by Laura Hile
Caroline Bingley put up her chin. “My brother and I are for London as soon as may be,” she said. “I know of no other plans.”
“Oho,” said Elizabeth’s mother, “so you have not spoken with your brother this morning?” She was practically rubbing her hands with glee. “He will have news to be sure. I’ll not spoil it for him by telling you.”
At once Miss Bingley rose to her feet. “I’ll not detain you, ma’am,” she said crisply. “Please accept my best wishes for your husband’s recovery. A winter cold is such a nuisance.” And out she swept.
“Well I never,” said Mrs. Bennet. “She did not stay even ten minutes. I trust my girls have better manners.”
g
“Fitz,” Darcy shouted. Collins’ pulpit-trained voice carried beautifully, and Colonel Fitzwilliam pulled up. He wheeled and cantered over to Darcy. Darcy waved. “Hallo, Fitz,” he called.
His cousin approached warily. “Should I know you?” he said.
Fitz was the most affable of men, but his voice held a ring of hauteur that was entirely new. As Collins Darcy was not his cousin’s equal, but neither was he nobody. This new distance, so cold and impersonal, cut Darcy like a knife.
Collins’ clothing was to blame and also his profession. On the other hand, who was Fitz to be so high in the instep?
Colonel Fitzwilliam sat on his horse, an imposing figure in uniform. Cloaked like that he resembled a Cossack commander, gazing with contempt at a serf.
“I believe you had a letter about me,” was what Darcy said. He could not bring to introduce himself as Collins. Indeed, it was pointless to do so, since he would be at last confessing the truth.
At once Fitz swung out of the saddle. “Are you Collins?” he said. “My cousin said nothing about you being a curate.”
“Rector,” said Darcy, “of Hunsford Parish.”
“Is that so?” said Fitz. He did not extend a hand or smile.
So it was to be like that, was it? “In point of fact,” said Darcy crisply, “it was I who sent that letter.”
g
“I daresay Miss Bingley did not wish to impose, Mama,” said Elizabeth. “Kitty, Father has been asking for you. Shall we go up?”
Kitty did not look happy. “Oh,” she said. “But—Mama, Lydia and I were hoping to walk to Meryton this afternoon. The weather is fine, and…”
“In all this cold? Certainly not. I need you here, Kitty. Your sisters’ engagement dinner wants planning, for it must happen as soon as may be—especially if Mr. Bingley must go away to London. Hill is taken up with your father’s care, and Jane and Lizzy are busy above stairs as well. Can you not send Mary with Lydia?”
“Mary,” cried both Kitty and Lydia. “Mary will not do at all.”
“Kitty,” prompted Elizabeth, holding open the door.
“Oh, very well,” she said. “Come with me, Lydia.” They followed Elizabeth out.
At once they began whispering. “We shall have to find a way around Mama,” said Lydia.
Elizabeth pretended not to hear. She began to mount the stairs.
“What I do not know,” said Kitty, “is how we are supposed to raise such a whopping amount. It isn’t like twenty pounds grows on trees.”
“We must do our best. We must be resourceful, like women in novels.”
“Elizabeth,” called Kitty, “have you any money I can borrow? It’s—for one of the shops.”
Elizabeth stifled a sigh. “If you pay your accounts on time,” she said, “tradesmen are willing to extend credit.”
“Oh, ah, yes,” said Kitty.
“But it’s almost Quarter Day, Lizzy,” said Lydia. “And anyway, it’s not as if we are desperate. Such as Denny and Pratt, who must what-do-they-call-it with their timepieces and watch chains.”
“Pawn them,” supplied Kitty. “That’s what they do, and that dreadful Mr. McCurdy gives them money.”
There was a pause. “I wonder,” added Kitty.
g
Open scorn was in Fitz’s eyes. Never had Darcy been so close to disliking his cousin, and yet he must attempt to explain. “I came into this district with Charles Bingley,” he said, “to assist him in selecting an estate.”
“You?”
Darcy ignored his cousin’s churlish tone. “Bingley wanted the advice of a resident landowner.”
“He must be more of a numbskull than I thought to seek advice from someone like you.”
Darcy kept his irritation in check. Yes, it was definitely the clothing. Who knew Fitz was such a stickler? Or that first impressions were so blasted difficult to overcome? Nevertheless, he must persevere. “Bingley decided to take the house,” he said, “and a fortnight ago he hosted a ball. Collins was present—”
Colonel Fitzwilliam folded his arms across his chest. “Unless I miss my guess,” he said, “Collins is your name.”
“—and after supper he followed me into the garden.”
“Collins followed you.”
“Yes. And while we were arguing, a storm blew in.”
“Let me guess,” said Fitz. “Lightning struck. You sustained a direct hit.”
“How do you know that?”
“Darcy told me, and so did the lovely ladies at Longbourn House. Yes, I have seen him, so I know more than you think. A likely story.”
Darcy felt his eyes narrow. “It is the truth.”
“See here, Collins, for that is clearly who you are, what really happened? Fisticuffs? Did Darcy clean your clock?”
“I did not brawl in the garden or anywhere else,” said Darcy frostily. “The force of the lightning threw me to the ground.”
“Or else Darcy’s fist sent you there,” said Fitz.
“Collins fell on top of me. And when I came to myself—”
“I’d like to see that, you falling on top of yourself. You likely cracked a few bones.”
“Ribs, actually,” said Darcy, with a rueful smile. “Hurt like Hades. When I came to myself, I was in this body.” He indicated Collins’ form.
Colonel Fitzwilliam gave a snort. “You are telling me,” he said, “that you are Fitzwilliam Darcy? That you are—how shall I say it? Inhabiting Collins’ body?”
“Yes. And William Collins is living in mine.”
Darcy saw his cousin’s lips twitch. Obviously he was working to swallow a guffaw. Then Colonel Fitzwilliam threw back his head and laughed. “Oh,” he gasped. “This is rich. Upon my word, first-rate!”
“If you have spoken with your cousin,” said Darcy evenly, “you must have seen the change in him.”
“The best jest ever.” Fitz doffed his hat. “I salute you. I don’t know who put you up to this—Simmons? Was it Simmons? Very well played, Collins, or whoever you are. Very well played.”
“Fitz, this is no joke. I am Darcy.”
“Of course you are. And Darcy—is he supposed to be you? He played the buffoon to perfection. I can imagine my poor aunt’s spasms, to discover that the heir to Pemberley is now an idiot.”
“I wish to God this were a joke. As Darcy, Collins knows nothing of Pemberley,” said Darcy. “Or of Georgiana, or of anything else.”
“Ha,” said Fitzwilliam. “He thinks Wickham a sprightly dinner guest. A clever rig, very clever. The rector’s get-up was a stroke of brilliance. Lends credibility to an otherwise outrageous scheme.”
He leaned in. “So if this is not a joke, what is it precisely?”
Darcy felt his cheeks flush. “My bungled attempt to explain an incomprehensible situation.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s brows descended. “Incomprehensible? I think not. What kind of a flat do you take me for?”
g
At all costs Collins must avoid another encounter with Colonel Fitzwilliam. And also with Lady Catherine and Caroline Bingley and Anne de Bourgh. He could find no refuge in his rooms upstairs, for Holdsworth was working there. How a man could find occupation in caring for clothing Collins did not know, but that was beside the point. Where in all this great house coul
d he hide? And then he remembered how Mr. Bennet avoided his wife and talkative daughters.
Fortunately Bingley’s library was empty. A fine fire crackled on the hearth, and Collins sank into one of the overstuffed chairs with a happy sigh. At last, peace.
Or perhaps not. What he’d assumed was the hearth rug was a sleeping dog, a liver spaniel. The animal raised his head hopefully.
Collins gazed at the dog with distaste. “Shoo,” he said. “Go away.”
But the dog would not be denied. “For the sake of all that is holy,” Collins complained, “keep that tongue in your mouth where it belongs.”
Of course the animal would not be satisfied until it had licked Collins’ hand—and the shining surface of his beloved Hessian boots.
g
“I understand this no more than you do, Fitz,” said Darcy. “But it’s the honest truth. Question Collins, or should I say Darcy?”
There was a pause. “I already have. He has been well-coached. He knows his part perfectly.”
“Hell and damnation, Fitz, the man knows next to nothing! Ask him to ride or to shoot, make him dance with Caroline Bingley—he cannot. He can do none of those things.”
“You’ve had your jest,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “But I’m not having any.”
“Ask Darcy about your parents, Fitz, or your brother. Or his father. He knows nothing, not even information that could be gleaned from the social column in any London paper.”
Fitz folded his arms across his chest. “As I say, a fine jest.”
“Try me,” said Darcy. “Ask me anything, anything you like.”
“So that you can gather more information about me or my family? No thank you.” He leaned in. “Who are you? What kind of rig are you running?”
“I told you. I am Darcy.”
His cousin responded with a string of oaths. “Out with it,” he said. “How much is this going to cost me?”
“Cost you?” said Darcy. “What do you think I am, Fitz?”
“Isn’t that patently obvious? A dammed charlatan! A swindler and a blackmailer! Well? What’s the figure?”
Darcy gave a curt laugh. “As if you had the funds to pay.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam was shocked to silence.
“Let’s be honest, shall we?” said Darcy. “You came here in answer to my summons. But you also knew that I would open my purse. Reimbursement for travel, a gift, a loan until quarter day. Call it what you will, it amounts to a handout.”
“Hee-haw,” came the distant bray of one of the donkeys. Its timing was excellent.
But Darcy did not laugh. “This time, my dear Fitz, you will find that the feeding trough is empty. As Collins I have no money, and as Darcy, Collins cannot sign a draft on my bank. So you, my dear cousin, are out of luck.”
Fitz’s face was dark with anger. “You—”
“Unless you decide to run off with Miss Bingley,” Darcy went on. “She is worth at least twenty-thousand. Have you played the second-son-of-an-earl card? With her it might work.”
“You,” Colonel Fitzwilliam spat, “are a demon from hell. I don’t know where you get your information.”
Darcy was now too angry to care. “I tell the truth—for the first time in almost a fortnight—and what do I get for my pains?” he said, “Insults!”
Fitz looked an answer.
“Of all people,” Darcy went on, “I thought that you—my friend, my own flesh and blood, a man I consider closer than a brother—would at least hear me out. Like a fool, I thought that you would have the grace to believe what I say. I am Fitzwilliam Darcy. I wrote that letter. And now I wish I hadn’t.”
“You are mad. And if my cousin will be shut up in a madhouse, as God is my witness, you will be there with him.”
“And then what?” said Darcy. “As Georgiana’s guardian, you will have oversight of Pemberley—including a generous yearly income—and sit on your hind end? Or fritter it away on tradesmen’s bills and gaming debts?”
“What?” shouted Fitz.
“I seem to recall a dark-haired opera dancer several years back,” said Darcy. “I, or more accurately, my purse, pulled you out of the River Tick. To the tune of several thousand pounds.”
Fortunately Darcy’s responses were not as bovine as Collins’ body made them appear. Just in time he dodged the swing of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s fist.
36 Of Chequered Fortune
Elizabeth opened the bedchamber door for Kitty, who was crying softly. But where was Lydia? Mary was standing there, so Elizabeth motioned for her to come inside. A moment later she came back into the corridor.
“Do find Lydia,” Elizabeth whispered to Kitty. “She ought to see him now.”
“But Lizzy, surely—”
“Just find her, Kitty. And send Mama up as well. On second thought, I’ll see to that myself.”
Elizabeth sent a futile glance down the stairwell. If only William were here! “I think it is time to send Ned for Dr. Bentley,” she added.
Kitty’s face was pale. “Surely Father is not—”
“Go for him yourself if Ned cannot be spared. I must wake Jane.”
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Collins avoided the dog by paging through a London newspaper. Presently he heard the door open, but it was only Charles Bingley. The dog perked up and went to greet his master, tail held waving.
“Good morning,” Bingley said. “Or should I say good afternoon? I daresay I’ve missed both breakfast and luncheon.”
“I apologize for violating your inner sanctum,” Collins said stiffly. “Holdsworth is working in my rooms, and Lady Catherine is lurking about, ready to pounce. Even Colonel Fitzwilliam will rant at me.”
Bingley spread his hands. “Unnecessary to explain it, old man.” A lopsided grin appeared. “You’ve forgotten that I often hide in here.”
He took a newspaper from the table and slid into the chair opposite Collins. “So your cousin has come,” he observed. “Heaven only knows what Caroline will say.”
As if on cue, the door opened to admit Bingley’s sister. “You will tell me this instant,” she said, without preamble, “why Mrs. Bennet was winking at me. Winking, Charles, as if she was privy to a saucy secret.”
Bingley lowered the newspaper, and as he rose to his feet Collins heard him sigh. “Surely you are mistaken,” he said.
Collins knew he ought to stand as well. Instead he concealed himself behind the newspaper.
“Revolting creature!” Caroline Bingley said. “I take the trouble to bring fruit to her miserable worm of a husband, whom I daresay is not sick at all, and this is the thanks I get. She chortles—yes, chortles! —with secret glee. Worse, she implies that her secret involves you. Well?”
Collins shrank into the corner of the chair. In this mood, he would be next.
“I daresay Mrs. Bennet is not herself, for her husband is seriously ill,” said Mr. Bingley. “Jane fears the worst.”
“Must you use her Christian name? And what do you know about Miss Bennet’s fears? Intimacy of that sort is most unbecoming.”
The library door opened again, but Caroline Bingley did not notice. Collins swallowed a yelp of dismay and hid behind the newspaper.
“It does no good,” Miss Bingley went on, “to encourage familiarity with lesser persons with whom one should not be connected.”
“My sentiments exactly,” said Lady Catherine, coming into the room. “Although I never expected a parvenu to say so.”
She fastened her gaze on Charles Bingley. “I am looking for Colonel Fitzwilliam, whom I understand is here, and also for you, Mr. Bingley. It is high time to discuss my plans for my nephew, Fitzwilliam.”
Collins repressed the impulse to inform her ladyship that he was in the room.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam has gone to Meryton, ma’am,” said Miss Bingley. “I have no idea when he shall return. Charles, I have invited him to stay with us until we depart for London.”
“Another feather in your cap,” Lady Catherine remarked. “Best h
urry and write to all your fine friends before he departs.” She turned and made her way to the door. Caroline Bingley resumed her tirade, speaking low.
“I trust you are not encouraging Miss Jane Bennet to hope for more, Charles. We have been over this many times. Louisa and I—and even Mr. Darcy—believe that you can do much better.”
Collins peered over the edge of the newspaper. The library door was open, but Lady Catherine had paused at the threshold.
“I realize that Georgiana is rather young,” Caroline was saying to her brother, “however, both in temperament and fortune she is an excellent match for—”
“Georgiana?” interrupted Lady Catherine. She closed the door. Collins felt himself begin to tremble—he knew that tone of voice. “Young woman,” she said, “I trust you are not speaking of Miss Georgiana Darcy as part of some scheme.”
Caroline Bingley was struck speechless.
“Do not think that you can pull the wool over my eyes. You will do well to banish Miss Darcy from your plans. An alliance between your family and ours would be most unsuitable.”
Caroline Bingley’s cheeks were scarlet. “Upon my word,” she sputtered.
Charles Bingley was looking rather pale. He drew himself up. “I might as well tell you—it will be public knowledge soon enough,” he said. “This morning, shortly after dawn, I asked Mr. Bennet for Jane’s hand in marriage. She has accepted, and we have her parents’ blessing.”
“Charles,” wailed Miss Bingley. “You did not! The Bennets are nobodies.”
“Mr. Bennet is a gentleman,” said Lady Catherine crisply. “The favor, young woman, is being conferred upon your family, not hers.”
“But they have no connections, no fortune!”
“And Georgiana Darcy has?” said Lady Catherine. “Is this a point in her favor?”
“I-I did not mean that,” Caroline protested. She rounded on Collins. “Speaking of matrimony, Mr. Darcy, I’ve news of Miss Elizabeth,” she cried, “whose fine eyes you once admired. Elizabeth Bennet is to marry that buffoon, Mr. Collins. A triumph indeed.”
“What?” cried Collins.
“Most sensible,” said Lady Catherine. “He has done precisely as I suggested. A rector ought to have a wife.”