by Laura Hile
“Then you’d best be prepared to hire another servant or two,” Elizabeth flashed. Her gaze swept the room. It was anything but tidy now, no thanks to him.
“Nonsense. Those we have must work more efficiently instead of lounging about. Such as that footman who has managed to disappear.”
Where was William’s gentle smile, his ironic sense of humor?
“James has been ill, as well you know,” Elizabeth said, eyeing him with growing resentment. “Haven’t you something else to do?”
“I am now a gentleman of leisure,” he told her. “Your uncle and Mr. Phillips have the legal niceties in hand. They are now at his office in Meryton. I saw no reason to accompany them.”
Elizabeth’s gaze found the hearth and held. There was ash in the firebox. And yet there had not been a fire here for days.
“Was there something you wanted?” he said.
“I am looking for my letter.”
“Still?” The exasperation in his tone was unmistakable.
“You have not seen it?”
“Earlier, when you were in the drawing room. Really, Elizabeth, you must be more careful.”
Elizabeth put her hands on her hips. “And you,” she said, “must be less rude.”
His mouth opened but no sound came out.
“See here,” Elizabeth went on. “Can we not put pique and ill-feelings behind us? Simply because I attended my father’s funeral is no reason for you to nag at me.”
“I am not nagging.”
“We have all been under a great deal of strain,” she began.
“Me in particular,” he retorted. “Especially when you chose to bolt from the sanctuary. Dr. Bentley was most concerned.”
“As he should be, for I was grieving, William.”
“You were making a scene, the very thing you promised not to do.”
“Have the goodness to kindly—” Elizabeth closed her lips in time.
“To kindly do what?” he taunted.
She looked away—away from that face with the curling lip. “Why do you not have a fire here?” she said. “Shall I ask Ned to start another?”
“Another?” he squeaked. “Why do you say that?”
Elizabeth indicated the fireplace. “It looks as though you attempted it.”
She saw him flinch, and he would not meet her eye.
“Why, look there,” he cried, pointing to the window. “If I’m not mistaken it’s Mr. Darcy coming up the lane—on that beastly horse.”
“You sound as though you dislike horses,” said Elizabeth.
“I do, and Mr. Darcy as well. Yes, I want a word with him.”
“Pray do not tarry on my account.”
William Collins wasted no time. He pushed past her and left the bookroom. Through the window Elizabeth watched him come out of the house and approach Mr. Darcy, without having bothered to put on a hat or overcoat. Would he argue with Mr. Darcy as well?
Elizabeth turned away. She had no wish to see him make a fool of himself, which surely he would do in his irritated state.
Arguing! She and William never argued! Now it seemed that nothing she did or said was right.
Her gaze swept the room. So many changes! He had every right to make them, but so soon? And why was he defensive about starting a fire? Her eyes found the hearth, and she went to investigate.
Yes, there was ash here, and in flat sheets, as if pages had been burned. Which pages? Was he burning papers of her father’s?
After an anxious glance to the window, Elizabeth knelt on the hearth. Her hands would be blackened from the ash, but no matter. She must discover what William had burned.
g
“Now see here!” Collins shrilled. “I have no business with you. You should not have come.”
Mr. Darcy swung from the saddle, a skill that was not lost on Collins. “Keep that brute away,” he added. “I’ve no wish for another lesson.”
“Nor have I an interest in teaching you,” said Darcy.
“Then why have you come?”
“To see if you open your letters, Collins.”
“What letters? Why should I receive letters? Save for bills sent by that funeral undertaker.”
“I am not here to listen to your complaints.”
“It is most unfair,” Collins said. He was about to say more but he discovered he was shivering. It was all because of the cold, and yet he dared not invite Darcy into the house.
“I suggest you keep watch for the post,” said Darcy. “You will find something there to lighten your burden. An annuity in the amount of one thousand pounds per annum for the support of your Bennet cousins.”
“Support?” cried Collins. “Do you know that Mrs. Bennet is searching the neighborhood for a place to live? Haye Park or the great house at Stoke or who knows where else. Without the means to pay!”
“And now you are able to do something for her.”
Collins folded his arms across his chest. “Your generosity is appreciated, but it is nowhere near enough.”
This remark hit home; Collins could see it. Darcy was now angry. “Do you think money appears like magic?” he demanded. “Do you think I never feel a loss?”
Collins had to laugh. “One thousand pounds is not one-tenth of your income.”
“Shall I remove one-tenth of yours and see what tune you sing?”
Collins gave a snort. “I’ll be paying at least that amount to the funeral undertaker,” he snapped. “Expenses that you authorized.”
“Did you not wish to honor your cousin, whose passing has granted so many material blessings?” Darcy leaned in. “Have you learned nothing, Collins?”
It was on the tip of Collins’ tongue to reply in kind. How dared Darcy correct him? But his teeth were chattering from the cold.
“The letter should arrive by Quarter Day,” said Darcy. “Bellowes is both precise and thorough in carrying out my instructions.”
Collins saw Darcy’s eyes grow hard. “And you will spend that amount, in its entirety, upon support for Mrs. Bennet and her daughters. Is that understood?”
“As well as to pay for the special license,” quipped Collins. “My request will be sent by express messenger today.”
Darcy’s brows descended. “What need have you for such a thing?”
“Why, to marry Elizabeth,” said Collins. “We plan to have the wedding as soon as the license arrives.”
“If you live,” said Darcy. He turned and, without the aid a mounting block, swung into the saddle. “Oh, and one more thing.”
Darcy held out a wrapped package. “If you would kindly return this to Miss Kitty?”
Collins was suspicious as he took it. “What is it?”
“Nothing to do with you,” said Darcy.
“See here. I am not your errand-boy—” Collins began.
“Can you not find room in your common, narrow soul for even one simple favor? One act of kindness?” said Darcy. “It is as I said: you have learned precisely nothing.”
Before Collins could reply Darcy wheeled the horse and rode away.
45 ‘Tis Certain So
Alone in her father’s bookroom, Elizabeth studied the unburned bits of paper she’d rescued. The largest held what was surely a closing signature: illiam Darcy. Had Mr. Darcy written something that had angered him?
On the other hand, William had looked so uncomfortable when she mentioned her lost letter. Why?
She returned her attention to the fireplace. What he had burned was no short note. She placed her findings side-by-side on the hearth:
s never my inten—was never my intention?
facts as I experie –facts as I experienced?
ound myself trapp –found myself trapped?
Who was trapped, Mr. Darcy? How could Mr. Darcy be trapped?
And then Elizabeth became aware that it was quiet. She could no longer hear voices outside—and was that the sound of hoof beats? Hastily she gathered the fragments into her handkerchief and carefully swept the hearth.
Her fingers were covered with soot, but there was no chance to clean her hands. She brushed them against her skirts, trusting the stiff black silk to hide the evidence of her deed.
g
Darcy’s accusation was like a slap, and yet Collins could not put it out of his mind. In spite of the cold, he walked back and forth in front of the house. Had he learned nothing?
But what was there to learn?
Longbourn, delightful Longbourn, was now his—he had learned to appreciate that. The life of a modest country gentleman suited him perfectly.
Freedom from Lady Catherine’s dominance was another reason for gratitude. He might not be Darcy of Pemberley, but he was his own master.
And by Jove, he was free from Caroline Bingley and her political ambitions. No more fear of Parliament. No more fear of being elevated to the peerage, with its incumbent duties. He was free to settle here, take a wife, and enjoy the remainder of his days.
And he would provide for his cousins, now that it cost him nothing. Darcy owed him that; he could take Darcy’s money without a second thought. Yes, Darcy owed him and Darcy could afford it.
And could he squeeze the funerary expenses from Mrs. Bennet’s allowance? Why not?
As for Elizabeth, well. He ought to apologize, yes. He had been too harsh with her, too overbearing and demanding. The shine had gone out of her eyes, and he was to blame for it. A man ought to be patient with his future wife.
Collins squared his shoulders. So Darcy was wrong; he had learned something. He’d learned gratitude and also to be kinder to Elizabeth.
g
He found her in the vestibule, along with Kitty. Not the most conducive setting for an apology, especially with Kitty looking on. Then Collins remembered Darcy’s packet. Without a word he presented it to her.
“What is this?” Kitty exclaimed, but Collins said nothing. Of course she must open it right away. Collins was just as curious to see the contents, but instead he studied the ceiling.
“My necklace!” she cried. “Lizzy, look! The necklace Father gave me!”
Collins felt a hand touch his sleeve. “Mr. Collins, how did you know?” He saw tears in Kitty’s eyes, and he dipped his head modestly. “Was Mr. McCurdy very angry?” she asked.
“Who?” said Collins, before he could stop himself. The name meant nothing to him.
“Why, the man who, to whom I—” Kitty broke off speaking.
“I have no idea whom you mean,” Collins said primly.
“I—see,” said Kitty slowly. “Yes, he is best forgotten. But oh, I thank you for redeeming this, Cousin. I was at my wits’ end over how to come up with the money. But I won’t say another word. It will be our secret.”
She went skipping up the stairs, and Elizabeth turned to him. “You visited the moneylender, William.”
“I—why, no. Of course not,” stammered Collins.
“You are altogether too good,” she said. “As well as too modest. And here I thought you were angry with me.”
“Not angry,” protested Collins. “Merely—concerned. Too concerned, perhaps. As the new master of Longbourn, I wish above all to do what is right and proper. Tell me,” he went on, “are your mother and sisters reconciled to living elsewhere?”
“Why can they not continue here?”
Collins had thought this one out, and he had his answer ready. “What woman would like to be a guest in a house where she has once been mistress?” he said. “Your mother deserves her own residence, just as you deserve to be mistress here, without interference.”
“I—” said Elizabeth.
He interrupted. “I know all about interference and meddling, and I tell you it will not do. Lady Catherine held the upper hand at the parsonage, and I did not like it.”
“Mama is hardly Lady Catherine,” began Elizabeth.
Again he interrupted. “I have set aside one thousand pounds for the support of your mother and sisters. Do you think they shall be able to make do with that?”
Her surprise was everything he hoped for. “I daresay they can,” she said, “but William, how shall we live?”
“I believe we can manage nicely on what is left.” He paused to take in the glow of admiration in her eyes. “Sacrifice on behalf of family,” he added, “is important.”
“You are very generous, and their need is sincere. But such an amount!”
He waved a careless hand. “Unimportant.”
“I—could not help but notice Mr. Darcy’s attitude when he came. Is he angry with you?”
Collins shrugged this aside. “Who can say?” he said. “The man’s a proud devil.”
“Was it necessary to burn his letter?”
He blinked. “Ah—his letter.”
Collins willed down panic; he must brazen it out. “He had no business writing the things he did,” he said. Anxiety made his tone shrill. “I—did not wish anyone else to find it. No good would come, believe me.”
She drew nearer. “Since we are confessing, I too have a confession to make. I cannot find the letter you wrote to me.”
She thought there were two letters? She did not realize what he had done? “Well,” he said, more gently. “It is no great loss.”
“But it is! You said it was your very first love letter—I read that much.” A dimple appeared in her cheek.
This was more like it! Emboldened, Collins said, “But you have the original before you.” He puffed out his chest and even remembered to smile. “Behold the man!” he said.
Her smile slipped and so did Collins’ confidence. Perhaps this was not the best expression to use. Darcy could be charming; perhaps he should try to do likewise? But charm was not as easy as it looked. If only he could remember his carefully-crafted compliments!
Then again, a man in love was supposed to speak from the heart. He must trust himself.
And so he drew nearer. “After all,” he said, with another smile, “we shall be man and wife in not too many days.” His fingers found her shoulders. “Which is rather wonderful. We are perfect for one another.” In spite of himself, Collins giggled.
For some reason Elizabeth did not return the smile.
“Do you know,” she said, “perhaps you ought to tell Mama about what you intend to do for her. She has been dreading the worst.”
“But I would rather remain here with you,” he said coyly. Beneath his fingers he felt her shoulders tense. “Do not run away,” he added.
Her eyes would not meet his. “I—there are things I must attend to above-stairs.”
“Not before you kiss me.”
Her cheeks flushed scarlet. “William, really. Here?”
“Yes, here,” he said. “I am the master, and you are the future mistress. What could be more natural?”
“It—is not like you to insist,” she said.
“Nor is it like you to be stingy. Come, enough with maidenly reserve.” Collins leaned in, closed his eyes, and placed his lips firmly on hers. He felt her hands move to his chest. Yes, this was very nice.
And then she pushed—hard. Collins’ eyes came open. Elizabeth’s eyes were open too. Why, it looked as though she meant to strike him!
Instantly Collins released her and took a step back.
“Good—night, William,” she said.
He could not allow her to part with him thus! Should he follow? What would Darcy do?
Chagrin and shame made Collins’ cheeks burn, but he remained where he was. He watched Elizabeth mount the stairs, but she gave no backward glance.
g
Elizabeth shut the bedchamber door and stood with her back pressed against it. What had happened to William Collins? That sickening kiss! She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Presently there were footfalls on the stairs and muffled laughter. She heard a door open and close, and then silence.
Soon there came rapping on her door. “Lizzy!” she heard her mother say. “Lizzy, open this door at once.”
Elizabeth did, but only a cr
ack.
“What do you mean by quarreling with Mr. Collins?”
“We have not quarreled—”
“According to Lydia you have. And now Mr. Collins is upset.”
Elizabeth sighed. How could she expect her mother to understand? How could she expect anyone to understand? The kiss was not the same. It simply wasn’t.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” she said. “I need time to think.”
“Think?” cried Mrs. Bennet. “What is there to think about?”
What was there to think about? She loved William. In the presence of her dying father she had pledged to spend the rest of her life with him.
“You are to march yourself downstairs and apologize,” her mother said. “Before Mr. Collins decides to start thinking—thinking that he should not marry you!”
“I—would prefer to be alone just now,” Elizabeth said.
“Very well,” her mother shrilled. “Then stay there. Nobody wants you!”
g
Collins would much rather be in his bookroom, but he did not like to give over the drawing room to the younger Bennets. It was high time these girls realized that he was master here. If they wished to remain in this room, they would have to put up with him.
And must they chatter endlessly? They were like noisy black-clad starlings.
Presently their neighbor—was it Miss Lucas? —came to call. Kitty and Lydia, being ill-mannered, fell to whispering. Even so, Collins was able to hear.
“Such a to-do, you’ll never believe it,” Lydia was saying. “Lizzy and Mr. Collins have quarreled.” Lydia paused to look in his direction. “And now Mama fears he’ll break the engagement.”
“Are they engaged? The rumors are true?”
“Of course they are true,” said Lydia. “Rumors always are.”
“You can imagine our surprise,” said Kitty. “Lizzy falling in love with Mr. Collins of all people. A man she hated, right from the first. It came about,” she added, “during the snowstorm.”
“Father gave them his blessing before he died,” said Lydia.
“And Mr. Collins has sent for a special license,” said Kitty. “By express.”
More looks were cast in Collins’ direction.
