Darcy By Any Other Name
Page 6
Without thinking, Darcy reached to straighten his neck cloth, his lips curving into a smile. He moved to a tall pier glass to check the set of his coat. Reflected there was not his trim form, but a bulky black-clad figure, rather like a beetle. Collins!
Startled, Darcy turned away. Collins’ body was bad enough, but to catch a glimpse of the face? Thank God he’d stopped himself in time! And then he heard a dry cough. Darcy turned to see a footman studying him with a hostile eye.
Darcy lifted his chin and returned the stare. The nerve of the fellow! He was tempted to brazen it out and join the others, but Mrs. Nicholls came sailing into the vestibule. She stopped and stood gazing at him. There was no spark of recognition in her eyes.
“Are you looking for Dr. Bentley?” she said. Her accusation was clear. Why would an unknown rector be wandering the rooms at Netherfield? Not for any honest purpose!
Darcy felt a flush rise to his cheeks. He’d been a guest at Netherfield for nearly a month, yet now he was a stranger to the housekeeper. And to all his friends!
Blast that Collins! Was his body to be a blight forever?
“Ah, no, ah, ma’am,” Darcy stammered. “The exit, if you please?”
Wordlessly Mrs. Nicholls pointed to the main door.
Darcy turned and went scuttling out. Gone was his usual confident stride, for he was no longer master of anything. He was nothing more than a second-rate rector in a worn black coat.
Outside the house Darcy found Bingley’s chaise at the ready, no doubt to transport the Bennets to Longbourn. He walked past it, and the driver did not bother to look at him.
Darcy skirted the house, retracing his steps on the night of the ball. Here were bare trees and the ornamental gardens. Here Collins had followed him, calling his name in that whining voice—a voice that was now his own.
And if he did not recover? Would Darcy remain as Collins forever? Or would Collins, in a twist of divine comeuppance, return to his own body, leaving Darcy to face eternity?
At last he reached the Folly. As Jones had described, instead of Grecian columns, statues supported the small circular building. According to Jones, these were biblical characters. Darcy studied them. Yes, here was bearded Moses with his tablets, now tilted at a precarious angle. Beside him was John the Baptist, though how Darcy was supposed to recognize him he did not know. By the fur-like garment he wore? And the bearded wild-man look? John stood erect beside the fallen arch.
Darcy circled the Folly. On the other side of Moses he expected to see the usual Adam and Eve. Instead he found a young man with his eyes turned to heaven. Beside him, a glowering man, also young, with his hand lifted threateningly. Darcy studied this pair for some time. Ah yes, here were Cain and Abel, untouched by the lightning.
On the other side of the Folly, completing the circle, were two more: a hearty, bearded fellow, well-muscled but in distress, and a man whose head and shoulders were shrouded with a long cloak. His neatly trimmed beard and a furtive expression were clues, and so was the small bag of coins he carried. Peter, the fisherman, and—Judas! The earnest, but weak disciple, and the betrayer. These too were undamaged.
Cain and Abel. Judas and Peter. Moses and John. What was he to make of it? No, there was nothing here, save for tumbled stones. The fallen keystone, which had supported the arch between Moses and John, had an inscription. Darcy knelt to see. The lettering was worn by the elements, but legible: Mt VI.
Matthew 6? This was the Sermon on the Mount, wasn’t it? With all those verses about the poor and the meek and the humble being blessed?
The upshot was clear. He, Fitzwilliam Darcy, was not blessed but cursed. For he was not meek but proud.
Burn it, and so was Collins!
Yes, so was Collins. He was just as pleased with his position in life, both at Rosings and as the future master of Longbourn. For all Collins’ cringing ways, didn’t he strut about like a cock on a dunghill?
Had pride something to do with the lightning? He and Collins were out here that night, each sneering at the other, each boasting in his own way, each desiring the affection of the same woman. And then the unthinkable happened.
Was this a judgment from heaven? Or a curse from hell? And how would they change back? Should he haul Collins out here and wait for another thunderstorm? How likely was that to happen?
And if this were the judgment of God—an important point to consider—the cure could not be worked out as in magic. There would have to be a heart change.
Darcy set his teeth. He had no desire to make a heart change, not now or ever! And he suspected that Collins wouldn’t like it either. Two different men, with different lives and different expectations. It was all so confusing.
So intent was Darcy with his thoughts that he did not hear the voices until they were upon him.
“I do wish you will consider staying to supper,” Bingley was saying.
Jane Bennet’s gentle voice answered, “I fear not—”
Caroline interrupted. “Nonsense, Charles! Not with poor Mr. Darcy so ill and Lady Catherine at table.”
“That’s exactly the reason, Caroline. We need someone to lighten the—.” Bingley broke off speaking. “Why, Mr. Collins!” Darcy heard him say. “What are you doing out here?”
Darcy raised his eyes and gazed into his friend’s face. “I came to see the Folly,” he said simply.
“As have we.” Elizabeth Bennet came forward. “Did you walk all this way, Mr. Collins?”
Darcy took heart at the concern in her voice. “Lady Catherine had me brought here,” he said, smiling a little. “She wished me to pray for her nephew.”
“That woman!” cried Caroline. She turned to her brother. “Charles, do you know she had the audacity to accuse us of hiring Netherfield? Simply because I could not give names to those odious portraits?”
Bingley spread his hands. “It’s the truth, Caroline.” He turned to Darcy. “How are you holding up, old fellow? I must say, you look done-in.”
“My head does hurt a little,” Darcy admitted.
“And so must your arm,” said Jane. “Poor Mr. Collins. You should be in bed. What you need is rest and quiet.”
“I fear this evening will be anything but quiet,” said Elizabeth. “Mother has invited several of the officers to join us for supper.” She turned to Bingley. “Which is why we cannot accept your very kind invitation, Mr. Bingley. Perhaps another time?”
“Officers?” Darcy repeated.
“Colonel Forster and Captain Carter and Mr. Denny. And,” said Jane, smiling at her sister in a way Darcy did not like, “Mr. Wickham.”
Wickham. In the fuss of becoming Collins he had forgotten about Wickham. The man would not go quietly when his plot had been discovered. No, he must appear at Longbourn.
Wickham’s presence decided it. Even if Darcy had to cross hell itself, he must have a place at that dinner table.
7Such Amiable Qualities
But being present at dinner was not as easy as it appeared. Darcy must deal with Hill, who made him sit on the bed as she removed both his coat and neck cloth.
“Menfolk,” she muttered. “You’ve no sense, none at all. But it’s not my place to say, is it?” She crossed to the wardrobe and removed Mr. Collins’ clean nightshirt. “Put this on, and without a lot of talk, if you please.”
Darcy could tell she was in no mood for being crossed. He took the garment.
“Remove the shoes and stockings,” Hill went on, as if speaking to a little boy. “You had no business going downstairs today, and even less jaunting off to Netherfield.”
Darcy was about to blame Jones and his aunt, but the look on Hill’s face silenced him. This woman was paid to listen to Mrs. Bennet’s excuses, not his.
“And now,” said she, putting her hands on her hips, “your head hurts like thunder, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Darcy meekly. He fumbled with the buttons on his waistcoat.
“Here, now,” said Hill, and she made a move to assist him
.
Darcy pulled away. “I can do this,” he grumbled. But his fingers felt thick and awkward.
Hill pushed his hands aside and helped him. She unfastened the top button of his shirt, too. Removing the night shirt from his resistless grasp, she said, “You might as well lie down as you are. It won’t make much difference if you sleep in your shirt and breeches.”
Darcy was happy to comply. She was right; he was worn to the bone. He lay back against the pillows and closed his eyes.
“There now, Mr. Collins.” Hill’s voice was soothing instead of scolding. “A bit of sleep will do you good.”
He could not sleep! Darcy raised his head to eye the wardrobe. “My evening clothes,” he said. “For dinner. Where are they?”
“You will have your dinner brought on a tray, young man, and no mistake.” Clucking and fussing, Hill drew the blankets up to Darcy’s chin. “You are not well enough to come down tonight. The idea!”
“But,” protested Darcy. “Wickham.”
There was a pause. “What did you say?” demanded Hill.
Darcy lay back against the pillows. “That devil Wickham,” he said. “He’s coming to dinner tonight.”
“Aye, he is. What’s it to you?” Her tone accused Darcy of jealousy.
Darcy ignored this. “I must be at table,” he said. “Miss Elizabeth does not realize...”
He paused to steal a look at Hill. Her hands were on her hips again. “Miss Elizabeth does not realize what?”
“That Wickham is a scoundrel. She has no way of knowing it.”
Hill sat down on the end of the bed, and Darcy heard her give a long sigh.
“Something’s not right,” she said at last. “I feel it in my bones. The Mistress, bless her, has no notion of what’s what, and the Master indulges the girls. Again and again these officers come to the house. They’re harmless for the most part, amusing the girls with high spirits and dancing. But that Mr. Wickham? He’s not their sort.” Frowning, Hill lapsed into silence.
“He speaks well enough,” she admitted at last, “but he’s not one of them.”
Darcy worked his good hand free of the blanket. “I must be at table,” he told her.
But Hill did not appear to hear. “Calculating!” she burst out. “That’s what he is! A smooth smile and smooth speeches. And up to no good, if you ask me.”
“Very much up to no good,” said Darcy.
“He’s too agreeable! But he watches them, oh he does. And the Bennets know nothing—nothing! —of the ways of conniving men. The Mistress believes any tale told her, and that Mr. Wickham has been telling her plenty. When a man has something to hide,” she added, “he talks on and on.”
Hill turned a speculative gaze on Darcy. “Perhaps there’s more to you than meets the eye, Mr. Collins. But you are not,” she added, “up to sitting at table tonight.”
Darcy hated to admit that Hill was right, and yet what could he do? He tipped his head to one side, rather like his late father’s favorite spaniel. “What do you say to after-dinner coffee, Mrs. Hill?” he offered, smiling appealingly. “In the drawing room? You could put me on the sofa before the others come in.”
He paused, studying her expression. “By the fire with a lap blanket,” he added. “And with a mug of hot milk.”
Mr. Collins was not handsome, but Darcy discovered that he could be charming. Mrs. Hill rose to her feet. “Hot milk!” she scoffed. “As if I do not have enough to do.”
But she did not refuse, Darcy noted. And she took with her his spare shirt, frock coat, and breeches to press. When the door closed behind her, Darcy allowed himself to smile. He had made his first ally.
g
By dinnertime, Darcy was feeling better, and he’d managed to sleep for several hours. Even so, the ordeal of being William Collins was a nuisance. The man might be a guest at Longbourn, but he was the very last to be attended to. Darcy found this new pecking order irksome. There was no hot water sent up, without assistance he had to struggle into his evening clothes (such as they were), and so awkward was he in dressing that he knocked over the night table. Then he noticed that one of his cuff links was missing.
“Botheration!” Darcy muttered, and lowered his bulk to look under the bed.
The match to the lost link was no great loss, being made of tin, and wasn’t such parsimony typical of Collins? At Pemberley—no, in his rooms at Netherfield—Darcy had several sets of links, both in silver and in gold, along with a valet to see to his needs. Darcy stifled a sigh and went looking for Hill.
Hill’s solution was to sew together two common shell buttons. These held the cuff in place, and Hill was unconcerned that the links did not match. “If a blind man could see,” she told him, “he would not notice.”
What a blind man would notice, Darcy thought, was that wart on the back of his left hand. It seemed even larger today. How did one remove a wart?
Darcy’s dinner tray was brought up almost as an afterthought, and the meal was served all at once instead of in courses. The cover was removed by a kitchen maid, not Hill, and Darcy found himself confronting lukewarm soup and a cold leg of chicken. And what were the pale green globules on the side? Ah, yes. Overcooked Brussels sprouts swimming in butter. In vain he looked for a wine glass. Apparently Hill did not approve of wine for invalids.
She came in later with the coffee pot. “We’re serving the dessert now,” she said.
Darcy felt his stomach rumble. He was suddenly very interested in dessert.
From her apron pocket Hill produced a cup, and she filled it with coffee. “We’ve just time to get your hair trussed up and put you in the drawing room before the ladies come in,” she said. “Drink the coffee. You could use a bit of vigor.”
Whereas earlier Darcy had been treated like a boy, he now felt like an old man. When it was time to descend, Hill offered the support of her arm, and Darcy took it.
And so he waited, seated on the sofa like one of Georgiana’s stuffed dolls. No, he amended, squirming to find a more comfortable position, not a doll. What little girl would want a doll whose body resembled a walrus?
Voices drifted in from the dining room and, as at Netherfield that afternoon, Darcy was struck with the isolation of his position. No one knew or cared that he had come.
And then Darcy heard a laugh, Wickham’s laugh, light and carefree. The fingers of Darcy’s good hand, fat though they were, gripped the arm of the sofa in sudden anger. That man was the devil incarnate, completely and thoroughly without shame! Not seven months had passed since Darcy had foiled Wickham’s plan to elope with his sister. It was bad enough to encounter him on the streets of Meryton, but now he must witness the man in action.
Of all the times to be trapped in Collins’ bumbling body, this was the worst!
Again Wickham laughed, and the young women laughed with him. Bile rose in Darcy’s throat. Wickham, who was everything that was charming, was up to his old tricks.
Darcy heard the sound of chairs being pushed back, accompanied by more happy talk. And what was this? The gentlemen and the ladies were coming together into the drawing room. Apparently Mr. Bennet had no taste for port and cigars.
Darcy thought quickly. On a small table beside the sofa were a number of books and periodicals. Elizabeth Bennet had hidden behind a book at Netherfield, hadn’t she, during those evenings while her sister was ill? And from behind the pages she had watched them. Yes, she had watched them closely.
William Collins, Darcy decided, would do the same.
On second thought, a periodical was larger and offered better cover. Darcy chose one at random and opened it.
And none too soon, for Mrs. Bennet came sailing into the drawing room on Colonel Forster’s arm. “Why, Mr. Collins,” she said, seeing him. “How courageous of you to come down tonight, and so soon after your unfortunate accident.”
Out of habit, Darcy rose to his feet, provoking a squeal of protest from Mrs. Bennet. “Good gracious, Mr. Collins, sit down! What nonsense!”
“Will you not join our table, Mr. Collins?” Elizabeth politely indicated an empty seat, which happened to be very near the sofa.
When Darcy declined, several smiled. No one regretted losing Collins as a partner.
And yet the memory of card playing made Darcy wince. In a similar situation, Caroline Bingley had been pointedly ungracious. ‘Miss Eliza Bennet despises cards. She is a great reader and has no pleasure in anything else.’
Over the pages of the periodical, Darcy studied Elizabeth. Would she make a similar remark about his decision? He thought not.
Her partner at whist was Wickham, who sported a bright new uniform, beautifully tailored. The women were not alone in their admiration of it. Darcy caught Wickham casting glances at the pier glass.
Darcy’s observations did not escape Lydia Bennet. “Poor Mr. Collins,” she crowed. “The red of the army is much more becoming than the black of the clergy. Why did you not join the army?”
How would Collins answer this? “I hadn’t the aptitude for it,” while true, sounded both cowardly and boorish, and Darcy was in no mood to be either.
Fortunately, Lydia did not expect a reply. “Mr. Wickham’s red coat looks ever so fine!” she went on, smiling at him. “Don’t you think so, Mr. Collins?”
“It sits well across the shoulders,” Darcy admitted, before he could stop himself.
And then he realized that all eyes were on him. He must say something else but, please God, not something stupid! “A London tailor?” he squeaked, allowing Collins’ lips to form an inane smile. “Cork Street?” And then, because he could not resist, Darcy added, “Or, perhaps, Savile Street?”
Wickham gave a shout of laughter. “Oh, very good!” He turned to Elizabeth. “Your cousin is surprisingly astute. To say truth, Mr. Darcy is fitted out by the very same tailor.” He gave another glance to the looking glass.