Chapter 4 #2
William’s mother had died in childbirth and his father had been practically illiterate, a man of little or no interest in learning.
His father was a miser who had only cared about penny pinching, making William go to school in clothes that were too small and tight for the frame that had always been bigger than other boys his age.
He had grown up in this seclusion, never knowing his genteel relatives like the Bennets because his father was a sour, quarrelsome man who had feuded with everyone and anyone.
And thus my husband had never grown up knowing the ways of polite society.
Because of his upbringing, he did not mingle well at university and did not make the sort of friends his own age that might have shown him how men his age generally behaved.
The fact that Lady Catherine had offered him a living at only 25 was such an unexpected and unbelievably gratifying act, after years of his miserly and tight father, that William did not know how to do anything other than be grateful.
And even his worst enemy couldn’t accuse him of being ungrateful.
But I wanted to tell him that, even though Lady Catherine had given him the living, he was the one who preached the sermons, made the visits, listened to the parish concerns.
I passed around the small cakes as Mr. Collins moved on to Lizzy’s family, praising both Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. In this, he fondly believed he was pleasing his listeners, but Lizzy’s relationship with her mother had never been good, and I knew Mr. Darcy found her frankly a horror.
He took a breath to take a big bite of cake, and it was Mrs. Darcy’s turn to speak.
“How are things at Rosings?” Lizzy asked, and I felt a cold trickle of fear go down my spine as I saw my husband choke on his cake, coughing loudly, his gray eyes looking roundly horrified at the assembled company.
He was not a very good liar.
“Are you all right?” Mr. Darcy asked.
“All things considered,” William said, looking at me with a panicked expression on his face and running a hand under his collar, “things are going very well there, very well indeed. The garden at Rosings has never looked more magnificent, for example.” I could see the beads of sweat begin to appear on his forehead.
This odd speech was of course entirely suspicious to Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth.
“Is something the matter at Rosings?” Mr. Darcy asked sharply.
“Why no, why should there be?” my husband asked, turning anguished eyes to me.
I thawed a bit. This was Lizzy and Darcy’s first trip back to Rosings after their marriage. I knew everyone was anxious that it go well.
“I don’t think it’s anything serious,” I said. “Some of the pigs have been misplaced is all.”
Mr. Darcy and Lizzy laughed at that, and I think it would have been passed off well enough if my husband hadn’t brought out a large ornate handkerchief to wipe his forehead, with an audible sigh of relief.
Mr. Darcy narrowed his eyes and gave me a sharp and uncomfortably searching look, but said nothing.
We finished up our tea, and then all walked over to Rosings, the Darcys’ groom bringing their carriage into Lady Catherine’s stables.
Anne, Mr. Radcliffe, and Sir Francis were all waiting near the door to greet us.
I introduced Lizzy to the two gentlemen.
“How is a beautiful woman like you still unmarried?” Mr. Radcliffe asked, bending low over her slim hand. “You are the very picture of perfection.”
He held her hand tight, his mouth lingering over her fingers.
“She is married,” I heard a deep voice behind me growl. “To me.”
Mr. Radcliffe looked up, a bit flustered despite himself, to see Mr. Darcy stalk into the room. Never far from his wife, he had heard what had just passed.
“You are a lucky man,” Mr. Radcliffe said, letting go of Lizzy’s hand and leaning back to take Mr. Darcy’s measure.
“I know I am,” returned Mr. Darcy, his dark eyes narrowing.
“Mr. Radcliffe is visiting Rosings for a few weeks,” I put in, because Mr. Darcy looked like he wanted nothing more than to wring Mr. Radcliffe’s neck.
For a minute, the air was heavy with potential disagreements and even violence, then my husband blew in the door behind us, sending the cool air whirling around, and misinterpreting what was said.
“Were you talking about Mrs. Collins?” he asked jovially.
There was a moment of silence as Mr. Radcliffe struggled to know what the polite response was to this. By the look he darted at me, he thought it was a manifestly ridiculous suggestion.
Luckily, at this moment Mr. and Mrs. Bingley came around the corner to greet the visitors and the awkwardness was smoothed over.
I prided myself on my composure, but even I felt a bit of nervous trepidation wondering how this Christmas visit was going to go.
Mr. Darcy was looking angrily at Mr. Radcliffe, and that gentleman’s handsome face was carefully not looking at Mr. Darcy.
And Sir Francis had just the nervous sort of giggle that would please Mr. Darcy the least.
It was just then that Sir Francis launched into a long story about some exploits he and his friends had gotten up to “down at University.”
I could feel Lady Catherine’s eyes boring into me as he completed the story.
He was a foolish trickster, but had he been the one to let Wilberforce and Julia free?
As the visitors moved into the sitting room with Anne, I took the opportunity of falling in with Sir Francis.
“How are you enjoying Rosings?” I asked politely.
His amiable smile drooped a bit. Sensible and quiet, apparently I had always had the sort of face men felt they could Tell Things To.
“Miss Anne de Bourgh is an angel,” he said fervently. “But there is a serpent in paradise. I don’t believe Mr. Radcliffe has the slightest true interest in her.”
“Oh?” I asked, keeping my voice low, but my heart began to beat faster.
“I believe he is just here for her fortune,” Sir Francis hissed, two spots of color appearing on his cheeks.
“What makes you think that?” I asked composedly.
“He says a lot of pretty words, but I can tell he doesn’t mean any of them,” Sir Francis said.
I looked down the hallway at Mr. Radcliffe’s thick dark hair and broad, handsome smile.
Was it true or was Sir Francis just jealous of Mr. Radcliffe’s charm and suavity?
It might be true.
“And,” he added bitterly. “He is always going out of his way to make me look bad.”
I wondered. I didn’t know Mr. Radcliffe very well, but I felt a shiver of fear go down my spine as I looked at his profile.
He looked like a ruthless sort. He must like risk, because, although he kept his hands to himself, he still talked to Lizzy, and his eyes were wolfish when he thought no one was looking.
He clearly liked dangerous games. Had he let Wilberforce free to cast blame on the silly Sir Francis?