Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites (37 page)

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 Mill- house 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 head-long 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, 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.

By the time he met the field, his pony was running full out, and Mr. Collins had abandoned his reins. Indeed, they flapped about behind him whilst he clung to the pommel of the saddle. The pony’s strides were quick, which did not suppose them
smooth to a rider who had never actually acquainted his posterior to a post. Thus, Mr. Collins flailed about quite impressively. It was apparent that a miscue had occurred when he and his mount passed the pack of hounds upon the other side of the hill. Evidently, the high-pitched squeal which Mr. Collins was emitting excited the dogs off the trail of the fox and onto him and his pony.

Because the dogs were plunging forth in the opposite direction behind Mr. Collins, the riders stopped in stunned disbelief, each taking his own counsel upon what to do next. Some commenced to follow the hounds after Mr. Collins; some held their ground. Eventually all came to an astonished halt, uncertain they believed their own eyes. For the Connemara pony, quite in a mind of its own (for lack of any other) took a wide turn, rounding the group, and headed back the other way with Mr. Collins still floundering atop him.

He disappeared back over the crest of the same hill whence he first came, the forty dogs baying upon his trail. As Mr. Collins’s shrieks echoed off into the distance, each rider decided independently, yet synchronously, to follow.

They rode but a quarter of a mile before they came upon a fearful sight. A thorny thicket was warily being eyed by two-score silent hounds. Some sat looking into the brush; others shambled about in tongue-hanging exhaustion. The Connemara pony stood quivering, its saddle hanging ominously to one side. As the riders approached the thicket, the master of the hounds and the huntsman met them. All stopped in an informal semi-circle, silently peering into the tangled copse.

In a moment, Fitzwilliam and Mr. Bennet (it was his nephew after all) urged their horses forward a few feet, and then stepped down. Except for a slight rustling breeze and the heaving breaths of the winded animals, all was quiet. Both men looked first at the other, then to the bush. Thereupon, Mr. Bennet reached out, gingerly drew back a branch, and peered into the thick gorse.

There was movement. Upon hearing some unintelligible sound, the dogs began to bay again. Immediately, two more men jumped down in aid. The thorny branches were pulled back and Mr. Collins was removed scratched and gibbering from the thicket. The field stood in murmuring relief that he had not been killed, only rendered witless (no one saw that as a serious impediment for him).

It was only when Fitzwilliam investigated him for injuries that he found the point of his landing congruous with the highly sought fox (much more flattened than was the wine server). And fortune allowed Mr. Collins to leave the course virtually buggered, but senseless of it.