One Thread Pulled: The Dance With Mr. Darcy (18 page)

Mr. Darcy poured himself a glass of port and drained it. “No one worth knowing.”

“But he seemed to me to be a fine chap. If he is a friend of the Miss Bennets, he cannot be as bad as you say.” Bingley reassured himself.

“The Miss Bennets,” Darcy suddenly looked fierce, “cannot know what he is about, or they would not associate with him. He will ruin their reputations and possibly worse.”

“You're serious.” Mr. Bingley said in amazement. “What can we do?”

“Nothing,” Mr. Darcy replied, “except to warn them somehow. I cannot lay before you all the particulars, but if damnation has its claim on any man, it does upon Wickham. He is a liar, a debtor, a gambler and a seducer. He is guilty of debaucheries of the worst kind against innocents. The Bennets cannot remain untouched by the association if it is allowed to continue.”

“If all this is true, you were too easy on him!” Mr. Bingley declared angrily.

“I have good reason not to expose him, Bingley. You must never ask me any more about it, but I do believe that we must take steps to protect Eliz ... the Miss Bennets from that rogue.” Darcy went to the desk and took out his writing implements. “I have letters to write for now, Bingley. We can return to Longbourn later, after I am done, for this cannot wait.”

Chapter Nineteen

Declarations of Love

M
r. Darcy watched the express rider racing down the road away from Netherfield until the rider could no longer be seen. He turned from the window and sighed. “Are you quite certain you want to go ahead with this, Bingley?”

“No.” Bingley declared somewhat defensively. “I would not speak to Mr. Bennet about courting Miss Bennet—I would far rather speak to the man about marrying his daughter, but I will keep your counsel in the matter and court her first.”

“If you must pursue it, which I still have some doubts about, I maintain that courtship is the more prudent course. Time will vet her and prove that the regard you saw displayed after her injury was not merely a delusion born of her fall. If it is truly love that you both feel, the wait will improve it.” Mr. Darcy hesitated, and then cautioned. “You are aware, are you not, that it is all the same to her mother. She will undoubtedly have Miss Bennet's wedding clothes purchased before Christmas, even though you are not engaged.”

“Yes.” Bingley frowned through his amusement. “Mrs. Bennet would steal my thunder and propose to her daughter in my stead, if she could. But it is of no consequence to me what the mother does, for in truth, she does it all for love of her daughter.” Mr. Bingley's face cheered again.

“That woman would love her most beautiful daughter to the throne of England,” Darcy muttered.

“Then it is my good fortune indeed that the Prince is married and beyond her reach!” Bingley laughed and then became serious. “I have learned something troubling of the Miss Bennets. It explains to a certain extent, their mother—although it cannot excuse her.”

“And what would that be? Has their mother escaped from the asylum?” Darcy fixed upon his friend with an insistent eye. “Come, I must have your insight!”

“Then you shall have it.” Mr. Bingley agreed and proceeded soberly. “Their father's estate is entailed away from the female line. When he is dead, the six women of that household will be without the comfort of a home, and their income will be just two-hundred per annum. You see, Mrs. Bennet is not so much a fortune hunter for her daughters as we thought. She is only desperate.”

“There are few in this world so terrifying as a desperate mother, my friend. I am frightened for you,” Darcy said dryly and then added thoughtfully, “The entailment is indeed a shocking revelation. Mr. Bennet should have made provision for them.”

“Can you not see, Darcy? When Mrs. Bennet is no longer
 
so very
 
desperate, she is sure to be more agreeable.” Bingley grinned wildly, as though he had solved the riddle of the sphinx.

“Oh, she will still vex you. If you do marry Jane Bennet, her mother will undoubtedly be desperate for grandchildren.” Darcy cautioned.

“On that score,” Bingley beamed, “I will be most happy to oblige her.”

“Of course, you would. When Mrs. Bennet is caterwauling about your house, I shall hold no sympathy for you, Bingley, nor will I visit. A man would have to truly love a woman beyond any hope of retrieval to humor such a mother-in-law.” Mr. Darcy grimaced. “I know I would not.”

“When Jane Bennet is my wife, I will not need sympathy from you, or anything akin to it. She is an angel, and I shall awaken every morning to gaze upon heaven itself. The virtues of her own sweet temper will indeed soften any faults that I must endure from her family. Besides, her mother will not be living with us, so the 'caterwauling' as you call it, will
 
usually
 
be under another roof, and with five daughters to fret over, once the others marry, she will divide her visits among them.”

“It would seem that you have worked it all out.” Mr. Darcy remarked.

“Her sister, Miss Elizabeth,” Bingley winked at Mr. Darcy, “she is a very pleasant person and much beloved by my Jane. She will undoubtedly visit a great deal. It will be...,”

“... very interesting to see how your sister Caroline copes with the idea of Miss Elizabeth as your sister.” Darcy finished Bingley's sentence and then laughed aloud at the thought. “Have you told your sisters of your intentions regarding Miss Bennet?”

Mr. Bingley's face, which had been cheerful, transformed. “I did—just an hour ago, while you were writing your letter.”

“How was the news received?” Mr. Darcy asked expectantly.

Mr. Bingley fixed his eye on Mr. Darcy in chagrin. “You should know better than to make me speak of it. Let us instead away to Longbourn where the news will be glad tidings rather than a declaration of war.”

“Retreat?” Darcy mocked with a chuckle.

“Fall back and re-assemble,” Bingley declared, “in the company of the lovely ladies of Longbourn.”

~*~

Having returned from visiting Aunt Phillips in Meryton, Elizabeth went to her room to freshen herself. She could not say at what point she became aware of the sound, for when she actually started listening to it, she had the sensation that it had been there for some time, but the sound, soft and muffled though it was, was undeniably that of someone crying.

She stood and tried to get a fix on it, and silently followed it down the hall. A floorboard creaked beneath her, and the sound was suddenly stifled, but too late, for Elizabeth was at the door. She pressed her ear to the door and knocked gently as she uttered the soft query, “Mary?”

There was no answering response, but Elizabeth turned the knob anyway, and entered to see her sister upon the window seat, legs drawn to her chest like a small child. She was cocooned in a large but plain shawl, the fringes dangling beneath her as if extensions of her tears. When Elizabeth entered, quietly closing the door behind her, Mary turned her face toward the window and laid her head on her knees, saying nothing.

“Mary, are you ill?” Elizabeth rushed to her sister. “Tell me, what is wrong?”

Mary did not reply, nor did she raise her head, but was instead overcome by an attempt to suppress her weeping to such a degree that her whole body shook with the effort.

Elizabeth and Mary were not particularly close—not in the way that Elizabeth and Jane were. Although Elizabeth was filled with a compassionate concern for her sister, she knew not how to comfort her. It was as rare to see Mary cry as it was to see her laugh. Elizabeth sat down on the other side of the bench and took the ends of Mary's fingers into her hand, caressing them tenderly as she spoke quietly. “Mary, Mary, it will be all right. You must tell me what is wrong dear sister ... let me help you.”

Mary finally lifted her head and looked at Elizabeth, her face red and swollen. She tried to say something, but was unable to utter anything coherent, so she eventually just shook her head, blinking away the tears.

Elizabeth's mind rehearsed the events of the day. Mary had seemed so very Mary-like on the walk into Meryton, meeting the officers, socializing at Aunt Phillips' house and even on their return, although perhaps quieter than usual on the walk back. Had Mary spoken? Quieter than quiet was a difficult distinction, and Elizabeth simply could not recall.

“Mary, did something happen today?” Elizabeth prompted. Mary sniffed loudly and shook her head as a long, broken, “Noo-ooo-ooo-ooo” erupted from her lips.

Elizabeth put her arms around her emotional sister and pulled her close. Mary resisted for a bare fraction of a second before she laid her head on Elizabeth's shoulder and resumed her weeping, while Elizabeth smoothed her hair, and hushed and soothed her as she would a crying baby. Eventually, Mary's tears were spent, and she pulled away, embarrassed at having lost her composure. She wiped at her face with the shawl, removing all traces of her tears.

“Mary, listen to me.” Elizabeth held her sister's face in her hands, steadying it so she could look directly into Mary's eyes. “You
 
must
 
tell me what is wrong.”

Mary swallowed hard and whispered, “Mr. Collins.”

“Mr. Collins.” Elizabeth repeated. “Has Mr. Collins done something?”

“No.” Mary shook her head, and looked down, unable to meet Elizabeth's penetrating gaze.

“Lizzy,” Mary suddenly blurted out, “before you arrived home yesterday ... Lady Catherine ... she ... she ... she, well, she liked me best.” Mary's chin trembled and came up ever so slightly.

“Oh!” Elizabeth's eyes rounded in surprise. “Mary, are you saying that you actually
 
like
 
Mr. Collins?”

Mary nodded and looked out the window again. Elizabeth was rendered speechless, and eventually, Mary began speaking in a hoarse whisper. “I have always thought that if I ever were to marry, it would be to a man of the church. The moment I saw him, I knew that he was a pious man, but I had never dreamed that he would be so noble in his moral character, so confident in his address, so blessed and humbled by the patronage of a great lady. I am smitten, but I am beneath his notice. You are the only one he sees, Lizzy, and you do not even like him. You laughed at him all through dinner last night, and he was our
guest,
 
Lizzy, our
 
guest
. How could you dishonor this good man who has come here to amend a wrong not of his making? You do not deserve him, that is the truth, but he will choose you, I know he will.” Mary took a deep breath and looked directly at her sister. “We have only just met him, and he is already so very dear to me. How am I to live a lifetime watching you as his wife? I want him to choose
 
me
.”

Elizabeth sat quietly for several minutes, trying to process the feelings that her sister had spoken aloud, trying to fathom the depth with which Mary must feel it to be overcome. Finally, she looked at Mary and spoke. “I am sorry that this has hurt you, Mary. I did not realize, or even imagine, that you liked Mr. Collins. You know that to me he is ridiculous.”

“I know.” Mary replied softly.

Elizabeth got up and poured some water into the basin on Mary's dressing table. She saturated a cloth, loosely wrung it out and handed to her sister, indicating that she must cool her face and eyes with it. “First, we must have Mr. Collins look at you, Mary. We must give him something to notice. You are actually very pretty, but your hair is always arranged so plainly that it does not flatter you. A softer style, with some curls would look very well on you.”

Elizabeth held Mary by the shoulders and directed her to the seat in front of the dressing table. She pulled the pins out of Mary's hair and began brushing it, twirling the locks into different shapes, testing them in the mirror, and then finally, arranging Mary's hair into a loose bun, with thin braids intertwined throughout. She moistened the wispy edges, and turned them on her finger, teasing them into small ringlets that framed Mary's face. Looking in Mary's closet, she was somewhat daunted by the sea of drab colors, but finally, in the back she found a soft pink dress that had previously been Jane's.