Mr. Darcy Came to Dinner (38 page)

Thanks to the loving example of his wife, Mr. Darcy became more amiable and approachable, and acquaintances were astonished to see that the man
could
smile, after all. The Bennet family became his in his heart, and he withstood the foibles of his in-laws with great forbearance and charity.

A more unusual change was the chatter about Pemberley that from the private chambers of the house late at night a deep, masculine voice was occasionally heard singing love songs. Neither Mrs. Darcy’s maid nor Mr. Darcy’s valet would give credence to the gossip. Bartholomew particularly refused even to discuss the possibility of those reports’ accuracy.

The more distant members of the Darcy family were soon enchanted by the new mistress of Pemberley. The Gardiners became great favorites of the couple, and the families were often seen in each other’s homes in Derbyshire and London. The Fitzwilliams, after a bit of resistance,
generally
accepted Mrs. Darcy into their circle. Generally, the author reports, for Eugenie, Viscountess Fitzwilliam, ever aware of her destiny of becoming the matriarch of the House of Matlock, was a constant source of aggravation with her snide remarks and superior airs. Elizabeth withstood her barbs without injury, and amusingly observed to her dear husband that Eugenie’s extraordinary obnoxiousness put the former Miss Bingley’s previous behavior to shame.

As for her cousin, the improved Caroline Fitzwilliam, it might be too much to expect for Elizabeth and Caroline to be truly close and dear friends, but to the relief of their husbands, they were very cordial and enjoyed each other’s company when family gatherings took place. They were particularly inseparable when the viscountess was at her most annoying. Colonel Fitzwilliam claimed it was because the two ladies formed a unified front before a common enemy. Mrs. Fitzwilliam would rebuke her husband for his impertinence but never openly denied it.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh was extremely indignant at the marriage of her nephew, and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character in her reply to the letter announcing its arrangement, she sent him language so abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time all intercourse between aunt and nephew was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth’s persuasion, Darcy was prevailed upon to overlook the offence and seek a reconciliation, and after a little additional resistance on the part of his aunt, Lady Catherine’s resentment gave way, either because of her affection for him or her curiosity to see how his wife conducted herself. She condescended to wait on them at Pemberley in spite of that pollution which its woods had received.

The annual gift of a case of very fine French Cognac for Anne de Bourgh on the occasion of her birthday, acquired through the patronage of Mr. Gardiner, certainly helped matters along between Rosings and Pemberley.

Charlotte Lucas’s loss of Mr. Collins was painful only in her fear and her family’s worries of her never finding a husband. But due to Miss Lucas’s visits to Darcy House in London and some slightly underhanded efforts of Mrs. Darcy, an attachment grew between Charlotte and a brother officer to Colonel Fitzwilliam. True, Northanger Abbey is quite a distance from Hertfordshire, and Captain Tilney might seem a bit wild for Elizabeth’s plain friend, but stranger marriages have proven successful, and there was no reason to believe that theirs would be more or less than was expected of such unions of the day.

All in all, the author can report that all lived happily ever after.

Or did they . . . ?

Epilogue

T
HE MERCHANT SHIP SLOWLY
made its way through the gray-blue North Atlantic seas. The winds of March were sharp and cold that mid-day, forcing most of those taking passage to the North American colonies deep below decks. The captain and his crew hurried about at their usual tasks, hardly taking notice of the sole passenger who leaned on the larboard railing, deep in thought. The man was tall, his dark hair whipping in the breeze, his handsome face drawn and grim. His name was George Wickham, late of His Majesty’s ——shire militia, and he was sailing to Canada to begin again.

His solitary musings were interrupted by an intruder — a tall, stocky man in black who had just come up from below, his hat pulled down over his head. “May I join you, sir?” he asked Mr. Wickham.

“Stay downwind if you must empty your stomach, if you please,” replied he.

“Oh, no, I am not in distress; indeed I have been blessed with a remarkable constitution. It is my custom to take in the fresh air, so beneficial to one’s health. I see you share my opinion.”

“Actually, the air below was foul.” Mr. Wickham looked hard at the man. “Do I know you, sir? You seem familiar.”

“My name is Mr. William Collins. And with whom do I have the honor of conversing?”

Mr. Wickham introduced himself. “I remember you now. I met you in a small village in Hertfordshire — Meryton, it was. Yes, it was in the street, not long after I arrived.”

Mr. Collins looked at his companion, working his memory. “Yes . . . I thought you in the militia.”

“I thought you a clergyman,” Mr. Wickham shot back. “What are you doing here?”

“Sailing for Canada to minister to the heathens.”

“A missionary, then.” Mr. Wickham narrowed his eyes. “I thought you had a living in Kent from Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

The tall man’s face darkened. “I did, I certainly did — but no longer. It was stolen from me!”

“What? It was my understanding that a living was for life.”

“I am an innocent victim of circumstance and villainy!” Mr. Collins declared. “I labored unceasingly to minister to the needs of my flock, always taking the advice of my patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh — may she rot — into account. My door was open to my parish at all hours. That was my downfall, my good sir. I was too trusting!” He shook his head. “A village girl came, a pretty little thing, seeking spiritual guidance. A young man had made unwelcomed advances, and she feared for her soul. Such tears, such distress! It was my duty to offer comfort in any way I could. She needed and appreciated my attentions, I dare say. No harm was done. I will go to my grave saying that the girl was in a far better humor when she left than when she came.”

Mr. Wickham smiled understandingly. “Of course, they usually are. So did her family find out?”

“No, but it seems that the servant provided by my patroness — an evil woman if ever there was one — was under orders to report back to her. Apparently, she made it sound as though I forced myself upon the girl. All rubbish, of course. Indeed, the girl practically threw herself at me! But I was given no chance to defend myself. Lady Catherine — a pox upon her name — summoned me to Rosings a week later to inform me personally that my services were no longer required, that she accepted my resignation, and that I should vacate Hunsford parsonage immediately.

“Of course, I demanded my right to face my accuser as any good Englishman. But my patroness’s blasted nephew said that the evidence was undisputable, that he had personally interviewed the girl, and that if I wished to avoid prosecution for assault, I should accept Lady Catherine’s generous offer of resignation. I had no choice.”

“Nephew?” Mr. Wickham scowled. “Do you mean Darcy?”

“You know the scoundrel, do you?” cried Mr. Collins.

“Unfortunately, I do.”

“That devil’s spawn was behind it all! In quick order I was commanded to Westminster, for there was an investigation into my ordination. Leading the inquiry was Bishop Darcy, the uncle of the man himself. Was that coincidence? I think not! They accused me of buying my ordination!”

“Did you?”

“Of course, I did! It is done all the time! I had some money my miserly father left me. All those funds gone, and for nothing!” Mr. Collins seethed. “Do you know they sat me in a chair and examined my knowledge of Scripture as if I were a child in Sunday school? It was an insult to my dignity.”

“I take it you did not do well.”

“Trick questions, all of them! Besides, why should I remember my lessons? Is that not why we have a Bible? This was all a personal vendetta against me by the Darcy family. And do you know why? Because Mr. Darcy wanted the woman I was to marry!”

“Really?” Mr. Wickham was intrigued. “What woman was that?”

“My cousin, Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She was with me the day we met in Meryton.”

“Hmm . . . the lovely blond lady?”

“No, that was her sister, Miss Jane Bennet — now Mrs. Bingley. Miss Elizabeth has brown curly hair and a light and pleasing figure.”

“Ah, the one with the fiery eyes! I remember her! Yes, I can see why Darcy wanted her. Too bad, old boy.”

“That is not the worst of it,” growled Mr. Collins. “At the same time as the investigation into my ordination, Mr. Darcy’s lawyers were devising a way to steal Longbourn from me! You see, I was the heir to Miss Elizabeth’s family estate. But there was a clause prohibiting immoral conduct in the entail, and Mr. Bennet, assisted by Mr. Darcy’s lawyers, was successful in breaking it, using the supposed ‘assault’ in Hunsford as an example of my so-called ‘ethical deficiencies.’ I was left with no living and no expectations!

“Therefore, when the bishops in Westminster offered me the choice of suffering defrocking or going on a mission, what real choice had I?”

“So, let me understand you,” said Mr. Wickham. “Mr. Darcy managed to steal your living, your inheritance, and your woman.”

“That is a fair estimation of the calamity that has befallen me.”

Mr. Wickham laughed. “By God, if your story does not sound like mine! It seems you and I are brothers of a sort, for that devil from Derbyshire did the same thing to me!” At Mr. Collins’s inquiry, Mr. Wickham related his off-told tale, which, gentle reader, does not bear repeating here.

“To the devil with Fitzwilliam Darcy!” declared Mr. Collins after Mr. Wickham finished. “But, what are your plans now?”

“Well, I cannot return to England; that is certain. But it matters not. I mean to make my fortune in the New World. And you? Do you still plan to proselytize to the Red Indians?”

“What choice do I have?” Mr. Collins complained. “I cannot eat otherwise. My income is dependent upon the Church.”

“Hmm . . . have you any money?”

Mr. Collins became wary. “A very little. Being a parish priest is not the most lucrative situation in the world. Why do you ask?”

“Ha! I will wager you have more that you say! There is always a little in the poor box, what?”

Mr. Collins could not help but smile. “True. After all, who is a better representative of the ‘deserving poor’ than I?”

“A man after my own heart!” Mr. Wickham lowered his voice. “My trouble always has been that I had no help. Working by oneself is too hard. But if two clever fellows combined their funds and joined forces — ” He waggled his eyebrows.

Mr. Collins smiled. “I begin to comprehend your way of thinking, my dear sir. What do you have in mind?”

Mr. Wickham looked about. “Not here — too many ears. Let us postpone this conversation until we have more privacy. How about a drink, eh? I have a bottle of wine in my trunk. I have been saving it for such an occasion. Let us drink to our partnership!”

Mr. Collins laughed an evil laugh. “Our Lord commands us to enjoy the fruit of the vine, so lead on, George!” He extended his hand.

Mr. Wickham took it. “Billy, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

And thus was a notorious fellowship born, ready and willing to reap whatever the New World had to offer.

Oh, Canada!

The End

About the Author

Jack Caldwell is an author, amateur historian, professional economic developer, playwright, and like many Cajuns, a darn good cook. Born and raised in the Bayou County of Louisiana, Jack and his wife, Barbara, are Hurricane Katrina victims who now make the upper Midwest their home.

His nickname — The Cajun Cheesehead — came from his devotion to his two favorite NFL teams: the New Orleans Saints and the Green Bay Packers. Always a history buff, Jack found and fell in love with Jane Austen in his twenties, struck by her innate understanding of the human condition. Jack uses his work to share his knowledge of history. Through his characters, he hopes the reader gains a better understanding of what went on before, developing an appreciation for our ancestors’ trials and tribulations.

Jack is the author of two Jane Austen-themed books. PEMBERLEY RANCH is a retelling of
Pride & Prejudice
set in Reconstruction Texas. THE THREE COLONELS is a sequel to
Pride & Prejudice
and
Sense & Sensibility
.

When not writing or traveling with Barbara, Jack attempts to play golf. A devout convert to Roman Catholicism, Jack is married with three grown sons.

Jack’s blog postings — The Cajun Cheesehead Chronicles — appear regularly at
austenauthors.net
.

Other Novels by Jack Caldwell

Available now from Sourcebooks Landmark:

PEMBERLEY RANCH

THE THREE COLONELS —
Jane Austen’s Fighting Men