by Laura Hile
“You’ll find everyone in the drawing room, save for Mr. Bennet.”
“Hiding in his library?” Fleming remarked, as he went out. “Wise fellow.”
Darcy followed. “He’s confined to bed with a cold.”
Fleming glanced back. “Is it serious?”
“According to Mrs. Bennet, yes,” replied Darcy. “If the man so much as sneezes, he’s at death’s door. But Mrs. Hill is concerned, and that worries me.”
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As soon as he came into the drawing room, Darcy’s eyes found Elizabeth. How should he behave? A dignified silence would never do, but neither would urbane insouciance. He quietly found a seat on one of the sofas.
To his credit, Fleming delivered the letters without a fuss. Mrs. Jenkinson received hers with such obvious dismay that Darcy struggled not to laugh. She thrust it, unopened, under her knitting basket. Her shaking hands could no longer hold the needles, so she did nothing but sit and look miserable.
Anne’s color came and went, but like Jenkinson, she put her letter aside. This Darcy could not understand. Why not open it and face the worst?
His expression must have mirrored his thoughts, for he felt Elizabeth’s ironic gaze. But there was warmth in her eyes, not coldness. And when she exchanged her seat to share the sofa with him, he blushed and smiled like a schoolboy.
Of course he must speak with her. For some reason he said the first thing that came into his head. “Is it a habit among women,” he whispered, “to avoid bad news?”
“How do you mean?”
“Miss de Bourgh knows that she has a scold coming from her mother,” he murmured. “And yet she waits to read it, thus becoming a victim to her fears. Why not face the worst and be done with it?”
Elizabeth’s chin came up. “And why is it,” she countered, “that men always assume the worst? Her letter might be from her fiancé.”
Darcy felt his lip curl. “My dear girl,” he murmured.
Lydia interrupted. “Do open your letter, Anne,” she called. “For of course it is from Mr. Darcy. And of course it is romantic.”
Darcy felt Elizabeth’s elbow dig into his ribs.
Anne did not inquire after Mr. Darcy’s health—so much for the object of her devotion! Elizabeth did not ask after him either, so it was left for Darcy to do.
“He is up and about,” Fleming answered. “I daresay he’s on his way to becoming his usual self.”
Darcy thought he heard a sharp intake of breath. Was it Anne’s?
“All things considered, he is making splendid progress.” Fleming lowered his voice. “Do you know Mr. Darcy well, Collins?”
Darcy’s answer was guarded. “No more than usual.”
“Rather a dressy gentleman, I must say. Fond of his reflection.”
Darcy caught Elizabeth’s suppressed laugh. Blast that Collins! Parading in front of the mirror, no doubt. What would Holdsworth think?
“Fond of the ladies, too,” Fleming went on. “He has your gift for compliments.”
There was no one at Netherfield to compliment, save for—
Darcy swallowed a groan. Was Collins flirting with Caroline Bingley?
“All praise and credit to Lady Catherine,” said Darcy grimly. “Under her tutelage I perfected the art.”
Fleming laughed and so did Elizabeth.
Meanwhile Anne had her letter open and was scowling at it. “It is not from Mr. Darcy,” she said. “It is from Mother. And she is most unfair. Can you imagine? She demands an apology.”
“Oh,” cried Kitty, ever loyal. “As if you did anything wrong.”
“Furthermore,” Anne went on, “she insists that I return home at once. I am not an infant! I refuse to be ordered about!”
“Hear, hear,” said Lydia.
Anne gave her a gratified look. “She also accuses me of ruining my health.”
“Which is completely untrue,” said Kitty. “You have been ever so well since you arrived.”
“And also,” Anne went on, “of accepting the hospitality of inferior persons.”
Kitty and Lydia protested loudly. Darcy glanced at Mrs. Bennet. It was well that she had not caught this remark.
“I do hope,” said Kitty, “that the roads remain absolutely impassible, dear Anne, so that you must stay with us all winter.”
“Save for the roads to and from Meryton,” amended Lydia. “For we do want the officers to come.”
“Oh yes,” said Kitty. “We must have them. Games and dancing and everything amusing.”
“We ought to dance now,” cried Lydia, and she jumped to her feet. “Dancing is the cure for everything,” she said to Anne. “Whenever Mama gives me a scold, or when I am told to moderate my behavior, a little dance takes the sting away.”
“But we cannot dance,” said Kitty. “Which is too bad, for I daresay we could use the practice.”
Anne put her letter aside. “We have Mr. Collins and Mr. Fleming.”
Lydia and Kitty broke into laughter. “Mr. Collins?” scoffed Kitty.
“Do not look at me like that, Mr. Collins,” said Lydia. “You are shockingly bad at dancing.”
Darcy heard Elizabeth chuckle, and this stung. “And you, Miss Lydia,” he retorted, “cannot dance without laughing and shrieking.”
“Oh,” Lydia cried. “Shall we punish him? Shall we make him dance with us?”
Kitty was on her feet and joined Lydia in pushing back chairs.
“Come along, Mr. Fleming,” Lydia called cheerfully. “Dancing is the cure for sore feet. Who will you have for your first partner?”
Darcy saw Fleming draw a reluctant breath. Ever the diplomat, he said, “Choose for me, Miss Lydia.”
“Why, Anne, of course!”
Fleming crossed to where she sat and made a bow. “If Miss de Bourgh will consent.”
She colored and looked confused. Darcy understood it. Ought Anne to dance with the son of her mother’s physician? Another thought occurred: did she know how to dance?
“I daresay she is wishing for one of the officers,” said Lydia. She twinkled at Fleming. “You lack a red coat, sir, but I shall dance with you if you’ll have me. And you, Mr. Collins?”
Darcy needed no urging. With a smile playing about his lips, he held out a hand to Elizabeth. “Will you do me the honor?” he said. “I have much to account for, given the debacle at Netherfield.”
She hesitated.
“Come, Cousin. Allow me to make right a debt. I promise not to tread on your toes.”
“Or collide with other couples?”
“Even that.”
She placed her hand in his, which fortunately was not sweaty or damp, as he wore no gloves. Elizabeth’s hand was soft and warm. Darcy led her to the cleared area of the drawing room. Someone had rolled back the rug.
“Shall we dance a reel?” said Lydia. “Play The Jovial Beggars, Mary. I daresay that is easy enough, even for Mr. Collins.”
“Do you know this dance?” Elizabeth whispered urgently.
“Fairly well,” he whispered back.
It was obvious that she did not believe him. Was she worried that he might make a fool of himself?
“Do call the figures as we dance them, Lydia,” Elizabeth suggested. “For Mr. Collins’ sake.”
Darcy had a sudden idea, and he released Elizabeth’s hand. “Come now, Miss de Bourgh, we cannot have you sitting on the side. Miss Bennet will dance with you, will you not, Miss Bennet? And Miss Kitty, you must dance with your mama.”
“Posh,” said Mrs. Bennet, but Darcy noticed that she looked pleased.
“You cannot convince us that you do not love to dance, ma’am,” he said to her. “Up with you.” Darcy handed Mrs. Bennet to Kitty and went directly to Anne.
She shrank back against the cushions. “No shirking, Miss de Bourgh,” he said. “Up you come.”
But it was Jane who coaxed Anne into the set. “It’s only a family party,” she said, smiling. “We often dance together for practice.”
Meanwhile Fleming and Lydia were clearing more space. Elizabeth’s eyes were on Darcy and when he joined her, she whispered, “What an excellent idea.”
“Eight dancers are better than four,” he said, “and your sister is right, Miss de Bourgh must dance.” He glanced in her direction. Anne’s nervousness had not abated, but the thundercloud of anger toward her mother had passed.
Elizabeth must have guessed his thoughts. “Jane will guide Anne through the steps. She is the most patient of teachers.”
“And will you tutor me, a poor stumbler?” he said.
But Darcy would not stumble. The Jovial Beggars was as old as time; he could dance it in his sleep. Given his current mood (for Elizabeth was smiling) he would gleefully add Collins’ twirls and flourishes.
The dancers formed two lines and the music began. At once it was clear that Anne was struggling. Darcy called out, “Best to slow down, Miss Mary.”
Mary stopped playing and turned round.
She was not the only one to feel surprised. What was he doing? He had never stopped a dance in his life!
Lydia gave an unhappy huff. “Oh, lord.”
“Play it slowly, if you please.” Darcy clapped the tempo at half speed. “La-DA-da-DA-da-DA-DA. Have pity on me, your sad cousin.”
They began again, at the Grandmother’s Tempo (according to Lydia).
“Gypsy Half!” Lydia called. Jane guided Anne through the figure.
“First couple, lead down!”
This meant Darcy and Elizabeth would join hands and walk down the line. “One-two-three-four!” Darcy counted for Anne’s benefit. “And back two-three-four.”
“And Gate!” called Lydia, oblivious to Anne’s distress.
Again Darcy stopped the dance. Again he produced Collins’ foolish grin. “Could we go through what Gate means?” To say that he had forgotten was a lie, for he had walked through The Jovial Beggars with Georgiana when he was last in London.
Step by step Anne was taken through the dance.
“Now we’ll do it again right through,” said Darcy, as soon as the song finished. “I’m beginning to get the feel for this.”
“But I am tired,” Anne complained.
“You cannot quit now,” said Darcy, “or you risk forgetting what you’ve learned. Let’s take our positions, everyone.
“But I wish to stop,” said Anne.
Darcy ignored her. “Begin again, Miss Mary.”
Mary began playing, and Anne threw Darcy a dark look. But she performed her part of the Gypsy Half perfectly, and when she and Jane were first couple, they led up and back without mishap.
“You see?” he said. “You are doing splendidly, Miss de Bourgh.”
Eyes on Anne, he put out his hand and smoothly led Elizabeth through a turn.
“And so are you, Mr. Collins,” said Elizabeth. “You know this dance very well.”
He could hear the admiration in her voice. “As a matter of fact, I do,” he confessed. “Not too long ago I taught it to Georg—” He stopped himself just in time.
“To George?” cried Fleming, who had caught this remark. “You taught it to George who?”
“Ah,” said Darcy. “You might not know—him.”
When the dance brought Fleming near again, he said, “I know everyone around Hunsford. I cannot think who you mean. Unless—”
Fleming gave a shout and led Kitty through a turn. “Is George Doleman’s Christian name?”
“Doleman?” said Elizabeth to Darcy.
He had no idea how to reply. Who the devil was Doleman?
“His curate,” called Fleming. “Who is blessed with an apt surname. He’s the most mournful fellow imaginable.”
“First couple, lead down,” called Lydia.
Darcy took Elizabeth’s hand, and down the line they went.
“You taught your curate to dance?” said Elizabeth. “Did the organist play? Did you dance up and down the center aisle?”
Darcy laughed. “Clergyman,” he confessed, “sometimes need watching.”
“The sooner Collins returns to Hunsford,” called Fleming, “the better his parishioners will like it. For Doleman’s preaching is worse than his dancing.”
“Unfortunately for them,” said Elizabeth, smiling, “the roads will not allow travel. But perhaps,” she added, “not so unfortunately for us?”
Did she give his hand a gentle squeeze before she released it?
It was all Darcy could do not to skip and cavort. For he was limed, a ready prisoner to Elizabeth’s blushing admiration. And glory be, the roads were yet impassible.
20New, New Nothing
Later that evening, amid jesting about the rain, Mr. Denny, Captain Carter, and Mr. Wickham were brought into the drawing room.
Mr. Wickham went directly to Mrs. Bennet and kissed her hand. “Bad weather,” he declared, “could never keep us away.”
Darcy refrained from rolling his eyes. Where had Wickham been for the past three days? Holed up in a tavern or wherever it was that officers lived.
He glanced at Elizabeth, who sat beside him on the sofa. She continued to ply her needle. Could it be that she was unimpressed by Wickham’s arrival? Darcy felt his lips curve into a foolish smile. Hastily he quelled it and turned another page in his book.
“Your standing invitation, Mrs. Bennet, is most welcome,” said Captain Carter. “We could no longer tolerate staring at one another, so the rain and the roads must be braved.”
Lydia tugged at Wickham’s arm. “Come and meet our new friend,” she said. “We have been telling her all about you.”
“Lord, I am shaking in my boots,” said Wickham, laughing. “I daresay you have given her an earful.”
“Nonsense,” said Lydia. “We’ve told her nothing that isn’t true.” She led him to where Anne sat before the fire. “Anne, this is Mr. Wickham, who has lately joined the militia. Isn’t that jolly? Mr. Wickham, this is Miss Anne de Bourgh.”
“Lydia,” protested Kitty, “she is the right honorable Miss Anne de Bourgh of Rosings Park.”
Darcy’s gaze never wavered from Wickham’s face. Sure enough, at the mention of Anne’s name his eyes brightened, and he swept a graceful bow. The uniform gave an air of distinction, and this was not lost on Anne.
“Miss de Bourgh,” said Wickham smoothly, “although you know me not, I feel as though we are friends already. From childhood your cousin Fitzwilliam Darcy and I were the best of friends.”
“Whichever way the wind blows,” said Darcy under his breath.
Elizabeth leaned nearer. “What do you mean?” she whispered.
“That fellow,” he muttered, “is a perfect chameleon. It suited you to see Mr. Darcy as Wickham’s enemy. And it suits Anne to see Mr. Darcy as Wickham’s friend.”
Elizabeth tied a knot in her embroidery silk. “What a suspicious mind you have.”
“Then prove me wrong. You’ll not see him leave her side all evening.”
Elizabeth pursed up her lips and said nothing more.
“Dear Anne tells us,” announced Lydia, “that she is Mr. Darcy’s fiancée. Is it not a small world?”
“Well,” said Wickham, placing a chair for Lydia. “This is a piece of news.”
Elizabeth made a movement, and Darcy turned to her. She was frowning. “What is it?” he whispered.
“It was Mr. Wickham who told me of their engagement. And yet now he seems surprised.”
Had she found a chink in Wickham’s armor? “Did your mother never tell you to beware of men with smooth speech?”
Elizabeth gave an unhappy huff. “Why should she, when you are here to perform that office?”
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Meanwhile, Collins was intent on mastering a skill. The cigar, along with the after-dinner glass of port, was considered de rigueur among gentlemen of Bingley’s set. And since Collins would be dining with the family tomorrow night, he must learn how to smoke. Darcy would never hack and cough, doubled over and wiping streaming eyes. Nor would he fail to keep the blasted
thing lit.
Collins struggled with all of these. But he also knew that Lady Catherine abominated smoking, and this added much to its appeal.
Thus he gathered his courage and removed a second cigar from the humidor. He propped a looking glass on the desk (for he must handle the cigar with nonchalance), cut the end, and strolled to the hearth to light up.
Eventually the looking glass showed a more debonair reflection. By this time the room was well-fogged, but what of it? Collins lounged in his chair, puffing lightly without inhaling the smoke, balancing the line of ash at the cigar’s end. He was, in fact, quite the man about town.
There came a sharp knock at the door, and Miss Bingley walked in. “My gracious, Mr. Darcy!” she cried. “What is wrong with the flue?” She broke out coughing and waved the smoke away.
Collins hurried to remove his feet from the desk.
When Miss Bingley realized the cause of the smoke, her expression changed. “Must you smoke indoors?” she said wrathfully.
Collins recoiled, for he had never heard her speak with such sharpness. At once he took the cigar from his lips.
“What a vile and poisonous habit!”
A stream of apologies came ready to his lips, and then he recalled his identity. Who was she to order Darcy of Pemberley about?
He met her glare with narrowed eyes. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I meant no offense. After all, this is not one of the public rooms of the house.”
Miss Bingley looked unhappy but said nothing more.
He then noticed that she held a bundle of papers. “What have you there?”
She brightened. “Newspapers from Charles’ library, such as they are. The news is old, of course. What else can one expect, buried as we are in the country?” She gave a brittle laugh. “But I thought you might like to be informed of what has been going forward in the civilized world.”
Collins now realized that he had remained seated, a breach of manners. On the other hand, was he not an invalid? “Do sit down,” he invited. She did so.
To oblige her Collins flipped through the papers: The Morning Post and Gazetteer. Baldwin’s Journal. The London Gazette. The County Herald.