by Laura Hile
Such stuff! He could make neither heads nor tails of any of the headlines. Military battles and court trials and gossip about the London social set. What use had he for these?
“The financial section,” she said helpfully, “was of particular interest to my late father.”
Collins continued to turn pages. Here were rows of numbers and symbols that to him meant nothing. He sighed heavily.
“You might also enjoy the political articles,” she suggested, “with all the doings of Parliament.”
“In session now, is it not?” Collins remarked. He had to say something.
Caroline Bingley hesitated. “Surely you are interested in Parliament, Mr. Darcy?”
Not if he could help it! Then again, as Darcy he would have to be interested. He turned another page.
Apparently Miss Bingley had more to say. “We, that is, your sister and I, have been hoping that you would one day sit in the House of Lords.”
Collins was thunderstruck. “The House of Lords?” he said. “Me?” He had ambitions to become a bishop, certainly, or better yet an archdeacon. But a Member of Parliament?
“I daresay your uncle, the earl, could help arrange it,” she added helpfully.
There was steel behind that smile of hers, and Collins felt himself cringe. Why, this Miss Bingley was made of the same stuff as Lady Catherine!
Just to annoy her, he took another puff on his cigar. “You are very kind,” he said. “At the present time, however, I prefer to remain a private gentleman.”
Anger snapped in Miss Bingley’s eyes, and her smile became forced. Had they been on more intimate terms, would she have contradicted him?
“I have all I can do to manage my own estate,” he explained.
“But you are capable of so much more, Mr. Darcy,” she cried. “Elevation to the peerage would add such distinction.”
What an ambitious creature Miss Bingley was! “Why not encourage your brother?” he said.
“Charles?” she scoffed. “He has neither the capacity nor the proper sponsorship, whereas you—”
Miss Bingley continued to talk. Women, Collins decided, were a nagging lot. And since all husbands seemed destined to be hen-pecked, he would much rather suffer at the hands of lovely Elizabeth.
g
“Permit me to tell you, Miss de Bourgh,” said Wickham, “that you have beautiful eyes.”
It was such an obvious compliment, but Anne blushed and smiled.
“To say truth,” he went on, “they remind me very much of Lady Anne’s.”
Darcy became aware of Elizabeth’s gaze. “Lady Anne,” he explained, “is Mr. Darcy’s late mother, Anne’s aunt. The nerve of the man is astounding.”
And there was more. “That particular shade is so pleasing, like the beauty of a summer’s day.”
Lydia looked over her shoulder. “Wickham is storing up memories of England while he can,” she said. “Before he is sent to France or Spain or some other foreign place.”
Wickham laughed. “Be not alarmed, Miss de Bourgh,” he said. “The militia will remain right here on English soil. Then too, I have much to learn before I am fit for service, as any of my brother officers will tell you.”
There was general laughter and Anne smiled, while Darcy ground his teeth. Wickham, fit for service? Only as a paltry militiaman. Whose duties, it seemed, included little more than making the social rounds.
Darcy met Elizabeth’s eye. “I would have thought,” he muttered, “that he could do better than that.”
“Would you rather he quoted poetry?” she whispered.
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? I think not. He was never one for memorization.”
She smiled. “How do you know?”
Wickham was still speaking. “One becomes so weary of white. Always the ladies wear white. The color of extreme youth, I say.”
“Oh!” cried Lydia, who was guilty on both counts.
“Present company excluded, of course,” amended Wickham.
More compliments, more flattery.
“What fine eyes you have. What fine teeth,” Darcy murmured in Elizabeth’s ear.
“Cousin William,” Elizabeth protested, laughing. “Really.”
“It’s like hearing Riding Hood question the wolf, save that the positions are reversed.”
Elizabeth put aside her embroidery frame. “What a dreadful person you are. Has no one ever told you that it is rude to eavesdrop?”
Darcy turned a page. “I am not eavesdropping,” he said. “As you see, I am reading.”
“Reading human nature,” she said, “instead of the text.”
Darcy had to laugh. “Rather more engrossing, yes.”
“Wickham,” cried Lydia, “you are not to monopolize Anne. She would like to converse with the other officers.”
“I monopolize nothing,” protested Wickham. “Behold, here I am, Miss de Bourgh, entirely at your service.” He paused to smile. “Now then, what are your other two wishes?”
Again there was general laughter. Elizabeth looked annoyed.
Hill came in with a tray of glasses. “At last,” said Mrs. Bennet. “Gentlemen, here is fortification from the cold.”
Darcy began to rise. “Oh, no, you don’t,” said Elizabeth, and she took hold of his arm. “No sherry for you.”
He sat down again.
“I have seen what happens when you have too much to drink. The punch, remember? At the Netherfield ball?”
Darcy studied her eyes, so earnest in their appeal.
“You know perfectly well how to dance, William Collins. And I refuse to allow you to indulge a weakness.”
Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth. Had she explained away every one of Collins’ idiocies?
Her hand was resting on his arm, and Darcy allowed himself the luxury of covering it with his own.
“How poor are they that have not patience,” he said softly. “What wound did ever heal but by degrees? I shall therefore content myself with coffee.”
“Black coffee,” she added, twinkling.
He gave her hand a squeeze. “Poor and content is rich, and rich enough.”
Shakespeare, Darcy realized, was quite a wise fellow.
21Very Lively Hopes
“Mr. Wickham has the happiest manners,” said Anne, around a sigh. “He is quite head and shoulders above the others. So handsome and distinguished.”
Elizabeth glanced down the table at the laughing trio. Must they gossip even at breakfast? Her mother did nothing to discourage them.
Anne kept talking. “He is the most agreeable man I have ever seen. So amiable and pleasing.”
Naturally Lydia and Kitty agreed. More giggles, more laughter and talk.
Elizabeth stirred her tea in silence. She saw William Collins come in and busy himself at the sideboard. Her father’s place at the foot of the table remained empty. She could not recall when he’d been so hobbled by a cold. Was he truly ill?
“And which of the officers,” said Anne, “do you wish to marry, Kitty?”
A movement caught Elizabeth’s eye. William Collins had pulled out the chair opposite hers, his gaze intent on Anne.
“None of them, alas,” said Kitty. “I would dearly love to follow my heart, but my circumstances are such that I—”
Kitty broke off speaking, for Anne de Bourgh was staring. Obviously she was surprised.
Mary filled the silence. “You see, Miss de Bourgh,” she explained, “my sisters and I have only a very small fortune.”
“At present we have plenty of money,” Lydia was quick to add, “but Mr. Collins will one day take it away.” She threw a look in his direction.
And then no one said anything at all.
“Fortunately for us,” Kitty said, “our father is ever so healthy.”
“He most certainly is not,” cried Mrs. Bennet. “He has the most shocking cold, with great circles under his eyes and a sore throat. Mark my words, he could soon be at death’s door.”
“Mama,
” explained Elizabeth, “is overly concerned, Miss de Bourgh. He is planning to walk with me to Clarke’s to exchange books.”
“Not today,” cried her mother.
“No, Mama,” said Elizabeth. “Not today.”
Lydia soon returned to their favorite topic. “The officers,” she told Anne, “haven’t any more money than we do. You can imagine how tragic it is. We are such good friends, but that is all we can ever be. For they must marry well.”
“And so must we,” said Kitty.
“But you, my dear Anne, may marry whomever you wish,” said Lydia. “La, what am I saying? You have a fiancé already.”
Anne did not answer right away. “I do not know,” she said slowly, “whether Mr. Darcy is my choice or Mother’s. He is nothing like Mr. Wickham.”
“Gracious, no,” said Lydia. “He is so reserved and disapproving. But not around you, surely.”
“He speaks with me, of course. And I believe he pities me. But Mr. Wickham is kinder in his attentions than ever Mr. Darcy was.”
“What a heartless brute!” cried Lydia. “You will excuse me for saying so, Anne, but when I think that you may have any man in England simply for the asking!”
Anne gazed at Lydia with wonder. “Any man?”
Elizabeth was now alarmed. “My sisters are fond of exaggeration,” she said. “Of course you cannot marry any man. He must be a gentleman.”
“The officers are gentlemen,” said Anne slowly. “Are they not?”
“Well, yes,” admitted Kitty. “Certainly they are.”
Elizabeth knew that Kitty’s answer was somewhat forced. Were the officers gentlemen? She became aware of Mr. Collins’ gaze. That disquieting glitter was again in his eyes.
g
That same morning Collins made an unhappy discovery: namely, that when two ladies, each strong-minded and stubborn, were together at table, breakfast would be anything but tranquil.
For whenever Miss Bingley made a comment (and she made several) Lady Catherine was quick to contradict. Thus, although it was damp and muddy out, it was a lovely day. No, Mr. Darcy was not looking well, he was haggard—quite understandable since the beds here were typical of a hired house. And no, the roads were most unsuitable for travel, even a simpleton could see that.
Collins avoided these conversational powder kegs by lingering at the sideboard. The selection offered was superior to the fare at Longbourn House, including a delicacy he’d only read about, apfelstrudel, enticingly dusted with confectioner’s sugar. When Miss Bingley and the footmen were looking the other way, Collins quickly helped himself to two.
“I shall be calling at Longbourn House this afternoon,” announced Lady Catherine, “and in my own barouche, Miss Bingley, so you needn’t offer yours.”
“I was not about—” Miss Bingley began, and then stopped. “I thought, milady, that the roads were bad.”
“Driving to Longbourn House, a mere two or three miles, has nothing to do with the roads.”
Collins slid into a chair and gazed at his apfelstrudel. There were three more on the sideboard.
“My nephew,” said Lady Catherine, looking down the table at Collins, “shall accompany me, of course.”
Collins was caught with a mouthful of strudel. At the very least she might have asked him! He looked from one woman to the other. Fortunately he was not obliged to answer, which was just as well, for how could he pacify both? He took a sip of coffee, shuddered, and reached for the sugar bowl.
“The fresh air will do you good, Fitzwilliam,” said Lady Catherine. “And our hostess has better uses for her time than to lounge about and converse with you.”
Caroline Bingley was now red in the face. “Upon my word,” she said.
“Speaking of conversation, Fitzwilliam,” and Lady Catherine paused to smile, “there will be opportunity for you to converse privately with your beloved Anne.”
Collins kept chewing and gave a reluctant nod. He glanced at Miss Bingley. Her pinched expression reminded him of sour lemons.
“She has journeyed all this way to be with you.” Lady Catherine wagged a playful finger. “And you know what they say about absence.”
To keep from answering, Collins took another bite of strudel.
“No matter where a man may wander, absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
Collins figured that Lady Catherine had come up with this ditty herself, as it was anything but true. Anne was sickly, irritable, and silent. Absence from her brought relief.
On the other hand, he was rather missing Elizabeth Bennet. He speared a bite and chewed thoughtfully.
“As well,” continued Lady Catherine, “I shall be bringing Anne to stay at Netherfield until we are able to travel.”
“Oh,” said Miss Bingley, “but ma’am!”
Darcy had a habit of delivering snubbing looks, and Collins was beginning to understand why. He directed one at Lady Catherine.
“Would you have her remain with these Bennets?” she protested. “People about whom we know nothing? I daresay Anne is ill and miserable.”
Collins blotted his lips with a napkin. “There are five daughters in the family,” he offered. “Perhaps Anne enjoys being with women of similar age.”
Lady Catherine gave him a look. “But are they gentlewomen? I think not.”
“I quite agree with you on that point, ma’am,” said Caroline Bingley.
Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “Then again,” she said, “who are you?”
Collins felt his lips twist into a smirk. He knew better than to comment, so he took a sip of coffee.
“However,” continued Lady Catherine, “the Bennets are related to Mr. Collins. And he, being a knave, is certainly no gentleman.”
Collins sent his cup crashing into its saucer.
It was well that he would not be returning to Hunsford as a rector. For he was coming to despise Lady Catherine.
g
The sound of wheels pulled Kitty and Lydia to the windows. “A traveling coach,” cried Kitty. “And look there, a crest on the door.”
Lydia pressed her face to the glass. “Can you see whose it is?”
Elizabeth shared a look with Jane. Could this be Charles Bingley?
Mr. Collins joined the younger girls at the window. “That,” he said quietly, “is the de Bourgh crest.”
“Are you certain?” cried Kitty.
“Quick, everyone!” said their mother.
Elizabeth did what she could to straighten the cushions and magazines. Mrs. Jenkinson fussed over Anne’s hair and gown. Elizabeth glanced at Anne’s expression. If her mother was expecting submission and repentance, she would be disappointed.
Kitty took hold of Anne’s hand. “I shall not leave you,” she declared, “though she rant and order me away. A mother’s tirades do not last forever.”
Presently the drawing room door came open. “Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” announced Hill. She paused to consult the cards. “Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy and Mr. Charles Bingley.”
Elizabeth heard Jane draw a sharp breath. “You must find a way to speak with him,” Elizabeth whispered. “Depend upon it; this is why he has come.”
“How can I, amidst all this crowd?” said Jane.
“You managed it at the ball.”
“But Lizzy!”
With a rustle of skirts, Lady Catherine swept into the drawing room. Elizabeth knew her at once—she was the woman from the barouche—and she was looking every bit as dictatorial and insolent as Mr. Wickham described.
Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy remained in her shadow, which was either very cowardly or very wise. After the briefest of greetings, Lady Catherine addressed her daughter.
“Why, may I ask, are you in the drawing room? It is far too early, as well Jenkinson knows. A lady must reserve her strength.”
“There, you see, Anne?” said Lydia. “That’s very sensible advice. A lady must save her strength for dancing.”
Lady Catherine wheeled. “And who might you be?”
“She is hardly a girl,” said Lady Catherine.
“Yes she is,” said Kitty loyally. And she is also charming. She dances beautifully.”
Lady Catherine’s brows descended. “With whom has my daughter been dancing?”
“Only Mr. Collins and Mr. Fleming, ma’am,” Mrs. Bennet hastened to say. “Most unexceptional partners.”
“It was not my fault,” Anne protested. “Mr. Collins insisted that I take part.”
Lady Catherine rounded on him. “What have you to say for yourself, Mr. Collins?” she demanded.
Elizabeth steeled herself to bear whatever excuses he would make. After all, her ladyship was a formidable opponent. He looked rather pale.
“Dancing is beneficial,” he said slowly. “Especially as we were house-bound by the snow. You needn’t picture a late and tiring evening, ma’am. We danced in the afternoon— for practice, as it were.”
“For practice!” scoffed Lady Catherine.
Mr. Collins had more to say. “Mrs. Jenkinson is an excellent teacher, but there is a limit to what she can do. Dancing practice is important for any lady.”
“What do you know about it, Mr. Collins?”
“I daresay your niece practices her dancing.”
“Georgiana Darcy? As if you knew anything about her.” She turned to Mr. Darcy. “What say you, Fitzwilliam? Does your sister waste her time with such foolishness?”
Mr. Darcy was looking rather panicked. His gaze traveled to Mr. Collins, as if seeking strength and reassurance. What changes the accident had wrought!
“O-of course she does,” he stammered. “All young ladies must dance and gentlemen too. Consider how awkward dancing is for those who are unschooled.”
Lady Catherine looked even more annoyed. She turned to Elizabeth’s mother. “I would like to speak with my daughter privately, if you please. Perhaps in the dining room? You do have such a place?”
“Why, yes,” said Mrs. Bennet. “Of course we—”
Lady Catherine interrupted. “After I have had my say, Anne, you will be at liberty to speak with your fiancé, for whom you have traveled these many miles.”