by Laura Hile
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There was no reasoning with Fitz in this mood, so Darcy turned and stalked away. That swing revealed the state of Fitz’s mind. He was angry, yes, but he was also frightened.
Darcy felt only the bite of disappointment. His cousin’s presence brought to mind his old life, and most especially, his sister. How he had counted on Fitz’s help to reestablish a relationship with Georgiana. There was no hope of becoming himself again, but through Fitz he had hoped to have some influence, to do her some good.
Darcy reached the Folly and took refuge behind one of the statues. He saw Fitz pause and look round several times, but he continued in the direction of the stables.
Darcy drew a long breath. He would speak to his cousin again, but only after he had had a chance to think. He raised his eyes to the heavens in a silent prayer for help. And then he noticed the stone arches. Of course. Spenser the arch-poet. His cousin Anne and George Wickham would be meeting here, at the Folly.
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Again the library door opened, and again Collins cringed. This was becoming like a second-rate stage play. And who should come in this time but Colonel Fitzwilliam. It seemed to Collins that he was looking ruffled and out of sorts.
“Pardon the intrusion, ma’am,” he said to Lady Catherine, “but the butler said you were here.”
Caroline Bingley thought he was speaking to her. “Do come in, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” she said.
“Aunt Catherine,” he said, “within the hour I shall be leaving for London to retain the services of an expert. Until I return and he has made his examination, I insist that Darcy remain here.”
“My dear nephew,” began Lady Catherine.
“I am afraid I must insist, ma’am,” he said. “Darcy tells me that you intend to take him to Rosings. There is no point in doing so if care can be arranged another way.”
“Do you mean a place like Bedlam?” faltered Miss Bingley.
Colonel Fitzwilliam hesitated. “That is the general idea, yes.”
It was these people who were mad, Collins decided, and not him. They had forgotten that he was present—except for Miss Bingley and that remark about Elizabeth Bennet. He would have plenty to say to Darcy about that!
Again the door came open, but only to admit the butler. “Mr. Collins’ compliments,” he said, “and is Mr. Darcy home to callers?”
A silence fell, during which everyone gazed at Collins. It took him a full minute to digest what was happening. Darcy had come, though of course as “Mr. Collins.” Collins had no wish to see him, but neither did he wish to listen while everyone else decided his future.
Lady Catherine gave him no choice. “Off you go, Fitzwilliam,” she said. “We have plans to discuss.”
Collins made a face and heaved out of the chair. The door swung shut behind him. Voices resumed talking, but not distinctly.
A specialist from London sounded ominous. But then, so did London and the cellar at Rosings, which is no doubt what Lady Catherine had in mind. On the other hand, he had the Darcy fortune at his disposal. Perhaps the specialist could be induced to recommend a year’s convalescence abroad, say, in Italy? Yes, Collins rather fancied Italy.
In the entrance hall sat Darcy in a chair. “Good lord,” said Collins. “You look like death.” Darcy’s face was haggard and his clothes looked as if he’d slept in them.
“Not a social call,” Darcy said, as soon as the butler was out of earshot. “I’ve come to write a letter. I need access to your writing desk.”
“By Jove,” said Collins, “I forgot. Georgiana has written again, and I have no idea how to reply. I’m half afraid she’ll come.”
“So is Fitz,” said Darcy, mounting the stairs. “That is to say, Colonel Fitzwilliam. I take it you’ve met.”
“We have,” said Collins, following. “And might I ask, what business have you to be proposing marriage to Elizabeth Bennet?”
Darcy tuned, and it seemed to Collins that an ugly light came into his eyes. “That decision was made in response to yours. Namely that upon Mr. Bennet’s death, you will cast your cousins—or are they mine? —into the street.”
“I said no such thing.”
“But you did. A remarkable revealer of truth, too much drink. You made your opinion unmistakably clear.”
The trouble with Darcy was that he thought himself smarter than everyone else. “Taking an awful chance aren’t you?” Collins taunted. “What if we change back?”
“That is looking less and less likely,” said Darcy. “If we do, you are set, Collins.”
They came to the landing. Darcy paused and looked Collins in the eyes. “To say truth, Mr. Bennet is dying.”
Collins felt his face grow hot; his fingers clenched into fists. “Longbourn—snug, dear Longbourn, the desire of my heart—will be yours? Along with Elizabeth?”
“Keep your voice down. You will do well to remember that my fortune, my beloved sister, and my family honor, have been surrendered to you.”
“It is not fair,” complained Collins. “I do not wish to be you. Not anymore. Not when I can have Longbourn.”
“And I,” said Darcy, “have had to make peace with being you.”
“You don’t have Colonel Fitzwilliam on your heels, haring off to London to summon a specialist.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “Fitz is leaving?”
“Within the hour he said.”
“With intention to shut you—and me as well—away in Bedlam? I’ll see that.”
“I’d rather travel through Italy,” said Collins.
“Fitz will never allow it. But take heart, Collins. All is not lost. I’ll prepare you for Fitz’s examination. But you must quit pouting and apply yourself.”
Collins’ lower lip protruded. “I am not pouting.”
At Darcy’s insistence, Collins brought him upstairs. “Holdsworth is working in the dressing room. If your business is of a private nature—”
“There is little privacy in a house of this size,” said Darcy, “or I daresay in any other. Simply tell Holdsworth to take himself off and he will gladly comply.”
Collins bristled. “I know how to give orders to servants,” he said. “If you must know, I am trying to guard your dignity.”
“My what?”
“It’s—your clothing,” said Collins. “How you can appear before a fellow like Holdsworth is beyond me. He is fiercely particular.”
“My good man,” said Darcy, “Holdsworth will not give a fig about what I wear. It’s your appearance that showcases his skill as valet. And if you continue to put on weight, he will certainly give notice.”
This caused Collins to suck in his gut. “According to Mr. Fleming,” he said with a sniff, “a healthy appetite is a sign of recovery. But you are a fine one to talk. You have ruined my best frock coat and breeches.”
Darcy located the box with his writing supplies, retrieved the key from a drawer, and unlocked the box. “If you will bring Georgiana’s letter,” he said, “I will answer it now.”
Collins began patting his pockets. “I could have sworn—” he muttered.
“Try the drawer in the bedside table. If Holdsworth found it that is where it will be.”
Sure enough, Collins found Georgiana’s letter. “Do you think he read it?”
“Very possibly. Just as Mrs. Nicholls no doubt tried to hear what was going forward in the library.”
“Good gracious.”
“A large house is very like the nave of a church. Caroline Bingley made no effort to hide her irritation; I could hear her in the entrance hall.”
Collins made grumbling noises and Darcy unfolded Georgiana’s letter. He could not help sighing a little to see her familiar writing. “This message is innocent enough,” Darcy told Collins, “and as I said, I have nothing to fear from Holdsworth. But you must learn to guard your privacy.”
“I see no point in having a locked box if the key is kept in the drawer.”
“But I had nothing to conceal. And the key is not alwa
ys kept in the drawer.” Darcy drew out a sheet of paper, trimmed the pen, and dipped it in the ink pot. “I have decided to mention your injury to Georgiana, albeit in the mildest of terms.”
“Darcy—” protested Collins.
“My objective is to keep her from coming here.”
“Please do,” said Collins.
“The trouble is, sooner or later she will hear of it—from my aunt—so it is best to be straightforward.”
“If that brute Fitzwilliam has his way—” Collins began.
Darcy gave him a quelling look. “If you insist on talking, I shall never finish this,” he said. “Now then, in the wardrobe is a dark blue riding coat. The brass buttons have a military insignia—not authentic, but close enough. If you would be so kind as to bring it here?”
Collins shuffled off and Darcy wrote out a brief and affectionate message. Please God it would keep his sister in happy ignorance—for now. He folded the letter and wrote the direction.
“At some point you must to learn to sign my name,” he called to Collins. “As I have learned to sign yours.”
Collins came out of the dressing room. “But that’s—that’s forgery,” he spluttered.
“It is, certainly. But who will know?” Darcy propped Wickham’s note to Anne and studied it. Collins came forward with the riding coat. “Now what are you doing?”
“Copying out Wickham’s message to Anne. It was necessary to open his letter,” he explained, “but I can more easily replicate it than repair the damaged seal.”
Collins clicked his tongue “You, the upstanding citizen, the pattern card of virtue.”
“You shouldn’t believe everything Aunt Catherine says. But this is not for sport. The elopement is set for tomorrow after midnight. One way or another I must stop it.”
“What elopement?”
Darcy laid down his pen. “Collins,” he said, “you are not a stupid man; do you never listen? You will learn so much by paying attention. And do not give me the excuse that your head hurts.”
“But it does,” complained Collins.
“When it is in your best interest, your mental capacity is fine. And it is in your best interest to keep Anne from running off with George Wickham.”
Collins gave a sniff. “What is Lady Catherine to me? Or her daughter?”
“Lady Catherine is your blood relation,” said Darcy. “And while you are no longer dependent of the Rosings estate, you have a duty to protect them.”
“Oh, lord,” said Collins.
Darcy took up his pen and began to write. Fortunately Wickham’s hand was not difficult to copy. “Tonight,” he said, “after the family is in bed, you will go down to the library. In the right-hand side of Bingley’s desk, bottom drawer, you will find a case with dueling pistols.”
Collins fairly squealed. “What? You will fight a duel?”
Darcy just looked at him. “Any man worth his salt does not enact an elopement unarmed. And Bingley’s pistols—a foolish and impulsive purchase—are the only ones I can lay hands on.”
“Except that it is my hands that will be doing the deed,” said Collins with another sniff. “I am reduced to stealing.”
“Borrowing,” corrected Darcy. “We’ll put them back before dawn, nicely cleaned.”
“Cleaned?” squeaked Collins. “Why cleaned, if you plan not to shoot?”
“Wickham could become difficult,” said Darcy. “His need for money is desperate.”
“Anne has money and he needs it—that sounds like a perfect match.”
“Ah, but her inheritance is not settled absolutely,” said Darcy. “That is to say, her mother could disinherit her from the bulk of her fortune. If that happens, then Anne will be your problem.”
“Not if I can help it,” said Collins.
“See if Anne and her new husband don’t come begging,” said Darcy. “They’ll threaten to cause a scandal if you do not make them an allowance.”
Collins actually snorted. “Let them threaten. What care I for scandal? The Darcy fortune is an impenetrable fortress.”
“Hardly,” said Darcy.
“I have seen men of rank at university. Their wealth protected them from a world of trouble. No,” Collins said, “unlike you, I am not afraid of Anne de Bourgh.”
Darcy felt his eyes narrow. “Whether de Bourghs or Bennets, you are not your cousins’ keeper, are you? You will stand by while Anne is left destitute?”
“She should have thought of that before she disobeyed her mother,” Collins said primly. “Anne gets what she gets for running off with a rogue.”
“I marvel,” said Darcy, “that you chose the church as your vocation.”
Collins opened his mouth to answer, but Darcy cut him off. “Give the coat to me and go smoke a cigar. If there are any left.”
“Of course there are,” Collins said peevishly. “What is the coat for?”
Darcy decided to humor him. “The buttons.” He indicated Wickham’s letter. “Dear George used a uniform button to make the impression for the seal, and I shall do the same. Anne won’t know the difference.”
“What a devil you are, Darcy.”
Darcy did not answer. Fitz had told him the same thing.
Collins settled into the sofa, and Darcy resumed his copying. At last he sealed both letters with red wax. Collins was enjoying his cigar, his feet propped on a low table.
Darcy gazed out the window at the bleak winter landscape. He’d expected too much from his cousin, and his disjointed explanation did nothing to help. If Fitz could not accept the truth, how would Elizabeth react?
Would she believe him?
But he must tell her—indeed, he would do better than he had with Fitz. He would state the facts, rationally and in sequential order, without dramatics. Elizabeth loved him; she would hear him out.
His gaze traveled to the table. Here were pen and paper. Yes, he would write a letter and explain everything. It was his best chance of being understood.
And if she did not believe him?
Darcy cast doubt aside and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. He dated it and wrote the salutation.
Elizabeth, my Beloved,
An excellent beginning—except that he had written in his own hand.
Darcy frowned at the page, chewing his lip and thinking. Should he begin again and ape Collins’ crabbed scrawl?
The bedchamber was quiet, save for the muted snores of Collins, who had fallen asleep. The cigar must have burned out, for there was no evidence of smoke.
What I have written, I have written drifted through Darcy’s mind. Pontius Pilate again. Most definitely not a good sign.
But Darcy could no longer afford to wait for signs. Squaring his shoulders, he began to write.
37 Fields of Frost
Collins slept on, and Darcy tore up another sheet. It was the preamble that was giving him fits. It now occurred to him that he had never written a letter to a woman he loved.
Once the beginning was in hand, the rest came more easily. Days of thinking, and the botched explanation to Fitz, worked in his favor. At last Darcy signed his name—his own name—and sat waiting for the ink to dry.
He rose to his feet and crossed the room to the sofa. There lay Collins, asleep. What an unattractive fellow he had become! The coat was creased, there was a stain on the waistcoat, and Collins had no idea that one’s neck cloth would not remain in place without attention. His mouth gaped; the breathing was raspy.
Fortunately, the right hand was unimpaired. Should Darcy risk removing the signet ring? He hadn’t used it for Georgiana’s letter, and she was one of the few who would notice.
Collins gave a muffled snort and shifted his position. No, Darcy decided, it was not worth it. He returned to the desk, melted the wax, and sealed Elizabeth’s letter with the riding coat button.
That coat brought a wave of regret, for it was beautifully made. On a whim, Darcy shrugged out of Collins’ black frock coat. The cut of the riding coat was severe and the sleev
es were not right, but in a pinch it would do. He would not wear a coat this fine for many years, if ever. Reluctantly Darcy replaced it in the wardrobe, shrugged into Collins’ beetle-black, and quietly let himself out of the room.
The letter to Anne was delivered easily enough. As Darcy suspected, she had shut herself in her bedchamber, claiming to be ill. Her face appeared wan enough, until she caught sight of the letter. She could not conceal her eagerness—at least not from him—but she did try, with a sidelong look meant to put Mr. Collins in his place. She shut the door at once, leaving him standing there.
All that was left was to walk back to Longbourn.
The sun was low in the sky when the house came into sight. In the cold winter air sounds carried, and Darcy heard voices coming along the lane. He slowed his steps, reluctant to show himself. For unless he missed his guess, here were Kitty and Lydia.
“But we cannot tell her how miserably we have failed.”
“It serves her right,” said a second voice. “Where were we supposed to find twenty pounds?”
“We would have more if you had pawned your necklace like I did.” This voice, Darcy decided, must be Kitty’s.
“The amount that Mr. McCurdy offered was laughable. I am not such a flat as to be completely gulled.”
And the second voice was Lydia—using cant she had picked up who knew where. Darcy came to a halt and waited.
“But what else have we to sell?” he heard Kitty lament.
“If I were allowed to sell my creations, we would have plenty,” said Lydia. “My bonnets are always prettier than anything in the shops. The women of Meryton would be happy to pay.”
“Anne is relying on us. How else will she escape her fiend of a mother? Without money for travel, Anne will never reach Pemberley.”
Darcy stood very still. What a schemer his precious cousin was turning out to be!
“She is a fool to travel alone on the mail,” said Lydia. “That’s the first place they’ll look.”
“Which is why she must borrow my clothes. Hers are too fine—that is what her letter said.”
“Not much of a compliment to you, is it?” said Lydia. “My letter said nothing about clothes, and I am glad. I’d rather not give up any of mine.”
