Mr. Darcy Came to Dinner (14 page)

Mr. Bennet turned to his wife. “You would have one of your daughters married to that dolt?”

Mrs. Bennet glanced at Elizabeth, biting her lip. “I . . . I must think of all the girls should evil befall you, my dear.”

In a flash, Elizabeth understood. Her mother did not hold Mr. Collins in any particular regard. Rather, she thought marriage by one of her girls to the odious Mr. Collins was the lesser of two evils. Elizabeth, being the second in line was the obvious choice. Jane, almost engaged to Mr. Bingley, was not available. Mary, at barely eighteen, was almost too young for marriage, and Kitty and Lydia were practically children.

Mr. Bennet groaned. “This is my fault.” He held his face in his hands. “My dear, forgive me. I should not have teased you so all these years.”

“Teased me? What do you mean?”

Mr. Bennet sighed. “It is all in my will. There will be enough money set aside to provide you a cottage in the case of my demise and a little more besides. Though not in the style to which you have become accustomed, Mrs. Bennet, you certainly shall
not
starve in the hedgerows.”

“A . . . a cottage?” Mrs. Bennet could hardly believe it. “I am to have a cottage?”

“Yes. I am sorry it is not more.”

“Oh, Mr. Bennet!” The lady dashed to her husband and, to Elizabeth’s amazement, embraced and kissed him. “A lovely little cottage! All that is delightful! Oh, you take such good care of us, my dear! A garden — shall it have a garden?”

Mr. Bennet freed himself from his wife’s assault. “It has not been purchased yet, but I see no reason why it should not. I leave those details to my Brother Philips — ”

Mrs. Bennet was beside herself. “Of course, it shall have a garden! Two gardens — one for flowers and another for vegetables! Clever Mr. Philips! Thoughtful Mr. Bennet! We are saved forever! Oh, my dear, I knew you should not be so clever for nothing!” She turned to Elizabeth. “Lizzy, my love, I hope you will forgive me foisting that horrid parson on you, but I saw no other way!” She frowned. “But now I can finally give that revolting man a piece of my mind!” With that, she stormed out of the book room.

Elizabeth, stunned by the series of events she had witnessed, stood in a corner. For his part, Mr. Bennet stared out of the window, watching the drizzle.

“Leave me, Lizzy. I have work to do.”

Elizabeth made to go but could not. “What troubles you, Father?”

“For the second time today, I have been reminded how inadequate a master and provider I have been. I have done more this morning for the village than I have done in all the years I have lived here.” He sighed. “I will certainly get credit for it, but all I did was stand about and look important. Other men paid the price. I am thoroughly ashamed of myself.”

Elizabeth was concerned. “What happened this morning with Mr. Bingley and Colonel Fitzwilliam?”

He seemed distracted at first and then said, “Nothing dire, I assure you. It is just that I have been forced to admit to myself I am not the man I pretend to be.”

“You are the best of men!” Elizabeth did not quite believe that, but she loved her father.

Mr. Bennet would have none of it, however. “Say nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing, and I ought to feel it.”

“You must not be too severe upon yourself,” replied Elizabeth.

“You may well warn me against such an evil; human nature is so prone to fall into it. No, let me once in my life feel how much I have been to blame.” He chuckled without mirth. “I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression. It will pass away soon enough.” He pulled out a sheet of paper. “I am writing to your Uncle Philips and later to your Uncle Gardiner,” he said as her wrote. “I am determined to devise ways of economy, thereby leaving more for your mother when my time comes.” He glanced at Elizabeth. “It will mean fewer fine dresses for you, my dear. I hope you understand.”

Elizabeth could feel panic creep up her throat. “I care not about that! Are you well? You have not received bad news?”

Mr. Bennet blinked. “No, I am perfectly well.” He smiled for the first time. “Fear not, child, I am not going to die. My plan is to be responsible and set more aside, that is all. Come, give me a kiss and leave me to this task. I shall see you all at tea.”

A relieved yet puzzled Elizabeth dutifully kissed her father’s cheek and left the place. As she closed the door behind her, she beheld her mother coming down the stairs in triumph.

“So much for him!” Mrs. Bennet cried with a snap of her fingers. “He is leaving directly,” she said of Mr. Collins, “but not without hearing just what I think of him and his patroness!”

“Mr. Collins is leaving Longbourn?”

“And good riddance, say I! Who needs the big oaf with all his prattling about his esteemed Lady Catherine de Bourgh? A pox on both of them!” She took Elizabeth’s hands in hers. “Do not worry, my love. When Jane secures Mr. Bingley, he will certainly throw you and your sisters in the path of other rich men!” An idea seemed to occur to her. “Perhaps . . . ” She glanced at the parlor door.

“Mama?” asked Elizabeth, dreading the answer.

“Of course! He is so clever, but so are you!” She looked hard at her second daughter. “But you must do away with your high ways and outspoken opinions, Miss Lizzy! Mr. Darcy expects deference!”

“Mother!”

Mrs. Bennet took Elizabeth’s face between her hands. “True, you have not Jane’s beauty, but you are pretty enough. If we do something with your hair,” she glanced at Elizabeth’s dress, “and your
décolletage
.”

“MOTHER!”

Her mother smiled, a familiar glint in her eye. “Just go upstairs and make yourself presentable for tea, Lizzy, and leave everything to me. Mr. Darcy will be here another month, at least. Plenty of time — oh, yes, plenty of time!”

To Elizabeth’s horror, Mrs. Bennet kissed her cheek and left for the kitchen, humming a song —
a love song
.

Elizabeth knew the Matchmaking Monster of Longbourn had a new target.

* * *

Meanwhile, safely inside Darcy’s makeshift sick room, Colonel Fitzwilliam and Bartholomew were giving their report to Darcy, Mr. Bingley having returned to Netherfield directly from Meryton. Darcy was minding none of it. His head instead was filled by the events of that morning.

What in the world had induced him to speak in that manner? Never, even with Wickham, had he been as angry. True, he could not stand by while Collins made his vile insinuations; no true gentleman could. But there were other, more proper ways of extracting Miss Elizabeth from her mortifying situation — ways that would not have him break the rules of propriety in defending the lady. Why, he had all but declared an interest in Miss Elizabeth Bennet!

I must stop deceiving myself,
he thought.
I cannot blame this on a mind clouded by concoctions. I AM interested in Miss Elizabeth. She is the most captivating creature I have ever beheld. She bewitched me at Netherfield, and nothing at Longbourn has dimmed that certain glow that surrounds her as she walks into a room. And her eyes! There is not a lady in the country that is her equal in wit, beauty, and kindness. But marry her? Make her my wife and mistress of Pemberley? Is it feasible?

Darcy’s initial objection to Miss Elizabeth, other than that stupid comment at the assembly, was her family. They were undoubtedly ridiculous, something that surely would be a degradation to his name, his standing, and Georgiana’s chances of a suitable alliance. But Lady Catherine’s visit — what he could remember of it — had been a revelation. She and Anne were worse than ever. Lady Catherine’s choice of vicar proved her judgment was as deficient as her parenting skills. How could Darcy condemn Miss Elizabeth’s family for behavior that paled in comparison to his?

To be honest, he had been treated with the utmost care and compassion by all the occupants of Longbourn, save Mr. Bennet.
That
gentleman was insolent and indolent; his saving grace was his obvious affection for his children. Could Lady Catherine say the same?

Darcy, for himself, cared not a whit for society. Dare he make an offer for the fair Elizabeth? If he could be assured that Georgiana would not be harmed by an alliance with Longbourn —

“Darcy!” cried Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Have you heard a word I have said?”

His musings broken for now, Darcy returned to his guest. “Of course, Fitz. Pray continue.”

The colonel held up a sheaf of papers. “Twenty-two pounds, eight shillings, eleven pence. It is unbelievable how much debt Wickham can accumulate in less than a week! Twenty-two, eight, and eleven — a quarter of his annual pay! At that rate, he would bankrupt all of Hertfordshire in six months!”

“Wickham is not good at much, but he is good at that.” Darcy turned to Bartholomew. “Did you have enough money?”

The valet held up Darcy’s wallet. “Fortunately, sir, most of the merchants were willing to accept a bank draft. There will be no need of additional funds.”

“You were right about Mr. Bennet’s attendance,” the colonel admitted, “otherwise, I think it would have been cash only.”

“Will it be enough?”

The colonel nodded. “Once I have a word with Colonel Forster, we can add Wickham’s gambling debts to the total. Knowing ole George, they should be substantial. We will have enough to have him taken up. Once he gets to London and the report of his arrest is in the papers, I am sure all his creditors in Town will make themselves known. We will have all the leverage we need.”

“And if he is not a fool, he will be on a ship bound for Halifax,” Darcy mused.

“You know my opinion of that,” said Fitzwilliam darkly, “but I agreed the worthless scum should have a last chance. As long as I never set eyes upon him again, I am satisfied.”

“So am I,” Darcy admitted.

A loud banging from the hallway caught their attention, and Bartholomew opened the door to investigate. The three beheld a red-faced Mr. Collins struggling with a trunk near the front door, complaining the whole time.

“Is there no one in this cursed place who will assist me? I shall remember this when I come into my inheritance!”

Darcy sat up. “Is that so, Collins? Have you forgotten already what I told you?”

The tall man jumped and yelped. He did not know he was being observed, his back being to the door. “Ah, Mr. Darcy! No, sir, I have not forgotten! It is forever implanted in my mind!”

“I doubt that,” Darcy replied. “You are leaving? Excellent choice. Bartholomew, find Mrs. Hill and have her fetch a few stout fellows to remove this man from the premises.”

“At once, sir.” Bartholomew left through the other door. Fitzwilliam made to close the door to the hallway, but Darcy stopped him.

“Collins,” he said in the same, low dangerous voice he had used before, “it is my practice to treat servants with respect. As a man who claims to have taken orders, I will expect no less from you. For your sake, I would not like to hear differently about your behavior. Do I make myself clear?”

“Per . . . perfectly, sir! I shall endeavor to remember your generous words of instruction, so similar to those my esteemed patroness has imparted to me regarding the lower classes — ”

Darcy had had enough. “Fitzwilliam, please close the door.”

Chapter 8

I
T WAS
S
UNDAY, A
grey and threatening Sunday, but remaining at home was out of the question for the Bennets. Church must be attended, and most of the inhabitants of Longbourn busied themselves donning their Sunday best — most, but not all.

Fitzwilliam Darcy was a faithful churchgoer, but his leg forced him to forgo services that day. However, he was determined to appear his best, anticipating that his sister would want to spend the Lord’s Day with him. A sponge bath refreshed his body, and his clean shirt awaited only a shave before Bartholomew did his magic with the cravat. Unfortunately, Darcy’s traveling razor had become dull.

“Forgive me, sir,” said an irritated Bartholomew. “I cannot get the blade to hold an edge. Oh! I have cut you!”

Darcy assured his valet that he hardly felt the mistake, a claim that did little to pacify his manservant.

“There must be a half-way decent bladesmith in this wilderness,” Bartholomew grumbled as he applied a cloth to Darcy’s face. “I must find one tomorrow.”

Just then the door flew open. “Mr. Darcy,” cried Miss Bingley, still wearing her bonnet and pelisse, “we came with your sister and cousin to attend church with the Bennets, but I just
had
to look in on you . . . you . . . ”

Darcy watched as Miss Bingley’s face paled. He then remembered that Bartholomew was still sopping up blood from his chin. “Bingley, come quickly!”

It was too late. Miss Bingley’s eyes rolled up, and the lady fainted dead away. Instantly, Bingley, Hurst, and Colonel Fitzwilliam tried to assist the unconscious woman without success. It was left to Mr. Bennet to provide relief.

“Oh, not again! Mrs. Bennet — your smelling salts if you please!”