CHAPTER 13 – The Search for Collins
By the time dinner arrived that evening, Elizabeth was still grappling with the events of the morning.
She had spent the hours in a state of restless reflection, turning over her last conversation with Mr. Darcy in her mind, half-expecting him to appear at any moment, uncertain where her desire led her in regard to his presence: was it dreaded or wished for?
Yet the gentleman had made himself scarce all day, affording her some reprieve.
When the meal was announced, her palms grew damp and her heart gave a traitorous flutter at the prospect of seeing him again.
He and his cousin, however, chose to forgo dinner and remained shut in the library.
Elizabeth now lingered in a state of constant disquiet, attending little to the conversation at the table, her mind straying always back to him.
When Mr. Darcy and the colonel finally joined the ladies for the last course, another pang of discomfort gripped Elizabeth’s stomach.
Mr. Darcy did not meet her eyes as was his custom.
Instead, he stood beside his cousin, his expression grave as he listened while the colonel announced his intention to depart for the mainland the following day.
“Is this a jest?” Miss de Bourgh blurted with a sneer.
“It is not.”
“Why you? Why not send someone else?” she demanded. “’Tis too dangerous!”
“The decision is made,” Mr. Darcy said with force. “We cannot delay reporting Lady Catherine’s death any longer.”
“Then you go, if it is so urgent.” Miss de Bourgh’s voice trembled. “Why must it always be Richard? Nothing will change if we wait another day. She is already dead!”
“Anne!” The colonel’s brows furrowed as he glared at her. “Darcy is right—this must be done at once.”
Miss de Bourgh struck the table with her fists.
She leapt to her feet, causing her chair to scrape the floor with a harsh noise as it toppled backwards.
Her voice broke as she cried, “Then go and drown in the sea! She always believed you of little worth, and now you will prove her right! Even in death, she still controls our lives!”
She stormed from the room before anyone could stop her.
Colonel Fitzwilliam followed a heartbeat behind her, leaving the rest in stunned silence.
After a long, uncomfortable pause, the meal resumed, though conversation was scarce.
Mr. Darcy left the room without so much as a glance in Elizabeth’s direction, leaving her with nothing but the bitter taste of his indifference.
***
The following morning brought no change in the gentleman’s manner.
Mr. Darcy entered the morning room pale and weary, shadows etched beneath his eyes, as though sleep had eluded him entirely.
Elizabeth’s chest tightened. Had her words truly caused such unrest?
For once, she was not triumphant for her honesty, but regretful for having been so unflinchingly frank.
Miss de Bourgh did not appear until mid-morning.
She had been absent since her outburst the day before—noticeably, so had been the colonel—and when she finally joined them, her movements were languid and her eyelids heavy, as though she could scarcely keep them open.
For a time, Miss de Bourgh bent over her embroidery in silence, pricking her finger more than once and staring at her work as if the simple pattern confounded her.
Clearly it did not; the design was childishly easy.
A lady so steady with the brush would never be so clumsy or falter with the needle.
“The weather is very much improved. Would you not agree, Lizzy?” Charlotte gave Elizabeth a sideways, meaningful glance.
“Indeed,” she said, catching Charlotte’s intention. “The roads must be passable now.”
“Oh, this pattern. . . it is so hard to follow.” The young mistress pressed her finger to her lips, a faint smudge of blood blooming at the tip.
The friends exchanged a look. Even Maria’s eyes widened at Miss de Bourgh’s awkwardness, and she nudged her sister with her elbow.
“I thought it would be convenient if we returned to Hunsford this afternoon, Miss de Bourgh.” Charlotte ventured a comment after a moment. “We have imposed on you for too long.”
Miss de Bourgh set down her hoop with deliberate care and fixed Charlotte with a drowsy gaze. “No imposition at all, my dear Mrs. Collins. I should feel terribly alone if you abandoned me now—Miss Lucas and Miss Bennet as well. The house is so large. . . and so empty since Mama is gone.”
Her voice quavered at the last word, just enough to stir pity in her company.
Charlotte offered her a tired smile. “I perfectly understand, madam, but my household expects my return, and my husband must resume his duties at the parsonage.”
Another languid blink, followed by a soft sigh. “Of course he must. But one more day, pray—only one more. I should be grateful for the company.”
Her friend’s resolve crumbled before Elizabeth’s eyes.
“Very well,” Charlotte said at last. “One day more.”
Concerned by the disparity in the new mistress’s demeanour, Elizabeth debated whether to confide in Mr. Darcy.
How would he respond if she approached him?
She had barely seen him since the day before, and the few times they crossed paths, his manner had grown distinctively remote.
His silence could be ascribed to her recent rejection, but there must be more to his detachment—a distraction that gnawed at the edges of his composure, pulling his mind far from the present company.
The gentleman joined them sometime later. Consistent with his behaviour during the day, Mr. Darcy did not look at her and stood by the fireplace, separated from the group. Taking a deep breath, she gathered her courage and approached him.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said. “I searched for the book you recommended but could not find it.”
He turned abruptly, momentarily startled. “Pardon?”
“The novel you mentioned last evening.” She met his gaze, willing him to understand her true intent.
After a pause, comprehension dawned. “Ah. Yes. I believe it is on the higher shelves of the library. I can retrieve it for you.”
“Thank you. You are too kind.” She fell into step beside him as they moved out the door.
They walked in silence, neither speaking until they were assured of being out of earshot of the others. “Is anything the matter, Miss Bennet?” he asked at last, though his voice carried a faint intensity—impatience, or disquiet, she could not tell.
“I am worried about Miss de Bourgh,” she said. “The news of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s departure has left her quite changed. Today, she seemed distracted, and not at all like herself. I fear she might seek comfort in Mrs. Jenkinson.”
“A valid concern, though there is not much we can do. I would rather wait another day to tell her of her companion’s death. Perhaps once the colonel returns.”
Elizabeth dipped her head.
“If you will excuse me, madam; I have other matters to attend to.” Mr. Darcy said, bowing his head.
“You are leaving?” The words escaped before she could check them, and her voice betrayed more feeling than she had intended.
“I must speak with my cousin before he departs. The manor’s vessel was damaged during the storm, so he will sail in one of the trading boats.”
“Very well, sir.” Elizabeth smiled faintly, though his aloofness left her strangely dejected.
“Miss Bennet,” he called just as she turned to leave. “Do not forget your book. Otherwise, your ruse would be in vain.”
Her cheeks warmed. “Yes—of course.”
The pair entered the library in silence. Elizabeth was too agitated for casual conversation, and Mr. Darcy seemed distracted, his mind elsewhere—hardly the behaviour of a man who had professed admiration mere hours before!
Without uttering a word or sparing her a glance, the gentleman retrieved a book and handed it to her. “I recommend A Sicilian Romance, if you are fond of mystery novels.”
She glanced at the title, then at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“A most entertaining book.”
“Oh, yes, thank you.” She took it, overwhelmed by her own conflicting emotions.
They walked in silence towards the drawing room, with him staring straight ahead and Elizabeth biting her lip as she repressed the urge to steal a glance at Mr. Darcy. “Shall we see you at dinner?” Another unbidden, unchecked enquiry.
“I suppose.” He frowned.
“Indeed!” Heat rose to her cheeks yet again. What folly possessed her? Surely he would think her a simpleton for plaguing him with such idle questions.
Darcy turned to leave but paused as though some thought detained him. He turned towards her, his brow furrowed. “Mr. Collins—have you seen him?”
“No. I mean, not today. He attended dinner last night, did he not?”
“I cannot tell. I dined in the library with the colonel.” He fell silent for a moment, as if retracing the events of the previous night. “I believe I saw him when we joined you later in the evening, yet I cannot be certain.”
Elizabeth tried to recollect, but the only image that came to mind was Miss de Bourgh’s scene at the colonel’s announcement of his departure.
“I could ask Mrs. Collins,” Elizabeth said. “Perhaps she knows of his whereabouts.”
He inclined his head, his eyes meeting hers for but a moment. “Be discreet. Try not to alarm her.”
“Do you think something has happened to him? That he might be in danger?”
“I hope not, but given recent events, it would be prudent to account for everyone’s presence.”
Elizabeth was in agreement. She had intended to say that his concerns were well founded but she now became doubtful that her opinion on the matter would be welcome. Lately, he had been distracted, unapproachable. He gave her a short bow, then walked away without another word.
***