Darcy By Any Other Name

by Laura Hile

  Anne’s face was flushed. It seemed to Elizabeth that she was looking rather worried.

  “You,” said Lady Catherine to Jenkinson, “may wait in the vestibule. Or better yet, you will pack Anne’s things. She is returning with me to Netherfield.”

  “No,” cried Anne, and she put up her chin. Kitty did the same. “That I shall never do.”

  “No, never,” echoed Kitty.

  Mrs. Jenkinson rose to her feet, knocking her knitting basket to the floor. A ball of wool went rolling and lodged behind one of the sofas. Mr. Collins went after it.

  The disturbance grew, Kitty declaring that she would not leave Anne’s side, and Lady Catherine ordering her to stand down. She seized Anne’s shoulder, pulled her to her feet, and propelled her out of the drawing room.

  Elizabeth’s mother and her younger sisters followed. She and Jane were left with Charles Bingley and Mr. Darcy, and also with Mr. Collins, who was behind the sofa.

  Lydia came back inside. “Jane, Mama needs the sal volatile, but Hill cannot find any of her bottles; you know how Mama leaves them everywhere. She says you have one.”

  “In the back parlor,” said Jane. “But it’s on one of the high shelves.” She glanced to Mr. Bingley. “I’ll gladly fetch it, although I fear I am not tall enough to reach.”

  “Allow me,” said Bingley, and they went out together. Elizabeth concealed her smile.

  By this time Mr. Collins must have located the wool, but he remained behind the sofa. Elizabeth could see him there, kneeling. She frowned at him, but he did not move.

  The drawing room door closed with a click, and Elizabeth was left to confront Mr. Darcy.

  g

  With dawning wonder Collins took in his surroundings. Was he alone with her? And where was Darcy? Out in the vestibule with the others, probably. He’d never realized what a poor figure he cut, dressed so shabbily in black. Ah, but all that was changed now.

  And here was Elizabeth, as lovely as ever. By Jove, she was a beauty! Miss Bingley could not hold a candle to her.

  “Miss Elizabeth.” He made a formal bow.

  “Mr. Darcy. Won’t you sit down?”

  Her eyes, as she gazed at him, were more beautiful than he remembered. Indeed, Collins’ felt his knees turn to jelly, and he grasped the mantelpiece for support.

  “I daresay Jane and Mr. Bingley shall return shortly,” she added.

  They would, and his opportunity would be gone. Here, as if heaven sent, was his chance to fix her affection. That was what he’d heard it called, the all-important prelude to declaring love for a lady.

  “You seem to have recovered from your injuries,” she said.

  His heart warmed to see her concern. Drawing a long breath, he moistened his lips. “We seldom have the opportunity to be alone, you and I.”

  “Actually,” said Elizabeth, with a look toward the corner of the drawing room, “we are not precisely al—”

  She broke off speaking. Collins glanced toward the corner. There was nothing there.

  “I suppose we are,” she said slowly. “For the moment.”

  Her eyes were now upon him. Collins was all too aware of the intelligence in that gaze. What was she thinking? Admiring thoughts, he hoped. He had chosen his waistcoat today with particular care.

  Aware that sweat was beading on his forehead, Collins began to pace back and forth. Declaring one’s affection was anything but easy! He found Darcy’s handkerchief and mopped his face.

  Voices sounded from the vestibule—was someone about to come in? Collins came to a halt and stood before Elizabeth, rocking on his heels. This was it, now or never. He must speak.

  How his heart was pounding! How difficult it was to breathe! His fingers began to twist together in the hand-washing habit Darcy had warned him about. Collins thrust his hands behind his back.

  But he had nothing to fear, nothing. He was Darcy of Pemberley!

  “Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth, frowning. “Are you quite well?”

  Collins found his voice. “In vain have I struggled,” he declared. It was a good beginning, for he had her full attention. Indeed, those lovely eyes were narrowed with concern.

  “Are your injuries painful?”

  Injuries to his heart, yes! An upwelling of affection threatened to overtake Collins’ senses. “My feelings,” he stammered out, “will not be repressed.”

  “Your feelings?” she repeated.

  Why was Elizabeth frowning? Why did she glance to the drawing room door? Collins understood it. Joy of joys, she did not wish to be interrupted by her family!

  “Please do not stand upon ceremony, sir,” she said. “If your stomach is troubling you, why—”

  His stomach? He was declaring love and all she thought about was his stomach? But that could not be right, for Darcy’s stomach was perfectly flat!

  “It will not do,” Collins burst out. “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

  And then he waited, scarcely daring to breathe.

  Elizabeth was staring. “Mr. Darcy,” she said and rose to her feet.

  Did she wish to be embraced? Collins took a step toward her, but Elizabeth shrank back. “Allow me to call Mr. Fleming, sir,” she said.

  Fleming? What need had he for Fleming?

  “For truly, sir,” she continued, “you are not—”

  He cut her off. “You are doubtless overcome by the honor—the very great honor—of being the recipient of my heartfelt affection.”

  “But,” she said, “what of Anne de Bourgh?”

  Here, Collins decided, was evidence of Elizabeth’s maidenly reserve. Perhaps he ought to smile a little? Yes, that was it. He’d been too solemn. No lady wished for a solemn suitor.

  “My regard for you,” he said, “although undeserved, cannot be unwelcome.”

  Elizabeth’s chin came up. “Undeserved?”

  Her tone made him jump. Did she not comprehend the extent of his admiration? He spread his hands. “For aside for your beauty and vivacious wit,” he explained, “what is there to recommend you? A share of your mother’s four thousand pounds?”

  Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know about—?”

  “Perhaps,” interrupted Collins, smiling more widely, “I know more than you think. But I have chosen to disregard our disparate social and financial positions, dearest, loveliest—ouch!”

  For from behind someone had pinned Collins’ arms in an iron grip. A voice said in his ear, “You have said quite enough.”

  Collins swung round, but his assailant was heavier and stronger.

  “Please excuse Mr. Darcy,” Collins heard the man say—in his own voice! Blast that Darcy! Where had he come from? Collins fought to free himself.

  “I suspect, Miss Elizabeth,” said Darcy, “that our friend has had Too Much Laudanum.”

  “What?” cried Collins. “I have not!”

  “One spoonful in a glass of water is sufficient,” said Darcy. “Not half the bottle.” And he gave a cruel twist to Collins’ arm.

  “Ouch!” cried Collins. “Confound it, that hurts!”

  “If you must knock back laudanum like gin, sir—”

  “But I haven’t!” squealed Collins.

  Darcy ignored this and spoke to Elizabeth. “If you wouldn’t mind asking Mr. Bingley to step inside?”

  Trust Darcy to humiliate him in Elizabeth’s presence! But two could play at this game. Collins kicked savagely at Darcy’s shins.

  Darcy’s hold tightened. “We must get him back to Netherfield,” he said, panting a little, “and soon. His aunt must not see him like this.”

  Collins was betrayed into a groan.

  “I believe his stomach pains him,” said Elizabeth.

  Collins watched her walk to the door and open it. Was she leaving? And without giving him an answer?

  “Elizabeth,” he whimpered.

  “Stomach, eh?” growled Darcy in his ear. “Getting a bit tubby, aren’t we, Collins?”

 
“How dare you!” Collins spat.

  “The next time you intend to propose, kindly wait until you are sober.”

  “I am sober!” cried Collins. “Moreover, I am Darcy of Pemberley! Any woman would be grateful to receive my addresses. Grateful, do you hear?”

  Darcy tightened his hold. “As we have seen.”

  Collins tried to ignore the smile in Darcy’s voice and gave him another kick.

  22Of Mean

  Understanding

  Only a madman would interfere between Lady Catherine and her daughter, Darcy knew. But peacemaking was a clergyman’s lot, so it fell to Darcy to negotiate a truce. It took some time to reach an accord.

  “Understand this, Miss de Bourgh,” Darcy summarized. “In twenty-four hours—barring unforeseen changes in the weather—your mother’s barouche will arrive to take you to Netherfield. And you will go willingly.”

  Anne kept her face averted. Darcy ignored Lady Catherine’s disapproving sniff.

  “That,” he said, “is your part of the bargain. Your mother’s part,” and it was all Darcy could do to keep from glaring at Lady Catherine, “is to allow you to remain at Longbourn House, with your friends, until that time.”

  He paused. “Are we in agreement?”

  Anne’s expression remained mutinous, but she nodded. Lady Catherine opened her mouth to speak, but apparently thought better of it. She also nodded.

  “Then I believe we are finished here.” Darcy rose to his feet and stood ready to assist Lady Catherine.

  “Indeed we are not, Mr. Collins.” She stood and shook out her skirts.

  Her tone did not bode well for Collins, but Darcy was past caring. “Milady,” he said, “Charles Bingley is waiting to take you to Netherfield.”

  “I am going nowhere until Anne has spoken with my nephew. He has come expressly to see her.”

  Darcy gave a dry cough. “Mr. Darcy was not feeling well, ma’am. He has already returned to Netherfield, and Mr. Bingley has come back for you.” He crossed the dining room and opened the door.

  “Without informing me?”

  “Your ladyship was, shall we say, occupied.”

  “Nonsense!” Lady Catherine gave another sniff. “You have not heard the last from me on this matter,” she said, and went sailing out of the dining room. Her daughter did likewise.

  Darcy set his teeth. What a pleasure it would be to resign his post!

  Instead of returning to the drawing room, Darcy made for the staircase.

  It was his confrontation with Collins that had been the most troubling. How unnerving it was to see his own face, twisted by Collins’ indecision as he swung between pride and folly. Moreover, Collins’ declaration—“I am Darcy of Pemberley!”—had shaken him to the core.

  At the landing Darcy paused and hung over the bannister rail, lost in thought. If Collins could never be Fitzwilliam Darcy, then he could never be William Collins.

  That snowstorm was to blame, isolating him and muddling his thinking—and keeping beloved Elizabeth so close at hand. But Darcy now knew that he could no longer shrug off the painful truth. He should not live as if he were William Collins.

  And if he could not soon find a way to become himself again, he must return to Hunsford. The longer he remained at Longbourn, the more his heart blended with Elizabeth’s. Like a fool he’d allowed himself the luxury of loving her, and that was utterly unfair.

  Was Elizabeth in love with him? It was hard to say. Fascinated, perhaps. Infatuated, certainly. But genuinely in love?

  No, he decided. There was too much of Collins’ physical presence for that to happen. How could he have guessed that Collins’ ugly face would be a benefit? In time Elizabeth would forget their kisses in the snow. Perhaps she would even laugh about them.

  Was he in love with her? There was no need to answer. He loved her too well to ruin her future. No, the only right course of action was to fade out of Elizabeth’s life altogether.

  A slam of the main door told him that Lady Catherine had departed. With a sigh, Darcy resumed his climb. Upstairs he encountered Fleming emerging from Mr. Bennet’s bedchamber.

  “How is he?” There was no need to whisper, but that is what one did outside sickrooms.

  “As well as can be expected,” Fleming replied. “He coughs constantly, which is most unfortunate. No fever as yet, which eliminates several troublesome illnesses.” Fleming listed the options on his fingers. “Pneumonia, influenza, scarlet fever, to name a few.”

  “Troublesome indeed.”

  “You might like to know that the post has come,” Fleming added, as he went by. “And with it, contact with the outside world.”

  The outside world. That meant his steward, his cousin Fitz, and Georgiana. Darcy pulled up short. He’d written to his sister last week and was expecting a reply. If Collins were to receive it—

  He turned and followed Fleming down the stairs. “Have you a reason to return to Netherfield?” he called.

  Fleming paused at the landing. “Confound it, that curst horse! I promised to take it back. I’d best do that now.”

  “Half a minute,” said Darcy. “I have an idea.”

  g

  The letter on the butler’s silver salver was addressed to Darcy, and Collins thought it beautiful. Indeed, it was the one bright spot in an otherwise wrenching day.

  Miss Bingley had been all sympathy when he returned and provided every comfort. But her ministrations were small consolation. Like a fool he’d declared his love before Elizabeth, and she spurned him—or near enough. He expected her to fall into his arms. How could she confuse passion with stomach pains?

  Yet Collins was grateful for Darcy’s excuse, feigning headache and fatigue to Miss Bingley. A few heartfelt moans were enough to convince her that there should be no traveling to London tomorrow.

  For this Collins was devoutly grateful. And if he’d had his prayer book on hand, he would have read to the Almighty a proper expression of his thanks. As it was, he mounted the stairs wondering if it was too early for a cigar.

  Once in his suite of rooms, Collins shrugged out of his coat and rolled up his sleeves. A look at his upper arms showed bruising. All the more reason to get even with Darcy!

  Casting himself into a chair, Collins took out his letter and opened it. It was from Georgiana Darcy. The flawless copperplate, flowing in orderly paragraphs across expensive paper, was impressive. Then too, this Georgiana wrote with perfect grammar and spelling. The scholar in Collins sighed. A young woman of quality.

  Elizabeth Bennet would also write letters like this one. Collins sighed some more. To think of her brought a pang. Collins knew that he should put today’s debacle out of mind, but his thoughts would not let go.

  Elizabeth thought him ill and therefore insincere. He’d put a foot wrong somehow.

  Halfway through his cigar Collins discovered the reason. He’d spoken extemporaneously, hadn’t he? That was always a disaster, both in sermons and in private conversation. If he’d taken the time to prepare his speech instead of babbling like a fool, Elizabeth would have understood.

  Besides, he’d heard that at a first proposal young women often affected disinterest. The next time he had opportunity to speak with Elizabeth, he would be fully prepared.

  Or perhaps he ought to speak with her parents first? Mrs. Bennet would welcome his suit with open arms, and so would Elizabeth’s father.

  Collins rubbed his hands together. Even now compliments were bubbling up, and he meant to capture them. Where did Darcy keep his writing paper?

  g

  Darcy descended the stairs and in the vestibule encountered Hill. “There you are, Mr. Collins” she said, and held out a letter. “This has come for you.”

  Darcy took it as a treasure hunter unearthing an artifact. Here was a mystery, a glimpse into Collins’ world. The paper was inferior, the handwriting crabbed and poorly-formed. It was sealed with dark wax, ill stamped. What were the odds?

  Sure enough, the writer was Doleman, the mel
ancholy curate, and he asked a number of specific questions. All the more reason to consult Collins. All the more reason to take that horse back to Netherfield.

  And yet it seemed wise to go around Hill, for she would certainly oppose him. Darcy arranged with Ned to have the horse saddled and brought round to the front of the house.

  And wasn’t Darcy every bit the bumpkin? Never in his life had he ridden without the proper clothing. And no one, not even a rustic, would wear stockings and shoes instead of riding boots.

  He stepped up to the horse and stroked its shoulder, allowing the animal to nose his collar. Wise to the ways of horses, Darcy brought out the sugar lumps he’d pocketed from the sideboard.

  Even so, he could feel the stable boy watching him. Apparently he had seen Collins in action and was expecting disaster. Darcy hid a smile as he took the reins and competently swung into the saddle. He took a moment to adjust the stirrups.

  And then he heard a knocking on the window glass. Sure enough, Lydia’s merry face appeared. She said something over her shoulder and soon there were other faces at the window: Mary’s, Kitty’s, and Elizabeth’s.

  Darcy’s heart sank, for Elizabeth’s concern was evident. He tipped his cap and wheeled the horse. And then he heard the door open.

  “Cousin William,” called Elizabeth. “Where are you going?”

  Darcy’s heart sank. He ought to ignore her and ride off. He ought to distance himself from her in every way. Instead, caught by the worry in her voice, Darcy turned back.

  “I’m returning this horse to Netherfield.”

  “But,” she said, “you are riding.”

  What else could he do but reassure her? There could be nothing lover-like in that. “This poor slug is not so different from a pony,” he said. “A safe, reliable mount, according to Fleming. Even for a fellow like me.”

  Now would be the time for one of Collins’ repellant mannerisms to show itself: a smirk or a grimace or a tic. Darcy kept his face blank and waited hopefully, but nothing happened. Elizabeth stood gazing at him.

  Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth.

  The horse stepped to the side, and Darcy settled her. Too late he realized that a show of uncertainty would have been more Collins-like. “I plan to return in an hour or two,” he said lamely.