Darcy By Any Other Name

by Laura Hile

  “I would like an explanation, if you please, as to your presence at Netherfield last night,” he said. “A deplorable happenstance, I must say, and most inappropriate for my affianced bride.” Incredibly, he began making a clucking noise.

  Elizabeth could only stare. “How was I to know that Kitty was pledged to help Anne? I could hardly allow her to tramp all the way to Netherfield, at midnight, alone.”

  “You ought to have thought of my consequence, dear Elizabeth. After all, I am now an influential member of the community.”

  “I did what I thought was best. I am sorry that you do not like it.”

  “Moreover,” he continued, as if she had not spoken, “you put yourself in grave danger of illness. It is most unwise to be out on a cold and rainy night, drenched to the skin as you were.”

  “As we all were,” countered Elizabeth. “Given your mood, I am surprised that you were present at the elopement at all.”

  “It was Darcy,” he protested. “He compelled me. You cannot think,” he added, “that I would demean myself by being party to such a scheme.”

  Elizabeth raised her chin. “I thought your purpose was to rescue Anne de Bourgh. And besides,” she added, “doubtless you have earned the gratitude Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

  “But that’s just it! Darcy insists that her ladyship must never know! My effort was therefore wasted.”

  “Unless you count as unimportant Anne’s rescue.”

  He hesitated. “Of—course not.”

  “And is it not best to do the right thing in the eyes of God?” she went on. “Even if your good deed is never acknowledged by others?”

  She saw him bristle. His eyes, which she once thought to be so large and expressive, held no warmth.

  “I do not see why we must argue,” she added crossly.

  At once he put out a hand. Elizabeth was at a loss. Was she supposed to take hold of it? She remained where she was.

  “Indeed, I do apologize,” he said, and he made a little bow. “That wretched breakfast put me out of temper.”

  He had many reasons to be irritable, but instead of sympathizing with him, Elizabeth said, “What was wrong with breakfast? It was no different today than any other.”

  He did not reply to this. And then, as she looked on, his fingers began to twine and twist together in a hand washing motion. Elizabeth was struck by a vague memory. He had done this when he first came to Longbourn. Yes, and her father had remarked on it.

  What was wrong with William?

  g

  The look in Elizabeth’s eyes was distinctly unfriendly, calling to mind Caroline Bingley’s acid glare. He was relieved when Elizabeth went out of the bookroom.

  But Collins had no intention of leaving. He’d long wished to examine Mr. Bennet’s inner sanctum, but the man had never invited him in. Wasn’t it interesting how events had turned out? Mr. Bennet’s coffin would soon be taken to the churchyard, and this room was now Collins’ very own.

  Even so he hesitated. He’d heard the sound of carriage wheels earlier, and there were voices in the drawing room. He put a cautious ear to the door. Yes, here were callers, a windfall. His cousins would be occupied for at least a quarter of an hour.

  Collins cautiously lowered his bulk into Mr. Bennet’s desk chair. He’d felt this same exhilaration when he took possession of the Hunsford parsonage, before Lady Catherine put her oar in and began ordering him about. But her ladyship had no claim on him now. He was a gentleman indeed, answerable to no one.

  There would be time enough when he was feeling stronger to rearrange furniture or take stock of the titles on the shelves. But here was a prime opportunity to examine the contents of Mr. Bennet’s desk.

  What interested Collins was the amount of Longbourn’s income. He’d seen the table Mrs. Bennet kept and the quality of the family’s apparel. Surely Longbourn brought in two thousand a year, a heady thought. He began to open drawers.

  Presently he discovered the money box and ledger. The box was unlocked, and at once Collins counted the banknotes. Twenty pounds, a boon! He ran a finger down the ledger page and discovered that there was too much money here. Surely the household budget would not miss five pounds?

  Then again, whose money had Darcy been spending? His! The remaining banknotes beckoned, and Collins surrendered to impulse. After all, who would question the master of Longbourn? He rolled the banknotes and put them in his pocket.

  As for the rest, there was nothing of interest. Mr. Bennet’s will, an enticing document, was surely kept at his solicitor’s office. Collins closed the final drawer and sat back. To inaugurate his possession of this room he would smoke a cigar. Sadly, he had brought none with him from Netherfield. If only he had known how last night’s events would turn out!

  Yet for the most part Collins was satisfied. He’d seen the way Elizabeth had looked at Darcy, and it was thrilling to think she had such passionate feelings. It was her father’s death that had her out of sorts, that was all.

  Collins pushed back the chair and was about to stand when he noticed the blotter and the folded pages beneath. Elizabeth’s letter! Moistening his lips, Collins unfolded the sheets. The hand he recognized at once as Darcy’s. Quickly he turned to the last page and swore under his breath. Darcy had signed it as himself!

  Collins read the letter through three times. A damnable account and one that would ruin his plans for matrimonial bliss. It was abundantly clear that it was Darcy she loved, not him. And if she read this letter she would know that.

  But had Elizabeth read it?

  No, he did not think so, nor did he think she should. Why burden her with information that was no longer true?

  At once he pocketed the letter, but it made a bulge. On second thought, why carry it on his person and risk discovery?

  A scraping of chairs in the drawing room confirmed his decision. Collins scanned the bookroom for a hiding place. Not in a drawer or in a book, it must be somewhere she would not think to look. For Elizabeth would search for the letter, of this he was certain. And then Collins noticed that one of Mr. Bennet’s framed prints was off-kilter. The corners of his mouth turned up.

  With a swift look to the closed door, Collins removed the picture from the wall. The back was not sealed with paper, and he found a way to wedge the letter into the frame. Again he looked over his shoulder. The voices in the drawing room were louder; the guests were leaving. He must hurry.

  Just as he returned the picture to the wall he heard the door come open. He hastily arranged his features in time to greet Elizabeth. She went at once to the desk.

  “Have you seen my letter?” she said.

  The anxiety in her voice was not pleasing, but Collins had his answer ready. “Of course I have,” he said. “You were reading it.”

  “I—seem to have mislaid it.”

  “Perhaps it is in your book?” he said. “If you will excuse me, I have something to talk over with your mother.”

  Elizabeth did not lift her gaze from the desk. “Mama should not be disturbed.”

  “I have something of a private nature to discuss,” he said, “and it cannot wait.”

  Before she had a chance to ask more questions, Collins went out of the bookroom. And when he knocked at Mrs. Bennet’s door he was as polite as he knew how to be. Mrs. Phillips answered, looking harassed.

  “If you please,” he said, “I would like a few minutes of Mrs. Bennet’s time. Just a few minutes, mind.”

  “Who is it?” he heard Mrs. Bennet shrill.

  Mrs. Phillips turned. “It’s Mr. Collins,” she whispered.

  Truly, if the need were not urgent, Collins would certainly go away. But the growing crisis lent him courage. He pushed past Mrs. Phillips and boldly walked into the room.

  Mrs. Bennet let out a scream of protest. “Mercy, Mr. Collins, this is my bedchamber! Is nothing sacred?”

  “I apologize for the intrusion,” said Collins, wringing his hands in spite of himself. “I have something of a private nature to
discuss with you.”

  “Can it not wait until after the funeral?”

  “I fear not. You see, I must write to the Archbishop of Canterbury this very afternoon,” he said.

  Up came Mrs. Bennet from her reclining position. “What did you say?”

  Collins looked significantly at Mrs. Phillips. “As to that, I would prefer to speak with you privately.”

  “My sister,” said Mrs. Bennet, “is not to be sent out like a dog. I demand that she remain. Now then, what have you to say?”

  He drew a long breath. “Merely this: Elizabeth and I must be married as soon as possible.”

  He knew to expect a wail of protest. “So soon after Mr. Bennet’s death?” she cried. “Impossible!”

  “Of course we must be married,” he said crossly, “and it is for that reason that I am sending for a special license. How else can we continue to live in the same house?”

  “But your engagement has not been announced,” protested Mrs. Bennet. “There will be talk if you marry without a proper period of mourning.”

  Collins heard the door come open. “What talk is that, Mama?” Elizabeth said.

  “Nothing that you need worry about, my darling,” Collins said hastily.

  “Six months is not too long to wait,” Mrs. Bennet insisted.

  “Jane and Mr. Bingley should certainly do so,” Collins agreed. “But we cannot, nor should we continue to share the same residence. If you are concerned about the cost or inconvenience of the license,” he went on, “I am well able to afford it. Nor is procuring a license as difficult as it appears. If the full amount is remitted with the request, the Archbishop of Canterbury’s office has been known to grant favors for clergymen.”

  “What sort of favors?” Elizabeth wanted to know.

  “Mercy, Lizzy,” Mrs. Bennet cried out. “Mr. Collins wants you to be married by special license! This very week!”

  “Or sooner,” said Collins. He gave Elizabeth his best smile.

  “No,” she said flatly. “That will not do at all.”

  Collins’ smile grew taut. “I beg your pardon,” he said politely and turned to Mrs. Bennet. “I had no idea that you and your daughters were prepared to live elsewhere.”

  “Live elsewhere?” shrilled Mrs. Bennet. “Why, where would we go?”

  Collins spread his hands. “You could take rooms in Meryton,” he suggested. “Or your sister will surely take you in.” He gave a friendly nod to Mrs. Phillips.

  “All of you?” Aunt Phillips sputtered.

  “William,” said Elizabeth, “I thought you were to return to Hunsford for six months. That is what you told me.”

  That was what Darcy had told her; it sounded like something he would say. But Collins was not Darcy. Moreover, he did not care for Elizabeth’s tone of voice. “Even the best of plans change,” he pointed out primly.

  “Do they indeed?” said Mrs. Bennet. “Then perhaps you can change Lizzy’s mind about attending the funeral.”

  Collins could not believe his ears. “You shall do no such thing.” A show of authority was important, especially with a fiancée.

  “But we already agreed that I would,” protested Elizabeth. “Jane and I shall be seated in the church before the procession even leaves the house. No one will notice us.”

  By now Collins was angry. “I am the head of this family,” he said. “And I will not have you bring reproach on my name. Especially since it is about to become yours.”

  “But Father deserves to have someone from his family present at his funeral.”

  “And what am I?” said Collins. “This is my final word, Elizabeth. I am extremely displeased.”

  And with that he took himself out of the room. A lesser man would have slammed the door, but Collins was mindful to shut it with a civilized click. He heard their voices within, arguing. It would be some time before Elizabeth could extricate herself.

  Down the stairs to the bookroom he went, taking the treads two at a time. Before he sent his request to Doctor’s Commons—by express, it could not be helped—there was something he must do.

  There was no fire in the bookroom, but Collins had seen a tinderbox. He removed a spunk and went into the drawing room for a light. Mary and Jane were there, but Collins ignored them.

  Back to the bookroom he crept, as anxious thoughts multiplied. Were there footfalls on the stairs? Would he be interrupted? With trembling fingers he removed Darcy’s letter from its hiding place. He gave an uneasy glance over his shoulder. Should he blockade the door? Or would that give a misleading impression?

  For he was guilty of nothing, nothing at all. And this letter could do a world of harm.

  With a hammering heart Collins knelt before the hearth, crumpled the pages, and threw them in.

  “Hurry, hurry,” he whispered, with beads of perspiration gathering on his brow. It took some time for the flame to catch and gain strength.

  He would have remained to watch the pages burn to ash, but he had a letter to write.

  43 Tolling the Bell

  The morning wore into afternoon. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner arrived from London, much to everyone’s relief, and now Elizabeth and her sisters had only to wait. Soon the bell would begin to toll, summoning the mourners, and the procession would begin. Even now the funeral hearse with its black horses waited discreetly in the paddock.

  William Collins stood before the fire in the drawing room, warming his hands. “Gloves and cloaks and who knows what else,” he muttered. “Such expense.”

  Elizabeth pretended not to hear. Of course these must be provided for the bearers. Why must he complain? She kept an eye on the front windows. If only Mr. Bingley would come!

  Her uncle had also heard, and he stepped forward. “I have you to thank, Mr. Collins, for seeing to the arrangements. If my business affairs had not been so pressing, I would have handled them myself.”

  Mr. Collins’ cheeks turned pink with pleasure. “It was nothing,” he said, stammering a little. “The merest exertion. You must understand that a man in my position,” and he paused to indicate the cassock and surplice he wore, “is not precisely a novice in these matters.”

  “You spared our ladies much trouble and worry,” said Mr. Gardiner. “I commend you.”

  “Anything for the ladies. Within reason, of course, that is to say, within the bounds of common sense and practicality. Not that I mean anything against my cousins, but really. The expense!”

  “In my opinion, a worthwhile outlay,” said Mr. Gardiner quietly.

  Conversation moved on to the dry weather and the condition of the roads. “A very good thing for my surplice,” said Mr. Collins, “if the roads are free of mud.”

  The sound of the chaise-and-four was almost a relief. “Come, Jane,” said Elizabeth, rising from her seat. “I believe Mr. Bingley is here.”

  Mr. Collins made a noise. “You insist on attending the funeral?” he said. “Even though you know my opinion?”

  “I shall attend, just as we agreed.”

  Mr. Collins turned to Elizabeth’s uncle. “Reason with her, convince her,” he said. “For she refuses to mind me.”

  “Lizzy,” said Mr. Gardiner, “do reconsider. You have been through so much already. You must be worn to the bone.”

  “Jane and I shall arrive at the church long before the—” Elizabeth broke off. How could she say the word casket? “Before anyone else,” she finished.

  “Dear Uncle,” added Jane, “we shall come directly home after service. Here is Mr. Bingley. We should not keep him waiting.”

  “Elizabeth,” said Mr. Collins, “I demand that you remain.”

  She gave him a look, took Jane’s arm, and went out. Nevertheless, her hands were shaking as she drew on her gloves and fastened her cloak.

  “Poor Mr. Collins,” said Jane. “He must be nervous because of the eulogy.”

  Elizabeth was out the door almost before her sister could finish her sentence. “Lizzy,” cried Jane, “you’ve forgotten your hat!”
>
  “Good afternoon,” began Mr. Bingley, but Elizabeth stalked past him to the chaise.

  “The nerve of William Collins!”

  Jane came rushing after with the hat. “Mr. Collins is making a fuss,” she told him. “We’d best be on our way.”

  At once Mr. Bingley called an order to his driver, stepped in after Jane, and pulled the door to.

  Presently Jane said, “Let me help you with your hat, dearest. You’ve tied the ribbon all wrong.”

  Elizabeth surrendered it to her sister. “It does not matter how I look,” she said. “Why must William walk to church with the mourners? Why must he deliver the eulogy?”

  Mr. Bingley said nothing, looking from Jane to Elizabeth.

  “Because of his position as rector,” said Jane mildly. “It is only natural that he join the processional with Dr. Bentley. After all, this could well be his last act as a clergyman.”

  “I sincerely hope so,” Elizabeth flashed. “And I hope he mires his precious cassock in the mud.”

  She saw her sister and Charles Bingley exchange a look. “Surely you do not mean that,” said Jane.

  Elizabeth felt her throat constrict. “Why should he suddenly care for pomp and ceremony?” she said roughly. “When he specifically promised—”

  Elizabeth could not continue. William had promised to sit beside her during service, to be a support. Why had he suddenly changed his mind?

  The remainder of the drive was accomplished in silence. As they pulled up before the church, the bells began to toll.

  Elizabeth fled from the chaise as soon as she was able and hurried inside. She stood shivering in the narthex. Surprisingly, Mr. Bingley took the lead. “Come,” he whispered and led them up the side aisle.

  He was particular about the seating. He went in first, placing himself on the center aisle, then Jane, and then Elizabeth. Elizabeth understood it. He wished to be a support to Jane by sitting beside her, but neither did he like to separate Elizabeth from her sister. Such kindness! And then she recalled that Charles Bingley had lost both father and mother.