by Laura Hile
“I do apologize,” she gasped, still laughing. “But these words!”
He pulled a mournful face. “The story of my life.” He pointed. “Here is your next chord.”
Obediently she played it.
“Dearest mistress, I prithee be wiser,
Recant your platonic opinion,
Whilst you hoard up your love, like a miser,
You starve all within your dominion,
And when the dread foe is vanquish’d by you,
I’ll kiss the boy’s bow, and forever be true.”
His performance was greeted with enthusiasm, but all that mattered to Darcy was the warmth that shone in Elizabeth’s eyes. Could it be that disdain had given way to admiration? And why did this now mean everything to him?
18A Parson’s Farewell
Was it the snow, that vast expanse of white that kept them imprisoned in the house? Was it having to crouch before the fire to feel warm? Was it Lydia’s giggle and Kitty’s shrill laugh, as they vied to entertain Anne de Bourgh? Whatever the cause, Elizabeth’s nerves were frayed to the breaking point.
And of course, whom should she find at breakfast but Mr. Collins? What mood had seized her last night? According to Jane, she had flirted shamelessly with the man.
Of course she had not flirted. Laughing and talking were not flirting! And if they were, why, she had done the same with Mr. Wickham often enough and no one said a word. Nor would they, for George Wickham was harmless, the sort of man one did not take seriously. He was amusing, and Elizabeth enjoyed being amused.
Even so, it was troubling to encounter Mr. Collins. How could she have forgotten herself so completely in his company? Elizabeth would chart a very different course today. Let William Collins so much as smile at her, and he would learn his mistake!
Tea and toast were all Elizabeth was feeling up to. It was otherwise with her mother, who launched into a lament over the choices on the sideboard.
“Ham,” she said wrathfully. “And more of the same for luncheon and for dinner. I daresay we’ll have ham soup as well.”
There was no dealing with her mother in this mood. Elizabeth applied herself to buttering a piece of toast. William Collins she ignored.
“I do not see why we cannot have poultry tonight,” her mother went on. “Chickens are as plentiful in winter as they are the rest of the year.” She lifted one of the covers and peered beneath. “Bacon,” she said wrathfully.
Elizabeth noticed a movement and looked up. William Collins was attempting to hide a smile and no wonder. His plate was loaded with bacon. He caught her gaze; his eyes twinkled.
She quickly looked away.
“No Englishman will find fault with bacon,” he said to no one in particular. “I daresay we could eat it for every meal.”
“Speak for yourself, Mr. Collins,” said Mrs. Bennet, lifting another of the covers. “And why in the world are there no eggs?”
“I suppose the hens will not lay,” Elizabeth offered.
“Most distressing. I shall speak to Hill about it. This cannot be allowed to continue.”
Elizabeth bit her lips to keep from smiling. “One cannot force hens to lay, Mama.”
“I do not see why not. We give them a warm coop in which to live and we feed them. It isn’t like we just toss them into the paddock and expect them to fend for themselves! And this is the thanks we get?”
Mr. Collins rose to his feet and politely held the chair for Mrs. Bennet. “I believe it has something to do with the dark and the cold, if that is any consolation, ma’am,” he said. “Or so I have been told.”
Elizabeth looked away. Now it would come, an homily on the raising of poultry, as if William Collins knew anything about a farmyard. She had been waiting for the sermonizing side of his personality to emerge.
From beneath her lashes she watched him resume his seat and apply himself to his precious bacon. If only the snow would melt so that he could take himself back to Hunsford!
“How I despise this season,” said Mrs. Bennet, and she shook out her napkin. “The days are short and the meals are uninteresting. And it isn’t even Christmas. And here I was hoping for a nice brace of partridges from Mr. Bingley.”
“Mama,” Elizabeth protested. Mr. Bingley had promised no such gift. How embarrassing that her mother would expose her assumptions before Mr. Collins!
“And of course, no one can hunt in all this snow,” continued Mrs. Bennet. “Not that anyone will bestir himself to try.” Her gaze slanted down the table toward Mr. Collins.
“What a pity that you do not indulge in shooting,” she told him. “I suppose we must have sermons preached, but I do wish that you could do more than lounge about and eat.”
This remark was hardly fair, but it was all Elizabeth could do not to laugh. From the corner of her eye she saw William Collins put down his knife and fork.
“As a matter of fact,” he said quietly, “I do know a little something about guns. And if your husband has a firearm in his possession, I would be happy to oblige.”
He hesitated and a grin appeared. “At any rate,” he added, “it can do no harm to try my hand at—how do the sportsmen say it? Bagging some game?”
“By all means, Mr. Collins,” said Mrs. Bennet. “Do make yourself useful.”
Elizabeth became occupied with the contents of her teacup. How like him to pretend a skill in order to puff off his consequence! Fortunately none of their neighbors would be present to see the spectacle. Mr. Collins, shoot? What would George Wickham say? Elizabeth could almost hear his mocking laughter.
Mr. Collins pushed back his chair. “If you do not mind, I shall ask him about it directly.”
“Mind your manners when you do,” said Mrs. Bennet. “His cold has not improved—I daresay he caught it from Dr. Bentley—but will Mr. Bennet remain in his bed? Foolish man, he insists on keeping to his chair in the library. Mind his fire when you go in. So often he allows it to burn to nothing.”
Mr. Collins excused himself and went out.
“Just look at that,” her mother said. “How quickly we go through wood. Ring for someone to build up the fire, Lizzy. I am fatigued to death with snow and cold.”
Weren’t they all!
Elizabeth obeyed her mother’s request and then left the dining room. Would her father agree to loan one of his guns? He had not taken a gun out for years. He gave various reasons, but Elizabeth suspected his eyesight was to blame.
And yet, in a sardonic mood she knew that he would give the gun to William Collins and then amuse himself by watching from the window.
The door to his library adjoined the drawing room and was closed. Was Mr. Collins within? Elizabeth settled into an overstuffed chair and took up a book.
Her instincts were correct. Soon Mr. Collins emerged with a rifle, the long black one with the brass filigree on the stock. He also had a leather pouch. A powder horn was slung over his shoulder.
She peeked at him over the pages of her book. Why was he not holding the gun at arm’s length? She’d pictured Mr. Collins taking squeamish, mincing steps to avoid setting it off. Which was ridiculous, for none of her father’s guns were loaded.
William Collins crossed to one of the windows, apparently to better examine it. His fingers moved over the length of the barrel, and he drew out the ramrod. His gaze was intent. It seemed that her prosy cousin knew something about firearms after all.
“This is somewhat of a surprise,” he remarked. “Not a fowling piece, but it will do.”
Was he speaking to her?
“An Austrian military rifle,” he went on, “no doubt built for an officer perhaps twenty years ago.”
Did he expect her to say something? He was smiling at her in an expectant way.
“Austrian riflemen have fought on both sides of the war,” he went on, “not that Napoleon cares. He should, though.”
Were Mr. Collins’ eyes twinkling? “Everyone hates mercenaries,” he added. “They’re like gossips, loyal only to what’s best
for themselves.”
Did he think she cared about mercenaries? And why did she continue to study him? Her dreary book was surely to blame!
“The barrel looks to be in good shape,” he said, “and so does the front sight.”
Some answer was required, so Elizabeth said, “Oh.”
“Now to see if it will shoot. But first, a thorough cleaning is in order.”
“Do you know how to clean a gun?” Elizabeth was betrayed into saying.
“What an incompetent you must think me,” he said. He hitched the powder horn’s strap higher on his shoulder and took up the leather pouch. “Come and see.”
He walked away from the window, leaving Elizabeth with her book. Come and see? Was this an invitation? Or was it a challenge?
Voices in the vestibule told her that her sisters would soon be coming in.
“Very well,” said Elizabeth, and she put the book aside. “I believe I shall.”
g
Mr. Fleming had told Collins that his improvement, once begun, would progress rapidly, and he was perfectly right. Collins was feeling and looking much better. The swelling of his face had gone down, and his lip looked almost normal. Speaking would be easier.
Today he occupied a sofa, fully clothed, since Mr. Fleming insisted that he take a turn about the room from time to time.
In other words, he must walk. Fleming could call it walking if he liked, but it was more like being dragged about by Holdsworth.
But Darcy’s body was lean and muscular, and it responded to exercise. Even after a small amount of movement, Collins could feel strength returning. From somewhere Fleming had unearthed a cane, and Collins made grateful use of it.
It was well that Holdsworth had the care of his clothing, for when Collins came into Darcy’s bedchamber and saw the amount of it, he was staggered. How could one decide among so many fabulous choices?
Just now, for instance, he wore a snow-white shirt, nicely starched, of such fine quality that it almost made him swoon. Returning to his own scratchy linen would be difficult, if not impossible. And the fine lawn did not wrinkle like his linen shirts had. By mid-morning, Collins usually looked as if he had slept in his shirt.
And then there was the glorious silk neck cloth and striped waistcoat. The dark blue coat—not black! —was tailored to perfection, as were the fawn breeches. Indeed, it was worth taking short walks just to gaze into the looking glass.
Because Holdsworth was not present, Collins did so now. He stood for a long, delightful interval before his reflection, turning this way and that and sighing. By Jove, his physique was a marvel! His shoulders needed no padding, his waist was slim, his thighs firm. And his calves were beautifully muscular.
Collins turned, made a leg, and chortled for joy at his reflection. This was beyond his wildest dreams! And with Holdsworth to instruct him on what to wear and when, he would always look right, from the top of his head—with hair that was perfectly styled—to the tips of his shining Hessian boots.
He was not wearing Hessians now, of course, but he’d caught a glimpse of the boots in the dressing room. And then there was the delight of his face, with its decisive jaw, well-shaped nose, and cleft chin—so handsomely noble!
Collins was just admiring the way the blue coat covered his backside when there came a soft knocking at the door.
He heard the door swing open a crack. “Holdsworth?” said a woman’s voice. “Mr. Darcy?”
“Yes?” said Collins. His voice was crisp and clear. Wonderful!
“It is I, Caroline Bingley. May I come in?”
This would be Miss Bingley, the mistress of the house, sister to Charles. In addition to his skills as valet, Holdsworth was an excellent source of useful information.
Collins turned away from the looking glass and took hold of his cane. “Please do,” he called.
For it occurred to him that Caroline Bingley was also a source of useful information.
g
Finding space in the crowded kitchen was a challenge, but Elizabeth had not reckoned with Hill. Anything dear Mr. Collins needed was no trouble at all. She set a kettle to boil, one with a narrow spout to accommodate pouring water into the barrel of the gun, and she herself cleared a work area.
And Hill provided aprons. It was great fun to see a big man like Mr. Collins solemnly struggle to tie the sash. Elizabeth decided to help him. She could not help but notice how his clothes hung on him, and she studied his profile. What had become of his double chins? And his hair was so much more attractive now that it was not slicked down flat.
“So in a bit,” he was explaining, “we’ll pour the hot water into the barrel.” He passed her a towel.
Somehow she had become Mr. Collins’ assistant. As he seemed to expect her help, she complied. He emptied her father’s leather pouch and sorted through its contents, naming them for her benefit: vent pick, shot, priming powder, cloth for the patch, and extra flints.
Hill produced a flat-headed tool, and Mr. Collins removed and disassembled the firing mechanism for cleaning. He was, she realized, a thorough workman.
When the water was hot enough, he drew out the ramrod. “The trick here,” he said, “is to tie the cloth securely. There’s a world of trouble if it becomes stuck in the barrel.”
He competently tore a strip of Hill’s cheesecloth and began wrapping it around the end of the ramrod. “So,” he said, twinkling, “we shall see how well I can accomplish this.”
He poured water into the barrel, changing it and the cloth several times. At length what he poured into the bucket came clean. He reassembled the gun with similar thoroughness. He proceeded to shine the stock with wax.
And then Mr. Collins tidied their work area instead of leaving it for Sarah or Hill to clear away.
Hill produced surprises: a thick brown overcoat, a woolen flat cap, gloves, and a pair of boots, all of which fit Mr. Collins very well.
“Will you go out to hunt now?” Elizabeth said.
“In a bit,” he said. “First, I must learn how this fires. And also, I must obtain bait for the birds, since I won’t have beaters and a gamekeeper to flush them out for me.”
“Ah, the gentlemen’s hunt,” Elizabeth said, smiling.
“Not terribly sporting, is it?” he agreed. “But convenient for large parties, which are more about eating and drinking than shooting.”
She dimpled. “What do you know about gentlemen’s hunts, Mr. Collins?”
He lowered the gun and returned the smile, a rather bashful one. “Not as much as I’d like. If I am waiting for an invitation from Rosings, I’ll be waiting for rather a long while.”
“Perhaps you’ll be invited once Anne marries Mr. Darcy?” she said. “Although, I suppose they will live at his estate, not hers.”
He looked rather taken aback. “I wouldn’t count on that blessed event.”
“But Miss de Bourgh said—”
“Anne is acting on information from her mother. I doubt her intended bridegroom will have the banns read any time soon, if at all.”
“You are very confident, Mr. Collins.”
He shrugged into the brown overcoat and began buttoning it. “That, my dear Elizabeth, is because I am.”
“But how do you—”
He interrupted. “I’ll just load this outside, shall I?” he said. His tone was rather sharp, which surprised her. “I see your father does not have a cow’s knee,” he added, “so it is well that it is not snowing.”
“A what?” said Elizabeth.
“A cow’s knee. To shield the firepan from rain or snow. It guards against misfires.”
Elizabeth just looked at him.
“And now, if you will excuse me,” he said, “I have some shooting to do.”
And giving her a bow, he collected his supplies and pulled the door open.
“But Mr. Collins,” she called. “You’ve forgotten your—”
The service door was pulled firmly to.
“He’s forgotten the cap, Hill,”
said Elizabeth. “And the gloves.”
Hill shook her head. “That’s way of young gentlemen and guns, Miss Elizabeth,” she said. “When they are upset or put out, they shoot.”
Was William Collins put out?
“Never you fear,” Hill went on. “Mr. Collins knows what he’s about, doesn’t he, Ned?”
Because James had a cold, Ned had come in from the barn to assume his duties. “That’s the trouble,” he said, “with old guns that are left to sit. Rab Miller learned the hard way. Whole side of his face, burnt to a crisp.”
“Do you mean,” said Elizabeth, “that Father’s gun could explode?”
“Not explode, Miss, but near enough. Stay clear of the lock-side, that’s what I say.”
Elizabeth snatched up Mr. Collins’ cap and gloves and went stumbling after him, out the door and into the snow. She found him in a shoveled-out area of the paddock, engaged in loading the gun.
“Mr. Collins!” she called. “Stay clear of the lock-side!”
g
Miss Bingley had ordered tea brought in, and together she and Collins enjoyed a cozy tête-à-tête.
“Ah, Pemberley,” she was saying. “A fine house, richly furnished, truly impressive. For situation, unparalleled.”
He sat back and, over the rim of his teacup, smiled at her. “I so enjoy hearing your impressions and memories, Miss Bingley. Please continue.”
She colored and looked pleased. “The grounds and gardens are delightful. I am told,” she said, “that you have some of the finest woods in the country. I must confess, I care more for the elegant gardens than for wilderness. My brother will say that the fishing is very fine.” She gave a tittering laugh. “As you know, you are by far the better fisherman.”
Collins repressed a shudder. He disliked everything about fishing.
“The river and the trees and the winding valley—surely you remember them, Mr. Darcy.”
“I do, in bits and pieces. But it pleases me to hear you describe them.”
“I am happy to do anything I can for you.”
Collins helped himself to another biscuit and hazarded a guess. After all, ladies fancied flowers. “My mother had a special garden, did she not? Roses?”