Mr. Darcy Came to Dinner

by Jack Caldwell

  Mr. Jones shrugged. “As you wish. Will someone show me the way?” Miss Bennet volunteered to do the service, and the two left.

  Darcy turned to Mr. Hill. “I believe you are called Hill. Thank you for retrieving the apothecary. Please be so kind as to rush to Netherfield and inform my man, Bartholomew, what has befallen me. He is to send an express to London for my physician, Mr. Macmillan. Do you have that name, man? Good. Have Bartholomew bring my necessities as quickly as may be. Off with you.”

  Mr. Hill nodded and took to his heels without so much as a glance at Mr. Bennet. It was then Darcy remembered that Mr. Bennet was still in the room.

  “My apologies, sir. I should have asked for your leave. I meant no offense.”

  “None taken, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet quipped. “I am certain that a man of your station is used to having your own way.”

  Darcy turned his attentions to Miss Elizabeth. If Mr. Bennet was going to be difficult, he would waste no more time on him. Instead, he would entertain himself with a study of the lady’s fine eyes, which were gazing at him in a rather peculiar and fascinating manner.

  A young maid entered through another door. “Mr. Bennet, Mrs. Hill, the cook’s compliments, an’ she says the dinner’s ready.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Bennet. “I do not suppose you can join us, Mr. Darcy.”

  Apparently, this was too much for Miss Elizabeth. “Father!”

  “What? Forgive me for stating the obvious, but I do not think Mr. Darcy will be moving from my couch.”

  “He is quite right, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy allowed. “Thanks to this injury, I must remain.” Darcy’s only reason for speaking up was to give relief to the dismay written clearly across Miss Elizabeth’s lovely face. As for Mr. Bennet, he could go to the devil.

  Mrs. Hill turned to Darcy. “Are you hungry at all, sir? Stomach’s not too upset? ’Tis usual in these cases.”

  Darcy thought about that. “I think I could manage something.”

  “Cook’s white soup is very good. How’s ’bout a wee bit of chicken in it? Does that sound tempting?”

  “Perhaps with bread and wine?”

  “Well-watered wine, sir,” said Mr. Jones as he reentered the room with Bingley close at his heels. “I can report that Miss Bingley is well and resting. She suffered no injury as a result of her loss of consciousness.”

  Bingley was all apologies. “You know how queasy Caroline gets at the sight of blood, Darcy. How is your leg?”

  “That is for Mr. Jones to determine. Please, do not forgo your dinner on my account. Go on and eat.” He waved his hand imperiously.

  “If you say so,” said Bingley dubiously. He extended his arm to Miss Elizabeth. “Shall we?”

  Miss Elizabeth took Bingley’s arm, gave Darcy one more unreadable look, and left the room. Meanwhile, Mr. Bennet, erstwhile master of Longbourn, stood silent — annoyed and impotent. Finally, he nodded at his guest and followed.

  Darcy felt no pity for the man. If he chose to be only an observer in life rather than a participant, then Darcy would leave him to stew in his own juices.

  Mrs. Hill gestured at the young maid. “I must see to dinner service, Mr. Darcy. But here’s Sally, and her responsibility is your comfort.” To Sally, she continued, “Mind none of your other duties, girl, until you hear my say-so.”

  “Aye, ma’am.” The girl beheld her charge with wide, fearful eyes. Darcy, half in his cups from the brandy, could only shake his head.

  “Never mind, Mrs. Hill. I am comforted that I am in the good hands of Mr. Jones and Sally.” Darcy did not really believe it, but it was in his character to treat servants kindly. “I thank you for your attentions, but leave Mr. Jones to his work.” He smiled at the apothecary. “I am at your disposal, sir!”

  * * *

  Elizabeth found Jane and Mr. Hurst at the foot of the stairs, Mrs. Hurst remaining above with her sister. Before Elizabeth could have more than a word with Jane, Mr. Bennet bade them into the dining room in a brusque manner. An anxious Mrs. Bennet awaited them. Now that the true crisis was past, she gave free rein to her nerves.

  The party that took seats about the table was not a happy one. Mrs. Bennet, when not predicting that the dinner was ruined, expressed her fears that Mr. Darcy, should he not die, would seek redress through the courts, and the Bennets would certainly end their days in the poorhouse. Mr. Bennet said little; he only glowered into his soup. Jane discussed her concerns over Miss Bingley’s health with the lady’s brothers. A far-from-chastised Mr. Collins held court, pontificating. The subject of his monologue was his most respected patroness — how she must suffer should she know of her dear nephew’s misfortune, how attached she was to her family and village, and how astute the grand dame’s opinions. This extraordinary speech held small attention about the table, save to fuel the ill-bred amusement of Kitty and Lydia. Even Mary, who had shown some interest in the parson, simply sat, bored with the whole exercise. The three empty seats were a glaring reminder of those without.

  And as for Elizabeth? Hers was a mind amazed at its own discomposure. She suffered from culpability, concern, and confusion.

  Certainly blame for this entire incident could be fairly laid at her door. Hers were the hands that held Cassandra. Hers was the mind that was allowed to partake in selfish introspection and, therefore, took no heed of her surroundings. Oh, if she had but remained in the garden! Now Miss Bingley was shut up in the bedroom she shared with Jane, and Mr. Darcy was ensconced on the couch in the sitting room.

  Elizabeth disliked Mr. Darcy — disliked him exceedingly — but she wished no harm to anyone, even such an unpleasant man. The accident caused a jolt of pain in Elizabeth’s breast of such intensity that she was astonished. Seeing the tall, handsome gentleman writhing on the ground in agony was the great shock of her young life. She told herself it was her Christian upbringing that gave her the ability to pity Mr. Darcy.

  The episode in the sitting room was most disturbing. Her father she knew to be a sardonic observer of the human condition, always ready to laugh at the follies of others. Before today, she thought this wit was a sign of his intelligence. But his performance with the injured Mr. Darcy seemed that of a confirmed misanthrope. Why had she not seen this before?

  Elizabeth could not help but notice Mr. Darcy’s commanding personality. Injured, prone on a couch, he had taken full control of the room with a few words and a glare, while her father did little more than chuckle or sulk. Certainly, Mr. Darcy was wrong to send Hill to Netherfield without her father’s leave, but in all honesty, that request should have been unnecessary. Mr. Bennet should have directly offered his people’s assistance out of simple courtesy. Elizabeth toyed with the concept that Mr. Darcy, for all his other faults, was a man of action and cool thinking, while her father, jealous of his peace of mind, was not.

  She could hardly believe she was giving more than a moment’s attention to the matter, but she could not turn from the introspection. What did Mr. Darcy think of her? Did the man hold her accountable for his injury? Perhaps he did; his dark scrutiny was as intense as it had been at Netherfield during Jane’s late illness when he looked to find fault with her. However, he graciously took the responsibility for his fall onto himself. Was this simply due to the strict training of a proud gentleman, or was there something else — and if so, what?

  The comment about his tolerable pain — Elizabeth could almost believe Mr. Darcy was making a joke at his own expense, but she dismissed the thought instantly. Everyone knew Mr. Darcy had no sense of humor. She wondered if the man knew how funny — and just — was his set-down of Mr. Collins.

  This brought to mind another mystery. When Mr. Darcy heard that Miss Bingley had been left unattended, he was almost beside himself. What could it mean? In spite of all evidence to the contrary, was Mr. Darcy favorably disposed toward Miss Bingley?

  Elizabeth considered what she knew. Mr. Collins had reported that Mr. Darcy was the betrothed of Lady Catherine’s daughter, and Mr. Darcy was not h
appy that he had announced such news. Perhaps there was a clandestine attachment between Mr. Darcy and Miss Bingley! That could account for Mr. Darcy’s keeping his engagement secret. Elizabeth had thought Mr. Darcy had treated Miss Bingley with barely disguised disdain while she was in residence at Netherfield. Could that be a clever performance to deceive onlookers? Did the two laugh together behind closed doors at the people of Hertfordshire? If so, Mr. Darcy was a man without scruples.

  Then, Elizabeth remembered how deferential Mr. Darcy had been with Mrs. Hill. Would a man without scruples treat another man’s servant with such respect? Confusing, confusing man! She would think of him no more.

  The soup was taken away, and just as the party began to partake of the next course, Mr. Jones came into the room. Mr. Bennet immediately invited the apothecary to join them to dine. This earned a comment from Mr. Collins about inappropriate condescension of a country squire — what was perhaps acceptable in Hertfordshire would not be tolerated in Kent. Mr. Bennet allowed this insult to pass without comment, and Mr. Jones took his seat — in Mr. Darcy’s chair, Elizabeth noticed.

  With quiet efficiency, a plate appeared before the gentleman while he gave his report. “As you know, Miss Bingley is well. She suffered no ill effects from her swoon. I understand she dines upstairs with her sister?” Assured that his information was correct, Mr. Jones continued. “I advised her to rest once she returns to Netherfield this evening. As for Mr. Darcy, he was not as fortunate. I suspect a fracture of the lower leg, the fibula, to be exact. The discoloration reveals the location of the injury, you see. Very painful, I am sorry to say.”

  “Oh, Mr. Jones, how dreadful!” Mrs. Bennet cried. “Shall you be able to save the leg?”

  The apothecary was astonished. “Save it? Oh, most certainly, Mrs. Bennet! There are two bones in the lower leg, you see, and the fibula is the minor of the two. I have slapped a splint on it, and given quiet rest, the gentleman shall be as right as rain in a couple of months. Madam, this chicken is excellent!”

  “I am glad to hear that the gentleman is on the road to recovery,” said Mr. Bennet. “Mr. Bingley, would your carriage be sufficient to transport your friend back to Netherfield, or shall we use one of my wagons?”

  “Transport?” cried the apothecary. “Oh, no, Mr. Bennet! The patient cannot be moved.” This pronouncement was like a thunderbolt in the room.

  “What? What do you mean, he cannot be moved? Certainly you are not saying he must remain here!” returned Mr. Bennet.

  “We cannot take any chances. Moving Mr. Darcy may exacerbate the injury; the bone may shift, endangering the leg! No, Mr. Darcy certainly cannot be moved. It is unthinkable.”

  “Oh, my goodness, my nerves!” Mrs. Bennet placed a hand on her heart. “I . . . I must prepare a room for — ”

  “Madam,” Mr. Jones cut in, “Mr. Darcy must not be moved at all, even upstairs. He must stay where he is.”

  “In my parlor?” the good lady cried. The apothecary nodded. Mrs. Bennet bristled. “I never heard of such a thing!”

  “Mama, at least Mr. Darcy will be comfortable. It is the warmest room in the house, you always said,” offered Jane.

  “True, very true,” Mrs. Bennet reluctantly agreed.

  “Warmth is important in recovery,” Mr. Jones pointed out. “Would someone please pass the potatoes?”

  “This is stuff and nonsense!” Mr. Bennet proclaimed. “Mr. Darcy is not going to spend two months in my parlor!”

  “Of course not,” said the apothecary patiently. “He should be able to tolerate a carriage ride in four weeks or so — no longer than six weeks, certainly.”

  “F-four to six weeks!” cried Mr. Bennet.

  “I agree with you, dear cousin. This humble abode, which sadly will one day decline to my ownership, is not fine enough for a relation of my generous patroness. Other arrangements must be made,” Mr. Collins interjected.

  “If you wish to endanger Mr. Darcy’s leg and, therefore, his life,” warned Mr. Jones, “then by all means move him. I will take no responsibility for it.”

  “Oh, Mr. Bennet! Think of Mr. Darcy’s relations! They will have us transported to Australia!”

  “Mama, please!” cried Elizabeth. “No one is going to Australia! Mr. Jones, are you quite satisfied with your diagnosis?”

  “I am. As I told his valet, who arrived during my examination, Mr. Darcy should be kept quiet and warm for the next — ”

  The gentleman was interrupted by an extraordinary sound from without:

  “Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies,

  Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain;

  For we’ve received orders for to sail for ole England,

  But we hope in a short time to see you again!”

  The table as one started at the singing — a loud baritone, slightly slurred. Everyone rose to their feet, the sound of chairs being moved all but drowned out the singing, and dashed to the sitting room, where upon opening door, they beheld Mr. Darcy, a glass of brandy in his hand bellowing:

  “We will rant and we’ll roar like true British sailors,

  We’ll rant and we’ll roar all on the salt sea!

  Until we strike soundings in the channel of ole England;

  From Ushant to Scilly is thirty-five leagues!”

  The gentleman took notice of his impromptu audience and called out to a tall, thin, white-haired man in the room, “Ah, Bartholomew, we have guests! Come in, come in!”

  “I gave him laudanum,” said Mr. Jones in sotto voce. “One cannot predict how the patient will react, especially in combination with sprits.”

  Shockingly, Mr. Darcy was laughing! “Come, Bingley, do not stand about in that stupid manner — fill a glass! We must sing to the ladies! I know you will not decline a glass, Hurst! Mr. Bennet, your brandy might be only adequate, but at least it is plentiful. Pour for us all, will you? Mr. Jones, too! We must sing! Sing to your good wife and fair daughters!

  “Now let ev’ry man drink off his full bumper,

  And let ev’ry man drink off his full glass;

  We’ll drink and be jolly and drown melancholy,

  And here’s to the health of each true-hearted lass!”

  Mr. Darcy drained his glass before returning to the refrain. “We will rant and we’ll roar like true British sailors . . . ” Meanwhile, the other gentlemen stood in various stages of amazement, joined by most of the ladies. Kitty and Lydia were almost doubled over in laughter.

  Once Mr. Darcy had finished his song, the man referred to as Bartholomew removed the glass. “Well done, sir,” he said in the dry, unemotional voice of a senior servant of a rich man. “It is time to retire.”

  “Is it?” cried Mr. Darcy.

  “Yes, sir. There is much to do tomorrow. You informed me to make certain that you get your rest.”

  “Did I? Well then, I suppose I must say good night to my friends.” Mr. Darcy turned to the door. “Good night, all!”

  Bartholomew crossed over to the open door, his long, lanky, almost frail body blocking the view of the room to the observers without. Without preamble, he addressed the apothecary, his voice dripping with condescension. “Are there any other instructions for tonight, Mr. Jones?” He looked down the long, narrow beak of a nose, not for a moment hiding his disdain, proving the maxim there was no snob like the personal valet of a member of the Quality.

  Mr. Jones only suggested a very small amount of laudanum if the patient had any difficulty sleeping. The valet gave the man a hard look. “Be aware, sir, that I have sent an express to Mr. Darcy’s personal physician, the distinguished Mr. Macmillan of Park Place. He will most certainly be here in the morning.”

  Instead of taking insult at the servant’s pronouncement, Mr. Jones seemed delighted. “Mr. Macmillan, you say? I have heard of the gentleman! Very high up in the Academy! I should be pleased to hear his diagnosis!” He turned to Mr. Bennet. “I shall stop by in the morning, then.” He turned back to Bartholomew. “What time did you say he
would be here?”

  “I expect him no later than ten o’clock. We will not wait for you.” Bartholomew then turned to Mrs. Bennet. “I take it you are Mrs. Bennet? The girl, Sally, is adequate. Please see that she is here first thing tomorrow to see to Mr. Darcy’s breakfast.”

  Mrs. Bennet was flustered. “Of . . . of course. I shall tell Mrs. Hill and have her arrange quarters for you.”

  “That will not be necessary, madam,” the valet said with only the barest civility. “I shall make do with an armchair in this room, but you may have a couple of blankets brought by. The rest of you, I would ask that you remain as quiet as possible for my master’s sake.”

  Mr. Bennet finally roused himself to respond to the outrageous servant. “Now, see here! I am Mr. Bennet, and Longbourn is my house. Who are you to make such demands of my family?”

  Bartholomew narrowed his eyes as he stared, not at Mr. Bennet’s face but at his cravat. “It has been a long time since you visited Town, I see. That knot has been out of fashion for ten years.” Mr. Bennet blanched, but the valet continued. “This may be your house, sir, but this room is reserved for the use and care of my master. I have served the Darcy family all my life, father and son both, and I will have no one trouble Mr. Darcy whilst he is incapacitated. You can have no business here. Therefore, I wish you all a good night.”

  With that, he closed the door in the crowd’s collective faces. The assembled looked at each other in astonishment.

  Mr. Bingley shrugged. “My apologies, Mr. Bennet. Bartholomew is somewhat . . . protective of Darcy, I have learned through experience.”

  “Too right there,” agreed Mr. Hurst, his first words of the evening save a couple of grunts.

  Mrs. Bennet, white with anxiety, wrung her hands. “Well, let us return to dinner before it is spoiled!” She spun on one heel and made for the dining room, the others in her wake.

  Two lingered — her husband and second daughter — who stared at the closed door incredulously. Then, with a sigh, Mr. Bennet put his head down and followed the others.