Mr. Darcy Came to Dinner (9 page)

“Miss Darcy, I have no idea who that is. Should we investigate?” Elizabeth turned to Mr. Bennet. “Father, what is happening?” The voices in the hall grew in intensity as the mystery woman and Mr. Collins talked over one another.

Miss Darcy’s grip on Elizabeth’s hand was almost painful. “She must not know I am here! Please!”

The young lady was truly alarmed, and Elizabeth wondered whether there was danger to them all. Meanwhile, the others had left the room to see the source of the commotion, and after gaining Jane’s assurance that she would remain with the distressed girl, Elizabeth joined her family.

In the hall was a tall, large, older woman with strongly marked features that might once have been considered beautiful. Her traveling cloak was soaked through, imparting a bedraggled appearance. Her air was not conciliatory, nor was her manner of receiving them such as to make her hosts forget their inferior rank.

“This is a very small park, and your portico is quite insufficient for inclement weather! It is beyond my understanding how my nephew found himself in such a place!” She glared at Mr. Bennet. “You are the owner of this hovel, I suppose.”

Mr. Collins stood next to the woman, a sickly superior smile pasted on his ill features. “My lady, this is my cousin, Mr. Bennet, the
current
owner of Longbourn.” He turned to the stately matron and bowed. “I have the great honor to present Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings Park, Hunsford, Kent!”

So this was Lady Catherine! In her countenance and deportment, Elizabeth found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy. But the lady’s speech was in tone so authoritative in comparison to her nephew as to make his proud discourse modest. Her marked self-importance brought Mr. Wickham immediately to Elizabeth’s mind. From observation, she believed Lady Catherine to be exactly what he had represented. Mr. Wickham may have been wrong about Miss Darcy, but in this, he had been accurate.

“Enough of this prittle-prattle!” the good lady thundered. “You will take me to my nephew this instant!”

The clergyman scampered to do her bidding, and the door to the parlor was thrown open unceremoniously. Lady Catherine marched in without hesitation and cried out, “Darcy! What is the meaning of this? How came you to be housed in such degrading circumstances?”

The Bennet family stood without but could see into the room. Mr. Darcy was half-sitting up in bed. Colonel Fitzwilliam was beside him, the bed between him and Lady Catherine. Mr. Darcy was not sanguine; annoyance marked his features.

“Aunt Catherine,” said Mr. Darcy with restrained emotion, “I am pleased to see you well. Tell me, how came you to journey to this place?”

Mr. Collins preened. “While humility is the first virtue of a clergyman, I am forced by honesty to report that I was the instrument by which my honored patroness was informed of your calamity.”

Mr. Darcy whipped upon the man. “Are you saying you wrote to Rosings?”

“I did, by
express
,” he admitted proudly. “No expense is too excessive in the service of my mistress!”

Mr. Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “You take an eager interest in my concerns, sir.”

Mr. Collins nodded his head. “I live to serve the Family de Bourgh.”

“By thunder, you do not serve mine!” cried Mr. Darcy. “How dare you? How dare you interfere in matters that should be of no interest to you?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam laid a hand on Mr. Darcy’s shoulder. “Easy, Darcy.”

“By God, no!” Mr. Darcy railed onward. “Collins, I told you expressly that my business was not yours, yet you still chose to insinuate yourself into my concerns! You are treading a dangerous path, you sanctimonious fool, for I own an unforgiving temper, and your choice of profession shall not protect you from my wrath should you continue to anger me! As it is, if you do not get out of my sight in the next thirty seconds, I shall use whatever powers I have, either just or ill — including using my uncle, the bishop — to ruin you! GET OUT OF MY ROOM! NOW!”

Mr. Collins was deathly white, but whether it was from Mr. Darcy’s threats or Lady Catherine’s silence, Elizabeth could not tell. In a moment, the tall man was retreating up the stairs.

Lady Catherine huffed. “Darcy, if you are through berating my parson, get out of that bed. We are leaving for Rosings immediately.”

“What?” cried Mr. Macmillan, who had by that time reentered the room. “Mr. Darcy cannot leave, madam.”

“Who is this person?” Lady Catherine sneered.

“That gentleman is my physician, Aunt, and he is quite right,” Mr. Darcy declared. “I am not well enough to leave. I am grateful for the hospitality from this fine, respectable family.”

Lady Catherine was not swayed by this statement. “Nonsense! Hurry yourself along, or have your man gather assistance. Anne is waiting in the carriage.”

“What?” cried Colonel Fitzwilliam. “You brought Anne here — to Hertfordshire in the rain
in November
?”

“Good God, madam, you have lost your mind,” breathed Mr. Darcy. “Fitz — quickly!”

Colonel Fitzwilliam was already moving to the doorway, a quickness of action that surprised Elizabeth, even though she knew his profession. “Say no more, Darce! Bartholomew, attend me!” The two forced their way through the crowd and out the front door.

“There is no need for this, Darcy. We shall be on our way once you are in the carriage,” Lady Catherine protested loudly.

“I am not leaving, and there is an end to it.”

The front door opened again, and Elizabeth saw Colonel Fitzwilliam and Bartholomew half-carry a small, well-bundled person between them, rain droplets puddling on Mrs. Bennet’s fine floors.

“Darcy, she is chilled to the bone!” cried the colonel. To Mrs. Bennet, he demanded, “Where is a fire?”

Elizabeth’s mother jumped at the authority in the man’s voice. “Here, in the sitting room. Quickly, sir. Oh, my poor nerves!”

She led the trio into the room they had lately vacated. The rest were undecided; curiosity over the new arrival battled with the attraction of the epic clash occurring in the parlor, for Mr. Darcy and Mr. Macmillan were as insistent in their demands for Miss de Bourgh’s relief as Lady Catherine was outraged over their presumptuous interference. Finally, better manners won out, and the remainder of the Bennet family removed to the sitting room. Elizabeth had to drag a protesting Lydia by the arm.

The visitor was established in a chair close to the hearth. Miss de Bourgh, for it could be no other person, was dressed in heavy fabrics of high quality but poor fashion. The sleeves had not been seen in Hertfordshire society for many a year. The young lady herself was not at all the way Elizabeth imagined Mr. Darcy’s intended. With his pride and hauteur, surely the master of Pemberley would seek out only the handsomest, most refined creature of the
ton
.

It was the work of a moment’s attention to prove that Miss de Bourgh was nothing of the sort. Elizabeth was astonished at her being so thin and small. There was neither in figure nor face any likeness between her and her mother. Miss De Bourgh was pale and sickly. Her features, though not plain, were insignificant. She spoke very little, if at all, and when she did, it was in a light, almost incomprehensible whine.

This
was the object of Mr. Darcy’s esteem? This ill-looking, ill-acting wallflower? It was an astounding revelation that a man as exacting and penetrating an observer of his fellow man as Mr. Darcy undoubtedly was — a gentleman of great pride, presence, and intellect — would choose as the companion of his future life a woman as small, sickly, and insipid as his cousin.

But perhaps that was the answer to the mystery. Mr. Darcy was marrying for money and family like countless others of his station. It was a disappointment.

It was in Elizabeth’s character to make such a pitiful creature comfortable. Already, Miss Darcy, who had
not
fled upstairs, and Jane had moved to talk to the heiress. Elizabeth saw she must have her share in the conversation, for the rest of her family gawked at the young lady as if she were a circus creature on display.

“Miss de Bourgh, may I pour you a cup of tea?” The lady responded to Elizabeth with only a shake of the head.

“Anne,” said Miss Darcy, with some animation, “you must take something to warm you. Please have some tea” — the girl paused — “or perhaps something else?”

The girl’s glassy eyes looked about the room. “Perhaps some sherry?” she rasped.

Elizabeth saw Colonel Fitzwilliam roll his eyes resignedly before turning to Mr. Bennet. “Might I trouble you for a glass of sherry, sir?” The glass was soon poured, and the girl sipped it greedily. The colonel sighed and requested that Miss de Bourgh show some moderation. Her response was to finish the drink and hold out the glass, a silent request for a refill. The second glass went down as quickly as the first. Miss de Bourgh decided to savor her third glass, but was no more talkative with her audience. Elizabeth spoke instead to her cousin.

“You seem very concerned over your cousin’s comfort, Colonel. I hope she is not ill.”

“Anne has been ill most of her life, Miss Elizabeth,” he said. “She should not be out in such weather.”

“I think it very romantic,” cried Kitty.

“Romantic?” the colonel cried in response. “To chance her health for no reason? That is a strange description of romance, young lady.”

Kitty was silenced, but Lydia was not. “She came to see her lover! What could be more romantic, even if he is only Mr. Darcy?”

Elizabeth did not think Lydia could be so crude, but her censure died on her lips as she beheld the reaction from the others.

Miss de Bourgh broke out in gales of laughter.

Miss Darcy was startled. “What are you talking about? Fitz, what is she talking about? Brother has not given in to Aunt Catherine’s demands, has he?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam covered his eyes with a hand. “Oh, not that nonsense again!”

“Lydia! Be quiet!” Jane scolded.

“It is true!” Lydia stood firm. “Mr. Wickham said so!”

“Mr. Wickham?” Miss Darcy gasped.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was livid. “Deuce take him! What else has that scoundrel said?”

Miss Darcy was trembling again. “How do you know Mr. Wickham? What . . . what did he say?”

“Why, he is the most agreeable man in the militia, and he is our friend even if you are not!” Lydia crowed.

Miss Darcy gasped back a sob, rose to her feet, and dashed from the room with Jane in pursuit. Elizabeth berated Lydia for her words, but her sister only replied, “What did I say? It is only the truth!”

“Mr. Bennet!” cried Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Is it the custom of the Bennet family to insult their visitors?”

A red-faced Mr. Bennet stepped forward and broke his silence. “No, it is not. Lydia, to your room this instant!”

Lydia obeyed at once, crying her innocence as she fled. Kitty made to follow, but she was forestalled by a glare from her father. Mrs. Bennet, white-faced, sat back on the settee, fanning herself and mumbling something about her nerves. Meanwhile, neither Mary nor Miss de Bourgh said a word.

“I deeply apologize for this exhibition, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Mr. Bennet said with sincerity. The colonel was only slightly mollified.

“Miss Darcy is my ward as well as my cousin, and as such, her protection is my duty and pleasure. I will stand for no ill treatment of her from
anyone
. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

The colonel looked at the open doorway. “I should go to her.”

“I am sure that my sister Jane is with her, and there is no kinder, gentler creature in the world. She will comfort her, if anyone can.” Elizabeth paused. “If I may say so, you are in no state to see her — understandably, of course.”

The gentleman was pacified. “Perhaps a few minutes’ wait would be well.”

“We are so sorry,” cried Kitty, “but what did we do to upset her? Mr. Wickham said — ”

Colonel Fitzwilliam’s anger was reignited. “Wickham? You should have more wits than to believe anything Wickham says!”

“But . . . (cough) . . . but he is in the militia!”

The colonel moved closer to Kitty. “So, a red coat means honorable behavior? Miss Catherine, I have been a solider for fifteen years, and I have seen enough rogues and scoundrels in uniform to fill all of Meryton! Let me tell you what sort of man your Mr. Wickham is.” To the entire room, he said, “He was the son of the late steward for my uncle, Mr. Darcy, may God rest his soul, and young Wickham was raised at that fine family’s expense . . . ”

* * *

Darcy, half-intoxicated by the light dose of laudanum, was far more expressive than usual with his difficult Aunt Catherine. She was known to her family as stubborn and willful at the best of times, and that she had dashed from Kent to Hertfordshire in such inclement weather and forced Anne to accompany her was pure madness. Darcy, contrary to his usual manner, was both disinclined and powerless to refrain from telling her so in forthright terms.

“It is past understanding,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “how a woman who boasts of both motherly affection and superior intelligence could convince herself of the wisdom of bundling up her feeble daughter in a small coach and traveling over fifty miles in rain and mud with the sole object of forcing her nephew, suffering from a broken leg, to journey to Kent with her in opposition to both medical science and common sense. I had thought you foolish before, but this is beyond everything!”