Darcy By Any Other Name

by Laura Hile

  They sat quietly for some time. The rays of the late afternoon sun lit the stained glass windows. Elizabeth studied the colored patterns as they traveled across the walls and pews and floor.

  The sanctuary was cold but not silent. Above the tolling of the bell Elizabeth could hear the organ being opened. She squeezed her eyes shut. By now the mourners would be departing from the house and with them her father’s casket.

  He was leaving his beloved Longbourn for the last time!

  Elizabeth could scarcely breathe. Perhaps her uncle had been right, perhaps this was too much. But there was no turning back now. She stole a glance at Jane. She and Mr. Bingley sat shoulder-to-shoulder, talking somberly.

  Elizabeth’s eyes found the floor. The space beside her on the pew was conspicuously empty. The bells continued to toll, louder now, clanging with a new intensity. Of course. The doors in the narthex were open.

  Presently the organist began to play, and Elizabeth steeled herself for what was to come. After a long while there was a muffled commotion. Down the center aisle came Dr. Bentley and Mr. Collins. Behind them would come the cloaked bearers with the casket.

  There was a movement; she saw Mr. Bingley reach to cover Jane’s black-gloved hands with one of his. Elizabeth’s gaze slid to her own lap, and her fingers laced tightly together. If William would not be here to hold her hand, then she must hold her own.

  Down the aisle came the casket bearers, shouldering their burden, and after them the pall bearers. With solemnity the black velvet pall was laid across the casket. Elizabeth wished to look away but found that she could not.

  Even though he had been lying in state in the parlor, this was different. A cold sensation sent icy tendrils curling round her heart. Soon her beloved father would be laid to rest in the churchyard. Would William Collins, a man her father cordially disliked, be the first one to toss soil into the grave? Would he be the one to say, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust”?

  Behind her the mourners filed in and took their seats. Elizabeth did not turn to see, but she could sense that there were many. Her father was both liked and respected.

  She now discovered that tears were rolling down her cheeks; she dried them with gloved fingers. Her handkerchief was in her reticule, but in her haste to depart it had been left behind.

  Something white appeared at the corner of her vision. A folded lawn handkerchief, held by a black-gloved hand.

  The space beside her was no longer vacant. Startled, Elizabeth looked up to discover Mr. Darcy sitting there. He appeared pale and unwell, but there he was. How mortifying for him to find her like this!

  “Please, Miss Elizabeth. Take it.”

  Was Mr. Darcy whispering? Here in church the man was whispering to her?

  “I am the resurrection and the life,” Dr. Bentley’s voice called out. “He that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.”

  The service was beginning. Wordlessly Elizabeth took the handkerchief and dried her eyes.

  “Blessed—are those who—mourn,” another man called out, with careful intonation. This was William Collins’ pulpit voice, heard for the first time. Elizabeth found that she much preferred Dr. Bentley’s simple declaration. But Mr. Collins was not finished. “For they—shall be—comforted.”

  Oh, she could not bear it, she simply could not! How could she sit and listen to him speak about her father, a man of whom he knew nothing? And in such condescending tones! Her breathing became labored; she struggled to conceal it. Not only from the congregation, but most especially from Mr. Darcy.

  Dr. Bentley bid the mourners welcome and led the first prayer.

  Elizabeth bowed her head, but when the prayer was over her gaze slid sideways. Mr. Darcy held a prayer book and it was open. This was a surprise. She never thought of Mr. Darcy as devout. Perhaps he was merely dutiful. Yes that was it, he was dutiful.

  And yet like Charles Bingley Mr. Darcy had lost both parents. For some reason Elizabeth had the impression that he had been fond of them. But that could not be right. How could she know such an intimate thing?

  “And now,” she heard Dr. Bentley say, “we shall hear from the Reverend Collins, late of Hunsford Parish, who shall be residing among us at Longbourn House.”

  “Dearly—beloved,” said William Collins in unctuous tones.

  Why must he pause so often?

  “We are here today—to commemorate the life—of—of—”

  Why had he stopped? Elizabeth glanced up, caught by his expression of uncertainty. Did he not remember her father’s name?

  “—Mr., er, Bennet. And to commend his soul— to the Almighty, the Maker—of heaven and earth.”

  There was more, much more. What was worse, she could feel Mr. Darcy’s searching gaze. Why was he staring at her? Abruptly she rose to her feet.

  “Miss Elizabeth,” he whispered. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Lizzy?” whispered Jane.

  Elizabeth pushed past Mr. Darcy, knocking the prayer book from his lap. It hit the floor with a bang. She could feel the gaze of everyone present.

  She fled up the side aisle. After a pause Mr. Collins continued with his message, his elongated vowels echoing from the walls. At last Elizabeth reached the narthex, pulled open the heavy door, and stumbled out.

  Now she had done it, the very thing she did not mean to do. She had called attention to herself and made a scene. She pressed her back against the outer wall of the building. It would be dark soon. If only she could stop shivering!

  She heard the door open and close, and she resolutely turned away. This would be William Collins come to scold her.

  “Miss Elizabeth, are you ill? May I see you home?” The voice was gentle, and it belonged to Mr. Darcy.

  Elizabeth was struck speechless. “I—am well, thank you,” she managed to say. Polite, she was honor-bound to be polite. He was only Mr. Darcy, but he deserved that much.

  “You do not look well,” he said. “And you are cold.” He began to strip off his coat. Was he planning to give it to her?

  “Stop!” Elizabeth cried out. “I have shamed my family enough without you adding to it.”

  “But you are cold.” His voice was surprisingly compassionate, and somehow this was familiar. But that could not be right. Mr. Darcy was never kind.

  “I care nothing for the cold,” she nearly shouted. “Nothing, do you understand?” She moved away.

  He followed. “Let me take you home,” he said. “You should not remain out here.”

  “Nor should I be seen in your carriage! Please, I must go back inside. He will have finished by now.”

  “He?”

  There was a pause. How could Elizabeth answer? She closed her lips and turned away.

  “Do you mean Mr. Collins?”

  There was an edge to Mr. Darcy’s voice now, and Elizabeth bit back a smile. She’d been mistaken about his newfound compassion. He was now his usual self.

  “Of—course not,” she told him. This was a lie, but she could not bear to say the truth.

  “If you will kindly excuse me?” Elizabeth turned on her heel and pulled open the church door.

  This time Mr. Darcy did not follow. Just before the door swung shut she thought she heard a sigh.

  44 My Reasons I’ll Own

  “Your cigars, sir,” said Holdsworth. With precision he placed the humidor at the corner of the bureau.

  Darcy turned sharply in his chair; the sudden movement made his head swim. “So early in the day?”

  Holdsworth hesitated. “Just so, sir,” he said and went out.

  Darcy compressed his lips. Collins and his smoking habit. What else had the man managed to do, besides drink the wine cellar dry? Within a short time, the man had alienated almost every member of Bingley’s staff.

  And then there were the friends Darcy had made as Collins. Last night he took dinner in his rooms, prompting a visit from Fleming. The man’s examination was precise and thorough, and he’d taken his leave with a tight, polite smile.
This from a man who had been his friend!

  Collins’ friend, Darcy reminded himself. Gilbert Fleming was Collins’ friend, not his.

  Darcy returned to his letter, a message of condolence for Mrs. Bennet. He would deliver it later, after he redeemed Kitty’s necklace.

  Presently he pushed back his chair and stretched his stiff limbs. If only his mind were not alive with scenes from Longbourn! Kitty’s wan face and Mary’s solemn grief; Lydia’s noise and Jane’s gentle patience. And Elizabeth? Yes, Elizabeth. His one and only love.

  What pain was in her eyes last night! How he longed to enfold her in his arms and protect her! But irritation was present in those eyes as well. What had he done to enrage her? Why did she treat him with coldness? Hadn’t she read his letter?

  Of course she had, but how could he be certain? He could scarcely ask such a thing at her father’s funeral. For if she had not read it, how could he confess that he was Collins?

  Or rather, that he had been Collins.

  If, on the other hand, she had read it, there were two possibilities. Either she did not believe him, or else she had decided to wash her hands of him.

  The latter was all too likely.

  The somber reception following the funeral he had avoided. He knew what those were like. Elizabeth was already fatigued, and he did not wish to add to her discomfort.

  As for the immediate future, God only knew what Collins would do. It was too much to hope that he would allow a decent interval before taking possession of Longbourn. Would he make good his threat to send his cousins away?

  If this were so, would Elizabeth feel obliged to marry the man? The woman Darcy knew would never do this. But Elizabeth was now vulnerable in ways she had never been before.

  Just as he’d been vulnerable as Collins.

  Darcy’s eyes found the floor. Mrs. Bennet’s five thousand pounds, invested at four percent, would bring an income of two hundred a year. How would so little support Mrs. Bennet and her daughters?

  There was a rattle of the door latch, and before Darcy could respond Caroline Bingley came in. Behind her was a footman with a loaded tray.

  “Good day, Mr. Darcy,” she called, pushing the door fully open. “Time for our morning tea!”

  Darcy glanced at the clock and then at Miss Bingley. Tea in his bedchamber? He politely rose to his feet, hating the way even mild exertion made his head throb. “Rather early, is it not?”

  “But such is our custom,” she said smoothly. “Do you not recall?”

  Collins again. What more had the man done?

  From the corner Miss Bingley boldly brought forward a dumb-waiter. Darcy gave a start. What was that doing here?

  “Do sit down,” she said. “Mr. Fleming tells us you are very much better. He says you are like your former self.”

  What did Fleming know about his former self? And what was behind Miss Bingley’s coy smile?

  “I have brought the latest London papers for your perusal,” she added.

  “Thank you,” said Darcy. “But I prefer to read them in the library.” In truth, he did not feel up to reading anything. If only he could shake this cursed weakness!

  He saw Miss Bingley hesitate. “What you need,” she said brightly, “is a nice cup of tea.” She selected a cup and saucer. “Yes, a nice cup of tea to settle your stomach.”

  Did she think him a child? With growing annoyance Darcy watched her pour out. “Less milk, please,” he said. “And no sugar.”

  Miss Bingley gave a forced laugh. “Now, now, Mr. Darcy,” she said. “As if I do not know how you take your tea these days.”

  Darcy narrowed his eyes. “No sugar, please,” he repeated.

  Her response was to shake out a napkin and spread it on his lap. “Now then,” she said, hovering over him like a mother hen. “Shall we count the lumps together? One-two-three…”

  Darcy leaned forward and took hold of the cup. “Thank you,” he said. “We’ll save the sugar lumps for the horses, shall we?”

  Confound it, now he was speaking with a nursery voice!

  Caroline Bingley dimpled. “You cannot fool me. I know how you dislike horses.”

  She turned to the footman. “If you will just bring in the other things?” she said. “That will be all.”

  Caroline Bingley resumed smiling in a way that Darcy did not trust. “It is time for some serious study, Mr. Darcy,” she said. “Colonel Fitzwilliam will soon return, and he shall bring with him a man who will ask you questions.”

  A memory stirred. Ah, yes. Fitz and his medical man from the asylum.

  The footman returned and deposited a stack of books beside Miss Bingley. “Have no fear,” she added brightly. “I shall be your tutor.”

  “Surely you are jesting. How can you be of help?”

  “This,” said Miss Bingley, opening a book, “is the Baronetage. Will you tell me, please, your cousin’s Christian name?” She began turning pages.

  “My cousin Fitzwilliam?” said Darcy. “Hudson.”

  Startled, Miss Bingley looked up. “What—did you say?”

  “His name is Hudson,” said Darcy. “Hudson Richard Julian Fitzwilliam, after his mother’s father and our great-grandfather. Naturally you will have no occasion to refer to him in this manner, unless you wish to see him lose his temper. The family refers to him as Fitz.”

  It took some time for Miss Bingley to locate the listing for his uncle and the names of his sons. “Very well,” she said uncertainly. “Let us go on. What are your parents’ names?”

  Darcy told her.

  “And your sister’s name?”

  “Shall we dispense with all this?” said Darcy. “I daresay the examiner will ask questions that are more to the purpose.”

  “I—have no idea what you mean,” said Miss Bingley.

  “My housekeeper is Mrs. Reynolds; my steward is Bellowes.” Darcy counted off the names on his fingers. “The cook—let me see, is it François? No, that was the other one. It’s Henri. Henri Bernard. The farm manager is Gibbs. The farrier is Percy; the gamekeeper is Ewan. The head parlor maid—”

  “Good gracious, how am I to verify these?”

  Darcy felt his lips twist into a smirk. “You’ll just have to trust me,” he said. “But my cousin will know the answers.”

  With reluctance Miss Bingley closed the book. “Lady Catherine has postponed her journey in order to be present at the examination.”

  “I expect she will have questions of her own. I am not afraid of her.”

  Miss Bingley looked worried. “I should warn you,” she said, “that Lady Catherine intends to compel you to return with her to Rosings Park.”

  “As her prisoner? I’ll see that.”

  Somewhere a clock began to chime. Ignoring his weakness, Darcy rose to his feet. “If you will excuse me,” he told her, “I must now depart for Meryton. Thank you for the tea.”

  “Meryton? What can you want there?”

  Darcy opened a drawer and removed a pair of gloves. “A moneylender by the name of McCurdy,” he said. He went into the dressing room and selected a hat and an overcoat.

  Miss Bingley did not disappoint. “Moneylender?” she demanded, as soon as he returned. “What can you want with a moneylender?”

  Her shrill tone made his head hurt.

  Darcy took his letter, closed the writing desk and locked it. “After that,” he said, “I intend to call at Longbourn House.”

  “Longbourn House!” she cried. “You have no business at Longbourn House.”

  “Ah, but I think I do.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “With Miss Elizabeth Bennet?”

  “Now that you mention it, yes,” replied Darcy, and he smiled a little. The mention of Bellowes’ name had reminded him of something.

  “My main objective is to see William Collins,” he said. “Do apologize to my cousin if he arrives this afternoon. I do not wish to miss the interrogation.”

  g

  Elizabeth followed Mrs. Hill into the drawing room. “
Letter, do you say?” said Hill. “I haven’t seen a letter.” She began sorting through the fashion periodicals piled on one of the tables. “Where did you see it last?”

  “I was reading it in Father’s bookroom,” Elizabeth explained. “And then—something happened. Callers came, I think. I recall sliding it under the blotter on the desk.” She hesitated. “No, I did that before Mr. Collins came in.”

  “Mr. Collins.” Hill gave an unhappy huff. “You’d best ask him yourself. He’s in there now, settling in, so he says. I don’t call it that.”

  “Where is Will—er, Mr. Collins?”

  “In your father’s bookroom, turning things topsy-turvy. If your letter is there, it will be a job of work to find it.” Hill went out, leaving Elizabeth frowning after her.

  “If my letter is there,” she repeated. She hoped it was not. For some reason she did not like to think of Mr. Collins finding it. Which was nonsense, for he had written it in the first place.

  It was that mood of his. She went to the bookroom door and opened it. “William?” she said softly.

  At once she saw that the position of the desk was changed. Moreover, her father’s framed prints and paintings had been taken from the walls and were now stacked against a chair. There was a scuffling noise.

  “William,” she said, smiling in spite of herself. “Why are you on the floor?”

  His head appeared from beneath her father’s desk. “Yes? What is it?” He sounded unhappy.

  “I—see that you are settling in.”

  He scrambled to his feet. “Speaking of which, I shall have something to say to Mrs. Hill about the condition of this room. The amount of dust beneath the desk is a scandal.” He began brushing at his breeches. “We pay these people to clean.”

  “Hill was occupied with Father’s care,” Elizabeth protested, “as well as with the arrangements for the—funeral.”

  “A convenient excuse.”

  “Also, Father disliked being disturbed. He thought dust to be—” Elizabeth found it difficult to continue. How she could picture her father saying that dust was healthful! “To be—of no consequence. Sarah is good about keeping the hearth tidy,” she added.

  “Slipshod housekeeping,” said Mr. Collins, “is a thing I shall not tolerate.”