by Laura Hile
“Never again,” she lamented, “shall I look at a chicken without thinking of this tragic night.”
Darcy and Elizabeth shared a look, and he said, “I am ready to ride to Netherfield at a moment’s notice.”
This did nothing to mollify Mrs. Bennet. And so the family ate their soup in silence. Even Kitty and Lydia had the sense to refrain from talking. Darcy had to wonder whether George Wickham would continue to visit Longbourn. With Anne’s fortune within his grasp, playing cards for half-penny points might be too tame.
Georgiana and now her cousin Anne. A wretched farce driven by Wickham’s insatiable greed.
Darcy paused, his spoon in midair. Was there more to this that met the eye? Did Wickham deliberately choose Anne, not only because of her tempting wealth, but also to exact revenge against Darcy’s family?
“Might we venture out to Clarke’s tomorrow?” he heard Mary say.
“Books!” Mrs. Bennet said. “How can you think of books at a time like this? If you go to Meryton at all,” Mrs. Bennet continued, “it will be to visit your Aunt Phillips. Yes, and you will bring her here. She will keep vigil with me and also help with arrangements that must be made.”
Dear Mrs. Bennet, already fretting about her husband’s funeral.
Darcy’s thoughts returned to Wickham. But the mention of Meryton gave him an idea. Given Collins’ fondness for black, if he went into town wearing different clothes would he be recognized?
Not for nothing had Darcy attended Cambridge with Wickham. Even though his objective then had been to avoid the fellow, he had grown to know his habits.
How would he procure clothing for a disguise? He meant to go tonight, for if elopement was Wickham’s plan, time was of the essence. There were coats and hats of Mr. Bennet’s in the house.
These Darcy immediately rejected. It was bad enough that Mrs. Bennet was cringing over ordering the man’s coffin. To borrow his clothes would be like stealing from a corpse.
“It was kind of Wickham and Denny to call this morning,” Kitty said.
Lydia gave a heavy sigh. “If they come tonight,” Darcy heard her whisper, “Mama will send them away. Which is tragic, for I was hoping that we might play Shadows.”
Shadows! And that trunk filled with clothing! Never mind that he was sore from walking and riding. Never mind that in the process he had ruined a pair of Collins’ shoes. Tonight Darcy would venture out in search of George Wickham. And he had a good idea about where to find him.
28 Faults on All Sides
Of all the ill-considered things that Darcy had ever attempted, tonight’s plan to spy on George Wickham would top the list. He cared little for his cousin, save that she was an innocent, and even less for his aunt. So why was he stumping along a dark country lane toward Meryton? Simply for the pleasure of foiling Wickham.
A reconnaissance mission his cousin Fitz would call this, to determine which of the public houses Wickham preferred. The man would be found in the gentlemen’s parlor, set apart from the laboring class. To this private enclave Darcy would be excluded, no thanks to the contents of that trunk. He’d avoided the ancient skirted coats and tricorn hats, but he consented to wear a dark cloak, the lining of which had faded to an unfortunate shade of pink. At best he would be thought an eccentric and at worst, a laughingstock.
Darcy set his teeth. To think that he used to pride himself on his clothing! Beneath the cloak he wore a borrowed frock coat and beneath that, a brown waistcoat of boiled wool—heaven help the buttons! The most shudder-worthy item was the plaid neck cloth. Never had Darcy worn anything other than white in the evening. This might be only Meryton, but a man had his standards. He’d wrapped Collins’ muffler high around his throat and hoped for the best.
The moon was hidden by clouds. The temperature was falling, with waist-high fog drifting across the lane. Darcy knew that he ought to have begged a lantern from Mrs. Hill. But then he must confess to her his errand, and he knew where that would lead. Mrs. Hill would raise a ruckus, and in the end he would look even more a fool.
And wasn’t it too bad that his letter to Fitz had gone awry. Ten to one his cousin had been sent off somewhere—with Fitz one never knew—but how he would enjoy himself tonight. Unlike Darcy, Fitz was fond of larks and pranks.
Darcy turned his mind toward his destination. There was a name; Denny had said it or perhaps Captain Carter. About how the officers’ usual game could set a fellow back at— Darcy paused to think. Yes, that was it—at the Rose and Crown.
The Rose and Crown was located on the main road, attached to a coaching inn. There was a yard and stabling area for horses, convenient for an elopement. Darcy must study the network of coaching inns, especially those leading to the north.
The taproom, warm with conversation and laughter, was a welcome change from the cold silence outside. This was the domain of laborers and farmers. Darcy nodded pleasantly to the barkeep, a man he’d seen in the bakery. There was no glint of recognition in the fellow’s answering nod. Directed by the scent of quality tobacco, Darcy located a curtained door, the entrance to the gentlemen’s parlor.
He hesitated, then tossed his gloves on a table nearby and stepped up to the bar. A few of Collins’ coins were exchanged for a pint of brew.
With an eye on the curtain, Darcy settled in at the table with an old London newspaper of Mr. Bennet’s he’d brought for this purpose. Presently the curtain parted and a young women came through, along with the sound of laughter. Darcy thought he heard Wickham’s voice. He glanced again to the bar, but no one was looking his way.
Soon Darcy was settled at a corner table, but this time on the other side of the curtain. At another table sat Wickham, intent on a game of whist.
After a time Darcy laid aside the newspaper to watch the game. Wickham’s partner passed at four, not an encouraging sign. Would Wickham proceed? Without a strong hand he would be done for. But did Wickham care? He played his hand and lost with the merriest of groans.
Darcy did not know whether to laugh or sigh as another game was begun. For a man who lived by his wits, Wickham’s skills at cards ought to be better. He laughed too much and interrupted the play with sallies and asides. Distractions were the domain of the cheater, but sleight of hand was not Wickham’s strong suit. Still laughing, he ordered a round of drinks for all at the table. Darcy shook his head. Too much bonhomie.
His fellow officers did not seem to mind Wickham’s antics. Why should they, when he was losing? Like everyone else, they were taken in by his easy ways and fine clothing. Obviously they thought there was money to be won.
Had Wickham succeeded in marrying Georgiana, her share of the Darcy fortune would be gambled away just like this. Was Anne to be sacrificed to fund Wickham’s greed?
But money was not enough for Wickham, was it? The pretty barmaid had not escaped his notice, and with her Wickham was at his charming best. Very adroitly did he play the role of the gentleman-officer. In both looks and manners, he could be the son of an earl. Wickham was certainly more handsome than Fitz. And that was saying something, for Fitz was no slouch.
Darcy drained his glass, in part to see what would happen. Sure enough, his empty glass remained unnoticed. Wickham’s smiles and jesting laughter claimed all the barmaid’s attention.
Good looks, an easy laugh, delicious conversation, and—Darcy hated to admit it—Wickham’s skills as a listener drew women. Even shy Georgiana and painfully reticent Anne—even Elizabeth Bennet! —had been taken in by this man. The worldly-wise barmaid was no exception. Darcy noted how she touched Wickham’s shoulder. And when she brought his pint, Wickham smilingly took it from her with both hands, his fingers brushing against hers on the glass.
It was the same old story. Darcy opened the newspaper and turned a page.
Presently there came a scraping of chairs and more laughter. Darcy lowered a corner of the newspaper. Wickham, in his role as prince among men, was gaily writing out IOUs.
When Darcy glanced up again, Wickham was gone
and so was the dimpled barmaid.
There was no reason to remain, but Darcy sat with his empty glass. Never had he felt more powerless.
If Wickham intended to elope with Anne, Darcy could do little to stop it. He simply hadn’t the funds to pursue them. If he involved Lady Catherine, Collins would certainly lose his position.
And then what would Darcy do? He would be cast into the wide world to earn his living.
It was with a heavy heart that Darcy returned to Longbourn. The fog was now thick, promising heavy frost before dawn. A thunderstorm—his only hope for transformation—did not appear likely.
g
He found the kitchen door unbarred and a lit candle on the table. Had Mrs. Hill left this for him? On second thought, the candle was for Fleming. Darcy paused, listening. There were no sounds of movement in the house. Apparently Mr. Bennet was sleeping soundly.
He lit another candle and crept toward the back parlor. A creak here, a misplaced step there—who would be awake to hear? And yet he took pains to be quiet.
Once inside the parlor, off came the cloak, the borrowed neck cloth and waistcoat. Into the trunk they went. Carefully, dreading a squeak of hinges, he pulled shut the lid. The cloak and hat, damp from the fog, he set aside to dry.
Darcy did not hear the door come open or see the light from her candle until he heard her voice.
“William Collins!”
Elizabeth’s gaze swept him from head to foot. “Where have you been? Your shoes are damp,” she observed.
Even if he could speak to answer, Darcy could not tear his gaze away. She was wearing a dressing gown—sturdy and serviceable, but definitely a dressing gown, with her nightdress underneath. Her hair was tumbling out of its long braid.
“William, it is the middle of the night.”
“I know,” he said lamely. Too late he realized that he wore no waistcoat, only a shirt.
He shrugged into Collins’ black frock coat. “I have been—out.”
“To the stable to check on the horses?” To his chagrin, her fingers found the cloak. “And why have you been wearing Sir Magico’s cloak?”
He had to smile. “Sir Magico?”
“Our dress-up name for that particular garment.”
There was nothing for it. He must tell her the truth. “I—needed a disguise,” he said. “I gambled that this cloak had not been seen by those frequenting a particular public house in Meryton.”
“You went to a public house?”
“To the Rose and Crown, yes.”
Her eyes narrowed. “William Collins,” she said. “Have you been drinking?”
“Only a pint. But George Wickham had rather more.”
“George Wickham!”
“Elizabeth, please,” he said. “Keep your voice down.”
“How do you know—that—about Mr. Wickham?”
Darcy sat on the lid of the trunk. Fatigue was now catching up with him. He glanced at her, and his gaze lingered. “Have you been awake all this time?”
“Waiting for Mr. Fleming, yes.”
Darcy’s head came up. “Your father has taken a turn for the worse?”
“No, he is sleeping. Mrs. Hill is with him and so is Jane. I could not sleep.”
“Mrs. Hill has sent for Fleming?”
“Before she went to bed, Mama sent a note to Netherfield, informing Mr. Fleming that if he could be spared, the kitchen door would be left open. But you have not answered my question about Mr. Wickham.”
“I—acted on my suspicions,” he said. “From what I know of Wickham, I figured he was low on funds. Gaming is his method of generating income, and I found him at the card table. The trouble is, Wickham doesn’t have sense enough to live by his wits.”
“Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?”
Darcy gave her a measured look. “What I mean is that Wickham is not smart enough to hedge his bets. He is hasty. He wants to rake in the earnings quickly—and that is not the way to win at cards. He was losing fairly heavily tonight.”
Elizabeth’s color came and went. “Gaming!”
“He is in the habit of running up debts, yes.”
“How do you know this?”
“I’ve had to settle—” Darcy stopped himself in time. “I have had past dealings with him. Acting in another’s stead, of course.”
“And yet when he met you, he never said a word.”
“He wouldn’t.”
“I cannot understand it,” she said. “He behaved as though you were a complete stranger.”
“For a man of my profession, it’s nothing new,” he said. “George Wickham’s memory is adaptable. I am someone who was, shall we say, convenient to forget. This explains why he did not recognize me tonight, sitting in the corner with my pint.”
“You were involved in spying?”
“It was the work of a coward; do not praise me. I needed to see with my own eyes the lay of the land. That letter he wrote to Anne—”
“You know that he was merely flirting. He—” Elizabeth hesitated. “He enjoys flirting.”
Darcy’s temper flashed. “And he enjoys taking a tumble in the hay when he can get it,” he said. “He disappeared tonight, and so did the unfortunate barmaid.”
“W-what?”
“George Wickham is a practiced seducer, Elizabeth. And one way or another I must part him from Anne.”
“Surely he would not trifle with Anne,” she cried. “He would not dare—”
“He has attempted this sort of thing before.”
“I cannot believe he would be so foul. Anne sees him as Mr. Darcy’s friend.”
Darcy leaned in. “He has been very free with his opinion of Mr. Darcy, has he not? It was Darcy’s own sister who was his intended victim. They were discovered in time.”
Elizabeth’s eyes were wide. “So this is why Mr. Darcy hates him.”
“I should have shot Wickham when I had the chance.”
“W-were you involved, William?”
Darcy got hold of himself. “In a manner of speaking,” he said, more mildly. “The best policy has been not to mention it. Or to acknowledge that we have had dealings together.”
“Then at the Netherfield ball—” said Elizabeth slowly. “You were acting a part, were you not?”
What could Darcy say? He watched the play of emotions cross her lovely face. Her hair was dark against the gray of her wool dressing gown. He now realized that the fabric clung to her figure alluringly. He quickly looked away.
“How long ago was this?” she demanded.
“Just this past spring.”
“And to show his gratitude, Mr. Darcy recommended you to Lady Catherine?”
“Not at all,” he said quickly.
She smiled. “Not that either of you will admit. This explains everything—your flattery and sycophant adoration.”
“Not adoration,” he protested. Still, he had to smile. She was so adorably pleased with herself. And this explanation was rather brilliant.
She rose to her feet and came nearer to where he sat. “You are a puzzling sort of person,” she said. “You have done a great deal of good for the Darcy family, and yet you desire no praise. You make yourself a laughingstock to spare Mr. Darcy’s pride, and you conceal your role in what can only be a grievous blow to his sister.”
Her fingers caressed the lapel of his coat.
Darcy steeled himself and rose to his feet. It was time he was gone.
“It is like something from a novel,” she said. “You play the part of the fool to conceal the serious man beneath. But you are no fool, William Collins.”
How he wished she had said Fitzwilliam instead! But he could not allow her to continue. “Elizabeth,” he said, “I am not the man you think me.”
“Of course you are, William,” she whispered. “You are everything and more. You, my dear, are a hero!”
29 Topsy-Turvy
The warmth in Elizabeth’s eyes banished regret. Even so, Darcy must try to make her underst
and.
“During the ball at Netherfield,” he began, “I went into the garden after supper. I, ah, followed Mr. Darcy.”
“To speak to him, yes,” she said, smiling. “And I was vexed that you were so forward. I had no idea that you and he were acquainted. But of course you were, because of his sister.”
So much for his solemn confession! It was all Darcy could do not to return her smile. “The storm blew up while he and I were arguing.”
“Were you arguing? Why?”
“Then the lightning struck,” he said, plunging ahead. “When I came to myself, everything was—changed. I was another person altogether. You will think this strange, but it was as if I had left behind my very identity.”
“But there is nothing unique in that,” she said. “Mr. Fleming told us that those who suffer serious injury are often changed.”
Blast! Could he not explain the simplest thing? Darcy made another attempt. “When I woke up,” he said, “I was in the wrong house. You see, I expected to be at Netherfield.”
“Of course you did. Because that is where you were struck down.”
Did she have an explanation for everything? “But surely you noticed how my behavior was changed.”
“Of course I noticed,” she said, with another smile. “Everyone did, even Anne de Bourgh.”
“Did this never trouble you? That I was so unlike myself?”
“Should improvement be troubling? The only thing that troubles me is…” She hesitated. “William,” she said at last. “Why have you not spoken with Father?”
In other words, why hadn’t he proposed?
“Your father has been ill,” Darcy heard his voice bleat. “Furthermore, I—did not wish to force myself upon you.”
“Force yourself?”
“By obliging you to accept what your family—and most especially your mother—is so eager to have transpire. A match between us,” he added, “is greatly to their advantage.”
“I would never accept you for that reason.”
“Elizabeth,” he said, gazing into her eyes. “I have nothing to offer you, truly.”