Cursing Collins silently for waking so early after so late a night, when sensible folks ought to remain in their beds until noon, she could think of nothing more useful than locking the odious vicar into his room and pretending the door was stuck, when a momentous idea occurred to her.
Its sudden appearance in her fatigued brain must surely signal more divine approval:Mr Bennet’s tonic.
Its medicinal properties resulted in, um,congenialeffects towards those of another sex. It might not work upon females as it did for males; neither had she any idea whether it would work as well upon a fellow whom one despised. She had not observed Mr Bennet’s attentions straying to the maids, so it did not render one mindless—Lizzy might still recognise Mr Collins and all of her former opinions of his desirability. Unless of course…she increased, perhaps even doubled or tripled the dosage? But how could she arrange for Lizzy to ingest it?
Another heavenly sanction—in the form of a remembered favourite—imbued her with an idea: Hill’s candiedginger syrup. Its strength was enough to disguise any unusual flavour, and she always kept some on hand, as it was useful in elevating simple desserts into works of art in the case of unexpected company. Elizabeth was excessively fond of it, and if it was sugared well, and served with the currant pudding Cook had prepared as a masterpiece for tonight’s table, and if Mrs Bennet ensured that Lizzy consumed every bite…well, it would have to do. Afterwards, she would arrange for an audience with Mr Collins; Lizzy would, in her newly amenable state, agree to the marriage, and Mrs Bennet would hurry the couple to Mr Palmer with the precious licence in hand, and see them wed before noon today!
“Hill!” she screeched, hurrying towards the kitchen to bully Cook into surrendering her pudding. “Hill! I need you at once!”
The ball had been an utter failure. If not for Jane’s triumph—two sets with Mr Bingley, one of which was the supper dance with his escort and full attention thereafter—it would have been a complete waste of a new dress. But Elizabeth laughed to herself at the drama in these sentiments, for a new dress was never wasted, and had it not been for her fury at the callous Mr Darcy’s pride in his hideous treatment of Mr Wickham, the lieutenant’sabsence from all festivities, and the ruin of her shoe roses in that first set with the clumsy Mr Collins, she wouldhave said the evening had been highly entertaining. She had danced nearly every set, and though her partners—with the notable exception of Mr Darcy—were unremarkable, the food, decorations, music, and company had been excellent. Whatever one wished to say about Miss Bingley’s character, she hosted an excellent party.
Avoiding Mr Collins thereafter had been problematic, and overhearing his bold addresses to Mr Darcy—giving that gentleman yet another reason to look down upon the first family of Longbourn village—excruciating. Why did her cousin single her out for his attention? If he thought towooher in the future—and she sincerely hoped it was not so—she would have to ensure she was away visiting the Gardiners upon his next visit. At least she had not had to bear with his irksome company for the four days preceding the ball. Though he had made much of the mystery behind his reasons for leaving, she believed he had meant to be gone only a day or so. The succession of rain which had inundated the valley from the advent of his departure until the morning of the ball had, evidently, delayed his journey both going and coming, with the result of his return arrival at Longbourn barely in time to dress for the event. His conversation during their dance consisted of a long litany of complaints of mud—horses who could not walk in it, coachmen who could not navigate it, and clothing ruined by it. Had she not been certain of her innocence in all matters pertaining to his absence, she would have been convinced that he blamedherfor the whole of histroubles! She would have to relate the tale to Papa for his enjoyment.
Poor Papa! His illness had begun to unnerve her. While his appearance and appetite seemed as usual, he could seldom finish a conversation without dozing off, and stranger still, for the most part he wished only for Mama’s company. Papa had been in no state to attend a ball, and she could only hope that he soon would recover, as he had so often in the past. After breakfast, she would insist upon spending the morning at his bedside, whether or not he slept, and hope she could notice some improvement to his condition.
A glance in the mirror told her that she was well enough in appearance, although she had not bothered with putting her hair up and her dress was a simple, ancient one that she could don herself. They would have no visitors this morning, and Elizabeth would be surprised if her younger sisters—who had spent far too much time at the punch bowl last evening—would arise before afternoon tea. She had taken two steps towards the door, when it opened, revealing her mother with a tray.
“I did not understand, I swear I did not understand her intent, not until too late!” Mrs Hill muttered anxiously to herself. Mrs Bennet, of course, had never meant her to understand anything at all; however, the mistress was much too accustomed to gabbling aloud most everythought in her head, had much too little experience with devious plotting, and most often forgot her servants had functioning ears.
Guilt ate at her; Miss Elizabeth was the sweetest, smartest girl imaginable, and her mother wasdruggingher—drugging her so that she would accept that foolish Mr Collins as her husband.
Yet…what right do I have to interfere?There is no question but what an excellent match it would be for her—possibly her only opportunity for any marriage, any future at all.
Such was Hill’s agony of indecision, that she almost missed the sight of the man standing in the shadows just beyond the hermitage—she, who prided herself on missing nothing! How long had he been there? Why was he here in broad daylight?
It did not matter; the important thing was that she hadnotmissed him. Mr Harwoodwashere. Such a wise and sensible person as himself would surely help her think of a means of preventing the catastrophe on the horizon. Glancing around to ensure she was not being observed by anyone, she slipped from the house.
Fitzwilliam Darcy had made up his mind. When Bingley departed for town today, he would go as well; to that end, he informed his man, Harwood, of the change in plan. Harwood could ride in his carriage with his trunks while he rode with Bingley. He would spend the journey helpingBingley to understand that pursuit of a connexion to Jane Bennet was the worst possible idea. There was nothing wrong,per se, with the girl, except that her mother was pulling the strings of her life, and he could not abide her pulling Bingley’s as well.
Well, perhaps one other thing was wrong. Her sister, Elizabeth Bennet.
He could not bear it, now that he understood Miss Elizabeth bore feelings for his enemy. Her defence of Wickham had been vehement and eager—there was no mistaking yet another young lady fallen beneath the rogue’s spell. He had tried to warn her, but to no effect; the ladies never saw what was so plain to him, the thin and shallow nature of Wickham’s veneer of respectability.
You did not see it either, for a much longer period, Darcy reminded himself.Not until it was far too late to undo the damage, andyouknew him for years.
He shoved the reminders and the guilt from his mind. He must get out, now, before he threw away his own familial pride and bound himself to a bride from a family utterly lacking in propriety and affluence. While Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth were both respectable and decorous, their younger sisters were allowed to run wild—and did so. Their cousin Collins—his aunt’s ridiculous parson, he had been somehow unsurprised to learn—washeirof their Longbourn estate—a fact the man had, in Mr Bennet’s absence, flaunted amongst the populace.
Never mind that Elizabeth possessed a haunting sort of loveliness, a mixture of sweetness and lively spirits, withher wide, dimpled smile that he yearned to kiss into; a lithe figure he was dying to hold close; and a mind full of wit, conversation, and sparkle that he could not help engaging at every possible opportunity. If she were near, he would never be unhappy again a day in his life.
Stop it, Darcy!It was precisely this sort of unrealistic thinking that kept him awake at night, a victim of her siren-song. He wanted her. He could not have her. Better to flee instead. But his thoughts whirled round and round, teasing him with memories.
Harwood entered at long last, with the news he had waited for.
“Mr Bingley is ready to leave, sir,” he said.
“Excellent. I shall join him directly.”
Harwood nodded but remained unmoving. Inwardly, Darcy groaned. Harwood was the ideal gentleman’s gentleman. He stayed informed—and made sure Darcy was, as well—with the state and intricacies of any household they inhabited; his taste was impeccable, he was never unprepared or forgetful, and he anticipated Darcy’s needs with a prescience that seemed almost uncanny. All this, he performed with a sort of understated elegance of manner, never aggressive, gossipy, or obtrusive. In the absence of orders otherwise, he usually slipped away immediately. When he did not, it meant there was news, and none that he was likely wishing to hear.
“If you would be so kind as to lend a moment of your time,” Harwood murmured, in that way he had, his manner somehow making any refusal impossibly coarse. “It has to do with events at Longbourn this morning,” he said.
“Why should I care for any of that?” Darcy snapped, appalled by his sudden desire to hear every possible detail regarding the situation, no matter how insignificant.
His man looked at him, just looked, and he realised what he ought to have predicted—Harwoodknew. He understood, without Darcy ever mentioning a thing, that his employer was obsessed with the second eldest daughter of Mr Thomas Bennet.
“What has happened?” he asked, his tone surly. He turned away to rearrange the items upon the chest of drawers nearest him, since he could disguise neither eagerness nor resentment from Harwood’s all-seeing eyes.
“It appears that Miss Elizabeth Bennet will receive a proposal of marriage this morning, if she has not already.”
