Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife

by Linda Berdoll

  Darcy disliked the overwrought sensibilities of young Hinchcliffe in reverse proportion to Kitty and Maria’s regard for that young man. The moment they would swoon, young Hinchcliffe took to the garden with Georgiana (which was quite as outdoors as he chose to go). The two strolled the grounds in deep conversation whilst Darcy frowned and Kitty and Maria sat glumly in the window, watching, united again in defeat.

  That is, they sat there mooning over Mr. Hinchcliffe until they caught sight of a far too familiar figure emerging from a hired coach. Nothing could clear a room faster than the spectre of Mr. Collins.

  *

  It is a seldom-argued truth that events anticipated with dread occasion with much greater dispatch than those that do not. Thus, although Mr. Collins’s visit was expected, Elizabeth had not properly steeled herself by the time he arrived. However, his wife accompanied him, and the chance to see Charlotte again occasioned Mr. Collins a more welcome guest (but just by the merest margin).

  He and Charlotte had travelled to Derbyshire from Kent at a great deal of personal sacrifice. As vicar to Hunsford, Mr. Collins explained to those who remained in the drawing room beyond his introduction (primarily those hitherto unacquainted with him), he rarely had time to draw himself away from his exceedingly important duties to make such a trip. He did so then only as a favour to his very favourite cousin, Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy.

  “I, of course, come under the personal condescension of the Mistress of Rosings Park, Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” Mr. Collins said, then ducking his chin in all due modesty, clarified, “Mr. Darcy’s aunt.”

  Satisfied that all present were aware of his elevated connexions, he bowed ever so dramatically. So deep was his genuflection, a few there were confused as to whether or not to applaud. Lady Millhouse was not among them.

  “I dare say sir, you are a goose, are you not?”

  Obtuseness having been elevated to his own particular level of virtuosity, Mr. Collins bowed again in Lady Millhouse’s direction to acknowledge the kind words.

  Settled in the drawing room with teacups on their knees, Elizabeth engaged Charlotte in conversation. (Mr. Darcy had to take care of urgent business in another part of the house—a far, far distant part of the house.) Thus, Mr. Collins looked about the room at his illustrious company. He saw his decision had been the correct one. There were far more persons of consequence in visit to Pemberley than Rosings Park. Moreover, he was not cousin to Lady Catherine.

  Yes, he was frightfully satisfied with his decision. Had he not allowed that self—satisfaction to inflate as he did, he could have saved himself a great deal of beleaguerment. As it was, he set about ingratiating himself with whomever he could. Mr. Bennet sat nearest, betwixt himself and Lady Millhouse. His uncle, Mr. Bennet, was a gentleman, but as what little he had was already entailed to Mr. Collins by reason of five daughters, the good vicar looked to Lady Millhouse for opportunity to curry favour.

  “Cousin Elizabeth tells me you are a horsewoman of unparalleled proficiency, Lady Millhouse. Nothing suits the constitution better than the fresh air and exercise of a good hunt!”

  However, Lady Millhouse bested even Mr. Bennet when it came to enjoying a truly fallible being.

  She addressed Mr. Collins, “You have come here to hunt, Mr. Collins?”

  Lady Millhouse inquiring of him? Mr. Collins was delighted by her interest, and although he had not, the suggestion from a woman of her import bade it seem much more likely.

  He said, “I am most honoured at the suggestion, Lady Millhouse. I do enjoy nothing more than a hunt. And I flatter myself that there are few who enjoy taking a fence more than myself.” (He had not actually ever taken a fence, but he had been atop a horse which travelled past several.) “However, as a lowly clergyman, my wife and I were forced to travel by hired equipage. Hence, at the moment I am afoot. I fear I must,” he bowed low again, “graciously decline.”

  “Nonsense! There are many horses here. I am certain Mr. Darcy will lend you one. The weather is superb! I must have you hunt!”

  Hence it was decided. Elizabeth, not married to Mr. Collins, and therefore horrified at the possibly fatal consequences of his riding to the hunt, cut a look at Charlotte (who should have been). Mrs. Collins, however, betrayed nothing but benign indifference to the precariousness of her husband’s immediate future.

  Whilst Mr. Collins sat upon the edge of a chair attempting to gain Lady Millhouse’s attention (“Ahem, Lady Millhouse? Lady Millhouse?”) that good lady had turned to Mr. Bennet.

  “And you sir? Do you hunt?”

  Having been reduced to escaping from his wife’s company to that of Mr. Collins, Mr. Bennet was in desperate enough straits to think he would like to do just that. Nothing sounded better than riding out all day with persons other than Mrs. Bennet. Indeed, if Mr. Collins truly mounted a horse, seeing that alone would be worth the trouble.

  He answered, “I hunt, but it has been near a dozen years since I rode to hounds, dear Lady Millhouse. But I think it an excellent notion.”

  “Lady Millhouse. Oh, Lady Millhouse,” Mr. Collins continued to try to regain her attention.

  She shushed him, “Mr. Collins, do not fear, you are not imposing. Pray, he is not, is he, Elizabeth?”

  Lady Millhouse had Mr. Collins by the hand and was out of the room before Elizabeth could stop either of them. Her father sat in his chair chuckling, but stopped when he looked at Charlotte. He observed the same disinterest as did Elizabeth.

  Now seriously fretting, Elizabeth bade her, “He would not truly attempt such a thing, would he, Charlotte?”

  Charlotte smiled a strange little smile, took another sip of tea with all the complacency of someone who saw no reason to be troubled. If Charlotte was not in fear for her husband, then Elizabeth decided it was not a burden that necessarily fell to her, and turned her worry toward her own horsemanship.

  Early the next forenoon, whilst many a guest was still in their morning-gown, Lady Millhouse pounded upon Mr. Collins’s door.

  *

  With much swilling of wine, the field of riders awaited the hounds to be put in. When the hubbub surrounding the pre-hunt toasting reached its apex, Elizabeth and Scimitar eased into their midst. None too boldly, she looked about waiting to be discovered. It took her a moment to descry her husband, for he was not astride Blackjack, but rode a blood-bay named Jupiter. That he eschewed his beloved mount for the best fence horse in the barn announced just how earnestly he took such a hunt.

  He spotted her, and waved a greeting. Forthwith of occasioning that happy beckoning was his simultaneous recognition of Scimitar beneath her and what that betokened. He was quite unamused.

  “Pray, what design do you propose? Where is Lady?”

  “Under a guest who does not intend to jump, one must suppose,” Elizabeth answered firmly.

  He turned about in his saddle searching for Fitzwilliam. When he espied him upon an unfamiliar black gelding, he affixed him with an icy stare. Witnessing it, Fitzwilliam flicked the end of his reins against his palm, pursed his lips, and remained silent. Darcy redirected his ire to his wife. However, his voice remained very calm, in a curious, strained way.

  “Pray, how do you come to ride Scimitar, Elizabeth?”

  Fitzwilliam overcame his quiet to rise to her defence.

  “A surprise for you, Darcy. She has been under instruction every day…”

  However, his voice trailed off, as if not really determined to provoke Darcy further. Despite such consideration, his cousin’s temper was roiling quite magnificently.

  To Elizabeth, Darcy repeated, “Every day, indeed. I am all astonishment.”

  His anger surpassed any pique she might have imagined. His face overspread with a shade of hauteur rivalling the one that she had witnessed that fateful evening in Kent. Eventually, it took on a most peculiar and unpleasant rosy hue.

  “Colonel Fitzwilliam declared me capable of handling Scimitar and that you would not deny me the hunt,” she said sprightly.

&n
bsp; Her attempt at a smile died a dismal death, however, and she felt a bit cowardly about ricocheting the blame back toward Fitzwilliam, the success of which exacerbated her guilt. Darcy returned his glare to Fitzwilliam, who sat very straight in his saddle and drew upon the reins of his horse, edging him away.

  Still holding Fitzwilliam in his eye, Darcy said to Elizabeth, “How frightfully happy I am to know that Colonel Fitzwilliam knows my mind better than I myself. I shall be certain to confer with him in the future and ask him what is my will that day. It will save my mind a great deal of bother.”

  Fitzwilliam looked a bit disconcerted by Darcy’s sarcasm. Elizabeth was shocked by it herself, for she was certain he was, for some reason, angrier at Fitzwilliam’s complicity than at her covertness. The ill-conception of the entire scheme was falling readily apparent when Lady Millhouse turned her horse to join them.

  Heartily, she said to the Master of Pemberley, “Wait until you see her perform, Darcy! You shall be quite astonished. I think in time your sweet wife will ride to covert as well as any gentleman here.”

  Darcy looked at Lady Millhouse without comprehension.

  “You have seen Elizabeth ride?”

  “It was Lady Millhouse who instructed me, for I promised you I would not ride out alone,” Elizabeth told him.

  Flustered, Darcy said, “I see. I see.”

  It took a moment for Elizabeth to understand that Darcy had believed that she had spent her time in Fitzwilliam’s company. Evidently his anger had been whipped into a lather by indiscriminate jealousy. Upon the realisation of his misapprehension, his countenance crimsoned ever more.

  He said, “Very good,” several times more than necessary.

  “Well,” Elizabeth reflected to herself, “when it comes to his wife, the Master of Pemberley is as chary as any other man.”

  She would even have offered him that, had she the opportunity. However, upon the edge of the group a commotion commenced that stole everyone’s attention.

  For, indeed, Lady was under a rider who did not intend to jump.

  The commandeered Mr. Collins was attempting to mount her with the help of one footman on all fours and a second to leg him up. The first attempt was but partially successful, in that Mr. Collins got his leg over, but Lady lowered her head and he slid down her neck, returning to the very spot from whence he had started.

  Mr. Darcy, always impenetrably grave at social indiscretions and yet in high dudgeon over his misapprehension, had further reason to glower.

  Mr. Collins was moderately tall, immoderately heavy, and somewhat ungainly. Hence, he was altogether amazed he had managed such a feat and was still standing. The footman, who had struggled mightily just to get him up, called for reinforcements for another go. Another footman joined him and this double effort almost prevailed. An additional heave actually raised Mr. Collins to saddle level again. However, quite fordone from the first attempt, as he endeavoured to fling his leg over, Mr. Collins’s strength failed and he fell back.

  This might not have been met with the laughter that it did, had not Mr. Collins, in the splayed position that he was, landed atop one footman’s shoulders. Moreover, in an effort to right himself, Mr. Collins frantically grabbed the poor man’s head. Regrettably, this grappling dislodged the footman’s wig and it sagged over his eyes, thus rendering the poor man momentarily sightless. In his blind confusion, the be-Collinsed footman attempted to rid himself of his unwanted passenger by unloading him atop Lady. This, however, was all too successful, for while Mr. Collins was ejected from the footman’s shoulders onto the back of the horse, momentum propelled him beyond.

  Had there not been the good fortune of a portly wine servitor happening by right then, Elizabeth’s premonition on behalf of Mr. Collins neck might have actually been realised before he was able to mount his horse.

  As it was, there was only a great deal of noise and egregiously wounded dignities of the unwigged footman and flattened wine server. Mr. Collins apologised to the footman whilst atop his shoulders and he apologised further to the wine server whilst the man was underneath him. If Lady had not been startled by the clatter of silver and trotted for the barn, he most probably would have offered apology to her as well.

  “Mr. Collins,” Lady Millhouse explained, “you need a shorter horse!”

  Mr. Collins was really not inclined to think he needed a horse at all, but Lady Millhouse seemed so very certain he did, he dared not argue. Moreover, very nearly actually getting atop a horse gave him more confidence than prudence would have allowed.

  At that moment it was announced that Mrs. Bennet had but just discovered her husband’s intent to ride, for her voice could be heard somewhere upon the other side of the toasting riders.

  “Mr. Bennet! Mr. Bennet! You will be killed! Mr. Bennet!”

  Concurrent of Mrs. Bennet’s fears for Mr. Bennet’s life was heard the call that the quarry had been flushed from the gorse. Hounds began to bay and the horses, well-attuned to the hunt, began to jig.

  The excitement was infectious. Elizabeth was certain no heart raced with more anticipation than did hers (in particularly good spirits now that she saw Lady had escaped Mr. Collins and her father had eluded her mother). As they began to canter out, her excitement built. Darcy shadowed her persistently, but could not quite abandon the subject of how she came to ride Scimitar. She explained to his enquiry as best she could (whilst trying not to bounce more than post upon the cantering horse’s back) how Fitzwilliam saw her fall.

  In a bit of a chide, she asked, “How did you think I came to ride Scimitar, Darcy?”

  It came as no surprise that he changed the subject.

  “Let us catch up to the others.”

  He kicked Jupiter into an easy gallop and called to Elizabeth to stay with him and bade her not attempt anything untoward. In other circumstances, Elizabeth might have rebelled. She had, however, gained enough wisdom from her fall not to want to repeat the experience and so she did not promote Scimitar unduly.

  Once the horn sounded, Lady Millhouse forsook any interest in Mr. Collins’s equestrian attempts and left him to find another horse upon his own. Once it commenced, Lord and Lady Millhouse brooked little distraction from the hunt, heedless whether it was their hunt or someone else’s. Lady Millhouse, however, catching sight of Elizabeth, insisted she be more aggressive and show Darcy how well she could ride.

  In encouragement, she called, “Lie upon your oars, Elizabeth! The tide is with you.” (Her father had been a navy man.)

  The day was fine and crisp, spirits were exalted, and Elizabeth took a few low jumps. After his initial contretemps, Darcy manifested every sign of good humour. Indeed, with all due understanding of provocation, he challenged Elizabeth to prove her horsemanship, kicking Jupiter into a run. She countered with a kick of her own and their horses competed. Darcy’s amusement at the idea of her contesting him was evident and she sought to show him up. Of course, even upon Scimitar she was no match, but he allowed her to think it a race for a time before he moved ahead of her.

  Had he not been so smug, he might have been watching Jupiter’s path more closely. But as exacting a bit of a gloat absorbed all his attention, he did not see the fox that had been the instigator of the entire day run directly into his path. Jupiter did, however, and swerved almost in a pivot. Decidedly.

  Darcy, of course, did not swerve. After a momentary midair excursion, he fell hard to the ground. Jupiter, aware that something impolitic had occurred, first ran in -circles and then stopped, shuddering slightly, and hung his head. Elizabeth did not see the horse’s contrition, only Darcy down.

  Tall as Scimitar was, she withstood no hesitation and leapt from him even before he had come to a full halt. Landing upon all fours, she scrambled to her feet and flew to her husband’s side. He had initially sat up, having only wounded his dignity (which was in far greater abundance than that of the unwigged footman and flattened wine server). She fell to her knees, calling his name.

  Well aware he
suffered no injury, he allowed her concern to birth the possibility. As she hovered over him, he lay back and moaned. He portrayed great trauma with impressive melodrama, only to betray himself by a furtive peek to gauge her reaction.

  She smote him on the shoulder with a closed fist.

  “What mockery!” she cried and rose to leave.

  He caught her arm and drew her down to a kiss.

  “If you are to nurse me, begin with my lips.”

  “You, sir, shall be fortunate if I do not deliver you true impairment, for you deserve it!”

  Once he was up and walking about, Elizabeth bade him assure her he was fine by operating all of his limbs, then he legged her back atop Scimitar. She took the horse’s reins, looked down upon him, and made an announcement in feigned hauteur.

  “I understand, Mr. Darcy, that horses tend to go where their riders are looking. Hence, perhaps you should be looking ahead, if that is where you hope to go.”

  She kicked her horse forward. Darcy understood that a line had been drawn in the sand. He leapt onto Jupiter and took off after her, and neither went in the direction of the fox.

  *

  Unbeknownst to them, they had a chance for him still. For as Darcy and Elizabeth set about their own frolic, the fox had been trailed and lost. Scattered about upon futile quest for the vixen, the sound of a second baying of the hounds bade the other hunters converge.

  “Tally-Ho” was sounded.

  All joined a headlong race toward the quarry that was high-tailing it to the far side of the hill. One-and-twenty riders had just gotten up to speed at the crest when they were startled by meeting a horse and rider (both terms could be used quite loosely) flying headlong in the direction whence they had just come.

  The second commotion of the day had the same instigator, but different means. The initial dilemma involved Mr. Collins’s attempt to mount a horse; the subsequent arose upon his attempt to stop one.

  For some helpful person at Pemberley’s stables had located a horse nearer to the ground for Mr. Collins to ride to the hunt. Due to its shorter stature, Mr. Collins presumed his substitute ride was less of a risk to jump as well. However, the pony he rode was a Connemara and that Mr. Collins’s feet hung below its belly did not convince the animal it was impossible to leap a fence with him aboard.