine.”
“And,” added Kitty, “it is different than that of the other officers.”
“I belong to the Dragoon Guards, 6th regiment. Not,” he added, smiling, “to any militia.”
“Oh!” said Kitty and Lydia. “The Dragoon Guards!”
Colonel Fitzwilliam was on his feet, making his bow to Elizabeth. “Apparently it is to—Netherfold?—that I must go.”
“Netherfield Park,” said Elizabeth, smiling. “I will ask Ned to direct you.”
Mary came bursting through the door and nearly collided with the Colonel. “Elizabeth,” she said, “you are wanted upstairs. At once.”
“In a moment, Mary.”
“Mama says you must come now. Father is asking for you.”
33 But Look at Home
Darcy saw at once that Mr. Bennet’s condition had worsened. Either Elizabeth had concealed the truth from him, or she did not understand what she was seeing. But of course she did not understand. Such knowledge was acquired only through experience. It was obvious, too, that the man was in pain.
“Elizabeth has told me,” said Mr. Bennet, between breaths, “what it is you wish—to ask, Mr. Collins. You seek—my blessing—to marry my daughter.”
“I have come to ask for Miss Elizabeth’s hand, yes,” Darcy said. “I quite understand your reluctance, sir.”
Mrs. Bennet broke in. “Reluctance?” she protested. “Mr. Bennet is not reluctant, Mr. Collins, not at all.”
How Darcy wished Mrs. Bennet were not in the room! But Mr. Bennet had insisted that she join them, so here she was.
“It is not my intention to upset you, sir,” Darcy added.
But he had. Even a simpleton could see that Darcy was wresting the man’s pet lamb from his bosom. Mr. Bennet was loath to give Elizabeth up, especially to someone like Collins. If their positions were reversed, Darcy would have felt precisely the same.
“Have I any choice?” said Mr. Bennet. “I am in no condition—to object. Indeed, I ought to be—grateful.”
“And we are,” said Mrs. Bennet. “Deeply grateful.”
“I deserve no gratitude, sir,” said Darcy quietly. “Nor do I deserve your daughter. There are few men in England worthy of so great a treasure. I ask only to care for her, to shelter and provide for her.”
“You are—not her equal.”
“Indeed, sir, I know it,” said Darcy.
Mrs. Bennet interrupted. “What do you mean, Mr. Bennet? Mr. Collins is your relation. And while he is not precisely a gentleman, he has a gentleman’s profession.”
“Not equal in intelligence,” continued Mr. Bennet, as if he had not heard. “Nor in spirit. Or insight.”
Darcy squirmed under Mr. Bennet’s gaze. The man made him feel like a schoolboy who had stolen an undeserved treat. And he was right, blast him. He was right.
The door came open, and Elizabeth entered.
A smile spread over Mr. Bennet’s wan face. “Lizzy, my dear.” He attempted to hold out a hand. “Mr. Collins has something—he wishes to ask you.”
Elizabeth turned expectantly to Darcy.
“Ask you?” scoffed Mrs. Bennet. “Mr. Bennet, you told me that they were engaged already.”
“Hush, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet. “We must now listen to Mr. Collins’ beautifully—” he paused to cough “—spoken prose.”
There was a barb there; but Darcy paid it no mind. It was protocol to kneel, but even if it were not, his legs would not have supported him. Thus Fitzwilliam Darcy embarked on his very first proposal.
“Elizabeth,” he began, all too aware of her mother and father and of the state of his nerves. “Dearest Elizabeth—Miss Elizabeth,” he hastily amended. “So much has changed since I arrived at Longbourn. I myself have changed, in ways I cannot describe.” He paused. “I wonder if anyone would believe how much.”
“Much has changed for me as well,” she said.
“I cannot begin to understand why Provi—” Darcy stopped himself. “—why God Himself has thrown us together in this extraordinary way, nor can I predict the outcome. Or rather, I should say, the future.”
He was rambling, heaven help him. He ought to speak of his deep and sincere love for her. But to do so, as Collins, before her parents seemed selfish and grasping. Then he heard Mrs. Bennet give an impatient huff.
Elizabeth helped him. “We live day to day, dear William, do we not?” she said, smiling. “Walking by faith and not by sight. Who among us can see what the future holds?”
The future. Bless Elizabeth, he could see the future, at least for the short term. If Mr. Bennet lived out the week it would be a miracle. His duty was clear. He had become Collins for such a time as this.
“My earnest desire,” said Darcy, over the hammering of his heart, “is to protect you, to provide for you, to walk by your side through life as—” he paused to take her hands in his own “—as your loving and adoring husband.”
“And it is my desire,” she replied, “to walk beside you as your loving and adoring wife.”
Darcy closed his eyes and waited. No church bells rang, the heavens did not open, nor did a flash of lightning split the sky. The bedchamber remained solidly real, along with Mr. Bennet’s labored breathing. He was still Collins and very much so.
“Trust a rector to preach a sermon,” Mrs. Bennet remarked. “All that was required, Mr. Collins, was to ask a simple question.”
g
One way or another Collins knew he must get round this cousin of Darcy’s. For that was what Mrs. Nicholls had called him: your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Who was he and why had he come? Miss Bingley was not available for help.
With trepidation he followed Mrs. Nicholls to one of the small parlors and went in. He expected to see a man with Darcy’s dark good looks and arrogance. But this cousin was built on more ordinary lines, and he was obviously pleased to see Darcy. Collins wondered how he ought to greet him, but the Colonel made everything easy—he simply held out a hand. Collins took it because he must (he was never eager to shake hands, as some were) and received a thump on the shoulder. “Darcy, old fellow. You’re looking fit.”
Collins sighed. Why did people tell lies to those who had been ill? “I have been better,” he said, and he drew up a chair for himself. “How have you been faring? How is the family?”
It was Collins’ experience that people liked to speak about themselves, and Colonel Fitzwilliam was no different. He launched into a recital about people Collins had never heard of and finished with his mother’s latest whim, redecoration. “She would have a ti
me with this old place,” he added.
“Yes, Miss Bingley—do you know Miss Bingley? —is keen to have a go at modernizing it,” Collins said. “She has schemes to redecorate Pemberley.” He forced a laugh. So far things were progressing nicely. “And your father? How is he?”
Too late Collins realized that he did not know whether Darcy’s uncle was alive—or even if Colonel Fitzwilliam’s father was his uncle. With cousins one never knew.
“You know how he is,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Collins breathed a sigh of relief.
“Coming the earl more often than not, ranting at young bucks like me. There’s always some squabble in the House of Lords to get him riled up.”
Collins flinched, he couldn’t help it. “H-house of Lords?” he stammered. Were Caroline and his cousin in league together?
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s bright gaze fastened on him, and it added to his discomfort. Collins crossed a booted leg over the other. His aim was studied nonchalance, but somehow he knew that he was not succeeding. He forced another laugh. “As long as I am not the one running for office,” he quipped, “it really is no concern of mine.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam flinched. Collins knew suspicion when he saw it. He’d made a blunder. Obviously Darcy took politics seriously.
“Lady Catherine—our, ah, relation—has been urging me to run for office,” he explained. “And so has Miss Bingley.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s gaze did not waver. “From what you’ve let fall,” he said, “Miss Bingley will not be satisfied until she ‘urges’ you down the aisle. So she has added Parliament to the list? What else, I wonder?”
“I am afraid to think of it,” Collins admitted.
“You never could stomach her for long, as I recall. Myself, I would cut the connection with Bingley altogether. Unless, of course, the sister is pretty. You have never said—is she? She is obviously well-off.”
Collins did not know how to respond. Raillery was never his strong suit, and he suspected that it was not Darcy’s. But with this cousin would Darcy let his guard down?
And then Collins realized that he had lapsed into silence. Men of quality never allowed a conversation to flounder. “Perhaps you have heard,” he bleated, “that I was injured.”
