Chapter Twenty-Three
“Mr. Bingley?” Jane’s mouth fell open inelegantly with shock. “What are you doing here?”
“I came as soon as I discovered your presence, dearest Miss Bennet,” Bingley declaimed with a broad smile. “I say,” he noticed Elizabeth then, “is Miss Elizabeth all right?”
“I should say clearly not, young man,” Mr. Gardiner said dryly, taking a step forward, but Darcy was ahead of him, his hand hovering just above Elizabeth’s hair.
“Eliz-Miss Elizabeth, I beg you, please do not cry. Only tell me what I may do, to ease your distress!”
Looking up at him, Jane marvelled that none of them had suspected Darcy’s partiality to Elizabeth while they were yet in Hertfordshire; it was writ large on his face now, in the agonised expression he wore, clearly wanting to take Elizabeth in his arms to comfort her though he had no right to do so.
“Mr. Collins,” Jane said clearly, fighting to keep her voice steady. Looking past the utterly bemused Bingley at the Colonel, who met her gaze and nodded. “It was Mr. Collins. I am afraid that Mrs. Collins guessed the truth and confronted her husband with it. He attacked her…”
“He nearly killed her,” Trent put in vehemently, from his position kneeling beside Charlotte.
Fitzwilliam’s face hardened. “Where is he now?”
“He ran off,” Charlotte whispered weakly, before Trent hushed her again.
“Come, Darcy. We need to find him. He must have taken leave of his senses.”
“Yes,” Darcy stared at Elizabeth, whose sobs had eased.
She kept her face turned away from him, though; he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and awkwardly offered it to Jane.
“We will find him,” he promised, caught at Bingley’s sleeve and tugged him from the room in the Colonel’s determined wake.
“What in God’s name is going on?” Bingley demanded plaintively as the door closed. “Why is Miss Elizabeth so distressed? Miss Bennet barely looked at me…”
“For God’s sake, man,” Darcy said, exasperated, “she hasn’t seen you in six months, ever since you apparently decided she didn’t suit you after all. Did you expect her to fall at your feet?” He regretted the snap almost at once, because Bingley drooped like a kicked puppy.
“No, I… I suppose not,” he muttered. “Especially not after Caroline and Louisa were so unwelcoming when she came to visit.”
“Bingley,” Fitzwilliam said, exasperated, “right now we have more things to worry about than your hopeless inability to manage your impossible sisters.”
Bingley’s mouth opened and closed again. He looked at Darcy, who was already heading for the door.
“What in God’s name is going on?” Bingley asked again.
Fitzwilliam hesitated, glanced at the closed parlour door. “Right now, we need to find Mr. Collins. The man has run mad; he almost killed his wife. He can’t be far away. Come on, Bingley, let’s move!”
Given a clear direction and a clear target, Bingley could move quite quickly, it transpired. The three men hurried down the path to the gate together, looked up and down the lane.
“Where would he go?” Bingley asked. “Not the church, surely…”
“Rosings,” Darcy and Fitzwilliam said simultaneously.
“Trying to save his own skin by throwing Elizabeth to the wolves. Or to Lady Catherine, rather,” Darcy surmised.
“You were right the first time, when you said to the wolves,” Fitzwilliam said grimly. “Which way would he go, though?”
“The eastern lane is quickest,” Darcy said, “but we already know he prefers to avoid getting his feet muddy.”
“The western lane, then!” Fitzwilliam and Darcy started running. Seeing no other option, Bingley ran along with them.
They were about halfway to Rosings when the most ghastly sound made them all start to run faster; it was a sound all three of them had heard before, that of a horse in terrible pain.
The sight that greeted them around the next bend of the lane was so shocking that all three men stopped in their tracks, staring with horror before hurrying forward again.
A man dressed in the livery of Rosings lay still in the grass closest to them; Bingley stooped to check on him as the other two continued on.
One horse stood shaking in the traces of an overturned carriage; the second lay squealing and thrashing on the ground, one foreleg dangling at a horrible angle.
Fitzwilliam didn’t even hesitate before drawing the small pistol he had in his coat pocket and putting the poor animal out of its suffering.
A blissful silence fell, broken only by the distressed panting and occasional neigh from the other horse. Bingley came up then, reached to try and calm the unsettled animal.
“The coachman’s alive, looks like he was knocked out in the crash, but he’s coming around now. What’s happened?”
“It’s Lady Catherine’s small carriage,” Fitzwilliam said, staring at the overturned box. Looking back at the legs that he could see sticking out from underneath the horse he’d just shot. “I suspect they hit Mr. Collins, on his way to Rosings…”
“Good God, is he dead?” Bingley left the horse, hurried over to look.
“I bloody hope so,” Darcy said vehemently, seeming to come out of his shock just then. Striding quickly forward, he said “Give me a hand here, Fitz.”
Fitzwilliam offered his cupped hands as a step and Darcy hopped up onto the side of the coach, now the top, wrenched open the door. A few moments later he scrambled back down again, face grim. Answered Fitzwilliam’s questioning glance with a shake of his head.
“Lady Catherine?” Fitzwilliam said in shock.
“And Mrs. Jenkinson. Thank God, Anne wasn’t with them.”
“Mr. Collins is dead,” Bingley turned to them from where he’d been struggling to move the dead horse.
“He’s not the only one,” Darcy said grimly. “What a God-awful mess.”
“A mess; Darcy, a man is dead!” Bingley cried, shocked.
“So is my aunt, and a poor woman whose only fault it was to be employed by her!” Darcy shouted back at him.
“Enough!” Fitzwilliam stepped in between them.
“That will be quite enough. We must act, now; Bingley, will you release that horse, walk him, stay with him and the coachman for a while? Darcy, you go back to the Parsonage and get help, see if you can get Trent to leave Mrs. Collins for a little while.”
“And you?” Bingley asked as Darcy turned without a word and began to run back along the lane.
“I’ll go on to Rosings, break the news there and send men to help. I have to break the news to my cousin Anne, too. Either way, help will be here in just a few minutes, Bingley!”
Darcy stood for a moment just outside the parlour door, wondering how on earth he was to break the news to those gathered inside.
He could hear Mr. Bennet’s voice now, added to Mr. Gardiner’s, the two older men talking in urgent tones close to the door.
Taking a deep breath, Darcy turned the handle and pushed the door open.
“Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet said in quite astonished tones, “are you quite well?”
He realised that he must look a fright, his coat all askew from running, his hair ruffled, sweat on his face. Everyone in the room turned to look at him, Dr. Trent rising to his feet. Darcy met Trent’s eyes, glanced at Charlotte and shook his head slightly.
“Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth, can I ask you to stay with Mrs. Collins for a few minutes, please?” Trent said steadily, keeping his voice calm and even.
Jane and Elizabeth agreed at once, though Elizabeth found that her eyes lingered on Darcy.
She had never imagined seeing him anything less than immaculately attired, had only very briefly seen him discomposed, the night he proposed to her and they fought.
He was looking at her now with that same expression on his face, an almost desperate yearning combined with not a little self-loathing.
He despises his own weakness, not me, Elizabeth realised with a sudden flash of clarity. He despises that he cannot control his feelings for me.
It was quite a heady rush of power, to realise that she had the power to so discompose a man such as Mr. Darcy.
She offered him a tiny, tentative smile, and watched the shock spread across his face before he smiled back at her.
It was only a brief expression, but it quite transformed his austere, concerned features.
Trent reached him then, encouraged him towards the door along with her father and uncle, but Darcy kept his head turned towards Elizabeth, watching her as long as he possibly could.
As the door closed behind the men, Elizabeth found her heart beating fast, her cheeks flushed. Behind her, she heard a strange noise and turned to see Charlotte laughing, a husky, rasping sound.
“Now you notice him!” The effort of speaking was too much for Charlotte, though, and she began to cough.
Jane and Elizabeth at once hushed her, telling her that she must not exert herself, must not strain her throat. Elizabeth felt the cloths at Charlotte’s throat and found them warmed; Jane offered to take them to the kitchen to get fresh cool ones, and also to get some soothing tea.
“An excellent idea,” Elizabeth approved, “I shall sit here quietly with Charlotte and we shall both rest until your return.”
That satisfied Jane, and she went away quickly, leaving Charlotte and Elizabeth alone staring at each other.
“You remember,” Charlotte said hoarsely.
“Yes.” Elizabeth remembered all too well, the awful things that Mr. Collins had said, his hot breath on her cheek, his hands tearing at her bodice.
“I am so sorry, Lizzy…” a tear trickled down Charlotte’s pale cheek.
“Hush, hush,” at once Elizabeth seated herself, reached for Charlotte’s hand. “Dearest Charlotte, do not distress yourself. How could you possibly have known? No, no, none of this is your fault.”
“Lizzy, Charlotte?” a small voice said. “Whatever is going on?”
They both looked up and startled with horror to see Maria, Charlotte’s sister, standing wide-eyed at the door, staring at them.