Chapter Ten #2
“I met Mr. Collins at the ball Bingley held. He accosted me with the most presumptuous claim that a clergyman ranks on par with the peerage. Poppycock, of course. Unfortunately, he again came to my attention as the evening concluded, and it came to light that his family had departed early, leaving him behind.”
“I cannot say I blame them,” Richard observed.
“Be that as it may, he was their guest, and they abandoned him, for no valid reason that I could ascertain. I asked Miss Bingley to secure him a room and to see him safely returned to his family. That was all I knew, as I left the next day and had no further dealings with him.”
Richard raised an eyebrow. “Yet you have not explained why mention of a visitor at the parsonage unsettles you so.”
Darcy’s gaze dropped to the rug beneath his feet. “If you must know, I had a fraught acquaintance with one of the daughters of that household. Most of it was my fault, I allowed my temper to govern my tongue, and made a series of officious blunders that still prick my conscience.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Richard chuckled softly, the sound warm in the hush of the study. “You do have a regrettable habit of stuffing your mouth with those enormous Hessians when you are in a temper. Which, for you, is not a frequent occurrence. Otherwise, you would have no friends.”
Darcy allowed a faint smile to touch his lips. “True enough. I penned an apology to her father, but have not seen her in person since the night of Bingley’s ball.”
A spark of mischief lit Richard’s eyes. “Then let us call at the parsonage tomorrow and discover whether this lady is indeed the visitor Mrs. Collins mentioned.”
Darcy hesitated for a heartbeat. If the guest were Miss Elizabeth, could he bear a reunion? Her fine eyes danced across his memory, luminous and intelligent. Before he could change his mind, he found himself nodding. “Very well. Tomorrow, we shall call.”
The next morning, both Elizabeth and Charlotte were quite astonished when Mr. Collins burst from his study, nearly upsetting a small hall table as he ran past the parlour.
His black coat, still unbuttoned, flapped behind him like the wings of an agitated crow.
Charlotte, drawing back a curtain, pressed her cheek to the cool glass to watch her husband’s hasty exit.
Then, with a mischievous twinkle in her cool grey eyes, she slipped to Elizabeth’s side on the settee.
“I must thank you, Eliza,” she said, her voice low and teasing. “Had you not been here, Mr. Darcy might never have arrived so promptly to pay his respects.”
“What? Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth exclaimed, scarcely believing her ears.
Before she could collect her thoughts, Mr. Collins re-entered, flanked by Mr. Darcy and a stranger who was soon introduced as Colonel Fitzwilliam.
The colonel’s affable manner and easy conversation quickly put the ladies at their ease, whereas Darcy resumed his usual reticence.
Had his written apology been heartfelt, or merely performed as an obligation?
When he at last inclined his head towards Mrs. Collins and offered Elizabeth the briefest of nods, she curtsied in such a measured manner, it could hardly be called effusive.
As is often the case among strangers, the parlour fell into an awkward silence until Colonel Fitzwilliam took charge, addressing everyone in turn. Darcy sat quietly until he at last enquired about Elizabeth’s family.
“They are quite well,” she replied. “My two youngest sisters are now at schools here in Kent.”
“Indeed?” Mr. Darcy murmured, lifting an eyebrow so subtly that Elizabeth, ever watchful, noticed.
Encouraged, she ventured further. “At the start of the year, my eldest sister and I came to town for new wardrobes and encountered Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley. Their cool reception of Jane surprised me — so unlike the warmth they showed her in Meryton.”
Darcy did not comment on the Bingley sisters but instead asked, “Did you stay with relatives?”
“Yes, the one who lives in Gracechurch Street,” she answered.
“I recall you mentioning them before,” he said, showing no reaction at all. She may as well have said her uncle was from the moon. He then turned to Charlotte. “And how are you settling in Hunsford, Mrs. Collins?”
Mr. Collins seized the opportunity to speak on his wife’s behalf.
“Mrs. Collins delights in every aspect of our life here in Kent,” he gushed, completely overriding any comment his wife might have made herself. “Thanks to the beneficence and patronage of your noble aunt….”
He stuttered to a stop upon realizing that Mr. Darcy was not pleased by his compulsive need to extoll the virtues of Lady Catherine in every aspect of conversation.
“That will do, Mr. Collins,” Mr. Darcy said, his lips thinning. “But I specifically asked your good wife how she was settling in, not you.”
“Pardon me,” the parson stammered, bowing his head. “I did not mean to overstep.”
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy.” Charlotte spoke quietly but firmly. “I am indeed content. I enjoy our parishioners and delight in visiting the local families.”
No one, save her husband, failed to notice that Charlotte omitted any mention of Lady Catherine’s influence.
Elizabeth barely concealed a triumphant smile as Darcy and his cousin exchanged a knowing glance.
To break the awkward silence which ensued after Mr. Darcy’s rebuke, the colonel turned his attention to Elizabeth.
“My cousin informed me that you are an avid walker.”
At once, Elizabeth had a twinge of discomfort; as she recalled Miss Bingley’s cutting remarks last November when she had rushed to Netherfield to care for Jane.
“I confess I enjoy a good walk,” she answered, “but, as Mr. Darcy can attest, I am equally devoted to reading and have little taste for cards.”
Mr. Darcy’s cheeks coloured slightly at the reminder of yet another contentious conversation held at Netherfield.
“Opinions of others do not always align with mine, Miss Bennet,” he said, his tone taking on a bit of frost. It seemed she had struck a chord with the gentleman’s pride. “I merely observed that, during your stay, you enjoyed walking the park while your sister convalesced.”
Suitably chastened, Elizabeth inclined her head in a small, composed nod. “Forgive me for ascribing thoughts to you that are not your own. From now on, I shall dwell on past recollections only if they please me.”
The colonel, curiosity lighting his steady gaze, asked, “And what, may I ask, pleases you?”
Her eyes brightened, a playful sparkle dancing beneath her lashes.
“There are many delights, Colonel, foremost among them, Mrs. Collins’s lemon biscuit.
I cannot resist their bright zest. Yet my dear friend Charlotte guards her recipe as though it was a crown jewel, and no entreaty of mine has coaxed it from her. ”
“I must taste these famed biscuits,” the colonel declared.
Before Elizabeth could reply, Mr. Collins, perched on the edge of his chair, leaned forward eagerly. “Then my wife shall have them prepared whenever you next visit the parsonage, sir. You are welcome at our humble home at all hours.”
Suppressing a polite chuckle, the colonel shook his head. “No rush today, Mr. Collins. I trust our pleasant acquaintance with these fine ladies will lead us back to the parsonage before our fortnight here concludes.”
Elizabeth stole a covert glance at Mr. Darcy.
He sat ramrod straight; dark eyes studiously fixed on the colonel.
What did he hide behind that that mask of reserve?
Would his betrothed, the delicate Miss Anne de Bourgh, tolerate more calls to a household where two unmarried ladies currently resided?
Yet more pressing: what decree might Lady Catherine de Bourgh pronounce on the affairs of lemon biscuits and lingering visits?