Mendacity and Mourning

by J. L. Ashton

  Aunt Phillips gasped. “None of it was true? The town has besmirched his name without cause?”

  “Well, he is not an innocent,” Mr. Collins averred, regaining his wits as well as his need to opine. “He has quite a bad temper, and in fact should have done his duty long ago to his cousin to save her from—”

  “From what?” Lydia cried. “An early grave?”

  “So to speak.”

  “Mr. Collins!” Elizabeth jumped up, her arms frozen at her sides and her hands fisted to keep her from swinging at the man. Her cousin clearly knew more than she had suspected, but she would not let him strut about as a peacock and do further damage to Mr. Darcy’s and his family’s reputations.

  “Is it considered within the Christian way to discuss the character and personal business of another person?” Elizabeth said coldly. “Would your esteemed patroness approve of such behaviour?”

  The man’s eyes widened, and he sank into a chair next to Mary. He shook his head. Mary watched him carefully. All other eyes remained on Elizabeth, who stood angrily at the window, staring outside and away from the chaos within her home.

  Then Mary’s voice broke through the silence. “Proverbs 20:19 says, ‘He that goeth about as a talebearer revealeth secrets: therefore meddle not with him that flattereth with his lips.’”

  Mr. Collins sighed and nodded.

  Mr. Bennet snorted behind his newspaper. “Nicely said, Mary.”

  “Oh, Mr. Collins. Just marry her already! You are such a perfect pair!” Lydia cried out before dissolving in laughter.

  Elizabeth swallowed a bitter laugh. It is so easy to ruin a good man through careless chatter and misheard words. She had no doubt that Mr. Darcy’s arrival and his polite demeanour would quickly put to rest the rumours and slanders, though she wondered how soon she could forgive those friends and neighbours with cruel tongues. Her gaze remained settled on a distant point beyond the orchard. Elizabeth heard footsteps cross the room and approach her. Suddenly, she felt a hand on her shoulder. No. He would not dare touch me. She tensed and readied a sharp retort.

  “Lizzy,” Mr. Bennet said quietly. “Come to my study. I believe we have a mystery to solve, and you are holding all the clues.”

  ***

  “How are you, old friend? You bring me no wedding news?” Bingley laughed and clapped Darcy on the back.

  “I believe it is your wedding I am here to discuss, Charles.” Darcy smiled and made his way to a chair. He sat, crossed his legs, and brushed a bit of dust from his trousers. “You are making progress with your courtship?”

  Bingley sighed and slumped down across from his friend. Darcy tried not to laugh and gave a serious ear to his friend’s unfolding romantic soliloquy. It went on for some three minutes but revealed nothing new about Jane Bennet’s goodness, kindness, or beauty beyond Bingley’s surer grasp of her affections.

  “So,” Bingley said, out of breath from his effusions of his angel’s loveliness. “I thought to speak to Mr. Bennet when we call at Longbourn tomorrow and then walk with Jane to the gardens to ask for her hand.” He leaned closer and nodded knowingly. “The trees are bare of leaves, but the shrubbery yet affords some privacy.”

  Darcy was overtaken by this knowledge. Tomorrow. Elizabeth. Shrubbery.

  “Darcy, do you agree with my plan? Darcy? Are you in there?”

  Bingley tapped his arm, finally bringing his friend back to the present.

  “Um, yes. Sorry,” Darcy said sheepishly. “I had a sudden recollection of some business with my steward.”

  “Hmm. I believe your mind had drifted to the shrubbery.”

  “Bingley!”

  The younger man jumped up and announced the necessity for a toast to his future happiness. Darcy, still chagrined by his woolgathering, heartily agreed.

  “You have been industrious, Bingley. It is a fine plan. Miss Bennet has been awaiting your proposal for some time, I think.”

  “I have been certain for some time that I wished to marry her.” Bingley handed Darcy a glass and raised his own in the air.

  Darcy cut off his toast. “Then why have you not proposed?”

  “Caroline had objections, which she said you shared.” Bingley lowered his arm and levelled a stare at Darcy.

  “To Jane? For you?”

  “Do you?” Bingley asked plaintively.

  “Of course not, you idiot. She will make you a fine wife.” Darcy raised his glass, dipped his head, and smiled. “Propose, marry, and send your sister to live with the Hursts. Her opinions should not weigh on the matter.”

  Bingley grinned and took a long sip. Both men were startled by a loud roar.

  “Now just a minute!” Hurst’s red face emerged from behind the room’s long sofa. “She is not to live with us.”

  “Oh, Hurst. I did not see you there.” Frowning, Darcy watched the man totter over to the spirits and pour himself a tall glass of brandy. Hurst took a long draught and turned to inspect the new arrival.

  “I say, man, what happened to your face? An unwilling, yet merry, widow?”

  Bingley laughed and looked at Darcy.

  “No. Well…actually, yes,” he confessed. “An unwilling, angry widow—Lady Catherine. For a small woman, she wields some power in her right hook.”

  The other men burst into laughter.

  “Caroline mends pens rather well. She could fix you right up and kiss it and make it all better.” Hurst chuckled.

  Darcy shook his head in mock agony. “Must I lock my door to you as well with your evil schemes?

  “And here I thought it was a fencing mishap,” Bingley mumbled.

  When Hurst’s laughter died down, Darcy enquired as to what else might be happening at Longbourn. “They await you daily with great expectation, I am sure.”

  “Oh yes.” Bingley replied with alacrity. “Although her sister has just returned from London, Jane is pleased to be away from the house as much as possible.”

  Darcy thought that odd. “She is not pleased to spend time with Miss Elizabeth?”

  “Well, yes. But Miss Elizabeth is often occupied with her cousin Mr. Collins.”

  “Collins is at Longbourn? Why?” Why is he near Elizabeth?

  “Um, he wishes for marital felicity with one of Jane’s sisters.”

  “Miss Mary? It would of course be Miss Mary.” Darcy realised his voice sounded desperate. Was he stuttering?

  Bingley’s face turned from hesitant to grim. “Jane believes it to be Lizzy. Miss Elizabeth. Her mother wishes for that.”

  “What? Why?” Darcy stood up and began pacing the room.

  “She feels Lizzy is in need of a husband.” Bingley’s face showed his distaste for the subject. “Jane says she has been tainted by your earlier leave-taking. You showed some partiality and then you left.”

  “Oh lord.” Darcy sank into the window seat. “She would never marry that toad.”

  “Toad?” Hurst barked. “He is rather a toad-eater, I grant you.”

  “Collins has not been a friend to me or to my family. He is a mendacious cod’s head, unworthy of the Bennet family,” Darcy finished bitterly.

  “Sharp words, my friend!” Hurst cried.

  Bingley glanced at Hurst and shrugged. “Mayhap you can run him off, then.” He poured Darcy a drink and took a long draw from his own glass. “Darcy, you know I am glad to have you, but truly—why are you here and not at the duke’s estate?”

  I have work to do. I have to make a good impression. To win hearts and charm Mrs. Bennet while showing I am serious and intent on one thing, one person: Elizabeth. And now I have to thwart her mother and that pig of a parson.

  Darcy managed to clear his throat and choke back his frustration over Bingley’s news. “To clear my name, of course. And to support you, my friend, in
your courtship of Miss Bennet. To play a chess match with her father and to show that I am a friend to Miss Elizabeth.”

  And to safeguard her against her odious cousin.

  Bingley looked at him carefully. “That is all? To be a friend?”

  Darcy felt Hurst’s eyes boring into his back. Am I so easily read?

  “A better friend to some than others,” he said in a disinterested voice. “Georgiana began a friendship with Miss Elizabeth in London just last week and wished to see her again before we travel to Pemberley.”

  Hurst smirked. “I say, that is a sharp-witted sister you have, Darcy. At least one of you is honest about your reasons for being here.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The maids at Netherfield were relieved that Mr. Darcy’s companion was in fact his sister and not his mistress. The footmen were pleased that he had no heavy trunks of books. The stable hand was happy to groom such fine horses. The cook was delighted to host a man who had always made sure to compliment her dishes. Yet all of them wondered at the swollen cut upon his noble cheek.

  “Protecting his sister from highwaymen.”

  “Slapped by his lover when he threw her over for a new one.”

  “Tumbled out of bed.”

  “Pecked by a mad raven.”

  “Hit by a jealous ex-suitor of his mistress.”

  “One of his thick books of big Latin words fell from a shelf and hit him.”

  “His betrothed rose from the grave to wreak her revenge.”

  “Horse threw him.”

  “Ran into the wall fleeing a lady’s bed when her husband arrived home unexpectedly.”

  “Fencing accident.”

  Bingley sighed. Rarely had a one-inch scratch resulted in so many rumours, but alas, Darcy was a rare man and a rare friend. As likely the most prominent person to ever spend time in Meryton, he was subject to much speculation on his wealth, his supposed dalliances, his connections to royalty, his fencing skills, his opinions, and his habits. In Meryton, the whispering had grown louder when he was perceived as “the Grieving Groom gallivanting about,” and unfortunately, Lizzy’s name often was attached to the gossip.

  Bingley hoped desperately that all the rumour mongers had ceased their chatter. Jane had been unhappy that Darcy’s friendship with her sister was misconstrued. She said little but did allow that Darcy confused and concerned her, and Bingley—though he suspected Darcy had strong feelings for Lizzy—lacked confirmation to convince his angel of his friend’s good intentions. Darcy was overrun with family matters, the particulars of which he had not shared with his friend, although his offhand comment that his cousin was in fact alive proved Caroline’s inquisitive footman to be an accurate source.

  I should not have allowed her to let Woodley go. That was unfair. He was a good man…though he did appear to be a bit obseque— What is that word Darcy uses?

  He hated when Darcy’s rich vocabulary stumped him. His friend read too many damn books and remembered too many of the words in them. Hmm. Was Woodley obsidian? No! Blast it, Woodley was too eager to linger in rooms where interesting conversations took place. Obsolete. That was it!

  Relieved at this thought, Bingley straightened his cuffs. We did the right thing, letting him go.

  He was happy that Darcy had come back to Netherfield; otherwise, he would have had to write to him and announce his intention to propose to Jane. He assured himself that Darcy would approve; after all, his friend admired Jane, and Bingley believed that he more than admired her sister and had similar hopes for his own marital felicity. He must tell Darcy his deeply considered theories on love—how he and Jane both had blue eyes and light hair and shared a taste for roast partridge and a joy in dancing reels. Darcy’s and Lizzy’s darker eyes and colouring and their mutual enjoyment of books and walking made them a fine match as well. It was elementary, really, this love logic. Why was Darcy so damn tortured by romance? Because the answers did not lie in a book written by a dead Greek?

  Oh, and he must tell his brooding friend as soon as possible what it would mean to him to be brothers. First, though, he had to talk to Darcy about the theories being bandied about the town regarding that marring of the man’s near-perfect visage. Damn it, can nothing be as pleasant and simple as Jane’s sweet smile?

  Much as he dreaded the impending conversation with Darcy, Bingley was pleased when his butler came to him with the gossip. It truly was quite outrageous that his friend could provoke this range of scurrilous stories. In some ways, he allowed that it was rather amusing, and he wished Colonel Fitzwilliam were at Netherfield to make sport of it. He, at least, could tease Darcy, a feat that Bingley—lacking both the imposing moustache and the family connection—tended to avoid. The problem was that he now had to tell Darcy about the rumours. Damn it. He will not be amused, and we are due at Longbourn this morning. This will ruin his good mood.

  Perhaps Cook had some of that bacon Darcy so enjoyed during his last visit. Bingley smiled. We shall be brothers who love bacon.

  ***

  Mr. Collins had spent too many years in sacrifice to his Lord and Saviour, staring at bowls of lumpy breakfast porridge and sipping weak tea. During these past weeks as a guest with his aunts in Epsom and then at Longbourn, he had discovered that muffins and toast heaped with more than a fair portion of black butter or raspberry jam made for a far tastier breakfast. He could rhapsodise about the ragouts and roasts, tarts and cakes he had consumed while in Hertfordshire, but proper piety prevented him from such boasting. Usually. Avarice and gluttony were sinful, and while he could never be deemed as a sinful man, the vicar did his best to praise the tables he graced with his presence. He, William Josiah Collins, was a man of God. He was full with His blessed goodness. Very full, he acknowledged. That would explain why his trousers felt so tight about the waist.

  The delicious aromas of the dishes emerging from Longbourn’s kitchens—and his determination to secure that last bit of perfectly sweetened jam—took Mr. Collins’s attention away from the oddly charged air around the elder Bennet sisters. His eyes, usually absorbed in deciphering the strikingly confounding Cousin Elizabeth, were instead engaged with scraping the last fruity remnants from the jam pot. Therefore, he did not see the anxiety that consumed his cousins.

  ***

  However, Kitty, the self-appointed “Overseer of Happiness and Romantic Felicity,” did see. Lizzy might have smiled and laughed away the offer to help her run away and hide from their jam-splotched cousin, but Kitty had gained sharp eyes these past weeks. Miss Bingley had indeed proved herself excessively prideful, but she was a most attentive lady.

  “Heed the conversation and keep your eyes open,” she would say pointedly in Kitty’s general direction. “People often act stupidly, and you can easily best them by gleaning their intentions through every word not spoken and every movement restrained.”

  It was confusing advice. Kitty quickly understood that her mother required no deep observation as she spoke every word that entered her mind. The motives behind most of Papa’s words, said or not, remained beyond Kitty’s comprehension. But her sisters?

  She glanced at Lydia, who was staring at Mr. Collins and stifling her laughter. Briefly, Kitty wondered whether her sister had pulled a familiar childhood trick and salted the jam. Watching her cousin’s enthusiastic chewing, she determined Lydia was innocent of that at least. No, I believe she is merely diverted by our cousin’s resemblance to a starving pig.

  Mary also stared at their cousin, but it was with an expression that had become all too familiar to Kitty. Her quiet, plain, moralising sister had fallen in love, and no one—most especially the object of her regard—was the wiser. Only I see it. Kitty was impressed by her gift of insight. Beyond her distress at Mary’s misguided affections and what it could mean for her family’s happiness, Kitty fretted over the words Maria Lucas had confided just yesterday:
“Charlotte is desperate for her own household. She is determined to marry your cousin.”

  In spite of the living he held at Hunsford and the entail promising him Longbourn, Mr. Collins deserved neither of these ladies. Yet for the sake of preserving the family estate and saving her mother from the hedgerows, it seemed that Mary must have him. Kitty needed a plan to ensure her sister’s success. It would be nice to see Mary happy and smiling. Although that contentment may not endure long after they wed.

  She needed to consult Lizzy, who was eager to shed their cousin’s purported affections. Besides, this sister was the most clever of them all and would know how best to bring together awkward, misguided, and perhaps unwilling lovers. Lizzy, however, appeared concerned with her own love story. The worried bits of uneaten toast and the half-finished tea testified to her restlessness. Kitty hoped for some resolution for her sister; surely, if he loved her, Mr. Darcy would soon be at their door. Hmm, perhaps she does not know best about love.

  ***

  Elizabeth felt too many eyes focused on her. The attentions of Mr. Collins, his appetite nearly sated, seldom strayed from her person. It had reached the point where she could appreciate this rare occasion when they dwelt on her face rather than her bodice.

  Jane, she noted, sat calmly; her plate was empty but for scattered crumbs, and her interest kept drifting from the window to her sister.

  What is she thinking? Would she appraise Mr. Darcy and measure his character and his ardency against that of their cousin? Mayhap, she should compare their incomes and their bathing habits as well. Mr. Darcy would win on every count. She would not care whether the handsome master of Pemberley smelled of mutton and tobacco, was penniless, or had French blood coursing through his veins. He was the one she preferred, and if he came today—when he came today—she would convey those sentiments, though perhaps not with any mention of mutton.

  Elizabeth sighed at the wasted breakfast before her and again glanced across the table at Jane. It was an odd feeling to have her beloved sister withholding her affection as if all of that warmth and energy must now be aimed at securing Mr. Bingley. How like their mother, and how disturbing an insight! She wrinkled her nose and shuddered, drawing scrutiny from both her mother and Mary.