Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites (72 page)

“No,” he said, “Not from battle, just in practise for battle.”

“But yer been to battle?”

Fitzwilliam nodded.

Swept thither by the throes instituted of such manly camaraderie, John said, conspiratorially, “Aye ’ear ladies swoon at such scars! The worse the better. Proves you a fine man wi’ a blade!”

“I have heard such things,” Fitzwilliam allowed, “but all I can see is that a scar announces at least one man bested your defences.”

John did not actually register this aside, for his attention had wandered from the scar to the weapon which might inflict such. Indeed, the sabre that hung from the colonel’s waist was long and curved.

Seeing his awe-struck countenance, Fitzwilliam inquired rather disingenuously, “Do you care to take it in your hand?”

Jubilantly, John jumped down. With a slithering swoosh, Fitzwilliam drew the sword from its scabbard, then tossed it hilt up in John’s direction. Seeing the glinting metal barrelling toward his head, John instinctively reached out, as much to deflect as to catch it. Nevertheless, catch it he did.

Flicking it several times, he appreciated its weight and battle-marred pommel. Thereupon, he jousted the air, puncturing any number of Napoleon’s
Vieille Garde.
Giddily, he looked from the sword to Fitzwilliam, who sat yet upon the fence, to see if the colonel demanded it back (he not exactly ready, but at least willing to return him his sword). His gaze settled behind the colonel though, upon Georgiana who was watching from the vantage above them.

He was mortified to be caught in such flagrant play and meekly relinquished Fitzwilliam his weapon with a genuflecting duck of his head. Taking notice of the young man’s obvious alteration in demeanour, Fitzwilliam turned to see what incited such a reversal. He almost laughed, then caught himself, perchance having been the victim of boyish humiliation himself at one time.

The innocent provocateur of this discombobulation walked down the incline to the fence and spoke to Fitzwilliam. John busied himself resaddling Scimitar, but he heard Georgiana tell the colonel she was to repair to London.

In less than a quarter-hour, the colonel was upon his way and Georgiana returned to the house. In that good time, John’s body returned to routine, but his thoughts returned to the mundane quite unwillingly. As he went methodically about his chores, he hummed when he thought about the colonel, the colonel’s horse, the colonel’s sword, and most of all, the colonel’s impressive scar. So enthralled was he in all that was the colonel’s, it took him a time before his thoughts rambled back to his meal at Mrs. Hardin’s table.

Remembering then just what she had said, his humming stopped, as did his chores. The bucket he held was emptied and he upended it for an impromptu seat. It was better to ponder from a sitting position, for one could prop one’s chin upon one’s palm in thoughtful contemplation. From thence, he recollected what Mrs. Hardin had said and replayed it carefully in his mind.

Undoubtedly, the contemptible scoundrel of whom she spoke was Mr. Darcy. There could be little doubt. First John sneered at the very thought, then became quite wretched upon Mrs. Darcy’s behalf. Would that Mr. Darcy were of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s character, for Mrs. Darcy deserved better. Certainly, Colonel Fitzwilliam would never compromise a young woman. Mr. Darcy was an unrepentant debaucher.

Fitzwilliam was almost as rich as Mr. Darcy was, but he was not a defiler of virgins. He was a hero. Or certainly heroic. He was not above talking to a groom. He did not father children then abandon them. Colonel Fitzwilliam wore a red uniform and cape.

Colonel Fitzwilliam had a truly fine scar upon his cheek.

B
etimes it did not cross Mr. Darcy’s mind to think of John Christie’s paternity. Those occasions, unfortunately, were infrequent and fleeting. Not surprisingly, this preoccupation led to an obvious distancing of his attention.

If he thought his inattention was unheeded, he was mistaken. For it was obvious to his wife. Moreover, Elizabeth laboured under the misapprehension that his distraction was indicative of a misgiving upon her behalf. She had heretofore been persuaded that his foremost fear was for her to bear another child. This supposition was abandoned. In its place, she instituted an alternate presumption. She became quite convinced he thereupon feared she would not.

For they were no longer newlyweds. She was expected, demanded—yes, required to be with child (not only be with child but said baby must be male). And did she ever escape this ever-increasing worry, she was reminded of it twice monthly. Once, when her courses came and second, when her mother’s post arrived inquiring had she yet conceived (indeed, her mother’s letters arrived with more regularity than did her menses).

As time went on, that she had not was glaringly obvious, for children abounded. In addition to Jane’s ever-increasing family (she was expecting yet again), Lydia also had begat three boys, howbeit Wickham seemed to be in her company only long enough to impregnate her.

Even Charlotte Collins had become the semi-proud mother of a toddler. Of course, in order to have produced Chauncey Charlemagne Collins, Charlotte had to suffer the unenviable task of engaging her husband in conjugal embrace. At least once. (No one actually made a retching sound at the idea of such a union, but several made audible gasps of abhorrence.) This sacrificial act of generation had resulted in a child whose eyes insistently gazed independently of each other and, in his third year, had only a wisp of hair and not yet produced any teeth. However, that was overlooked as politely and solicitously as possible. For after all, regardless of his shortcomings, he had a male appendage.

It had been just two springs previous when in great excitation, Jane brought Lady Lucas’ letter proclaiming that unceremonious birth. Apparently, Charlotte was brought to the straw quite unexpectedly. Jane related the details to Elizabeth.

“Her mother was all astonishment and thought Charlotte delivered so hastily owing to a fright.”

“I suppose she happened unawares to look upon her husband,” Elizabeth concluded.

Even kind Jane did not argue that.

Ever obliging, Jane ended her fourth confinement by mid-November exactly as partridge season overlapped that of pheasant. Owning no undue pride, Bingley, who loved to be host to shooting parties for friends and neighbours, believed a new baby boy as good a reason as any to celebrate in that manner. The men could make a perfunctory inspection of the new infant, then go out for sport, leaving the ladies in peace to talk of feminine pursuits.

Amongst the ladies in attendance to admire the Baby Bingley came the longsuffering Charlotte wagging her myopic, bread-gumming child with her. Because of the boy’s double-vision, he stumbled into furniture, but other than a few broken bric-a-bracs, was no particular bother. The same, of course, could not be said for his father.

Mr. Collins accompanied Charlotte to Netherfield, but he was more than usually out of sorts. For in the close company such a lengthy journey demanded of its travellers, Mr. Collins had broken out in a rash. Quite intemperately, he blamed poor Charlotte for his torment, certain that Chauncey was the culprit responsible for his itch and Charlotte did beget him.

It was most probable that Bingley sought to relieve the ladies of Mr. Collins’s constant whines of affliction when he invited the cleric to join the gentlemen for the day’s shoot. Good intentions aside, Bingley most likely did not think the matter through, else he might never have suggested arming him.

Any man who went afield with Mr. Collins resting a weapon upon his shoulder, unless a fool, knew full well what possibilities lay in wait. Hence, a brief conference betwixt the other shooters exacted a plan. At no time might Mr. Collins be allowed to trek alone. Each man would take a turn to walk with the vicar and keep watch upon which direction his barrel pointed. (In defence of life and limb was probably the single impetus that could have persuaded anyone to take that duty.) So jittery was their group to have a loose cannon in its midst little game was taken, for the few times a shot was fired, they collectively flinched.

It was during Mr. Hurst’s watch that disaster struck.

In the merest flick of a moment, a dog burst upon a covey and sent it flying skyward with a flurry of flapping wings. Before anyone had chanced to duck, Collins whirled and fired blindly in that direction. The dog yelped loudly, but was fortunate to be hit by only a pellet or two (Mr. Collins having been blessed with aim as poor as his judgement).

It was not fortunate, however, that Darcy stood ahead and to the left of Mr. Collins. But had he been more to the right, he would have certainly been fatally wounded instead of, as he was, rendered only temporarily deaf. This misjudgement left the bumbling Mr. Collins exceedingly apologetic and Darcy might have been more favourably inclined to accept his many felicitous solicitations were he able to hear them.

No fingers were pointed, but it was unavoidable to mistake upon whom the unspoken reproof rested. The Collinses retreated from Netherfield with such dispatch, they very nearly collided with the physician rushing forth to examine Mr. Darcy’s ears.

In less than a week’s time, the post brought a letter from Charlotte to Elizabeth. After mindfully inquiring as to Mr. Darcy’s recovery and remarking upon the fine weather so late in the year, Charlotte added a lengthy, but carefully written, addendum to her letter:

My dear husband’s misadventure upon the shoot, I fear, left him more bewattled than usual. Dear husband sat about fidgeting for half a day until I, in sincerest concern for his nerves, suggested he take some fresh air. Whilst I do not fault that advice, for it has served mankind well for lo these many centuries, I should not have offered it had I known its eventual outcome. For Mr. Collins, who believed idleness as grievous a sin as any other I can recall, sought occupation in replenishing our honey stores before winter set in.

One can only conjecture why his bees rose to such unjust fury. I, for one, believe bees have an innate sense of purposefulness. Mr. Collins always believed so too. Perchance the indocility of his nerves that day incited them to take umbrage when he attempted to rob their hives. But I shan’t speak of what I do not know.

But I do know their splenetic attack found entry beneath his wimple and forced him to flee. Had God, in his wisdom, bestowed upon my dear husband a more agile figure, in the aforementioned panic to escape the bees, when he leapt into our pond he might not have had the misfortune to become upended. And had he not chosen to wear my canvas joseph rather than his doublet, it might not have filled with water, much like an inverted umbrella, I should think. Which caused him to drown.

The fortuitous lack of autumn rain did, however, allow the pond to reveal his stockinged feet protruding above the water (panicked from his shoes he was), lest dear Mr. Collins might never have been located at all.

The apothecary said that save Mr. Fillingham’s gilt, he had never seen man nor beast stung so many times by so many bees. (I believe he related that the gilt survived, but then she did not wear a canvas joseph.) Indeed, this was the reason the mortician gave for the look of absolute incredulity that went with dear Mr. Collins to his coffin.

Allow me to explain, dearest Elizabeth, that although the weather cool, the rancidity to which dear Mr. Collins’s corpse was lent by measure of the venom of the bees made it necessary to inter him as hastily as possible. Hence, there is no need to hurry to Hunsford. Dear Mr. Collins has been given back to God. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. That has always been one of my favourite passages. We must obtain solace from whence we can. Do you not agree?

I have written you forthwith, my sincerest concern for your deep and abiding love for your cousin mitigated only so briefly for the visit from my seamstress. I say, have you priced bombazine of late, dear Elizabeth? It is ghastly expensive.

I hereby submit to you my account of your beloved cousin, my beloved husband, Mr. Collins’s untimely and unlikely demise.