by Laura Hile
She drew nearer. “Will you walk? All that way?”
Were there tears in her eyes? “Elizabeth,” he said, leaning down. “It’s less than three miles, my love. A distance you yourself said was insignificant.”
“But it is not insignificant!” she protested. “Look there, the drive is flooded with muddy water. And the road could well be worse.”
“What care you and I for mud?” he said, before he could stop himself, and his mutinous lips curved into a smile. “As I recall, you thought only of Jane, not your gown. And I,” he added, “must mend fences with Mr. Darcy. I was rather too stern with him, you know.”
Here he hesitated. “I wouldn’t take anything he said to heart,” he added. “If you can believe it, the man meant to pay you a compliment.”
“Mr. Darcy despises me and meant to insult me. I assure you, the feeling is entirely mutual.”
Darcy sat silent, wondering how much to say. “Can you understand,” he said at last, “that in all his experience, you are entirely unique? Have you any idea how rare it is for him to meet with an honest rebuff?”
“His arrogance deserves it.”
Yes, Collins was arrogant, and Darcy himself had been arrogant. She had him there. Still, he had to try.
“How often do you think Mr. Darcy encounters a lovely and intelligent young woman who is not eager to become his wife?”
“Not often enough,” said Elizabeth promptly. “He informed me, as you recall, that I was undeserving of his attentions.”
Darcy had to smile. “A facer, that.”
“My poor pride may never recover,” she agreed, dimpling. “If Mr. Darcy did not hate me before, he surely hates me now.”
“I rather doubt that,” Darcy said. “I am the one he now hates.”
“I fear so,” she admitted. “Lady Catherine is not pleased with you either.”
“Will wonders never cease?”
“Have a care, William. As your patroness she provides your living.”
“My patroness from Hades, you mean. Once she opens that mouth of hers, bats fly out.”
Elizabeth gave a delicious gurgle. “You are incorrigible! But you will be careful?”
“I shall be careful,” he said. “And for your sake, I will refrain from enraging Lady Catherine.”
He took in Elizabeth’s upturned face and the loving light in her eyes. She was thinking of his future—of their future. How easy it would be to lean down and kiss her!
But the spell was broken by knocking on the window panes. He waved at his cousins—no, they were Collins’ cousins, not his—and tipped his cap jauntily to Elizabeth.
If only he could wheel and take the lane at a hand gallop! Instead, reason prevailed. Darcy urged the horse into a sedate walk.
It was not until he reached the main road that he realized he’d called Elizabeth his love. Did that explain the light in her eyes?
“Damnation!” he burst out. Even his own heart was against him.
g
What care you and I for mud? Elizabeth turned this over in her mind. She’d related to Mr. Wickham how she’d arrived at Netherfield, muddy and disheveled, and they had laughed over Miss Bingley’s reaction.
But she could not recall telling William Collins of it.
What she wished to do now was visit her father. Mr. Fleming had assured her that he was in no danger, but she was not so sure. He usually shrugged off a cold.
This time he was content to remain in bed. He lay back against the pillows, a book and his spectacles at hand. The room smelled like mustard.
“Your mother,” he said, smiling wanly, “may get her dearest wish after all. Here is the chance to indulge all her favorite fears.” He broke out coughing.
“Father,” Elizabeth protested. “Surely you aren’t as ill as that.”
“Perhaps not,” he admitted, with another smile. “But a winter cold is misery.”
She made an attempt to cheer him. “At least you have peace and quiet.”
“Rather too much quiet,” he said.
“Join us in the drawing room for a bit.”
He hesitated. “I do not trust myself to navigate the staircase, my dear. By the time I dressed myself, I would be longing for bed. Sitting in a chair involves a great deal of effort. For as you know, one must appear cheerful.”
Elizabeth did know it, and she now suspected that it cost him to speak with her. “You might lie on the sofa,” she suggested.
“And displace Miss de Bourgh?” His chuckle turned into coughing. It was some minutes before he got hold of himself.
“Would you like to play backgammon?”
“It is enough to see your smiling face, my dear. My eyes are sore from reading, and my chest aches.”
“Shall I read to you?”
“Bless you, sweet girl, no. I am unable to concentrate.” He turned aside to cough.
“I am ever so glad that Mr. Fleming is here to attend you.”
“He seems a sensible man.” He cocked an eyebrow in his usual manner. “Is Mr. Fleming possessed of a fortune? Your mother must be pleased to have another unmarried gentleman underfoot.”
“I think not.” Elizabeth hesitated. “Has—Cousin William been to see you?”
“Oho, Cousin William is it now? No, he has not. Should I expect him?”
“I—do not know. He—I thought he had something he wished to ask you.”
“Aha. Will he be seeking permission to address Mary?” Her father’s eyes were alight with amusement. “She is the only one among you able to tolerate his prosing,” he added. “Tell him to take her and with my blessing.”
Elizabeth’s throat constricted. “Not Mary,” she whispered, but her father never heard. His laughter had turned into coughing.
Her eyes found the floor. William Collins had become so different, so decisive. And yet why had he said nothing to her father?
23A Fine Companion
If Darcy had intended to apologize, that desire vanished as soon as he entered Collins’ rooms. Mrs. Nicholls’ disapproval was palpable, but she said nothing. Darcy was under no obligation to remain silent.
“Confound it, Collins,” he said, as soon as the door closed behind her. “Must you smoke like a curst chimney? Take your feet off the sofa. And for heaven’s sake, put on a coat. You look like a tradesman on holiday.”
Collins blew a stream of smoke. “What care I for what anyone thinks?”
“You ought to care. Where is your sense of dignity?”
Collins pulled himself into a sitting position. “Speaking of that,” he said, “I do not wish to figure as one who had been swilling laudanum. It was no such thing, as well you know.”
“If you are telling me that you were sane when you made that proposal,” said Darcy, “then Bedlam is too good for you. Get up. We are going out.”
Collins’ lower lip protruded. “I do not wish to go out.”
Darcy ignored this and stalked into the dressing room. He came out with a pair of riding boots, a hat, and an overcoat. “Here,” he said, tossing the boots at Collins’ feet. “Take off the Hessians and put on these.”
“But I like the Hessians. They’re my boots. And my feet.”
“That,” said Darcy, “is entirely temporary. It is muddy out, and I won’t have you ruining the leather. You have no idea how exacting Holdsworth can be about maintaining the mirror finish.”
Collins sucked his teeth. “What is the point of having stylish boots if I cannot not wear them?”
“Indoors, Collins, and around town. Not in the stables. Learn not to punish your clothing.”
“It isn’t as if I cannot afford more.” Collins put down the cigar and began to pull on the boots. “And I do not see why I must go out.”
“Because this curst charade has gone on long enough. We must affect a change. Therefore, I intend to examine the scene of the lightning strike, and you are coming with me.” Darcy held out the overcoat. “Put this on.”
“But I want the other one. The o
ne with the brass buttons.”
“For heaven’s sake, there will be no one to see you. Save the fine feathers for when you have an audience.”
Collins gave Darcy a sidelong look. “Miss Bingley might see me. She says that I am the most handsomely dressed gentleman of her acquaintance.”
“She would,” said Darcy. “But she will skin you alive if she finds you’ve burned holes in the rug.”
Collins grimaced and tamped out the cigar. And then, after another sigh, he stood and shrugged into the overcoat. He then took up the hat and followed Darcy down the staircase and out of the house, complaining all the way. Even the pale sunshine did not alter his mood.
But there was nothing remarkable about the Folly. There it stood, surrounded by withered leaves and patches of snow. Collins picked his way along the flagstones, unhappy with the damp and cold. Darcy, who wore Collins’ shabby shoes and threadbare stockings, made no comment.
“Well?” said Collins at last. “It’s the same Folly, with the same decrepit statues marching round in a circle. What of it?”
“There have got to be clues. Look around.”
Collins followed Darcy. “For what are we looking? Evidence of witchcraft? A pentagram? A circle of stones?”
“Anything out of the ordinary. Although with Moses and John the Baptist, I think witchcraft is out of the question. Let me know if you find something.”
Collins gazed up at the sky. “That lightning was out of the ordinary,” he said. “But I daresay it will not strike today.”
Darcy was now running his gloved hands along the Folly’s columns. “Obviously not. But there could be some irregularity, an abnormality or a so-called anomaly.”
“Anomaly-homily,” scoffed Collins. “What I would like is a tasty morsel and something to wet my whistle.”
Darcy turned round. “Something to do what?”
Collins shrugged. “It’s just an expression.”
“It’s a vulgar one, which you will kindly refrain from using until you are yourself again.”
There was a pause. “As to that,” said Collins, “I am not certain that I wish to become myself. In fact, I know I don’t. I rather like being you.”
“That’s because all you’ve done is sleep and eat. And smoke,” said Darcy. “But whenever you open your mouth to speak, you find yourself in deep sludge—as we saw this morning.”
“I’ll have you know,” said Collins primly, “that I am recovering from an injury to my brainpan.”
Darcy resumed his examination of the statues. “To the extent that you cannot ride or shoot? Or converse on any intelligent subject?”
Collins kicked at a pile of leaves. “Of course I can converse.”
“You’ll have ample opportunity in London. As I recall, Caroline Bingley is keen to leave Netherfield.”
“I am not such a simpleton as you think. So long as I avoid Westminster and anything to do with Parliament, all will be well.”
“Parliament? Why Parliament?”
“Because Miss Bingley wants your uncle to sponsor me for the House of Lords.”
Darcy gave a snort. “I would like to see him try! Speaking of relations, you’ll have another thing coming when my cousin Fitz arrives. He’ll roast you on a spit.”
Collins had the sense to look worried.
“Don’t stand there gaping,” said Darcy. “We’ll soon run out of daylight. Keep searching.”
g
“I do wish,” said Lydia to the drawing room at large, “that we could get a message to the officers. How will they know that this is Anne’s last evening with us?”
“I daresay one of the stable boys could take a note,” Kitty offered. “If only we knew where to direct him.”
Elizabeth had had to listen to various versions of this lament. “If only we had not been introduced to the officers in the street,” she said tartly. This was not precisely true, but she was weary of hearing her sisters complain.
“It was no such thing,” cried Kitty. “You might have met Mr. Wickham in the street, but we were introduced to Colonel Forster and the others at—whose party was it? Aunt Phillips’?”
Lydia could not remember. “And what is wrong with meeting people in the street?” she wanted to know. “One does so every day. We met your precious Mr. Collins in the front drive.”
“It was no such thing and you know it,” said Elizabeth. “And,” she added, “he is not my Mr. Collins.”
“Isn’t he? Then why do you keep looking out the window? If he means to be here before dark, he ought to hurry.”
“Are you certain that you can’t exchange Father’s books today, Lizzy?” said Kitty. “After all, it was dry enough for Mr. Collins to venture out.”
“Mr. Collins,” said Elizabeth, “is stubborn and foolish.”
“But if you did go, you might encounter one of our friends,” lamented Kitty. “And we do so want them to come tonight.”
“Trust Mr. Wickham to find a way,” said Lydia. “Of all of them he is the cleverest. And,” she added, “the handsomest.”
g
Darcy bent to brush withered leaves from the pavement. “There must be something.”
Collins gave a snort of derision. “The long and short of it, Darcy, is that you are stuck being me.”
“Then may God help the Hunsford congregation. What do I know about being a rector?”
“But there you are mistaken,” said Collins. “It is not at all difficult, I assure you. The forms of service are nicely written out. I daresay you are already familiar with the responsive readings, only you will be leading out instead of following.”
Darcy continued his examination of the paving stones. What was he looking for? A mark left by lightning? Something in addition to Mt. V? There had to be a way to undo their wretched exchange! There had to be a clue.
“As a matter of fact, I very nearly had to give a sermon,” Darcy remarked. “My busy aunt volunteered my services while Dr. Bentley was ill.”
Collins was suddenly anxious. “I trust you did a credible job,” he said. “Filling in for a fellow rector is useful, so far as advancement is concerned. These little connections help one become noticed. Pulpiteering,” he added, “is a serious business.”
Was pulpiteering a word?
“Fortunately for everyone,” said Darcy, “the heavy snow prevented the service from taking place. Nevertheless, in preparation I read many texts about shepherds. To have charge of a congregation is no small undertaking.”
“But you have reckoned without the traditions of the church,” Collins protested, “which make everything easy!”
“Easy?” said Darcy. “Never mind the sermons, what about the rest? Visiting the sick or attending a deathbed?”
“But it’s all in the book,” cried Collins. “There are prayers for every situation. You need only read the appropriate one, nicely and with modulation so that everyone may hear you, and be done with it.”
“Sounds curst sanctimonious to me.”
“My dear sir, you completely misunderstand your role. Are you thinking that you must personally offer comfort? There is nothing personal about it! Your presence is what offers comfort, and the liturgy does the rest. It is, after all, what people expect.”
“You,” said Darcy, “are the quintessential churchman, Collins.”
Was the man blushing? “Why, thank you,” he said.
“You mistake my meaning,” said Darcy. “You are the sort of fellow that the Scripture refers to as an hireling.”
Collins heaved a sigh. “This,” he said, “is what comes from reading the Bible for oneself. So many mistaken ideas.”
“Surely God has given me the right to make up my own mind.”
“Providence, my dear sir,” Collins almost wailed. “We refer to Him as Providence. Or, better yet, as the Almighty.” He wrinkled his nose. “To say ‘God’ is so common, so low.”
Darcy could only stare. How incredible that his own face could so closely resemble a rabbit’s! And
what had happened to his voice? Why was it now so shrill?
“And I will have you know,” continued Collins, “that I am an hireling—or rather, you are—for you are paid for the services you render.”
But Darcy was no longer attending. How could he have been so blind? For on the other side of Folly, just visible in the failing light, were more inscriptions.
“The church,” Collins went on, “is a noble career for gentlemen of nice habits, most especially those with a scholarly turn of—ouch!”
Darcy’s fingers dug into Collins’ arm, and he swung him round. “Look there,” he cried. “Carved into the keystones. Do you see? Scriptural texts.”
“How can those be clues?” scoffed Collins. “They were put there ages ago. Do you think them miraculous? I would put more faith in a heathen pictogram.”
Darcy let go of Collins and hunted for a notebook and pencil.
“Do you honestly believe in miracles?” said Collins. “That the head of an ax could float or a donkey speak? Or a chariot of fire descend from the heavens? Nonsense. Stories for infants. We,” he added, “live in the age of reason.”
“O ye of little faith,” muttered Darcy, and he continued copying. He moved to the far side of the folly.
Collins followed. “My good man, the Almighty is no longer in the business of performing miracles. Or didn’t you know?”
Darcy glanced up. “And you and I,” he said, “caught in our very awkward exchange, are living proof that miracles never happen.”
He snapped the notebook shut. “I’m off to look these up,” he said.
And leaving Collins standing in the garden, Darcy stalked off in the direction of Longbourn.
24More Secrets Than One
William Collins arrived just as Elizabeth and her family went in to supper. Lydia made a quip about how he had been so thoughtful to change into his better clothes (which he had not), but he never cracked a smile. Indeed, throughout the meal he was subdued and solemn. Elizabeth did not badger him with questions. Apparently his conversation with Mr. Darcy had not gone well.