Chapter Eleven The Beast of Hunsford and Other Triumphs
FITZWILLIAM DARCY HAD faced down angry tenant uprisings, navigated the notoriously treacherous waters of the London marriage mart, and once survived a carriage accident in a blinding Derbyshire snowstorm.
Yet, none of these experiences had adequately prepared him for the madness of attempting to court a woman in the middle of a situation involving a sycophantic vicar, an overly enthusiastic knight, and the Fitzwilliam cousins.
Over the course of the next four days, the daily visitation to the parsonage became a military exercise of staggering precision.
Every morning, Viscount Keathley would rally the troops in the library, outline the daily objectives, and march them down the lane to invade Mr Collins’s humble abode.
The goal was simple: isolate Miss Elizabeth, distract the human breastworks, and allow Darcy to demonstrate that he was capable of basic human interaction.
It was exhausting. It was chaotic. And it was, quite possibly, the happiest four days of his life, because the strategy was working.
Darcy stood near the parsonage window on Friday morning, nursing a cup of barely adequate tea, and surveying the fray.
In the far corner, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam—a decorated officer of His Majesty’s Dragoons who had commanded men under artillery fire—was trapped in a floral armchair.
His large, calloused hands were held awkwardly aloft, serving as a display stand for Miss Maria Lucas, who was draping bright ribbons over them.
“You see, Colonel,” Miss Lucas chirped, oblivious to the frustration in the soldier’s eyes, “this scarlet ribbon would look most becoming tied about your hat! It would catch the light splendidly on parade!”
“Fascinating,” Richard rasped, internally praying for a sudden deployment to the Peninsula. “Truly, Miss Lucas. The implications of ribbonry for military headgear cannot be overstated.”
Darcy caught Elizabeth’s eye across the room.
She was seated on the sofa, theoretically engaged in mending a hem, but watching with unconcealed glee as Richard was held hostage by a slip of a girl.
When her gaze met Darcy’s, she did not look away.
She bit her bottom lip to suppress a laugh, her dark eyes sparkling with shared amusement.
We are sharing a joke, Darcy’s internal monologue marvelled. I have not insulted anyone, I have not handed her a manifesto of my own ruin yet, and she is smiling at me.
He offered her a small, conspiratorial smile in return, and the answering warmth on her face was enough to make him want to buy cherry ices for the entire county of Kent out of gratitude.
Meanwhile, near the fireplace, Anne de Bourgh was throwing herself into the clutches of Sir William Lucas’s conversation. The heiress of Rosings Park, who had volunteered herself in this enterprise to save Darcy’s dignity, was paying the ultimate price.
“Capital!” Sir William boomed, rocking back on his heels.
“It reminds me, Miss de Bourgh, of the time I was presented at the Court of St James’s.
A momentous occasion. Momentous, I say. It was precisely twenty-three years and four months ago, on a Tuesday.
Or was it a Wednesday? No, a Tuesday, because it was raining. ”
“How evocative, Sir William,” Anne said, staring into the middle distance.
“Indeed! And as I approached His Majesty, I was so overcome by the grandeur—the majesty of the throne—majesty, I say—that my foot caught upon the hem of the Duchess of Marlborough!” Sir William slapped his knee.
“Tripped right over her! Nearly took the poor woman down with me! The King laughed, of course. A very amiable fellow, the King.”
“I am sure the Duchess appreciated your amiability.” Anne caught Darcy’s eye over the knight’s shoulder and mouthed Help.
Darcy raised his teacup to her in a silent toast of solidarity. He was not about to interrupt Sir William and risk drawing his attention. He had his own objectives.
He set his teacup down and began the journey across the parlour towards Miss Elizabeth.
Before Darcy could reach her, however, the front door of the parsonage flew open with a resounding crash that rattled the windowpanes.
Mr Collins burst into the parlour, but he did not notice the Rosings party, at first. He did not notice the viscount lounging near the bookcase.
The vicar was consumed by a panic of apocalyptic proportions.
His clerical collar was askew, his face was flushed a violent shade of magenta, and his boots were covered in thick, dark mud.
“Mrs Collins!” Mr Collins yelled, his voice cracking an octave. “Mrs Collins! Total devastation! The large spotted sow has escaped the enclosure! She is uprooting the cabbages!”
Charlotte Collins calmly set down her needlework. “The pig is loose again, Mr Collins?”
“She is a beast of pure malice!” Mr Collins wailed, then finally noticed the room’s occupants and let out a strangled gasp. “My lord! Mr Darcy! I beg a thousand pardons! The agricultural distress—the... the swine—!”
“Say no more, Mr Collins,” Robert commanded, stepping forward from the shadows of the bookcase with the gravitas of a statesman averting a war.
He placed a steadying hand on the vicar’s trembling shoulder. “You must not engage the beast. You must wait for the farmhands. I tell you this from bitter, personal experience. I would never dare to outsmart a pig.”
The entire room went dead silent. Even Sir William stopped talking about the Duchess of Marlborough.
“My lord?” Mr Collins breathed, forgetting about the cabbages. “You... you have battled the swine?”
“I have.” Robert led Mr Collins to a chair and forced him to sit. The viscount began pacing, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression haunted. “It was in Leicestershire. Three years ago. An intelligent, vengeful creature named... Beatrice.”
Darcy turned his face towards the wall, coughing into his fist to cover a bark of laughter.
He looked at Elizabeth who had abandoned her mending and was gripping the arm of the sofa, her face buried in her shoulder as she shook with silent mirth.
Richard on the other side was attempting to wipe a tear from his eye, a ribbon trailing from his aching fingers.
“Beatrice?” Miss Lucas whispered, her eyes wide like saucers.
“Beatrice,” Robert confirmed gravely. “I had unknowingly insulted her. I accidentally dropped a half-eaten apple into her trough, and when she went to eat it, I sneezed, startling her. Pigs, Mr Collins, hold grudges. They possess a memory that rivals an elephant’s and the vindictive streak of a slighted dowager. ”
Mr Collins was enraptured. “Good heavens, my lord. What did the beast do?”
“She waited.” Robert’s voice dropped to a loud whisper.
“She waited for three days. She lulled me into a false sense of security. And then, on a Sunday morning, while I was admiring the sunrise from the garden wall, she struck. She breached the fence and bypassed the kitchen gardens. She was a beast on a mission.”
Robert paused for effect, looking around the room, holding the audience in the palm of his hand.
“She ate my hat, Mr Collins.”
“Your hat!” Mr Collins gasped, clutching his chest.
“My finest beaver hat,” Robert said, nodding tragically. “Custom-made by Lock he did not care about Mr Collins’s cabbages.
He only cared that the woman beside him was sharing a jest with him, as though he were a man worth her time.
HOWEVER, WHILE THE cousins experienced success at the parsonage, a storm was gathering back at the fortress.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh sat at the head of the dining table, her fork suspended mid-air, her eyes narrowed into two suspicious, glittering slits.
“I demand to know,” she boomed, “why the entirety of my household empties out every morning to tramp down the lane to the parsonage.”
Darcy froze, his soup spoon halfway to his mouth. Across the table, Robert set down his wine glass. Richard suddenly found the ceiling fresco very fascinating.