The fantasy was interrupted by footsteps in the corridor, followed by Graham Pullen’s distinctive knock.
“Enter,” Darcy called, reluctantly returning his attention to sheep farm concerns.
Mr. Darcy,” the steward greeted him with a bow. “I’ve brought the accounts for the northern pastures as you requested.”
“Thank you, Pullen,” Darcy replied, accepting the ledger with a nod. “Has the post arrived?”
“Not yet, sir. Though it should be here within the hour, if the roads are passable after yesterday’s celebrations.”
Darcy nodded, trying to mask his impatience. The letters he had sent to Bingley and the Hertfordshire magistrate should have garnered responses by now. While his feelings for Elizabeth had grown independent of her past, he still desired clarity regarding William’s parentage before formalizing his intentions.
“Very good,” he said, returning his attention to the ledger. “Please inform me when it arrives.”
“Of course, sir.” Pullen hesitated, then added, “If I may say so, theharvest festival was a great success. The tenants were most appreciative of your participation.”
“It was a pleasant evening,” Darcy agreed, his tone deliberately neutral, though the memory of Elizabeth in his arms was more alluring than ledger columns swimming amongst the crop reports. The sound of carriage wheels on the gravel drew his attention from Elizabeth’s fine attributes. “We weren’t expecting visitors, were we?”
Pullen went to the window. “A hackney coach, sir. Rather shabby looking. I cannot imagine who might arrive in such a conveyance.”
Darcy joined his steward at the window, frowning at the sight of the bedraggled vehicle that had come to a halt before the main entrance. The paint was faded, the wheels caked with mud from the journey, and the overall appearance suggested either poverty or extreme haste on the part of the passenger.
“Most peculiar,” he murmured, watching as the coachman climbed down to open the door.
The passenger who emerged caused Darcy’s blood to freeze in his veins. Even disheveled and travel-stained, there could be no mistaking the pompous bearing and clerical dress of Mr. William Collins. He’d met the buffoon at Rosings Park when Lady Catherine had announced her selection for the advowson she owned.
“Good God,” Darcy breathed, his hands clenching involuntarily. “It cannot be.”
“Sir?” Graham inquired, noting his master’s sudden rigidity.
“The gentleman alighting from the coach,” Darcy said through gritted teeth. “Do you recognize him?”
Graham squinted through the glass. “I cannot say that I do, sir. Though he appears to be a clergyman, judging by his dress.”
“Indeed he is,” Darcy replied grimly, watching as Collins straightened his wrinkled coat and surveyed the house with obvious desperation. “Mr. William Collins of Hunsford parish. His presence here can mean only one thing—he has finally worked up the courage to face the consequencesof his actions.”
“Shall I refuse him admittance, sir?” Graham asked, clearly sensing his master’s displeasure.
“No,” Darcy said decisively, moving toward the door. “I shall receive Mr. Collins myself. It is past time he and I had a frank discussion about his treatment of Miss Bennet.”
Georgiana caught his arm as he passed. “Fitzwilliam, what does this mean? Who is Mr. Collins?”
“He is,” Darcy said with cold precision, “the man responsible for Elizabeth’s current circumstances. The father of her child, who abandoned them both rather than face his obligations like a gentleman.”
Georgiana’s gasp followed him as he strode from the library, his earlier contentment replaced by a fury that had been simmering to a full boil. Finally, he would have the opportunity to confront the coward who had ruined Elizabeth and left her to bear the shame alone.
“Show Mr. Collins to my study,” Darcy commanded the footman who appeared in response to the bell. “I shall receive him there directly.”
“You must have received intelligence I did not possess,” Georgiana mumbled, her hands fluttering like panicked butterflies. “I shall, perhaps go to the music room.”
Darcy strode to the study, positioning himself behind the desk in a position of authority.
“Mr. Darcy! Thank Providence I have found you at last!” Collins rushed into the study, his words tumbling over themselves. “I have traveled day and night to reach you, sir. The most terrible accusations have been made against my character, and I must—that is, I hope to clear my name of these calumnies.”
“Mr. Collins,” Darcy acknowledged with icy formality, not offering his hand or any other gesture of welcome. “State your business. I have limited time and less patience for pleasantries.”
Collins blinked rapidly. “Yes, of course. Most direct. You, Mr. Darcy, are Lady Catherine’s esteemed nephew. A word from you might facilitate my restoration to the most generous living that waspromised to me at Hunsford Parsonage. For you see, I have been the victim of the most foul and unfounded accusations that have been leveled against my character and moral standing.”
“Indeed, and what might those accusations be?”
