by Laura Hile
But someone was shaking his shoulder. “Collins,” said the voice. “Wake up.”
He attempted to turn over but was prevented by an iron grip. “No you don’t,” the voice warned. “Sit up or I’ll douse you with water.”
Collins struggled to sit up, shielding his eyes from the glare of the candle. “Are you still here?”
“Mr. Bennet,” said Darcy, “is seriously ill.”
“What has that to do with me?”
“If the man does not recover—if the worst transpires—it has everything to do with you.”
Collins might be sleepy, but he was not stupid. He felt his lips curl into a sneer. “Not any more. Longbourn will be yours.”
“You do not know that,” said Darcy. “We could resume our true identities at any time.”
“And if we do? What of it?”
“Only this. When you are master of Longbourn, what will become of your cousins?” Darcy’s tone was insistent.
“The house and its income will no longer be theirs.”
“You will cast them out?”
“How dramatic you are,” Collins complained. “They must take lodgings in town. In keeping with their—what is the word?” He struggled to think. “Ah yes,” he crowed at last. “Milieu. They must take lodgings in keeping with their milieu.”
“And what milieu would that be?” demanded Darcy.
“How should I know?” Something about Darcy’s expression made Collins uncomfortable. “Do you expect me to support them?” he squealed. “Impossible! Out of the question!”
“Is it?”
Collins primed up his lips. “I am not,” he announced, “nor will I ever be, my cousins’ keeper.”
“So you will not support the Bennet women in any way,” Darcy said. “Even lovely Elizabeth, whom you claim to love.”
The thought of Elizabeth brought a smile. If her father was dead and she was living in genteel penury, so much the better. Collins put up his chin. “In that case,” he said, “Elizabeth will be eager to become my wife. And now, will you kindly leave me in peace?”
The iron grip was released, and Collins fell back on the pillows. Trust Darcy to slam the door when he left.
And wouldn’t it figure? Collins was now unable to sleep. Visions of cognac, sparkling golden in the firelight, swirled through his thoughts.
g
Never mind common politeness, Collins deserved none! The tenuous truce, or whatever his détente with Collins could be called, was over. Down it came, falling like a house of cards.
Darcy strode along the upstairs corridor, the thick carpet masking his footfalls.
“Mr. Collins,” called a voice, “is that you?”
Darcy came to a halt. What now?
Never mind that it was the middle of the night, there stood Anne de Bourgh, wrapped in a figured dressing gown. Anne would never be pretty, but her wan expression did inspire a stab of pity.
“I heard voices earlier,” she explained, “and after that I could not sleep. Are-are you returning to Longbourn, Mr. Collins?”
“I am,” said Darcy. He glanced toward the staircase. If they were seen together like this—
“I wonder if you might do me a little favor.”
She drew nearer, and Darcy felt his eyes narrow. Anne had never bothered to converse with him while at Longbourn. He might as well have been a piece of furniture! What reason had she to speak with him now? None whatsoever, unless—
Darcy waited, concealing an impulse to tap his foot, for Anne had no notion of time.
“Would you mind delivering a letter for me?” she said at last. “It is in my bedchamber. I will not be long.”
Off she went before he could answer. Good manners compelled him to wait.
Anne must have known this, for she took full advantage. The longcase clock at the end of the corridor ticked solemnly, and still she did not appear. Darcy, who was falling asleep on his feet, found a chair. His head nodded forward on his chest, the muffler making a cushion for his chin.
At length he heard a door open and close. With a grimace he rose to his feet.
From the folds of her dressing gown Anne drew several sealed letters. “If you would deliver these, I would be most grateful.”
Darcy examined them, squinting in the dim light.
“The names are clearly written,” she said. “There can be no mistake.” And then, perhaps because of nervousness, she continued talking. “There is one for Lydia and one for Kitty. And the last one—”
“—is for Mr. Wickham,” Darcy finished for her. “Where am I to find him, I wonder?”
“I—am not sure, Mr. Collins. In Meryton? Or perhaps he will call at Longbourn? One never knows.”
“Quite right,” said Darcy. “With Mr. Wickham, one never knows.”
Farther down the corridor a door opened. Anne swung round and gave a ragged gasp. “Oh,” she faltered. “Why, good evening, Cousin Fitzwilliam.” She attempted a smile.
Darcy said nothing. God only knew why Collins was not asleep. Then he noticed the empty glass. Was the man was in search of a drink?
And Collins was surly. “What have we here?” he growled. “An odd time of day for callers, Anne. You ought to be in bed.”
“As should we all,” said Darcy. He allowed his gaze to travel to the empty glass. “At this hour,” he added, “Mrs. Nicholls will have locked away the spirits. A precaution against servants taking a liberty.”
Collins’ scowl deepened. “You are a fine one to talk of liberties.” He rounded on Anne. “And what about you? Flirting with the rector in your night dress.”
“It-it does look rather odd, I admit,” Anne began.
Darcy interrupted. “Since I am returning to Longbourn,” he said smoothly, “Miss de Bourgh has given me letters to deliver. I am about to bid her good-night.”
“Letters?” Collins said, sneering. “Or is it a love note? A billet-doux?”
Anne gave a cry of dismay. “They are—for Kitty and Lydia.”
“An honor for the Bennet family, to be sure,” said Collins. “Your mother,” he added, “would not approve. And neither do I.”
Anne shrank against the wall. “I-I do not care what you think, Fitzwilliam. As for Mother, she can go hang!” Anne turned and fled. Her bedchamber door closed with a bang.
“Well done, Collins,” said Darcy. “Now we’ll have Mrs. Jenkinson on our hands, demanding an explanation. And Mrs. Nicholls too, once you stumble into the drawing room, looking for that brandy decanter.”
“There is nothing wrong,” Collins practically spat, “with a man being thirsty.”
“Do not add drunkenness to your list of virtues, please. In a man of your rank, it is especially distasteful.”
And before Collins could say another word, Darcy turned on his heel and left.
31 For A Kingdom
Although it was late when Darcy returned to Longbourn, his weariness made him reckless enough to tap on Mr. Bennet’s door. It came open and Elizabeth’s face peered out. When she saw him, her composure crumbled. “Oh, William,” she cried and threw herself into his arms.
Darcy had not meant to interfere, but she came to him so trustingly, like a child. What could he do but hold her close?
“Thank you for bringing Mr. Fleming,” she said. “His presence has been a godsend, and his composure has settled us all. Dear Hill has gone to bed at last.” She pulled back to look at him. “Have you slept, dearest?”
“Have you?” he said gently.
Her face showed strain and her hair was disheveled, but Darcy did not care. She was beautiful, and she was soon to be his very own. Nothing else mattered. He kissed her cheek.
“I caught a few winks in a chair at Netherfield,” he told her, “while I waited for Anne de Bourgh to finish her letters.” He reached into a pocket of the overcoat. “You see? My patience was rewarded. One for Lydia and one for Kitty and one for…” Darcy paused.
“Not Mr. Wickham?”
“The very man. “And after we’ve sl
ept,” Darcy went on, “we’ll lay our plans. I ought to make the delivery this morning. But enough of Wickham, how is your father?”
“Feverish and unsettled. Oh, William, he is so weak and in pain. Jane told me earlier, but I would not believe it. His breathing is shallow and that frightens me. But now that you are here, I can be easy.”
Darcy did not see how his presence made a difference, but he did not quibble. “You need to know that Bingley has come; he would not let me walk. He has brought fruit for your father and has promised chickens, as many as you need. At the moment he is making up a bed in the drawing room. I have built up the fire and will fetch a blanket.”
“But—will he not go home?”
“Bingley is a stubborn fellow, though you would never guess it, and he insists on serving your family. Thus, he has made himself available for any errand, night or day. I tried to make him leave, but he will not go.”
“Bless Mr. Bingley. Such a kind and thoughtful man.”
“I believe he has something to say to Jane and also to your father, come morning.”
“Oh, William, truly?” Elizabeth’s expression held something like wonder. “This is the best news in the world, the very best. After ours, of course.”
“Yes,” he said, stroking a lock of her hair. “After ours.”
“He and Jane shall be happy together, I know it,” she added. “For they are so well-suited.”
“I did not always think so,” Darcy admitted, “but I do now.”
“But his sisters?”
“His sisters had quite another match in mind, one in keeping with their ambition. Like Jane, Georgiana is gentle and good, but she is much too young to be married. Bingley is merely her brother’s friend, nothing more.”
Elizabeth was smiling. “How much you overhear at Netherfield, sir. Should I be frightened?”
“Eavesdropping is my principal talent. Unfortunately,” he added, “the Church of England does not make use of the confessional, or I would know more.”
She laughed, as he hoped she would. Color returned to her cheeks.
Somewhere he heard a clock strike four. “Off you go,” he said, “to watch and pray for your father. I shall do the same, while setting up a barricade before the drawing room door.”
“A barric—oh! For Mr. Bingley.”
“In a household of women, a fellow needs all the protection he can get.”
A dimple appeared in Elizabeth’s cheek. “Dear William,” she said, “what an encouragement you are. No matter the circumstance, you always know just what to say.”
“Not according to Lady Catherine.” Darcy put a hand on each of her shoulders. “Now then, you are to wake me if I am needed, no matter how trifling the request. Am I understood?”
“But—” Elizabeth protested.
“This is not a suggestion. If I am needed, you know where I am.”
“Yes, William.”
“And,” he added, because he could, “if Jane needs something, you know where Bingley is.”
g
When Elizabeth returned to her father, she found Mr. Fleming asleep in a chair. She lit a fresh candle and settled in to wait. Her father’s eyes blinked open. She took his hand in her own. “Father,” she whispered.
“Dear—Lizzy,” he managed.
“Don’t speak, Father, until you’ve had a little water.” She brought the glass and supported it while he swallowed. “You ought to be sleeping.”
“I cannot sleep. If I do, my dear—I might not wake.”
Elizabeth began to protest, but he interrupted. “Jane’s Bible,” he said, pointing. “Read me a text.”
She found the Bible and opened it. She discovered that she was trembling. Never before had her father made such a request.
“The one about,” he said, “the Father’s house.”
With a sinking heart Elizabeth turned to latter half of John’s gospel. She could not be reading this passage, a comfort to so many, to her sweet and robust father. Was his time truly near?
“Let not your heart be troubled; you believe in God, believe also in Me.”
She paused and stole a look at him. The agitation in his manner had stilled.
“In My Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.”
Elizabeth heard a long sigh. He seemed to be breathing more normally.
“And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come and receive you unto Myself, that where I am, there ye may be also.”
“A place for me,” her father repeated. “The Savior has a place for me.” Another sigh escaped his lips. “And I, who for so much of my life—have had no place for Him.”
“Dear Father,” said Elizabeth, taking his hand again. “Do not reproach yourself.”
His lips curved into a rueful smile. “A poor follower of Christ I have been, Lizzy. An even poorer father—to my children.”
“How can you say so?”
“After I am gone, you will learn—the truth. The entail—”
“Never mind the entail.”
“I—dislike discord in my home,” he went on. “Especially when it comes to money. I set nothing aside—for my girls. For you, who were depending upon me.”
“You have done your best,” said Elizabeth loyally.
“False consolation does not become you,” he said.
Elizabeth sat silent, wondering how much to say. The candle sputtered. Mr. Fleming stirred in his sleep. A log on the fire fell apart with a whispering sigh. “Our cousin, William Collins, desires to speak with you,” she said at last.
“I imagine he does.”
“It is my earnest wish, Father, that you will listen to him. And,” she added, “that you will give us your blessing.”
He gave a start. “My blessing? To you and William Collins?”
“He will be asking for my hand in marriage, yes.”
“Not that,” he said. “Anything but that.”
Mr. Bennet broke out coughing. Mr. Fleming, startled awake, came out of the chair and bent over him.
After some minutes, Mr. Fleming exchanged a look with Elizabeth and withdrew to his chair.
Mr. Bennet spoke again. “Lizzy,” he said, “have you not always hated Mr. Collins?”
“I have misjudged him. We all have. He is a sensible man, intelligent and capable.”
“But the letter.”
Elizabeth sighed. “I cannot explain that foolish letter, for it is at variance with the man I know him to be. I suspect that Lady Catherine dictated it. She has done so for his sermons.”
“Paugh,” said Mr. Bennet. “A coward.”
“He has his living to earn. And it does no good to offend a person like Lady Catherine. Shall we say he dislikes discord?”
Her father looked unhappy.
“He is a good man, Father.”
“But Lizzy,” said her father at last, “will you marry a fool?”
“William Collins is no fool. And I love him, truly I do.”
“He has bewitched you. With good looks and charm of manner.”
Her father did not smile with her. “Life is short, my dear,” he said unhappily. “Marry as you will—while there is time.”
She kissed his forehead. “Thank you, Father.”
“I am ill—and must rely on a man like Collins to follow through on my behalf. Bring your mother when Mr. Collins comes,” he added. “She has been pining for this match.”
“Please do not think that Mama had any bearing on my decision. My choice to accept William’s proposal will come as a complete surprise to her.”
Her father lapsed into silence. Presently he said, “There is no reason to—delay on my account.”
“Father—” Elizabeth protested.
“Best to have the banns read before the bell tolls, eh?”
He was teasing her, and it nearly made her weep. For a just a moment, his eyes held their familiar twinkle. The moment passed, and his eyes closed.
&nbs
p; “I cannot tell you, Lizzy,” he whispered, “how relieved I am to know that you will be provided for. I scorned William Collins, but God in His mercy had other plans.”
32 Certainly Very Little
It was close on eleven when Elizabeth came down to breakfast. Sitting alone at the long table was William. He looked up; his eyes came alive with warmth. She slid into the chair beside his and as the room was deserted, kissed him tenderly on the cheek.
“Mama is taking breakfast in her bedchamber,” she told him. “When she comes down, Father would like us to come to him together.” She could feel her cheeks grow warm. “I—told him of our wish to marry,” she confessed, “and he has given his blessing. Unless you have changed your mind.”
He said, smiling, “I have not changed my mind. Allow me to serve you breakfast.”
“Not just yet. Before my sisters come in, we ought to talk over Anne’s letters.”
Apparently he was prepared for this, for he drew them from a pocket. Lydia’s and Kitty’s he set aside. “These serve as a blind for this one,” he said, placing Mr. Wickham’s letter before her. “I have not had enough sleep for delicate strategy. How do you propose we should open it?”
“Do you truly believe he intends to elope?”
“I do, yes.”
Elizabeth gave herself to thinking. “This is Anne’s reply,” she said slowly, “the first of its kind, and you are her courier. This, I think, is where you prove your trustworthiness. For who else will serve as Mr. Wickham’s deliveryman?”
William’s smile dissolved into a grin. “Wickham already thinks I am stupid,” he said, “and Anne needs no convincing.”
“Yes, a clever maneuver on your part. What I mean is, there will be no information in this letter, only affirmation and agreement—if his object is elopement.”
Elizabeth felt her blush deepen, for William was beaming at her. “Wickham’s reply,” he said slowly, “will be the material one, yes.”
“Do you agree, then, to leave Anne’s letter unopened?”
“We’ll risk it.”
The door opened and Mary came in. While she busied herself at the sideboard, William pushed back his chair. “To Meryton I must go,” he said quietly. “No doubt our man is sleeping off the excesses of last night. He certainly did not come here.”