Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites (36 page)

Mrs. Bennet had a trying voice when at ease; in want of something she could be quite strident. Mr. Bennet thus now chose to listen to her at his leisure for a few days more, rather than deny her, only to hear of her unhappiness all the way home. Hence, stay they did.

Adding to the happy party at Pemberley was Georgiana (who did not ride, but loved to watch those who did). Accompanying her home from London was Newton Hinchcliffe, a nephew of the Millhouses. This young man was a pale, esoteric sort of fellow (not at all as one would expect a kinsman of the Millhouses) and an Easter term graduate of Oxford.

He was prone to brooding, but Lady Millhouse had misinterpreted his lugubrious expression as poor digestion, insisting he return to the country, for she was well aware that fresh air would cure any malady. (“One good feist is all he needs,” she had announced to all.)

His despondency, however, was born not of gas, but of academia. As it happened, he had come precariously close, and then in the end, had failed to earn a coveted double first at Oxford. After suffering with him through this near miss, his family was left hanging precipitously the previous summer when, disappointed in matters educational, he had flirted with the possibility of renouncing High Church for Low. He was only rescued from this scandalous act by being reminded that did he do so, he would have to forgo not only dancing, but his impressive cerulean coat and satin waistcoat. Evangelism demanded black. Duly reprimanded (what was he thinking?), his reformist tendencies were set aside for sartorial splendour. Hence, he found consolation in self-expression.

Deciding whether to promote his soul in paint or verse tortured him for over a month, but ultimately the decision was made by merit of reason. Painting had the incentive of requiring a paid model (he did not favour landscape—the outdoors, you know), but suffered the misfortune of being untidy. This, along with the understanding that one could be staring out the window and still call oneself a writer, decided him in favour of a literary career. Once that decision was made, he only tore himself away from his London garret at the insistence of his aunt. Lady Millhouse was quite certain he should die was he never to leave town.

The imposition his window placed upon his time left little for writing and, in lieu of any from his own pen, he turned to the convenience of the published works of others. That this poet had never actually written a poem did not alter the admiration of the feminine sort. For he had a pronounced single blonde curl that just grazed a set of eyebrows over a pair of particularly soulful brown eyes. If that did not a poet bespeak, what else could? Thus saith Kitty and Maria.

Indeed, forefront in admiration of young Hinchcliffe were Miss Bennet and Miss Lucas, who, even though Elizabeth glared at them mightily, became faint in the presence of the poetic (if not poet) Newton Hinchcliffe.

The competition for young Hinchcliffe occasionally became a larger rivalry than Maria and Kitty’s friendship could withstand (Kitty once, in a snit, yanked one of Maria’s ringlets), but it was to no avail. As well-tended as was his blonde forelock, one might surmise that it was purposely upon display. But so intent was he upon examining his own angst, their swooning went for naught. Young Hinchcliffe was more quixotic in word than in deed. Thus their histrionics did not excite him to love, merely frightened him. And, much to their displeasure and Mr. Darcy’s, he sought the becalming company of Georgiana, with whom he shared a common interest in the written word.

Darcy disliked the overwrought sensibilities of young Hinchcliffe in reverse proportion to Kitty and Maria’s regard for that young man. The moment they would swoon, young Hinchcliffe took to the garden with Georgiana (which was quite as outdoors as he chose to go). The two strolled the grounds in deep conversation whilst Darcy frowned and Kitty and Maria sat glumly in the window, watching, united again in defeat.

That is, they sat there mooning over Mr. Hinchcliffe until they caught sight of a far too familiar figure emerging from a hired coach. Nothing could clear a room faster than the spectre of Mr. Collins.

It is a seldom-argued truth that events anticipated with dread occasion with much greater dispatch than those that do not. Thus, although Mr. Collins’s visit was expected, Elizabeth had not properly steeled herself by the time he arrived. However, his wife accompanied him, and the chance to see Charlotte again occasioned Mr. Collins a more welcome guest (but just by the merest margin).

He and Charlotte had travelled to Derbyshire from Kent at a great deal of personal sacrifice. As vicar to Hunsford, Mr. Collins explained to those who remained in the drawing room beyond his introduction (primarily those hitherto unacquainted with him), he rarely had time to draw himself away from his exceedingly important duties to make such a trip. He did so then only as a favour to his very favourite cousin, Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy.

“I, of course, come under the personal condescension of the Mistress of Rosings Park, Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” Mr. Collins said, then ducking his chin in all due modesty, clarified, “Mr. Darcy’s aunt.”

Satisfied that all present were aware of his elevated connexions, he bowed ever so dramatically. So deep was his genuflection, a few there were confused as to whether or not to applaud. Lady Millhouse was not among them.

“I dare say sir, you are a goose, are you not?”

Obtuseness having been elevated to his own particular level of virtuosity, Mr. Collins bowed again in Lady Millhouse’s direction to acknowledge the kind words.

Settled in the drawing room with teacups on their knees, Elizabeth engaged Charlotte in conversation. (Mr. Darcy had to take care of urgent business in another part of the house—a far, far distant part of the house.) Thus, Mr. Collins looked about the room at his illustrious company. He saw his decision had been the correct one. There were far more persons of consequence in visit to Pemberley than Rosings Park. Moreover, he was not cousin to Lady Catherine.

Yes, he was frightfully satisfied with his decision. Had he not allowed that self-satisfaction to inflate as he did, he could have saved himself a great deal of beleaguerment. As it was, he set about ingratiating himself with whomever he could. Mr. Bennet sat nearest, betwixt himself and Lady Millhouse. His uncle, Mr. Bennet, was a gentleman, but as what little he had was already entailed to Mr. Collins by reason of five daughters, the good vicar looked to Lady Millhouse for opportunity to curry favour.

“Cousin Elizabeth tells me you are a horsewoman of unparalleled proficiency, Lady Millhouse. Nothing suits the constitution better than the fresh air and exercise of a good hunt!”

However, Lady Millhouse bested even Mr. Bennet when it came to enjoying a truly fallible being.

She addressed Mr. Collins, “You have come here to hunt, Mr. Collins?”

Lady Millhouse inquiring of him? Mr. Collins was delighted by her interest, and although he had not, the suggestion from a woman of her import bade it seem much more likely.

He said, “I am most honoured at the suggestion, Lady Millhouse. I do enjoy nothing more than a hunt. And I flatter myself that there are few who enjoy taking a fence more than myself.” (He had not actually ever taken a fence, but he had been atop a horse which travelled past several.) “However, as a lowly clergyman, my wife and I were forced to travel by hired equipage. Hence, at the moment I am afoot. I fear I must,” he bowed low again, “graciously decline.”

“Nonsense! There are many horses here. I am certain Mr. Darcy will lend you one. The weather is superb! I must have you hunt!”

Hence it was decided. Elizabeth, not married to Mr. Collins, and therefore horrified at the possibly fatal consequences of his riding to the hunt, cut a look at Charlotte (who should have been). Mrs. Collins, however, betrayed nothing but benign indifference to the precariousness of her husband’s immediate future.

Whilst Mr. Collins sat upon the edge of a chair attempting to gain Lady Millhouse’s attention (“Ahem, Lady Millhouse? Lady Millhouse?”) that good lady had turned to Mr. Bennet.

“And you sir? Do you hunt?”

Having been reduced to escaping from his wife’s company to that of Mr. Collins, Mr. Bennet was in desperate enough straits to think he would like to do just that. Nothing sounded better than riding out all day with persons other than Mrs. Bennet. Indeed, if Mr. Collins truly mounted a horse, seeing that alone would be worth the trouble.

He answered, “I hunt, but it has been near a dozen years since I rode to hounds, dear Lady Millhouse. But I think it an excellent notion.”

“Lady Millhouse. Oh, Lady Millhouse,” Mr. Collins continued to try to regain her attention.

She shushed him, “Mr. Collins, do not fear, you are not imposing. Pray, he is not, is he, Elizabeth?”

Lady Millhouse had Mr. Collins by the hand and was out of the room before Elizabeth could stop either of them. Her father sat in his chair chuckling, but stopped when he looked at Charlotte. He observed the same disinterest as did Elizabeth.

Now seriously fretting, Elizabeth bade her, “He would not truly attempt such a thing, would he, Charlotte?”

Charlotte smiled a strange little smile, took another sip of tea with all the complacency of someone who saw no reason to be troubled. If Charlotte was not in fear for her husband, then Elizabeth decided it was not a burden that necessarily fell to her, and turned her worry toward her own horsemanship.

Early the next forenoon, whilst many a guest was still in their morning-gown, Lady Millhouse pounded upon Mr. Collins’s door.

With much swilling of wine, the field of riders awaited the hounds to be put in. When the hubbub surrounding the pre-hunt toasting reached its apex, Elizabeth and Scimitar eased into their midst. None too boldly, she looked about waiting to be discovered. It took her a moment to descry her husband, for he was not astride Blackjack, but rode a blood-bay named Jupiter. That he eschewed his beloved mount for the best fence horse in the barn announced just how earnestly he took such a hunt.

He spotted her, and waved a greeting. Forthwith of occasioning that happy beckoning was his simultaneous recognition of Scimitar beneath her and what that betokened. He was quite unamused.

“Pray, what design do you propose? Where is Lady?”

“Under a guest who does not intend to jump, one must suppose,” Elizabeth answered firmly.

He turned about in his saddle searching for Fitzwilliam. When he espied him upon an unfamiliar black gelding, he affixed him with an icy stare. Witnessing it, Fitzwilliam flicked the end of his reins against his palm, pursed his lips, and remained silent. Darcy redirected his ire to his wife. However, his voice remained very calm, in a curious, strained way.

“Pray, how do you come to ride Scimitar, Elizabeth?”

Fitzwilliam overcame his quiet to rise to her defence.

“A surprise for you, Darcy. She has been under instruction every day…”

However, his voice trailed off, as if not really determined to provoke Darcy further. Despite such consideration, his cousin’s temper was roiling quite magnificently.

To Elizabeth, Darcy repeated, “Every day, indeed. I am all astonishment.”

His anger surpassed any pique she might have imagined. His face overspread with a shade of hauteur rivalling the one that she had witnessed that fateful evening in Kent. Eventually, it took on a most peculiar and unpleasant rosy hue.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam declared me capable of handling Scimitar and that you would not deny me the hunt,” she said sprightly.

Her attempt at a smile died a dismal death, however, and she felt a bit cowardly about ricocheting the blame back toward Fitzwilliam, the success of which exacerbated her guilt. Darcy returned his glare to Fitzwilliam, who sat very straight in his saddle and drew upon the reins of his horse, edging him away.

Still holding Fitzwilliam in his eye, Darcy said to Elizabeth, “How frightfully happy I am to know that Colonel Fitzwilliam knows my mind better than I myself. I shall be certain to confer with him in the future and ask him what is my will that day. It will save my mind a great deal of bother.”

Fitzwilliam looked a bit disconcerted by Darcy’s sarcasm. Elizabeth was shocked by it herself, for she was certain he was, for some reason, angrier at Fitzwilliam’s complicity than at her covertness. The ill-conception of the entire scheme was falling readily apparent when Lady Millhouse turned her horse to join them.