Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (47 page)

Georgiana was alternately incensed and hurt. And expressed it vehemently.

“He does not trust me to make my life my own! I am to spend my time as he thinks I should, take company with those that he chooses! In his eyes I shall ever be a naïve and should look to him for my every decision!”

Her rant vented, she looked at Elizabeth who made no becalming assurances that her brother’s intentions were not all that unreasonable. Neither did she offer qualifications to soften his dicta. No apologies, no excuses.

“That, I should say,” Elizabeth said, “is exactly correct.”

Hence, Georgiana stood looking petulant for a moment until she and Elizabeth both began to smile and eventually laugh.

Georgiana finally asked Elizabeth, “Then, how shall he ever react to this?”

Out of the folds of her dress, she produced a letter. It was addressed to Georgiana and the seal had been broken. Newton Hinchcliffe had fulfilled his promise. A publisher wrote inquiring if it might be agreeable that the first printing of her book be at least fifteen hundred copies.

Their collective delight exceeded the joy at the word “tea.” After a jubilant, if silent pantomime of euphoria, they sat in a laughing heap. Her bosom heaving with merriment, Georgiana shook her head in defeat.

“Brother will never allow it.”

Elizabeth plucked the letter from her fingers as she swept passed Georgiana and out the door.

Over her shoulder as she went in search of Brother, she trilled, “We will see, will we not?”

Darcy sat behind his desk in his library, ledgers open. But he was not at them, intent as he was upon mending his pen. However busy he made himself look, Elizabeth was certain he was still trying to justify his stern ultimatums. His affection for Georgiana was deep. He would regret wounding her, no matter how righteous he thought his position. Guilt, his wife believed, might just be the most advantageous chain to yank for this particular application.

“You have made your sister weep,” she accused.

“I expected no less than for you to come, Lizzy,” he said, then hurried toward -absolution, “You know I cannot allow her to see such a man as Henry Howgrave. He is an affront. His entire family is an affront…”

“’Tis not only that. You tell her she must not see to the sick. She must not school a groom. She must not speak to those who offer her friendship. What of her own will have you left to her? You have thwarted her every interest, her every pursuit. Will you not be satisfied until she ends up a Miss Bingley?”

That stung, she knew. Contrition nibbled at her a little, but not unduly. He did not reply, but sighed. Apparently, this was expended in dejected martyrdom. It fell upon his abused shoulders alone to make Georgiana unhappy. If compunction be served, who else would do the deed?

In silence, Elizabeth unfolded the letter from the publisher and set it before him. He read it, but did not look up.

“You must allow her something. Which shall it be? The poor? A groom? Mr. Howgrave? Or the anonymity of ‘A Derbyshire Lady’?”

Darcy sat there a moment longer. She cringed ever so slightly and even gave a start when he abruptly reached out. Unnecessarily, for he grabbed her by the wrists only to draw her onto his lap. Wrapping his arms about her waist, he kissed her wetly upon the neck. Her entreaty was going better than she ever anticipated.

Quite solemnly, he thereupon asked, “Do you fancy Georgiana has any idea the intrepid ally she has in you?”

Georgiana’s alliance with Elizabeth was endangered by only the mildest of complaint. It was not spoken of, however, for it was one in which Elizabeth had no voice. Does not all mankind suffer under the inability to select whom one has as relations?

* * *

Georgiana’s book was published to modest acclaim. Word quickly circled of the identity of “A Derbyshire Lady” unwittingly by way of Elizabeth. For she told Jane, who told Mrs. Bennet, who told everyone including Lady Lucas, who told her daughter, Charlotte Collins. Charlotte, always in search of conversational topics in her husband’s company (or he would hold the floor relentlessly), told him. Georgiana was by turns pleased, skittish, and mortified by all the clamouring attention.

Far too often mortification and fear overwhelmed her, and Elizabeth fretted the fame (even in so small a dose) might frighten her from society compleatly. This, unknowingly, was preparation for collision, for soon one May day, providence was so unkind as to find Georgiana with Elizabeth at Kirkland Hall when the Collinses’ visit to Jane overlapped theirs. It could be appreciated, owing to a good understanding of Mr. Collins obsequious nature, that coming into company with the exceedingly well-stationed (and thereupon prominent) authoress, Georgiana Darcy, he was almost prostrate with admiration.

Cornered in the parlour partaking of afternoon tea, Georgiana sat captive in a chair. For facing her on the sofa opposite was Mr. Collins. Thus, so suddenly in need, Mr. Collins newly applauded himself that he had taken the necessary time to rehearse. For he entertained many a carefully thought-out tribute to those of station and bestowed them most generously upon Miss Darcy. (Betimes he did have to draw a tiny, judiciously pre-folded piece of paper from his pocket with the proffered compliment to remind himself of the exact wording. But otherwise, such enterprise must be congratulated.)

Marshalling these snippets was a more complicated endeavour than the casual observer might suspect. For his compliments were divided not only by gender, but social strata as well. Left waistcoat upper pocket, men of rank. Left lower, men of lesser. Upper waistcoat right, ladies of rank. Lower waistcoat right, other ladies in general. The waistband of his breeches he saved for all-purpose adulations, mostly about the superb weather. (There was that unfortunate incident when one compliment upon the cloudless sky did work free of his waistband and insinuated itself in many-cornered discomfort in Mr. Collins nether region, thus initiating a provocative leg-waggling jig from him that incited a great deal of mortification amongst those in his company at the time.)

After expending all other notion of laudatory statement upon Georgiana’s behalf in regards to her beauty and refinement, he hastened also to effusive praise for her new occupation as a woman of letters. Those exhausted, Mr. Collins leaned over and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Not many know this Miss Darcy, but, I also have had pretensions to publish. Alas, my Christian work has left me little time to pursue such a worthy pursuit.”

From her seat upon the far side of the sofa, Elizabeth had been talking to Charlotte, but her attention was snatched as soon as Collins lowered his voice.

Elizabeth had issued a somewhat blanket apology to Darcy’s family about her cousin, the vicar, but was more than usually concerned when she could not hear what he was saying in such a secretive manner. (Those mortifications of which one is witting pale in the presence of those imagined.)

She excused herself to Charlotte, stood, walked to the tea table to refill her half-empty cup, and returned only as far as to the left of Georgiana’s chair. This manoeuvre was preparatory in defence of the expected onslaught to her sister-in-law’s delicate sensibilities.

Mr. Collins barely glanced at his cousin, so enthralled was he in his confidences with Miss Darcy. (His profuse adulations for the wife of Mr. Darcy were abandoned as soon as he espied, shall we say, new opportunistic waters to troll.)

He said, “I cannot tell you what fortune it is, Miss Darcy, that indeed, I just happen to have upon my person a few story notes I had once considered elabourating upon myself. I should not flatter myself to think, had I the time, that I might do them the justice as one of your talent. But I should be most honoured if you did me the honour of taking them under advisement for your own use.” (Occasionally, Mr. Collins’s enthusiasm for station lapsed into repetitious use of gratitude.)

Until only recently blessed with a mere nodding acquaintance with the vicar, Georgiana said politely, “I thank you, Mr. Collins, how kind.”

Had she known him better, she might well have fled the room. As it was, she sat still as a stone, betrayed only by her eyes, which commenced to blink with rapidity. Mr. Collins pressed a handkerchief to his perpetually moist upper lip and glanced to either side before continuing, perchance to make certain there was no nefarious blackguard skulking about Kirkland in employment of stealing his plots.

With great foreboding, Elizabeth put a hand of reassurance upon Georgiana’s shoulder. For Mr. Collins pulled a stack of notepaper thick enough to pad a sofa from beneath his waistcoat (scattering a few tiny little tributes to men of rank as he did). Did he, Elizabeth wondered, actually carry these about in the unlikely hope of finding such an opportunity? Apparently. And she could not argue his perseverance, for opportunity was surely thrust before him.

Holding the first page up, he announced, “My first is a story of a virtuous but poor vicar, of chaste heart and pure thoughts, who falls in love with the daughter of a villainous earl.”

He took that paper from the top of the stack and moved it with an impressively silly flourish to beneath. At that, Elizabeth’s fingers dug ever-so-slightly into her sister-in-law’s shoulder in obvious mortification of her cousin’s unceasing, and newly appreciated, gall.

“How nice,” Georgiana said.

A keen lack of interest from his audience was understood by Mr. Collins to mean he should lengthen his recitation rather than desist. This, because he was under the profound misconception (one of many it would seem) that if one is operating at a loss, doubling one’s effort will increase one’s profit, not double one’s depletion.

He read from the next, “This one tells of a poor but virtuous” (as opposed to virtuous but poor) “vicar who is thwarted from literary aspirations by a depraved plagiarist, persecuted by society envious of his refinement, and forced to flee civilised society…”

Mr. Collins had to take a breath here, for his chest was actually obliged to heave as his words conjured for him the vision of the aggrieved, virtuous, and literate clergyman of his story.

There were many, many more. As he read from each and every single piece of paper, it was obvious, had one had the poor judgement to hope otherwise, that there was a profound similarity betwixt his heroes and heroines. Beyond honour, valour, virtue, beauty, and abhorrence of the tithe system, they all had an unrelenting deficit of wit. This was undoubtedly inherited by them from their author who had the same deficit, but, alas, none other of those sterling qualities he bequeathed his characters (save objection to the tithe question).

“And this one!”

Mr. Collins’s voice raised an octave in his excitement of having, after three-quarters of an hour, reached his favourite.

“This one is about a devout, modest, and unusually handsome vicar who is forced to take leave of his of home to save England in some manner. There are a few story details to be worked upon that one, of course.”

“I do beg your pardon, Mr. Collins. Could you possibly forgive me? I have just come down with a most excruciating head-ache.”

Attempting to quit the room, Georgiana pressed the back of her fingers to her forehead in true distressed heroine fashion.

Elizabeth had let go of her shoulder as she stood and stepped back. But she had the good sense to keep the chair betwixt herself and Mr. Collins, uncertain she could overcome the intense need she had to strike him.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” Mr. Collins said as he stood and bowed. “Perhaps I have bestowed too much anticipation upon you. Could I just entrust these memoranda with you? Do use them at your convenience.”

“No, no,” he insisted when she demurred. “Take them. I have several copies.”

Georgiana retreated from the room clutching the papers. As she did, Elizabeth turned away and gulped down half a cup of hot tea. (And whether that peculiar little noise she emitted was from searing the roof of her mouth or perturbation, we shall never quite know.)

Mr. Collins sat down and looked about to the others in the room (which had been forsaken within the previous half-hour by all but Jane, Bingley, Charlotte, and Elizabeth), oblivious to their silence. With an expression of satisfied benevolence upon his face, he gazed about the room. Whilst he looked about, he could not quite contain his glee. Nudging Charlotte, he whispered excitedly to her.

“I wonder which of my stories she will choose.”

His wandering musings drawing his attention to the far corners of the room, he did not see Charlotte gift him a look of stifled mortification (one she had perfected by reason of a great deal of practise).

Hence, he asided to her again, “Perhaps she will dedicate the book to me!”

Thereupon, he set about a low conversation, more with himself than Charlotte, “Perhaps I shall send Miss Darcy a note suggesting just that. It will save her the trouble of thinking of it.”

Because he was not yet looking at Charlotte, he did not see her eyes had not left him, but her usual complacent gaze had mutated into a stare of confounded incredulity.

Yet contemplating, he said, “If she offers me compensation, I shall certainly refuse it.”

Charlotte eyes widened when, upon reconsideration, he said, “Perhaps a small gift of money. That would not be unchristian, would it?”

He looked at his wife for her Christian assurances. Because her face was just inches from his, it startled him. He turned his head carefully about to face the others in the room, drew his handkerchief from his sleeve, and mopped his forehead and upper lip. If his wife’s look was cautionary, it did not find its duty for long. For he reached down to retrieve the little pieces of paper that had fallen from his lap to the floor.

Thereupon, he dropped them, one at a time, onto his outstretched, upturned palm. Moreover, as he did, he was already composing Miss Darcy’s note in his mind.

* * *

This Collins encounter was mercifully brief, Elizabeth and Georgiana immediately conjuring a reason to return to Pemberley. The excuse had something to do with Georgiana’s extended head-ache, and if it was somewhat convoluted, no one at Kirkland (save Vicar Collins) questioned it.