“Marriage? To whom?” He struggled to sound nonchalant.
“Mr William Collins, sir.”
His heartbeat, which had begun a frantic, pulsing rhythm, smoothed again. “What of it? She would never agree to yoke herself to such a fool.”
He could not say how he knew this; he simply did. Not for three estates the size of Netherfield would she give herself to such a nincompoop.
“Reportedly, and unbeknownst to her anticipated bridegroom, she has been drugged, sir. The concoction she has received is of a nature that, my source is convinced,creates a docile, even an, er, overly affectionate response in its object.”
Darcy spun to face Harwood, horrified. “Would not Collins realise that his wished-for bride is intoxicated? No, no, no, do not answer that question. But I cannot believe her father would condone such an act!”
“Her father is currently in no condition to understand what is happening in his household, or to prevent it if he did.”
Darcy had known the man was ill, but he must be out of his head to be unaware of such an affair.
“My informant believes the young lady will be taken to the church this morning, and there be wed to Collins. There is already, evidently, a licence. I have observed the vicar, Mr Palmer. He is elderly, obtuse, and hard of hearing. I do not think Palmer would comprehend the situation, were the girl to topple over during the ceremony.”
He did not question the source of Harwood’s information. If his man believed it, it was undoubtedly reliable. Of course, none of it was legal, but what good would the law do when Elizabeth’s reputation and character were already ruined? Nor did he waste time attempting to think of someone else who might attempt a rescue. He knew of no one in this entire county who was able to act decisively. Probably, most folks would believe—even knowing the situation—that it was unfortunate, but all for the best in the long run. Sir William Lucas would doubtless gleefully disseminate the news as joyfully as if Elizabeth had been wed to a duke.
Elizabeth! No! Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth must not ever be sacrificed on the altar of self-interest and impure motive. Fortunately, he was already dressed for riding out.
“Inform Mr Bingley I will be unable to travel with him after all. Tell Frost to have Bingley’s best hunter saddled for me, and have my brougham brought round and ride with him to Longbourn. If you meet the Bennet coach along the way, have Frost contrive to block its passage. It would be best if she is never even put into the carriage, and we can halt this nonsense before there are more witnesses to its execution.”
Harwood nodded once, slipping from the room as quietly as he had first entered it—plainly satisfied with his interference.
Who works for whom?Darcy wondered.
CHAPTER 3
“Mama.” Elizabeth was tilting alarmingly to one side on the settee, her eyes nearly crossed. “I want to find my bed now, I think.”
Mrs Bennet understood her daughter perfectly, despite the fact that she dropped approximately a third of her syllables. Mr Collins, too busy composing the next sentences to his foolish, drawn-out offer of marriage, failed utterly to comprehend.
“What was that? What did she say?”
It was the fifth time he had asked it. One would think he would pay more attention to the utterances of the recipient of his protracted proposal—but one would be as wrong as it was possible to be. She felt, again, a heavy measure of guilt for inflicting him upon Lizzy. But what else was there to do? Their prospects were a fathomless unknown, beholden to this very fool!
Without Mr Bennet to provide support for themarriage, she had about as much chance of convincing Elizabeth to marry the idiotic Collins as she did of persuading her husband to buy a house in Mayfair. Lizzy was her most intelligent daughter, yet the girl was frustrating in her inability to secure her own future!
“She says she cannot wait to be wed, she thinks,” Mrs Bennet interpreted.
Mr Collins’s brow furrowed as he seemed to notice, for the first time, that his hoped-for bride was listing to one side. “I say. She seems to be a bit off this morning, does she not?”
Her daughter went off into a fit of giggles. Mrs Bennet was required to hold her phial of salts beneath Lizzy’s nose, to transform it to a fit of sneezing instead.
“It is not every day that a young lady receives a marriage proposal from a handsome, eligible gentleman,” Mrs Bennet reminded him, once the sneezing was past. “It is unsurprising that she is nervous.”
His brow smoothed. “Oh. Why yes, believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far from doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections.”
Elizabeth’s voice dropped several notches—and in unfortunately clear tones, began quoting one of Mr Bennet’s favourites. “‘But pain is perfect misery, the worst of evils, and excessive, overturns all patience.’”
“I have always loved Shakespeare,” Mr Collins opined, smiling approvingly at Elizabeth. “Not long ago, a very notable lady—my esteemed patroness, you know—particularly advised and recommended that I commitShakespeare’s sonnets to memory whilst in the pursuit of a bride, and I cannot help but believe that your knowledge of his works, especially when tempered with the silence and respect that her rank will inevitably excite—will ensure her approval of my choice of bride. I compliment you.”
Even Mrs Bennet knew—not through any interest of her own, of course, but from the endless ruminations of her husband—that it was Milton which Lizzy quoted, not Shakespeare. She wondered whether, within all these words Mr Collins had thus far uttered, she could presume an actual proposal of marriage had already taken place. If so, she could proceed with Lizzy’s response.
Unfortunately, in the absence of any question, there seemed no space to provide an answer.
“My reasons for marrying are, first, I think it is a right thing for every clergyman in easy circumstance…”
