“Cousin Collins, Mr Darcy would have preferred to have this conversation with you himself privately, but considering the importance of his journey, that was not possible.” Elizabeth paused. “He learned from his aunt yesterday that though you did not write to her of our betrothal yourself, itwasdue to your indiscretion that she learnt of the matter from another.”
“How could that be, Cousin Elizabeth?” Collins gasped.
“Mr Collins, did you speak of Lady Catherine’s disappointed hopes to Mr Crawford? As we know you did with Miss Jane?” Elizabeth pressed gently.
The colour drained from Collins’s face. “But, how could he? I certainly did not intend… you mean… you mean Mr Crawfordwroteto Lady Catherine?” he croaked.
“He was so petulant that he could not steal away Mr Darcy’s intended bride, that he wrote to Lady Catherine out of spite the moment he arrived in Northamptonshire.” Elizabeth tilted her head as she gazed at him.
“Cousin Elizabeth, I can do nothing but apologise for my indiscretion,” Collins begged. “I fear I mistakenly saw everyone in your mother’s drawing room as a friend. I promise, I shall take this lesson to heart, and remember Psalm 118:8-9.‘It is better to take refuge in the Lord than to trust in man. It is better to take refuge in the Lord than to trust in princes.’”
“Just so, Cousin.” Elizabeth was struggling with her mirth. It would not do to laugh at Charlotte’s husband, particularly not when that lady had worked so hard on his improvement, and was standing right in front of them. “Mr Darcy realises that the consequences of your indiscretion were not your intention, and so–to prove his goodwill–he commissioned me to present to you this bank draft, to help you start your new charitable programme in Hunsford. Mr Darcy was quite impressed by your ideas, and says that he hopes that you will write tohim in Derbyshire or at Darcy House in London, to inform him of your progress in the endeavour.”
“Mr Darcy sent a bank draft to assistmycharitable programme?” Mr Collins exclaimed. “Oh dear Lord, I cannot look.”
He passed the sealed letter to Charlotte, who opened it. “It is forfifty pounds!”she cried.
“Why that is more than half of what we need to get started!” Mr Collins babbled. “What goodness, what generosity of spirit! Even Lady Catherine has not yet made a contribution!”
“Contribution? Oh, is this about that charitable endeavour you have started?” Mr and Mrs Bingley joined them as Mr Bingley pulled a bank draft out of his pocket. “Here is an offering from myself and Mrs Bingley. We quite agree with Darcy, it sounds like a fine idea. We wish you every good fortune in your efforts.”
The bank draft Bingley handed over to Charlotte was for another twenty-five pounds. “With a special collection or two from the parish, we should have the rest by Twelfth Night!” She squeezed her husband’s arm in excitement. “I told you, my dear, that your scheme was excellent, and if you organised your thoughts carefully and presented them to those who matter, that you would find all of the support you require! And you did it, my dear!”
Mr Collins blushed to his roots. “I fear I lost hope when the idea was not well received by Lady Catherine.”
“Well as you can see, the world does not always agree with Lady Catherine.” Elizabeth advised.
The rest of the evening was spent in farewells and well wishes to Mr and Mrs Collins, and later, the party spent an hour engrossed in the poetry of Mr Lucas, which was soon to be published inAinsworth’s Magazine.
Jane listened attentively, as her family and friends had done for her readings many times. Mr Lucas’s poetry was vivid, and evoked strong emotions in his audience. Jane thought about the story she was working on, and missed her writing time greatly. She wondered if she would ever return home.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
COLONEL FITZWILLIAM
Saturday 19 December1812
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was grim as he and Darcy set out in the direction of Flitwick Hall, located near Ware. It was his opinion that if the girl they were to see married today was indeed so immature and guileless, with the possibility that she might never mature much more, that it would have been kinder to take her away, give her baby to a good family, and help her attempt to forget the matter. He saw what they were doing as a further cruelty, but it was not his business. The lady’s father must do whatever he thought was fitting for his family. Since the babe would be the child of the young woman’s blood, and there were no other heirs, perhaps if it were a boy, he might be raised as his grandparents’ heir. Fitzwilliam shuddered at the prospect of taking Wickham’s spawn ashisheir.
Darcy was quiet as they made their way on horseback, accompanying the armed men who would provide security for the escorted prisoner as they travelled to London. Fitzwilliam knew that even after what happened with Georgiana, even though Darcy fully accepted what must happen to Wickham, his cousin was still assaulted by a thousandrecollections of boyhood afternoons at Pemberley. Fitzwilliam remained silent, not wishing to pain his cousin further. The only way for Darcy to put the whole ghastly business behind him was to process his feelings through his brooding. It was simply his cousin’s way.
The men rode up to Flitwick Hall and were received by Sir Gregory and Lady Sayles. Mr Chickering was there with his very innocent daughter. The girl had been even more flighty than usual since her ordeal, and could not be kept reasonably calm without the comfort of a pug named Truffles, which she carried everywhere. The local rector was also present, prepared to marry the young woman to her unfortunate consequence by common license.
“Hewillmarry her!” Mr Chickering insisted. “You fellows canpersuadehim all you like, and by any means at your disposal, if you think it will help, but I swear by all I hold dear, that man is not leaving Flitwick Hall until my daughter is married!”
Fitzwilliam and Darcy followed a servant into the cellars of the house, an old wine cellar to be exact. Wickham was asleep on the small cot, covered in two blankets when the two men entered.
“Darcy! I wondered when you would turn back up.” Wickham sat up, pulling the blankets closer about him. “Did you plan to leave me down here to freeze to death in this old cellar? What have you done to get me out of here? Have you found me a barrister?”
Fitzwilliam doubled over in laughter as Darcy gaped at the villain in shock at his never wavering audacity.
“Wickham, you cannot pretend that you seriously believe that either Darcy, or I, or even any of our connections, could save you from this. God’s teeth, you have deserted the militia in wartime, attempted to abscond with an underage girl who was under the protection of your colonel’s house, defrauded merchants, damaged the reputation of your regiment, robbed more than a dozen carriages, stolen hundreds, perhaps thousands of pounds worth of heirlooms, not to mention money and weapons, and ransomed three hostages, and–God in Heaven–impregnated one. An innocent, underage girl that you had to have understoodis little more than a simpleton. And this is only what we know of occurring since July, to say nothing of your past crimes in Derbyshire and London. You have gone too far this time, and we have not a prayer of saving you, and you know it.”
“Why are you even here then?” Wickham snarled.
“Because we will see this end for Darcy’s own honour, to close this disappointing chapter of our lives, and see you permanently put behind us.” Fitzwilliam answered with finality in his voice.
“Why have I not been taken by the army?” Wickham demanded. “What is the delay?”
