Chapter Nine #2
Darcy’s insides burned as if he had swallowed hot coals.
He seethed. And there was nothing he could do.
He should quit the ballroom, but some stubborn, foolish part of Darcy believed that he could protect her from Wickham if he remained within sight.
It was a ridiculous conceit. Wickham’s danger to Elizabeth was in the poison he was undoubtedly pouring into her ear.
At least she had reassured him that she and her family would keep his secrets.
He believed she would be on guard even against someone as practiced and smooth as Wickham.
It hardly mattered what Wickham knew. He was a blackguard, but he had no magic and was not a disaffected younger son of an aristocrat.
He would have nothing to interest the necromancer.
His greatest danger was to Darcy’s reputation, and nobody in the ton would pay heed to his words.
It was rather cold comfort.
At the moment, nothing could be further from Darcy’s mind than the Agency’s mission. The sight of Elizabeth was too entrancing—even when she was holding Wickham’s hand. Why did she torment him so? He knew he could not propose to her. Why could he not simply let go of her?
The realization opened like a hollow pit in his stomach.
I am in love with her.
Fortunately, the surrounding noise muffled the sound of his accompanying groan.
He had never been in love before. No wonder he had not recognized the sensation.
He briefly put his head in his hands. He instinctively knew that he would not recover from this infatuation quickly.
Elizabeth’s dark curls, laughter, blue-green eyes, and vibrant conversation would continue to haunt him long after he returned to London.
But the realization altered nothing. Darcy could not marry her. They could not even be distant acquaintances.
It would be best if he left her vicinity.
Perhaps the infatuation would fade with time and distance.
Yes, that was the solution. He was finally well enough to travel by horseback.
He would borrow a horse from Bingley and ride to London.
Truthfully, he could have done so at any point that week, but he had dallied because he had longed to speak with Elizabeth.
The director could send a stranger to watch over her; it would be equally effective.
He wanted to account for himself and alter her thinking, but that was his pride talking.
What did it signify if she loathed him? He would never lay eyes on her again.
He had attempted to explain his conduct to her, but she had assiduously avoided him.
It was not his fault if she remained in ignorance. His conscience was clear.
In fact, Darcy saw no need to remain at the ball.
The hour was yet early for a retreat, but he could claim indisposition.
He was weary of the whole affair. Other guests were even viewing him furtively and whispering behind their fans.
Women who had been tossing him flirtatious looks were now avoiding his gaze.
He was all too familiar with the ways that gossip spread in society.
Had Wickham started some new rumor about him?
Darcy did not possess the energy to fight it. He did not possess the energy to care what Hertfordshire society thought about him. He only cared about Elizabeth’s opinion, and she was dancing with Wickham. Why should Darcy remain?
Yes. Darcy would return to London as soon as he could extricate himself from Netherfield and have a substitute sent from the Agency.
Throwing himself into his work would distract him from a pair of too bewitching green eyes.
His mind decided, Darcy returned his gaze to Elizabeth, drinking his fill of her face when she was happy: her smile, her laugh, her beautiful dark curls.
He would not return to Hertfordshire. It did not matter that he felt as if his insides were being scraped out by a knife. He would survive. Somehow.
***
The day after the ball at Lucas Lodge, Mr. Darcy accompanied Mr. Bingley yet again on a visit to Longbourn. Having no desire to speak with the man, Elizabeth took herself outside for an “urgent” gardening chore. Unfortunately, greater dangers awaited her. Mr. Collins had laid an ambush.
“My dear cousin!” he said, hastening toward her. “I am so pleased you are here. I thought I would need to send a maid to summon you. It is as if we have one mind!”
Elizabeth found this image so disturbing that she did not reply.
Mr. Collins took her elbow and led her to a patch of grass in the shade of a maple tree. He stood a little away from her and posed as if he were about to give a speech or sing an aria….Oh no….
“Almost as soon as I entered the house, I singled you out as the companion of my future life.” But Mr. Collins did not just speak these words; he sang to the tune of a doleful ballad.
“My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for every clergyman to set the example of matrimony in his parish. Secondly, that I am convinced it will add very greatly to my happiness.”
Mr. Collins had lowered himself to one knee.
Unfortunately, it had recently rained. Within seconds, mud coated his whole left leg.
“Thirdly – which perhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier – that it is the particular recommendation of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion: ‘You must marry. Choose a gentlewoman for my sake, and for your own; let her be an active, useful sort of person, not brought up high but able to make a small income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.’”
At the pace of a ballad, all of this information passed by sluggishly.
And it must be said that Mr. Collins did not possess the best singing voice.
The man’s voice was thin and reedy and only occasionally in tune.
Elizabeth would have expected a passable voice for singing to be part of his mancy, but apparently his “gift” consisted entirely of the ability to set words to music—which was extraordinary as the words of his speech did not easily fit the pattern of a ballad.
Elizabeth yearned to interrupt the man since she had no intention of accepting his proposal, but she could not bring herself to be so rude to someone who was offering marriage. Nevertheless, her ears were growing numb from the onslaught of sound.
Now he was singing about how he would never complain about her small dowry. “On that head, I shall be uniformly silent. You may assure yourself that no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married.”
Elizabeth could not allow this to pass without interruption. “You forget that I have made no answer. I am very sensible of the honor of your proposal, but it is impossible for me to accept it.” Naturally, she spoke her words, as if she were the straight man in a musical hall farce.
To her surprise, Mr. Collins’s tune switched to a sprightlier folk song.
“Young ladies usually reject the addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to accept. I am by no means discouraged and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.” He was still kneeling but had unwisely switched legs, so now his right leg was also coated in mud.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “I am perfectly serious in my refusal. You could not make me happy, and I am the last woman in the world who would make you so.”
Mr. Collins’s music had turned more martial and strident—as well as louder.
“When I speak to you next on the subject, I shall hope to receive a more favorable answer.” He lunged forward, perhaps with the intention of taking her hand, but he stumbled and fell against her skirt, coating it in mud. “I beg your pardon.”
Elizabeth’s sole aim at this point was to finish the conversation and escape the man’s irritating presence. She quickly stepped away from him and replied, “I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as may convince you of its being one.”
“You must give me leave to flatter myself that your refusal of my addresses are merely words—”
He was interrupted by the sounds of someone crashing through the bushes. A male voice calling, “Miss Elizabeth!”
Mr. Darcy? Oh no! It could not possibly be—
The man himself burst into the clearing, shadows at the ready to fight off attackers. His gaze went from Elizabeth with a skirt coated in mud to Mr. Collins kneeling in the mud itself. If only the earth would swallow her up right now!
Mr. Darcy was the last person she desired to witness such mortification. Mr. Collins attempted to scramble to his feet, slipped in the mud, and fell on his face.
Mr. Darcy pulled himself up short. “Er…Miss Elizabeth…I stepped outside Longbourn House and heard the most appalling noises. I thought you were under attack. Are you well?”
“Yes, quite well, thank you.” Elizabeth knew her face was turning red.
Mr. Collins had managed to leverage himself from the mud and into a standing position. “The singing was merely part of my proposal.”
Mr. Darcy blinked several times. “That was singing…?” His eyes grew wide. “Proposal?” Elizabeth closed her eyes, wishing she could teleport herself to a remote island.
“My mancy is the ability to set words to music.”
Mr. Darcy squinted at him. “Are you certain?”
“Y-Yes? I was just using my talent to propose to Miss Elizabeth.”
She suspected Mr. Darcy was aware that the ability to produce cacophony was not a quality she sought in a future spouse. He rubbed his chin. “What, precisely, were you proposing to do? Destroy her hearing?”
Mr. Collins drew himself up. “It was—is—a proposal of marriage.”
Elizabeth was grateful that Mr. Darcy appeared more appalled at the other man’s presumption than amused. His amusement might destroy her.