by Laura Hile
“Longbourn is hardly nothing,” she said. “In spite of its shortcomings, I love it dearly. And it is the other way round, William. I am the one who has nothing to offer.”
“Nonsense,” he said warmly.
“A wife should bring some benefit to her husband. My portion of Mama’s fortune is small, and I’ve so many sisters who need—”
“Do you mean money?” he interrupted. “As if I cared for that.”
“You ought to care. It is only prudent.”
“A paltry consideration,” Darcy scoffed. “If it mattered,” he added, “why, I would be chasing after Caroline Bingley’s twenty thousand.”
She laughed, just as he hoped she would.
“And I how dearly I would pay,” he added. “Miss Bingley behaves well enough in public, but her private manners are execrable.”
Elizabeth dimpled. “What do you know about Miss Bingley’s private manners?”
Another slip! Darcy thought quickly. “I may be unnoticed as I tread the corridors of Netherfield, but I have eyes. And ears. What a harpy!”
Elizabeth’s eyes were sparkling.
“Surely you recall from your stay at Netherfield,” he added. Before he could stop himself, Darcy leaned in to kiss Elizabeth’s cheek. “As you might imagine, she and Lady Catherine have got on splendidly.”
Another gurgle of delicious laughter. “Oh, dear.”
“The principal consideration when choosing a wife,” Darcy said, “and I remind myself whenever the beauties and their mamas promenade—is what sort of mother she will be. I had an excellent mother. But to be saddled with sons and daughters who take after Caroline Bingley would be intolerable!”
“Beauties and their mothers,” echoed Elizabeth. “You are much sought after in Hunsford, sir?”
Darcy felt himself blush. “Somewhat,” he confessed. “But I am immune to feminine lures.”
“Save for mine,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he admitted, fingering a tendril of her hair. “Save for yours.”
“A country miss without connections or advantages,” she went on. “I cannot further your career in any way, save for after you inherit Longbourn.”
How could he not put his arms round her? And kiss her cheek tenderly? “Dear heart,” he murmured, “your father is a robust fellow who will live for many years.”
“But oh, William,” she faltered, “he has never been so ill.”
“And he shall recover.”
“If the worst should happen…”
“We will face whatever comes, for good or for ill,” he promised. “You shall not face this alone.”
“And when Father recovers?” she whispered. “Will you speak with him?”
“And what am I to say to him, dearest? ‘Mr. Bennet, do me the honor of giving me the hand of your favorite daughter (for you are his favorite). And I will take her miles away to a hovel of a parsonage, where she shall live with an inadequate income, under the heel of a tyrannical despot.’”
“William,” she said, smiling into the lapel of his coat, “you are no despot.”
“I meant Lady Catherine.”
She continued to smile, but he heard her sigh. He had a point and she knew it.
“And now to list for your father the benefits of the match,” Darcy continued. “‘Of an evening, sir, when your lovely daughter is not bringing soup to impoverished families of the parish, she will be invited to Rosings Park, a true treat, where she shall sit in Lady Catherine’s draughty drawing room, making polite conversation with her ladyship and the silent Miss de Bourgh.’”
“You mean Mrs. Wickham and her husband,” Elizabeth put in. “Should the so-called elopement take place.”
Darcy gave a snort. “Wickham will be well-entertained. One of my unc—I mean, her ladyship’s husband’s forebears—had the ceiling painted in the style of the Sistine Chapel. Greek gods and goddesses, showing more flesh than is tasteful.”
“Oh—dear.”
“One learns to keep one’s eyes on the rug because most of the women are built along Raphaelesque proportions.”
“William!”
“Wherewithal shall a young man cleanse his way?” said Darcy, quoting the familiar psalm. “By keeping out of Lady Catherine’s drawing room. My mother was—ah, would be—rather scandalized. But,” he added, “I will not have you living under Lady Catherine’s heel. It would be a living hell.”
“Do you think me weak?”
“I think myself weak. I would be in danger of slapping Lady Catherine, were she to abuse you. Which she certainly shall, as she prides herself on speaking her mind.”
“My knight errant,” Elizabeth murmured.
What else could he do but kiss her cheek? How far he had wandered from his confession! He must tell her about the switch with Collins, and he would. Of course he would.
“Why,” she added, touching his cheek with her fingers, “you have whiskers.”
Darcy’s felt his insides turn to jelly. She was taking liberties with his person—as well she might, for it appeared that she was now his fiancée. And did not a fiancée deserve a kiss?
“William,” she said presently, “I can manage Lady Catherine; I have managed Mama’s interference all my life. And her ladyship cannot be with us every moment of the day.”
“Or night,” he murmured, remembering the kiss.
Her fingers moved to his chin. “You ought to have a dimple just here,” she said. “Odd that I should think so, is it not?”
Darcy did have a cleft in his chin, just not as Collins! God help him if this should continue. And why must he smile like an idiot?
“You will speak to Father?”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “But…”
“We ought to meet with Dr. Bentley as well, or whatever is done in these circumstances—you know best, of course. Do you think the banns should be read on Sunday?”
“So soon?” But he was smiling.
“What a pity that you are not a titled gentleman, even an impoverished one,” she said teasingly. “For a special license would answer nicely.”
“It takes time to send to Doctor’s Commons, love,” he said. “And you wouldn’t wish to be married immediately. Where would we stay?”
“Why, in my bedchamber, of course,” she countered.
“Not the most private of situations,” he said. “I doubt your bed will hold my weight.”
She had to laugh. They both laughed.
“If all goes well, I shall return with you to Kent,” she said, resting against his shoulder. “Is the parsonage large?”
God help him, he was a hopeless weakling. He had kissed her, and now they were making plans to keep house together. He ought to say: My love, I cannot marry you. Indeed, all that was needed was to form the words: I am not William Collins. I am Fitzwilliam Darcy, a man you loathe.
And yet his lips would not obey. “The parsonage is adequate,” he heard himself say. “Not in the style of Longbourn, but I believe you will be comfortable there.”
Idiot! What was he saying?
“Then I am content.” She nestled her cheek against his.
Elizabeth was content. To marry him as Collins, without Pemberley or even an adequate income.
“Whatever comes, for good or ill,” she added, “we shall face it together.”
Weary though he was, Darcy could have sat with her for hours. But every man’s honor had limits, and Darcy knew he was well past his. He rose to his feet, gave Elizabeth her candle and a chaste kiss on the forehead.
“Back to your room,” he said. “It is well that Jane is your bedfellow and Fleming is mine.”
Darcy could have bit out his tongue; what a thing to say! Elizabeth ought to be scandalized. Instead she drew away from him with something like regret.
“The situation is rather compromising,” she admitted, “as we are alone and I am in my nightdress. Fortunately you are—almost fully clothed.”
A condition that could be remedied in less than a mi
nute! Darcy looked away, afraid that he had said as much with his eyes.
“Here is proof that you are an honorable man,” she said admiringly. And she lifted her chin.
“Off you go,” he said, kissing her lightly. And then, because he was Collins and could say outrageous things, he added, “I forgot to inquire, do you snore?”
She gave a gurgle of laughter. “Of course I do not snore!”
He opened the door and stood aside for her to pass. “That,” he said, “is what everyone says, even Fleming. It is an absolute lie.”
He heard her laughing all the way along the corridor.
Darcy returned to the trunk and opened it. Sir Magico’s cape was put to rest. A world of trouble this garment had caused, but did he regret anything that transpired between himself and Elizabeth? No, he decided. After all, Mr. Bennet could refuse consent.
There were footfalls in the corridor and the door came abruptly open. He heard his name and looked round. Behind Elizabeth was Mrs. Hill, and the expression on her face said it all.
“Thank God, sir, that you are awake.”
“Mr. Bennet?”
“There is no crisis,” Mrs. Hill assured him. “But his breathing is labored in a way I cannot like, and the fever has returned and is rising.”
Darcy pushed aside his weariness. “I’ll fetch Fleming at once. If I might borrow the brown overcoat and a lantern?”
Elizabeth came nearer. “You must ride one of our horses to save time,” she said. “Do you know how to saddle a horse, or shall we wake Ned? I would help you, if I knew how.”
Darcy put his arms round Elizabeth and kissed her cheek, heedless of Mrs. Hill’s watching eyes. “I know how to saddle a horse, dearest,” he said. “Fleming will return directly, never you fear.”
But would Fleming be in time? God forbid that Mr. Bennet would pass on, leaving Darcy to inherit Longbourn!
Then again, was this what was meant to be?
30 Decked in the Garb
of Fancy
The evening ground on. It was Miss Bingley’s stated intent to accustom him to fashionable hours, such as he would find in London. What brutes Londoners were! Supper had been abominably late—even Mr. Bingley had complained—and then they must play cards and converse and listen as Miss Bingley played the pianoforte until the small hours.
But Collins’ tedious evening was brightened by the contents of Netherfield’s wine cellar, in particular a decanter of beautifully-aged cognac. Such a lovely, golden amber it was, served in special glasses to warm it. Bingley sipped his. Collins, who had never before tasted brandy, tried to follow suit but could not. It was simply too delicious. Mellowed and warmed, he found himself humming a tune as he refilled his glass.
Not that he’d had the funds in those pinched university days for as much as a pint of beer. But from the mists of memory an old drinking song bubbled up.
“With women and wine I defy ev’ry care,” Collins sang. “For life without these is a bubble of air.”
He drained the glass, marveling at the delicate flavor of the brandy. He stole a glance at Miss Bingley. She was looking both surprised and disgusted. Wonderful! Smiling, he continued humming. “A bubble of air.”
Charles Bingley began to laugh. “Upon my word, Darcy,” he said.
Again Collins reached for the decanter. Wasn’t it odd that a song he’d never sung came so easily to his lips? This time Charles Bingley sang with him.
“Each helping the other in pleasure I roll,
And a new flow of spirits enlivens my soul—”
“Really, Charles,” said Caroline Bingley, “you shouldn’t encourage him. We have enough to put up with in Mr. Hurst.” And she tugged on the bell pull.
Collins shared a grin with Charles Bingley.
Sometime later Holdsworth appeared, as neat as a pin, wearing his usual wooden expression. Apparently the man’s intention was to escort him to his bedchamber.
“Good night, Miss Bingley,” Collins called, as he was led from the drawing room. He was soon grateful for Holdsworth’s arm, for he staggered as they climbed the staircase together. Bingley followed.
“For life without—cognac—is a bubble of air,” Collins sang. “A bubble of air.”
Yes, a merry song. For some reason Holdsworth did not enjoy it.
In the upstairs corridor they encountered the physician Fleming and, of all people, Darcy.
“Oh, look,” Collins told Charles Bingley. “It’s Darcy. Confound the fellow, he’s always turning up. And in such clothes.”
“Good evening, Mr. Collins,” said Charles Bingley politely.
“What are you doing here?” Collins said to Darcy. “Another riding lesson? Torture disguised as exercise? I won’t have it.”
Darcy was speaking apart to Fleming, who was drawing on his gloves. “Take the horse. It is cold, but there is no ice in the lane, thank God.”
“I am sorry that you had to venture out,” Collins heard Fleming reply. “But I’ve slept, and a bit of that works wonders.”
The two of them looked so long-faced that Collins broke out giggling. “Defy every care,” he sang.
“Chin up, my friend,” said Fleming to Darcy. “You’ll do no good by assuming the worst.”
“Is something wrong?” Bingley said quietly.
Darcy turned. “It’s Mr. Bennet. We fear he has taken a turn for the worse.”
“At his age,” added Fleming, “one cannot rule out pneumonia, especially at this time of year.”
Collins watched him go. “Time for the old fellow to cash in his chips, eh?” he said. “Fine news for you, Darcy.” He gave another giggle. “I mean, Collins. Always getting the names wrong. I am him, and he is me. Fiddle-de-dee.”
“I apologize for my friend,” Charles Bingley said to Darcy. “Brandy has loosened his tongue.”
“Cognac,” Collins corrected. “The most delicious cognac. Only good thing to come out of France.” Collins clapped Darcy on the shoulder. “Best to pop over and speak with Papa Bennet while you can. Seal up a pretty future for yourself.”
“Darcy,” said Bingley warningly.
But Collins saw no reason to keep quiet. “Longbourn and the lovely Elizabeth,” he added, giggling.
The irritation on Darcy’s face was wonderful to behold, and it spurred Collins on. “Mind, it will do you no good,” he said, “as the lady is fond of saying no. You are, after all, only a paltry rector.”
“Stow it, Darcy,” said Bingley. He turned to Darcy. “Is Jane’s father truly in danger?”
“Jane’s father, is it?” said Collins. “Oho!”
He heard Darcy sigh. Then Collins felt the man’s fingers close around his forearm. When Darcy spoke he addressed the valet.
“No doubt you are longing for your bed, Mr. Holdsworth,” he said. “I am able to see to Mr. Darcy’s needs.” He smiled ruefully. “In any case, I am likely to be in for a long night. There is no need for both of us to be up.”
g
Trembling, Elizabeth stood outside her father’s bedchamber door. How silent the house was! And yet, oh how she dreaded to hear sounds. Her father’s struggle to breathe, for example, or Jane weeping. Or her mother’s frantic fear.
Elizabeth pressed her palms to her cheeks. There would be that to face, come morning. It was unfair to her mother, if her father were truly in danger, to be left to sleep undisturbed, but for the sake of the household it must be so. As it was, poor Hill was looking unusually haggard. How long had it been since Hill slept? Elizabeth did not know. Hill and Ned had borne the brunt of her father’s care, and all the more during Mr. Fleming’s absence.
She heard movement inside her father’s bedchamber: footfalls and the scrape of a chair. The door came open and her sister emerged.
“Jane,” Elizabeth whispered, and held out her arms.
“Oh, Lizzy,” she cried. “He is so pale and weak.”
Elizabeth kissed her sister’s cheek. “You must sleep. I shall stay with Father.”
“Hill is a saint,” said Jane, “but I know she is eager for Mr. Fleming. He shall come?”
“Yes and very soon. William left for Netherfield straightway. He would ride, which is only right, and I think he saddled the horse himself.” She paused. “Our cousin knows a good deal more than we give him credit for.”
“Dear Cousin William,” said Jane.
“And oh, Jane,” Elizabeth added, for how could she keep silent? “In the morning he intends to speak to Father.”
Jane pulled away, and her eyes studied Elizabeth’s. “And you do not mind?”
“Mind? I was never happier. Oh, how we have misjudged him!”
Jane gave a long sigh. “That will be a great comfort to Father,” she confessed. “He is—” Jane hesitated and dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. “To be honest, he is afraid, Lizzy. Of what might happen to us.”
Elizabeth held her sister close. “Do not speak of it,” she said. “We dare not abandon hope. Father is in God’s hands, and Mr. Fleming will soon be here.”
“And dear Cousin William,” added Jane.
“Yes,” whispered Elizabeth. “Dear, dear William.”
g
Darcy removed the frock coat with none of Holdsworth’s respectful care, and it soured Collins’ temper. “Do you mind?” he complained. “Must you be so rough?”
“I thought you were too drunk to notice.”
“I am no such thing,” said Collins. “Bingley kept refilling my glass, that is all. Dashed good brandy, cognac. French, you know.”
“Yes,” said Darcy, “I know. Keep your mouth closed and listen, Collins. I have something to ask you.”
Collins heaved a sigh, kicked off his shoes, and plumped down on the bed. “More talking,” he complained, wiggling his stocking-clad toes. “First Caroline and now you.”
“Miss Bingley,” Darcy corrected. “You will refer to her as Miss Bingley.”
“She don’t mind what I call her. Good lord, Darcy, there’s the clock chiming. Bless me if it isn’t past two. Time to sleep.”
“Not for you it isn’t.”
Collins yawned again. “Sleep,” he repeated and lay back on the pillows. “Blessed sleep.” He closed his eyes.