Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (49 page)

“I shall let him settle a half-hour before I take him out.”

Instructions compleated, John climbed atop the fence as Fitzwilliam personally loosed him in a paddock. Odd to be sitting there whilst the gentleman saw to the horse. Had John’s notion of absoluteness not been so roundly shaken, it was additionally abused when the good colonel climbed upon the fence and sat next to him.

With the merest flick of his hands, the colonel tossed the tails of his jacket from beneath him as he perched upon the top rail. John admired that flick. He thought he might like to have a jacket with brass buttons, epaulets, and tails to flick aside when he sat.

They sat there a few moments in silence. John cut his eyes over to Fitzwilliam several times then to his excellent steed.

Of Scimitar, he asked, “’e’s a charger, ain’t ’e?”

Fitzwilliam nodded. John knew quite well who the colonel was, for he came to Pemberley often. He was a cavalry officer. Scimitar was the horse he rode upon those courageous cavalry charges. Until then, John had never had opportunity to scrutinise him, only his horse. But he had always been impressed with his caped uniform and choice of mounts. Sitting as near as he did, John could see an impressive scar upon the colonel’s cheek. It was deep. Curling his lip slightly at the sight, he wondered if a sabre had rendered that scar and if it did, in what battle. He was eyeing it so closely, he did not realise Fitzwilliam was watching himself be inspected.

“Are you appalled by my scar?”

Startled, John looked to the ground and said, “No, sire.”

In a voice he reserved for the greenest of trooper, Fitzwilliam demanded that he speak up, “What?”

John said louder, “No, sire.” Thereupon he impetuously added, “It is an admirable scar.”

Fitzwilliam smiled, “Admirable, is it?”

The bonhomous company of a man of such substantial rank rendered him profoundly spellbound, else John might have never blurted out, “Yes. Aye have never seen a scar so fine. Was it from battle?”

“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.

Betimes 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 Kirkland Hall, 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 Kirkland Hall 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.

I am always your affectionate friend,

Charlotte

As Elizabeth read Charlotte’s letter, Darcy and Georgiana sat before her watching her countenance carefully. This scrutiny was ultimately unsuccessful, for they could not quite make out by her expression alone just what information the letter revealed.

Initially her face beheld astonishment, followed quickly by disbelief, horror, then yes, they were certain they saw (however she endeavoured to stifle it) a look of confounded amusement. Thereupon, just as hastily her features arranged themselves into a look of solemn and reverent sadness.

When Darcy inquired just what the mysterious letter contained, his usual firm voice was considerably more stentorian than one nescient of his recent infirmity might expect. Owing to his afflicted ears, however, his misapplication of modulation remained unbeknownst to him. Therefore, Elizabeth chose not to tell him he spoke too loudly; she knew it would abuse his dignity. Reminding herself to speak more firmly (understanding one insensible of the circumstance might well think they were witnessing a shouting match), she declared a summarisation of what she had just learnt.

“I think Mr. Collins has, in dying, done the only thing he could possibly do to make one cease to loathe him.”

“What?”

It might have been inferred that he did not hear her, nevertheless, in this case it was not merely auricular, more a matter of comprehension. The echoing of their voices in the cavernous room persuaded Elizabeth to hand him the letter. Thereupon, she watched his countenance take the exact trip of emotions had her own.

When at last the letter was finished, he set it aside. They looked at each other a long moment. There was a thoughtful consideration before he ventured a comment.

When he did, it was not particularly profound.

“I see.”

The sympathy Elizabeth harboured for such an untimely leave-taking had various shadings. It was her Christian duty to pray for Mr. Collins’s soul (and pray fervently she did). However, she could not help but suspect that Charlotte might find the office of Widow Collins a far more felicitous occupation than that of wife.

Georgiana was only given to muse, “I am in a quandary, Elizabeth. Does this mean I will or will not have to dedicate my next book to him?”

* * *

Forthwith of learning of Mr. Collins’s departure from this earth, Elizabeth and Jane journeyed to Hunsford to console the bereaved Charlotte. It was upon this altruistic trek that Elizabeth reminded Jane that their father’s estate would thenceforth be entailed to Mr. Collins’s unfortunate son. (Charlotte was always “Poor Charlotte.” Chauncey was always spoken of as the “unfortunate son.”) Both were quite content that they had not to weather their mother’s company when she heard this perverse turn of events.

If Jane and Elizabeth were saved from their mother’s unhappy eruption initially, they were not ultimately, for she was yet in a barely contained snit when they all gathered at the vicarage upon Charlotte’s behalf. And Chauncey Charlemagne Collins’s now three-year-old bald pate was of no particular consolation.

“Perhaps I should knit him a cap,” Jane wondered solicitously.

Indeed, it was an inglorious sojourn. The Bennet family all travelled together from Longbourn and although Mary made the trip with her Bible pressed to her bosom, Kitty was bored senseless in Hunsford. Lydia too had come, but without Wickham.

It was a mystery of sorts just why the egocentric Lydia felt the need to comfort Charlotte, but that was eventually unravelled. Initially, it was presumed she merely wanted to be out of society for at least a part of the six weeks that the death of a cousin demanded. (Black, she believed, made her skin look sallow.)

Lydia’s motives, however, were often as well-layered as an onionskin and just as transparent. For, howbeit Elizabeth made a concerted effort to avoid Lydia’s company, they had not been there but two days when she suggested an exceedingly ill-advised visit upon Lady Catherine. Having heard Mr. Collins’s lengthy description, she was quite curious to see the fabled decorations of Rosings.

“You are her niece, Lizzy,” she cajoled, “Surely she will offer us an invitation if you request it, even if she does not like you.”

Subtlety a much abused product in the face of Lydia’s obtuse sensibilities, Elizabeth spoke to her plainly and with no little vehemence.

“Out of the question.”

Knowing it would be added bother, Jane did not even consider bringing other than her newborn and wet-nurse to Hunsford with her. It was of no great surprise that such heedfulness did not enter Lydia’s mind. Her three boys were handsome, but she was too impatient to mother them properly. Rambunctious and ill-mannered, they partook of far too much cake (“It’s the only way I can quiet them,” Lydia said defensively) and absolutely refused to bathe. The Collinses’ unfortunate son was frightened of their rowdy behaviour and insisted upon standing in a chair when any of the three were in the room. Mrs. Bennet was, as always, her favourite daughter’s most loyal supporter and did little to corral them.

After they played with a dog that had chosen to acquaint himself with his surroundings by rolling in the remains of a long dead animal, the stench was overwhelming.

This distasteful adventure was uncovered when the boys came to the supper table ready to partake. Everyone threw down their silverware to hold their noses in disgust. Lydia remedied the affront by sending them off with their plates to the kitchen.

Unhappy to be the proprietress of decorum under any circumstance, Elizabeth took it on nonetheless.

“I hardly think it fair to make the help ruin their suppers to spare our own.”