by Laura Hile
Wickham guessed his purpose. “Not the face!” he screamed.
Darcy kept hold of Wickham and punctuated each blow. “You predatory—rapacious—wastrel,” he shouted.
“Help me!” Wickham gasped, looking to the driver and postilion.
But help was not to be found. “Nice right hook, Rector,” the postilion remarked.
Wickham kicked at Darcy’s shins and worked to squirm out of his coat. Anne began beating Darcy’s back with her fists. “Stop, you brute!” she screamed.
A memory flickered, and Darcy’s grip tightened. “When were you planning,” he shouted to Wickham, “to tell your bride about the tavern girl?”
Anne’s assault on Darcy’s back ceased. “Tavern girl?” she echoed. “What tavern girl?”
“The one who shared his bed the other night.”
Wickham’s face was pale, and his nose bled freely. His breathing was labored.
“No doubt he intends,” Darcy added, “to finance his by-blows with his wife’s money.”
“By-blows?” cried Anne. “What do you mean, Mr. Collins?” She clung to Darcy’s arm.
He shook her off. “Give me one reason,” he shouted at Wickham, “why I should allow you to live.”
“Darcy,” screamed Collins. “You’re a clergyman! A clergyman, not a murderer!”
The air was crackling with energy. Darcy could feel the hair on the back of his head stand on end. There was a roaring sound.
“Darcy!” he heard Collins scream, and the man’s fingers tore at his coat. Darcy recoiled for another blow, but lost his footing in the mud. Wickham wiggled free from his grasp.
The sky ripped white. Cannon fire shook the earth in an explosion of sound. Darcy felt his body stiffen. Someone screamed, and something hit Darcy on the back of his head. Down he went, with Collins collapsing on top of him.
g
There was pain—as if he had been punched—and lightheadedness, but this time Darcy did not lose consciousness. And yet it was odd, for he discovered that he was lying on top of Collins when he could have sworn it was the other way round. Darcy rolled off and staggered to his knees. He realize that he held something—fabric from Collins’ black coat.
In the dim light Darcy stared at his hands. These were his own fingers, not Collins,’ and there was his signet ring. Darcy released the fabric and out of habit moved the ring to his left hand.
He turned to see Collins’ wet and frightened face staring up at him—a face Darcy had seen only in the looking glass.
Darcy felt his insides turn to jelly. He was himself. It was done.
Meanwhile he could hear Anne crying out for George Wickham. Apparently the man had run off.
The driver and the postilion bent over him. “By Jove,” one of them said. “You’re alive! You’re both alive!”
“Never seen anything like it,” said the other. “Not in all my days.”
Darcy marshalled his wits. The sooner the coach was gone from Netherfield, the better. “You deserve—to be paid,” he managed to say. Sure enough, there in the mud were Kitty’s fallen banknotes. Two one-pound notes were all that were left. Trust Wickham to land on his feet! But two pounds were enough. “If you will kindly remove the person’s trunk,” Darcy said, and held out the notes. “I take it he is no longer here?”
The driver did not need to be told twice. “He’s gone all right,” he remarked. “Went haring down the lane.”
“Thank God for that,” Darcy said.
Anne now stood beside the coach, wet and forlorn and weeping. Darcy gathered his strength. It would be up to him to see her safely into the house.
Collins, meanwhile, had scrambled to his feet. As Darcy looked on he patted his stomach, his cheeks, and his thighs. Right there in the mud he spun in a wobbly circle. “Oh, joy!” he sang to the heavens above. “I am myself!”
Lightning flashed and in the distance, thunder rolled. The storm was moving on.
“Yes!” screamed Collins to the clouds. “Go, go! Wreak your havoc on someone else!”
Out of the gloom of the garden a figure came rushing forward—a woman, hampered by sodden skirts. “William,” she called out. “Oh, William!”
Darcy turned, stunned to hear his beloved’s voice. “Elizabeth,” he whispered.
“Oh, that this should happen twice!” she cried, and she ran straight for Collins.
Like a dazed man Collins opened his arms and received her eager embrace. Above Elizabeth’s bowed head Darcy caught a glimpse of Collins’ face and quickly looked away. The man’s smug expression was a punch to the gut.
Yes, it was done; he was himself. But his part was not played, was it? For Darcy now discovered that Kitty stood beside Anne, comforting her.
Kitty and Elizabeth. How much had they seen?
Darcy approached the driver. “Take these women,” he said, “and this gentleman to Longbourn House.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to order the men to remain silent about this night’s events. On second thought, why conceal Wickham’s infamy?
“You did a good deed tonight,” he added, “in thwarting this elopement. The young woman is an innocent, and Wickham a rogue.”
“No need to tell us that, sir,” said the postilion. “The Rector, he’s a bonny fighter.”
“Always enjoy a good mill,” the postilion added. He indicated Wickham’s trunk. “Want anything done with that?”
“Not a blessed thing,” said Darcy. “Let it lie in the mud until it rots.”
All that was left was to part Kitty from Anne, and then to lead Elizabeth, who was arm and arm with Collins, to the waiting coach.
Elizabeth was scrupulously polite. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” she said crisply, without meeting his eyes.
Darcy looked away. “I—am sorry about your coat, Collins,” he said. “I’ll have Holdsworth send another.”
It took effort to ignore the man’s answering smirk.
“Dear William,” he heard Elizabeth say, “are you much hurt? Oh, your poor, bruised hands!” The door was pulled to, and the driver climbed onto the box.
As the coach moved away, Darcy held back a sigh. “Come, Anne,” he said to his cousin, offering his arm for support—a heroic gesture, considering how poorly he felt.
“Oh, Fitzwilliam,” she said, collapsing against him. “George is not gone, not altogether. He is waiting for me. He shall come back, he shall!”
“I’m afraid not, my dear.”
“But he loved me! He said so many times!”
“Did he?”
There was a pause. “He did—once or twice. And it was true, I know it! He could not have been lying!”
Darcy put an arm around Anne’s thin shoulder. “He said the same to Georgiana.”
“Georgiana?” faltered Anne. “Then it was true?”
“He was after her fortune,” Darcy said gently. “And yours.”
Anne began to cry.
Bless Holdsworth, in a pocket Darcy found a clean handkerchief to offer Anne. “At the time,” he said, “Georgiana thought her heart was broken. She has since recovered, and so shall you.”
“Never!” There was a pause. “What will Mother say?”
“Not a thing, if I can help it.”
Anne looked up at him with wide eyes. “But—”
“You’ve learned a painful lesson. I do not see where Aunt Catherine comes into it.”
“But if Mother were to find out,” Anne said. “If she were to discover us tonight, together like this…”
Anne fell silent, and then added, “Do you—think we ought to marry after all?”
Darcy drew a long breath. “No,” he said quietly. “We do not suit, Anne. As for your mother, in truth there is nothing to discover.”
42 Give Me Leave
William slept late that morning, and Elizabeth felt his absence keenly. The funeral would take place in the afternoon, and until that time she knew to expect a steady stream of callers. Eventually, however, she sent Ned to check on him.
He returned with the news that Mr. Collins was snoring heartily. “Rattling the windowpanes he is,” was the way Ned put it.
Lydia dissolved into giggles. “Poor Lizzy,” she said. “That does not bode well for your married life. Bedchambers at opposite ends of the house.”
None of the others laughed.
Kitty drew near. “Last night, Lizzy,” she whispered. “You remember, when Mr. Darcy tore Mr. Collins’ coat? And because of the rain he was covered with mud? Perhaps Mr. Collins has not come down because, why, he has no clothes to wear.”
“Kitty, “said Elizabeth warningly.
Lydia pounced on this. “Do tell,” she cried. “Don’t keep secrets!”
Elizabeth swallowed a sigh. Could not Lydia moderate her behavior for even one day?
Fortunately a package arrived to divert Lydia’s interest. It was wrapped in brown paper and addressed to Mr. Collins. There was also a flat packet for Kitty. Mrs. Hill disclosed that both had come from Netherfield Park.
Of course Lydia was intrigued. “A love note?” she cried. “From whom? Not,” she added laughingly, “from Mr. Darcy. And what is this? Mr. Bingley has sent nothing for Jane?”
“Mr. Bingley is coming to the funeral, Lydia,” Kitty burst out. “What more do you want?”
Elizabeth took hold of the packet and guided Kitty out of the drawing room. “Upstairs,” she ordered. “Into my bedchamber.”
“But—!” protested Kitty. “You must give it me! It’s from Anne, I just know it.”
“The less anyone hears about Anne, the better,” said Elizabeth, following Kitty up the staircase. “I meant what I said, not one word about last night. Especially to Lydia.”
Kitty looked unhappy. She went into Elizabeth’s room and sat on the bed. “I do not see why,” she said. “It’s not like Mr. Collins killed anyone. And Mr. Wickham ran away.”
Elizabeth closed the door. “Think of Anne’s reputation,” she said. “That mother of hers is sure to hear of it. How would you feel if you were the source of her information?”
“But—!” said Kitty.
“Then too, your part was hardly honorable. Stealing the household money for Anne.”
“I did not steal,” Kitty protested. “I merely...borrowed.” She paused. “All the same, I do hope we shall see Mr. Wickham again. Do you think he will call after the funeral?”
“No,” said Elizabeth. “I expect that he has left Meryton for good.” She passed Kitty the packet and stood by, with her arms folded across her chest.
To Kitty’s wonder, the packet contained four five-pound banknotes. “They’re from Anne, bless her,” Kitty cried. “I knew she would pay me back.”
Elizabeth was not so sure. How had Anne come by twenty pounds?
Kitty was searching through the banknotes. “I was hoping she would send me a note. Although,” Kitty went on, “isn’t it odd? This is not Anne’s handwriting.”
Kitty gathered the banknotes and went out, and Elizabeth wandered to the window. How weary she was of Anne and Mr. Wickham and all the rest. She had been able to explain away the wet clothing, although she doubted that Hill was fooled. William had been no help. He’d stumbled up the stairs to bed with scarcely more than a hasty good night.
Then again, she could hardly blame him. After his angry confrontation with Wickham and the nearness of the lightning strike, he must have been as spent as she.
A shaft of sunlight came through the window glass. It would be a dry afternoon for the funeral.
Elizabeth felt her throat constrict. How she longed to hear her father’s voice, or to trip into his bookroom to ask a question or share a wry observation!
As it was, she was needed downstairs. The last thing she wished to do was converse politely with callers, but she must support her sisters. Weary though she was, she could do that much.
As she was leaving the bedchamber, Elizabeth remembered her book. She could not bear to open one of her father’s books, but perhaps her half-finished novel? She found it in the top drawer of her bureau. Wedged between its pages was a folded letter, well-sealed.
Elizabeth’s heart gave a thump. William’s letter! Eagerly she broke the seals to find three pages in beautiful, precise writing. At once she began to read.
Elizabeth, My Beloved,
Will you take it amiss if I confess that what you hold in your hands is my very first love letter?
Elizabeth could not help but smile, picturing this reserved and private man bashfully writing of his love. Was he blushing as he wrote the words?
Be not alarmed. I do not intend to plague you with an execrable sonnet (which you will be obliged to admire) nor will I burst into song.
She nearly laughed for joy. Today of all days she most needed his sense of humor.
I simply want you to know, my dear, that in these precious weeks you have come to mean more to me than life itself.
Such delightful words. Even when the door banged open and Mary came in, Elizabeth continued to smile.
“It’s Mama, Lizzy,” said Mary in a rush. “She’s asking for you and for Hill, and she does not wish me to read to her or anything!” And then Mary did the unthinkable, she burst into tears.
At once William’s letter was put aside. “Never mind Mama,” Elizabeth said gently. “This has been a trying day for all of us. Aunt Phillips will soon be here. Have you had breakfast?”
“Not yet, but—”
“Go down at once; you’ll feel better after you’ve eaten. And send Hill up with a fresh pot of tea for Mama.” Mary did not need to be told twice.
Sometime later, with Aunt Phillips installed in her mother’s bedchamber, Elizabeth came down to find Jane alone in the drawing room.
“Mr. Collins has come down at last,” Jane said, speaking low, “but I must warn you, Lizzy, he is not feeling well. I heard him complain to Mrs. Hill about breakfast.”
This did not sound like William. “What could be wrong? Did he say?”
Jane looked reluctant. “Something about a lack of variety on the sideboard. I daresay he slept poorly and has a head-ache.”
Elizabeth remembered William’s flaming row with Mr. Wickham and his bruised and battered hands. Of course he was not feeling well.
“I ought to have relieved Mary,” Jane went on, “for you know how Mama is. But I did not like to leave Kitty and Lydia to receive callers.”
“One can see why,” said Elizabeth wryly. Her youngest sisters were nowhere to be seen.
Her gaze dropped to William’s enticing letter. She found a seat on the sofa and drew it out.
“Lizzy!” whispered Jane.
Elizabeth looked up. The drawing room door was open and William stood at the threshold. “Good morning, fair ladies,” he said.
Elizabeth’s brows went up. A formal greeting to be sure, but why did his smile seem forced?
“You look very smart this morning,” she told him, for he wore a new blue coat. In fact, all of his clothing was new. Not quite appropriate for a funeral, but he did look well. “Have you been shopping?”
He wrinkled his nose at her. “Certainly not.”
“Your coat is very fine,” she said.
“Yes,” he said, “it is, rather.” He was now circling the drawing room, taking in the way it had been draped for mourning. Elizabeth heard him click his tongue. “I see that no expense has been spared here.”
Elizabeth was stung into replying. “There is nothing of which you did not approve.”
“Apparently I was in a generous frame of mind.”
“I am sorry you are feeling poorly,” Elizabeth said. “Would you care for coffee? It often helps with the head-ache.”
“If what is made here can even be called that,” he grumbled.
“You are a grumpy bear, aren’t you?” said Elizabeth, and she came over to plant a kiss on his cheek.
He made a sound that was rather like a giggle. “What’s all this?” he said, pointing to the book she held. The pages of his letter were clearly visible.
“A book.”
“No, this.” His fingers ruffled the letter’s pages. Surely he was funning, surely he could see that it was his own! But although his lips smiled, there was no sparkle in his eyes.
“A letter from a gentleman,” Elizabeth teased.
“Which gentleman would that be?”
“Does it matter?” she said playfully.
Apparently it did, for his brows descended. Almost she confessed it to be his own letter, but something held her back. He just stood there, looking at her with unsmiling eyes.
Elizabeth felt her head swim. “If—you will excuse me, please,” she stammered. Her father’s bookroom adjoined the drawing room. Elizabeth walked away from William, opened the door and went in. Just as quickly she closed the door behind her.
The fireplace was cold, but as before, her father’s presence was everywhere. This room had now become her sanctuary—but from what? Surely not from William! Wearily she slipped into her father’s chair and unfolded her letter.
At its essence love is truthful, and I will now disclose a circumstance that I can neither understand nor change. I have made several paltry attempts to speak of it, but how can anyone explain the incomprehensible?
Yes, William had hinted at some mystery. Perhaps he was impatient because she had not yet read this. She continued reading.
I shall do my best to present the facts as I experienced them and must trust you bear with my inadequacies.
Someone was scratching at the bookroom door, probably Lydia. Elizabeth ignored this and read on.
To begin, I must take you back to the ball at Netherfield and the storm...
The door was pushed open, and reluctantly Elizabeth looked up. It was William.
“I—am reading my letter,” she said lamely.
His brows went up. “As I see.” He closed the door behind him and came to stand before the desk. Apparently he was still unhappy. Elizabeth folded the letter and pushed it under the blotter.