Darcy By Any Other Name

by Laura Hile

  “Confound it,” Collins hissed, “let go!”

  “Not on your life,” Darcy whispered back, “since you are incapable of obeying even the simplest direction.”

  The fireplace coals were banked, and their glow served as a guide. The service door would be somewhere to the right.

  “I have followed your instructions to the letter,” Collins whispered savagely.

  Darcy could not let this pass. “I told you,” he said into the man’s ear, “to wear black.”

  “But I am!” Collins squeaked.

  Darcy’s free hand found one of the offending buttons. “Of the half-dozen in my wardrobe, must you chose the coat with brass buttons?”

  “But it’s my favorite.”

  Darcy tightened his hold and propelled Collins to the door. “Here,” he said. “Unfasten the bolt—quietly.”

  Reluctantly Collins obeyed. With care Darcy opened the door and pushed Collins out into the night air.

  “Kindly remember,” he said once the door was closed, “what we are up against tonight. Stay silent, and if you value your life keep those buttons covered.”

  Collins gave a loud sniff. “Why I allowed you to talk me into this I’ll never know.”

  “Because,” said Darcy, “you need to prove that you are me. Therefore you must rescue your cousin.”

  The paddock was deserted, eerily unfamiliar in the darkness. A gust of wind sent dead leaves scuttling across the gravel.

  Darcy pulled his hat well down and struck out in the direction of the gardens. Collins had no choice but to trot along beside. The gravel served to amplify their footfalls.

  “For heaven’s sake,” Darcy growled, “pick up your feet. That noise is enough to wake the dead.” Then, remembering that Collins cared nothing for their mission, he added, “You’ll ruin your shoes.”

  “I hate these shoes. They pinch.”

  Darcy came to a halt. “They did not do so when in my possession. If you insist on stuffing yourself like a hog, Collins, you will grow fat. Even your feet.”

  At last they rounded the corner of the mansion. Before them lay the garden, its shrubs reduced to blackened mass and form. Overhead towered bare trees, their branches whispering and rattling in the wind. Darcy left the gravel path and trod on the lawn.

  But of course Collins must talk. “I do not see why,” he began primly.

  Darcy rounded on him. “Can you not keep silent for two minutes? This is no May-game, Collins. We are defrauding Wickham of thousands of pounds, money to which he believes he’s entitled. He won’t surrender Anne without a fight.”

  Collins’ cloak had fallen open. “Those buttons,” Darcy added, twitching Collins’ cloak into place, “guarantee that you will be shot.”

  Collins recoiled “Why? What have I done?”

  Darcy felt his lips curl. “It’s what I have done. I foiled Wickham’s plot to elope with Georgiana. The man despises me.”

  Darcy turned his attention to the lane. Of a travelling coach there was no sign—yet. “Come along,” he said to Collins. “It looks like we’re in luck.”

  The path led through the rose garden. It was on a night much like this that Collins had followed him. Bingley’s ball—could it have been little more than a fortnight ago? It felt like a lifetime.

  Again Collins broke the silence. “How much?” he said.

  “How much what?”

  “How much money did Georgiana have?”

  “Thirty thousand,” said Darcy shortly.

  It was some time before Collins replied. “That is quite a sum,” he said. “One can hardly blame a man for—”

  Darcy turned on him. “Money,” he fairly spat. “With you it’s always money. Have you no morals, Collins? My sister was but fifteen, defenseless against a brute like Wickham.”

  “Of course I have morals! I am a man of the church, after all.”

  “Not anymore,” said Darcy. “Come along, we’re wasting time. Keep your eyes and ears open. Wickham should arrive soon.”

  Collins fell into step beside him. “Anne de Bourgh,” he said, “is not fifteen.”

  “In some ways,” Darcy retorted, “Anne is even younger.”

  The Folly loomed before them, and Darcy gave a sigh of relief. “We’re in time.”

  Collins resisted. “The place is deserted. You have the wrong night.”

  Darcy mounted the shallow steps. “Now we settle in and wait.”

  “In all this cold?” The wind came howling through the arches; Collins shuddered. “A storm,” he lamented. “Beastly luck, what with the wind.”

  The wind would be an excellent cover for the noise of a traveling coach. “The question is,” said Darcy, “will Wickham come alone? Or is one of his so-called brother officers in on the plot?”

  Collins gave a snort of dismissal.

  “Oh yes,” Darcy went on. “Where large amounts of money are involved, men will do much. My sister’s companion was in Wickham’s pay. Now that you are me, you will learn that knowing whom to trust is anything but easy.”

  Before long Darcy saw what he was looking for—a coach and four, its lights bobbing as it crossed the lawn. It came to a halt not far from the Folly. Darcy saw the postilion dismount and climb up to join the driver. Apparently they were expecting to wait.

  Collins shuffled his feet unhappily. “Bother this wind.”

  Darcy could have said the same, but his attention was directed at the coach. Wickham was within, warm and snug, while the men he’d hired sat out in the cold, smoking.

  The men he’d hired. This gave Darcy an idea.

  “Remain here,” he told Collins. “Do not move or make a sound.”

  “As if I could,” Collins muttered. “I’m nearly frozen.”

  Keeping to the shadows, Darcy made his way to the coach and four. On the back was strapped a trunk—Wickham’s, he assumed. The man was clearing out of Meryton.

  How best to approach the driver? For once Darcy was thankful for Collins’ parson’s hat—and for the fact that the wind had dropped, making conversation possible. If only the rain would hold off.

  “Evening,” he said, lifting his hat to the men on the box. He allowed a Derbyshire lilt to creep into his speech. “Rough night to be traveling.”

  “Aye, that it is,” said one of the men.

  “If I weren’t a man of the cloth,” said Darcy, borrowing Collins’ expression, “I’d be carrying a flask to offer. As it is, I’ll give a bit of advice.”

  The driver puffed on his pipe. The ashes in the bowl glowed red.

  “I’ve had dealings with the man you’re toting. He’s a fine one for talk. I see he’s traveling far tonight—clearing out, as it were.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said the driver guardedly.

  “Has a habit of leaving debts behind. He’ll chouse a working man out his due without batting an eyelash.”

  “Is that so?”

  “If I were you, I wouldn’t budge an inch until I was paid in full. Cash, not promissory notes and fine talk. Especially on a night like this.”

  The two men on the box exchanged glances, and Darcy hid a smile.

  “I’d best be off before the rain sets in,” he said. “A good journey to ye.” He sauntered off down the lane—and none too soon, for as he reached the shadows he heard the door to the coach come open. How much of their exchange had Wickham heard?

  Darcy stepped behind a hedge and carefully retraced his steps to the Folly. Collins was almost beside himself.

  “There,” he whispered urgently, “do you see? Out of nowhere someone came and left those.” He indicated two dark shapes near the steps.

  “And you did not apprehend him?”

  Collins drew himself up. “I was instructed,” he said primly, “not to move.”

  “Did you see who it was?”

  “Of course not. I think,” Collins added, “that it was a woman. But not Anne, because she ran away again.”

  Rain was now falling, and over its hiss came the soun
d of voices—Wickham’s and the driver’s. Darcy’s lips twisted into a smile. So Wickham hadn’t paid up. Was he counting on Anne to provide the money? As if that would happen! Anne, like most young women of rank, never carried cash.

  But where was Anne? And then light—brilliant and white and blindingly intense—illumined the scene. A moment later everything was black.

  Thunder growled and rumbled, and it brought Collins to life. “Lightning! Lightning!” he crowed, and he began to dance about. “Longbourn shall be mine, all mine. Beautiful, beautiful Longbourn!”

  Darcy made a lunge for Collins. He must keep the man quiet!

  “I shall be a gentleman,” Collins rattled on. “I’ll have cigars, and a wine cellar, and a man to look after my clothes.”

  Another flash of lightning. Darcy strained to see. Was someone leaving the house?

  “Lightning, beautiful lightning,” sang Collins. “O munificent providence, Longbourn is mine.” He paused to suck in a breath. “And lovely Elizabeth as well.”

  “Stow it, Collins,” said Darcy curtly. “You aren’t back to being yourself yet.” He pulled Bingley’s dueling pistols from the pockets of his overcoat. “Here,” he added. “You might need this.”

  Collins was shocked to silence. “But,” he stammered, “that is a pistol.”

  Darcy cast his gaze heavenward. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said tonight? We aren’t playing huzzlecap.”

  Rolling thunder served as punctuation. “We’re going in,” said Darcy. “And for once in your life, Collins, be a man and not a mouse.”

  41 Perils of Men

  “Look there!” squealed Collins.

  Sure enough, a woman was hurrying from the house. She cast a worried look behind her.

  Darcy left the Folly, keeping to the shadows. Slowly he worked his way nearer to the coach.

  Wickham was continuing to argue with the driver. Darcy saw him smile and spread his hands, a characteristic gesture. “All in good time, my friend,” he heard him bleat.

  “There’s no time like the present,” the driver countered. His stance was aggressive.

  The postilion had his hands on his hips. “Do you mean to tell me,” he said, “that you won’t pay?”

  “Have patience,” said Wickham. “You’re a testy fellow, aren’t you?”

  “On a cold night in all this rain?” said the postilion. “I should say so. We expect to be paid.” He turned to the driver. “Had enough, Bob?”

  Apparently the driver had. He grunted assent and stumped to the rear of the coach.

  “Hang on,” cried Wickham. “What are you doing?”

  “Removing your trunk, sir, as you will not—or cannot—pay up.”

  “No, wait! I-I—”

  “George?” said a voice.

  Wickham spun round. “Anne!” he cried.

  Darcy saw Anne come forward and slip her hand under Wickham’s elbow. She gazed trustingly into his face. “We must hurry,” she fretted. “Why are we standing here in the rain?”

  “Hold a minute, Bob,” called the postilion. “Well?” he said to Wickham.

  Anne looked from one man to the other. “Is something wrong?”

  Wickham moistened his lips. “Anne, dear,” he said. “Have you brought the money?”

  Darcy saw Anne’s smile slip. “Y-yes,” she said. “Kitty promised it would be in the satchel. You do have Kitty’s satchel?”

  Wickham was at a loss. “What satchel?”

  Anne began looking about. “She said it would be here at the Folly. Have you—there it is! Over there!”

  “What are you—?”

  But Anne was running across the lawn. She returned, lugging a valise and hatbox. At once she had it open, digging through the contents. “It’s here,” she said. “It’s got to be. But—”

  There were paper banknotes all right, and Anne began to count them. “Ten,” Darcy heard her say. “Eleven, twelve…” She turned to Wickham. “There were supposed to be twenty, not twelve. Is it…enough, dearest?”

  Wickham did not return her smile.

  Anne returned to the valise. “Perhaps the rest is in coins. That must be it—they’ve fallen to the bottom.”

  By the light of the coach lamp Darcy could see the panic on Anne’s thin face. This comedy was about played out. Darcy stepped into the light and addressed Wickham.

  “Quite the romantic gesture, making the lady pay,” he remarked. “But then, that is your usual style.”

  “What the devil?”

  “Mr. Collins,” cried Anne. “What are you doing here?”

  “I should be asking the same question,” said Darcy. “Kindly return to the house.”

  Anne stood her ground. “Never!”

  “Save your sermons for Sunday,” said Wickham.

  Darcy turned to face him. “One would think,” he said, “that a fellow who is so in love would have found something to pawn.” Wickham’s watch chain and fob were in clear view. “Once again you’re out of luck,” Darcy continued. “Anne has no more access to ready cash than Georgiana.”

  “Georgiana?” said Anne.

  Darcy turned to her. “Your intended bridegroom has rather a bad habit of living off of other people’s money. Usually women’s.”

  “How dare you!” said Wickham.

  He took a swing at Darcy, but the postilion caught his arm. “Strike the Rector, will you?” he growled.

  “Mr. Collins,” pleaded Anne. “Please go away! What is this to you?”

  “Give me the money, Anne,” shouted Wickham, attempting to shake free. “For God’s sake.”

  She tried, but Darcy was too quick. He snatched the banknotes and held them out of reach. “The roads are in foul shape,” he remarked. “Were you planning to travel all the way to Gretna? Or was it to be London?”

  “Certainly not London,” said Anne. She lifted her chin. “Mr. Wickham and I intend to be married, Mr. Collins. Whether you like it or not.”

  Wickham’s ready smile appeared. “Do you know,” he said, “you could save us time and trouble by doing the deed for us, Collins.”

  “Not unless you have a special license,” countered Darcy. “But then, you wouldn’t. Such a thing is beyond you, both socially and financially.”

  Wickham’s insolent smile slipped. Darcy turned to Anne. “And what happens when your mama cuts you out of her will,” he said, “which she shall certainly do.”

  “She would not dare,” Anne said hotly.

  Darcy turned to Wickham. “You had a sure thing with Georgiana; her inheritance was settled absolutely. Anne’s parent, on the other hand, is very much alive. And vindictive, bitterly vindictive.”

  “Indeed she is,” said Collins, stepping forward. “I am in a position to know. And may I say that eloping,” he added primly, “is most undignified. What a way to enter a family! Your mother, Miss de Bourgh, will be greatly displeased.”

  Wickham laughed. “As always, the master of understatement,” he said. “Never make a scene, that’s your motto. Very well, Darcy,” he added, and his eyes narrowed. “How much?”

  Collins blinked in surprise. “How much what?”

  “How much will you hand over to make me—how shall I say it? Disappear?”

  Collins put up his chin. “I do not understand your meaning, sir.”

  Darcy kept his gaze fixed on Anne. “What Mr. Wickham means, Mr. Darcy,” he said distinctly, “is that if you wish to halt this elopement, you must pay him off.”

  Collins appeared stupefied. “Pay him?” he repeated. “Do you mean with money? Not on your life! If he wants money,” he added, “he should work for it.”

  “Ah, but acquiring money without labor is Wickham’s principal talent,” said Darcy. “A desire for entitlement, nurtured from infancy. A man born on the manor, but not,” he added, “to the manor born.”

  Wickham rounded on Darcy. “This,” he said hotly, “is not your affair.”

  “I am to stand aside while you defraud yet another relation of
Darcy’s, is that it?”

  Anne looked from one to the other in obvious dismay.

  “Might I remind you,” said Darcy, “that envy is a sin? A besetting sin in your case, for it persists in spite of the generosity shown you by the Darcy family.”

  “What generosity?” shouted Wickham.

  “Your education, your allowance,” Darcy shouted back. “The compensation for the living you refused.”

  “You call that compensation?” Wickham sneered.

  “Do you know,” said Darcy, sliding a hand into his pocket, “I ought to have shot you at Ramsgate when I had the chance.”

  “Ramsgate?” cried Wickham. “What do you know about Ramsgate?”

  “More than you think.” Darcy brought out Bingley’s pistol and cocked it.

  “Who are you?” demanded Wickham.

  Thunder rumbled, and again the rain began to fall in earnest.

  “Collins,” ordered Darcy, without taking his gaze from Wickham, “take Anne to the house.”

  Instead of obeying, Collins made a grab for Darcy’s arm. “Darcy, no,” he cried. “Don’t shoot!”

  A flash of lightning illumined the garden.

  Wickham licked his lips and glanced at the coach. Darcy guessed his thought. “Left it behind on the seat, did you?” he said. “Pity.”

  “You-you wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man!” cried Wickham, his face wet with rain.

  “Darcy, no!” cried Collins, above the hiss of the rain. “That’s murder.”

  Darcy cursed silently. The firepan was soaked, meaning that Bingley’s pistol was as good as useless. But that did not keep him from leveling it at Wickham.

  Anne screamed and so did Collins. Darcy laughed and tossed Bingley’s pistol aside. “Firepan’s wet, Wickham,” he said. “Don’t you know anything?”

  Nevertheless Wickham made a dive for it.

  “We’ll finish this,” said Darcy, “the old-fashioned way.” He took hold of Wickham’s lapel and hauled him to his feet. As Collins, Darcy outweighed the man. And as himself, Darcy knew a thing or two about pugilism. The jaw? No, he decided. The nose.