Chapter Seven #2
Mr. Collins was a heavy sort of man in his mid-twenties.
He spoke a number of words but seemed to say very little of meaning.
He opined long and complicated speeches about subjects that interested him.
Subjects that interested him included his own accomplishments, the Lady Catherine de Bourgh, his patron, and potatoes.
He seemed to have a deep love for potatoes.
So, when her mother spoke of the possibility of a connection between Mr. Bingley and Jane in the presence of Mr. Collins, Elizabeth did not contradict it, for she thought it would be better for Jane not to have to marry that wretched man.
If she gave much thought to the idea of who Mr. Collins would turn to next, she brushed it aside, because she was consumed, quite often, with thoughts of Mr. Darcy.
She could sort of always feel him. It was not as if she could read his thoughts or anything of that nature, but just that she could sort of sense him there, all the time.
It was akin to the feeling one has when one knows one is being watched, a sensation similar to that.
When Mr. Darcy had emotions, however, she could feel those, too, and if she allowed them, they could be overwhelming and she could feel his emotions as if they were her own.
Luckily, Mr. Darcy was a fairly measured person. Sometimes, though, anger flared through her, and she had to be quite diligent about pushing Mr. Darcy aside, not allowing him to overtake her.
She was distracted by one other thing, and that was the appearance of a certain Mr. Wickham.
At first, she paid Mr. Wickham positively no mind, because he was just another of the officers.
She walked with her sisters to Meryton, it was true, and the younger girls fawned over the officers, but Elizabeth ignored them.
She met Mr. Wickham one day, and he was a handsome man with sparkling eyes and a dimple in one cheek.
She forgot him immediately afterwards, however.
Then, they all dined in town at the Philips’s house.
Her aunt was Mrs. Philips, so Elizabeth was quite accustomed to having suppers there.
This supper included not only herself and her sisters and Mr. Collins and her parents but a number of the officers as well.
It was quite a gathering, and afterwards, the party broke down in tables to play cards.
Elizabeth found herself at a table with Mr. Wickham. Neither of them joined in the whist game, so they were both sitting there while the others at the table were engrossed in the playing, and this afforded them the time to speak.
At first, they only spoke about polite subjects like the weather and such. But then she inquired where he was from, and he told her that he was from Derbyshire, that he had grown up on an estate called Pemberley, and Elizabeth recognized the name of the estate as being Mr. Darcy’s.
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Wickham. “Yes, I grew up on the Darcy estate. My father is the steward there, you see.”
Elizabeth remembered Mr. Hurst’s story, that Mr. Darcy had assumed the identity of the real Mr. Darcy after his untimely death in a fire.
She wondered how all of that would work with servants and the like.
Certainly they would notice that Mr. Darcy was not, in fact, Mr. Darcy. How had that been explained to them?
Perhaps they had all been charmed, she thought, but that was quite a great deal of charming, and she understood that it didn’t work well on people who would be confronted with the contradiction with the truth nearly every day.
“How do you know of Mr. Darcy?” said Mr. Wickham.
“Oh,” she said, “well, he is in residence quite close by, staying with the Bingleys, who have rented out the Netherfield estate.”
An expression crossed Wickham’s face that let her know he knew of the Bingleys, that he knew exactly what they all were. “I should stay clear of that if I were you, madam,” he said.
And she, unable to help herself, let out a helpless little laugh, and said, “I fear it may be too late for that.”
He turned on her, quite serious, and then leaned in close. “Let us take a turn about the room so that we may talk without being overheard?”
She nodded.
They excused themselves from the table and wandered, giving the appearance of it all being quite casual, out of earshot of everyone else.
“You know what he is,” said Mr. Wickham when they were sure no one else was listening.
“You mean, a vampire,” she breathed.
Wickham’s nostrils flared.
“Have you always known?” she said. “I should think, when the original Darcy was no longer the boy you had watched growing up, that it would have been obvious.”
“Yes,” said Wickham. “Very obvious.”
“But you do not speak of it?”
“I am speaking of it to you,” he said. “I suppose I don’t do anything that would make things difficult for Miss Darcy, though I can’t say why that is anymore.”
“No?”
“When she was a small girl, she was quite sweet, but she has grown haughty and dismissive the older she gets,” said Mr. Wickham.
“I do not like her being looked after by that fiend, but what am I to do? They claim he is leashed, that he will protect the family at all costs, some sort of kept demon, but I don’t know if I think it’s true. ”
“You think he’s dangerous,” she whispered.
“He’s bitten you, hasn’t he?”
She went entirely still, unable to look in Mr. Wickham’s eyes.
“Oh, God in heaven, Miss Bennet, I am sorry.”
She started to walk again and he came with her. They were quiet for some time.
He spoke again. “How could it be anything other than dangerous, Miss Bennet? He is a monster. He thirsts for your blood. He could take too much and kill you. You would have no ability to stop him. You’d likely enjoy it when he made your heart stop beating.”
She swallowed hard, for she’d had these thoughts. “Well, he is not paying me any mind anymore. I have not seen him in days. I think he means to leave me alone.”
“For your sake, I hope so,” said Mr. Wickham. “Because they are very hard to kill.”
“You don’t wish to kill him!” said Elizabeth.
“They kill us,” he said.
“No, they do not,” said Elizabeth. “They told me several times that they didn’t.”
Wickham scoffed. “And a monster who was going to kill you would never lie, of course,” he said sardonically.
Elizabeth nodded. “I see your point.” She let out a breath. “Truthfully, something happened with… with one of the Bingley sisters. I think she might have tried to kill me.”
“The Bingley sisters.” Mr. Wickham’s voice cracked.
“You know of them,” she said, for she knew before that he had recognized the name.
“Aye, I have been well acquainted,” he said caustically.
“Bitten?” she said.
He squared his shoulders.
She licked her lips. “Mr. Darcy rescued me and he gave me his blood, which made me strong and whole, but… now, I feel him all the time.”
“What?” said Mr. Wickham, turning on her in alarm. “Miss Bennet, he has taken the first step to turn you into one of them.”
Her eyes widened. “No.”
“He may have thought he had little choice,” said Mr. Wickham. “After all, you would have died otherwise. But the fact remains that you are now halfway to becoming one of them.”
“Halfway?” she said. “What does that mean?”
“It means that if you were to drink a human’s blood, you would turn,” said Mr. Wickham. “Do you find yourself craving it?”
“No,” said Elizabeth, for she definitely was not craving blood.
“There is only one way to put it all back to rights for you,” said Wickham. “You must kill the vampire who gave you his blood.”
She drew back. “I would not kill Mr. Darcy!”
“Shh!” He looked about.
She had said it rather loudly, she supposed, and she bowed her head, embarrassed.
“He deserves it,” said Mr. Wickham. “If you knew the sorts of suffering he has heaped upon my head, you would agree.”
“Well, what sort of suffering has he heaped on your head?”
“He has stymied me in all manner of ways,” said Mr. Wickham. “Money was left by the late Mr. Darcy—the elder Mr. Darcy—for my education.”
“He didn’t allow you to be educated?”
“No, he did,” said Mr. Wickham, “but then when I wished to use that education to make myself a living, he blocked me from getting the position.”
“But why would he do that?” said Elizabeth.
“Who knows? He’s a monster.”
Elizabeth thought that sounded very strange. “It doesn’t seem like something he’d do,” she said quietly.
“Well, it hardly matters, I suppose,” said Mr. Wickham. “If you don’t fancy becoming a blood-drinking monster, you must kill him.”
“Yes, but I couldn’t!” said Elizabeth.
“So you say,” said Mr. Wickham.
Elizabeth twisted her fingers together. “If I changed my mind, would you… help me?”
Mr. Wickham looked her over. “I don’t know about that, Miss Bennet. They are very difficult to kill.”
“W-well, how does one do it?”
“Fire,” he said. “Sun.”
Her eyes widened.
“Cutting off their heads doesn’t even work,” said Mr. Wickham.
“But how could that not…”
“They regenerate,” he said. “Like lizards.”
Elizabeth had not known that lizards did that. She blinked rapidly, thinking this over.
“They are frightfully strong and not easily subdued,” said Wickham.
She bit down on her bottom lip. “But it all sounds hopeless, then.”
Wickham looked her over, pity in his expression. “I am ever so sorry this happened to you, Miss Bennet. I should stay clear of him if I were you. And do not believe what tales he tells you. He is not to be trusted, you see. He is a monster.”