One Thread Pulled: The Dance With Mr. Darcy (46 page)

“Mr. Collins,” she said as she pressed the volume of scripture open in her lap, “are you well versed in the Epistles of Paul to the Corinthians?”

“I have studied all of God's word, Cousin Mary,” Mr. Collins replied.

“There is a passage in Chapter 6 of Second Corinthians. It warns against being unequally yoked. Could you explain what it means to me?” Mary handed him the open book, pointing to the referenced passage.

Beads of perspiration formed on his head, and he pulled out his handkerchief, and mopped his damp forehead before he spoke. “Yes, well, as you said, it is a warning. It tells us that the believers should not marry those who are unbelievers.”

Mary nodded patiently. “That makes perfect sense. What of the next part?”

Mr. Collins peered at the book before him. “It is but more of the same, my dear cousin. Do not fret yourself about this passage. I am certain that these warnings are such that
 
you
 
heed them by intuition and have no need to be commanded in them.”

Mary blinked slightly and turned to look at him curiously. Never before had she heard Mr. Collins express a thought that had not dripped with excessive verbiage. “I have been pondering on the principle itself, Mr. Collins. My thoughts have traveled to the metaphor, to that of the yoking of persons whose situation and character are unsuited. It behooves us all, I believe, to seek a companion with which we would be
equally yoked
. Do you agree?”

“Tis a fool who would do otherwise.” Collins nodded, the spark of a future sermon forming in his mind. “It is a solid principle upon which to judge, that is certain. It would serve to guide many who may otherwise raise their hopes to the wrong person.”

“Ah, but we are all fools in matters of love, Mr. Collins. It is too often seen that an unsuitable match is discovered too late, after the nuptial vows have been spoken, and the blush of infatuation has faded. The scales fall from the eyes then, and they see the poor nature of the match too late.” Mary hesitated, collecting her thoughts before continuing. “If the solid strength of a plow horse is harnessed with the lively spirit of a thoroughbred, the fields will never be plowed, nor the race won. Both beasts are good in their respective sphere, but in temperament and purpose they are unequally yoked if put together.”

Collins looked at Mary, his eyes narrowed. “I see what you are saying, Cousin Mary, although it is difficult to discern your intent. Do you seek my counsel on a particular case, or are we speaking in general terms?”

Mary looked away again, her gaze focused through the window at some distant point. “It is indeed a particular case. There is one in my circle who pursues a most imprudent match. In circumstance and station, a marriage would appear equitable to both parties, but I know that it would not be so—their dispositions are not at all alike. They could never be happy together, but I cannot interfere.” She sighed and shook her head sadly.

“Your generosity of spirit does you credit, cousin.” Collins declared. “If you believe I may be of service, I am willing to offer my assistance. You may well know, my station in life as a clergyman grants me the opportunity to guide such persons that I may encounter away from troubled waters such as these. If you would introduce me to the gentleman in this instance, I will counsel with him, and perhaps help him to come to an understanding—to see the foolishness of the match.”

“I would that you could do so, sir, but I am not at liberty to disclose the identities of the persons of which I speak, for they are in our midst and would certainly detect my interference. Perhaps, now that you are aware of it, you will perceive it through observation and reflection and may act accordingly of your own volition.” Mary looked into his eyes and smiled. “I believe it is in you to work this out. I shall speak no more of it.”

Mary retrieved the Bible and set it on a table, laid open to the passage they had discussed. “I must go and see to my mother. Thank you for your company, Mr. Collins. I do feel better for having spoken with you about the matter.” She curtseyed and quit the room hastily, lest the shaking of her limbs give away the emotions she felt at her own boldness in speaking so with Mr. Collins.

Mr. Collins turned to examine the biblical passage again. The challenge set before him by his cousin was a welcome diversion from the book he was reading. He flattered himself with the thought that she had recognized his superior abilities as a clergyman and turned his mind to the task set before him by Mary Bennet.

~*~

Charles Bingley, Anne de Bourgh and Colonel Fitzwilliam sat together in Darcy's private sitting room, each sipping on a cup of lemon balm tea. In the adjacent bedchamber, Elizabeth Bennet rambled incoherently through her fever, with her sister diligently attending to her needs. The walls and door muffled the moans and mutterings that she was making, but it was too late to keep what she said a secret—Anne had heard them for herself, Jane had confided them in Mr. Bingley, and the colonel had diligently wormed the truth out of them.

“Anne,” Colonel Fitzwilliam ventured, “why do you suppose your mother has not tracked you here yet? I expected her to drag you away some hours ago.”

Anne nodded and a mischievous look crossed her features. “I shall tell you why. She believes I am asleep in my room, exhausted by the ball. She has taken to her room as well. She said something about not letting anyone pack her belongings or send her back to Kent. It was a most peculiar conversation. She was
 
seriously displeased
 
about something. I confess that I did not press her.”

“She had a quarrel with Darcy—that is what she was displeased with.” Bingley said with a frown. “Speaking of the man, where is he? It is not his nature to stay away. What do you suppose keeps him?”

“I was wondering this as well.” Colonel Fitzwilliam stood and immediately strode toward the door. “I will locate him. He can never manage to hide from me for long.”

~*~

Colonel Fitzwilliam's hunt for Darcy was brief. He encountered the housekeeper at the bottom of the stairs, and upon enquiring after Mr. Darcy's whereabouts, the colonel was escorted by her to the library door.

Colonel Fitzwilliam swung the library door open quietly with a gentle knock on the panel as he did so. It was doubtful that Darcy would be asleep in the day, but knowing that Darcy had been deprived of a bed overnight, he could not be certain. One glance at the long sofa testified to its vacancy, and Richard scanned the room to determine his cousin's location. He spied a lone black boot protruding from a wingback chair. With the chair being faced away from the door, all of Darcy but the telltale boot was effectively obscured.

“Darcy?” Colonel Fitzwilliam entered the room and approached his cousin tentatively. There was something odd in the angle of the boot that testified to a different posture in the chair than was customary for his always-proper cousin. The colonel came around the chair to find Darcy leaning back, nearly slumped in the chair. His coat, waistcoat and cravat had all been flung over the back of another chair, and Darcy's appearance was disheveled and despondent. He looked up at Richard and frowned.

“You look awful!” Richard informed his cousin and, trying to raise Darcy's spirits, added, “Please tell me
 
you are
 
not going to faint, because I am not certain I can catch you.”

Darcy rewarded him with a faint smile. “I am not ill, Richard.”

“What is it, man?” Richard insisted. “Tell me at once what has brought you so low! Has something happened?”

“I have received a most disturbing letter and am in desperate need of your counsel.” Darcy handed the letter to the colonel; the paper was damp and wrinkled from being clutched in Darcy's hand. “It is from Wickham. You might want to sit down before you read it.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam, letter in hand, moved to the window where the light was better and sat. He smoothed the paper out on his thigh before he began to silently read.

Master Fitzwilliam Darcy,

You may well be surprised that I would approach you with correspondence so soon after your assault on my person in Meryton. Did you perchance believe that threats would cause me to withdraw from society as a convenience to you? I must inform you that our confrontation has had the opposite effect. Your challenge has strengthened my resolve for justice in the matters that lie between us.

It was only my love and admiration for your father, who indeed treated me as his own son, which kept me from seeking that justice until now. I confess that I had harbored a hope that the brotherhood we had shared in our youth would be restored in time. I foolishly believed that when your sister accepted my marriage proposal some months past, a beginning had been made to this end. How joyful I was at the prospect of lawfully securing my place in that family which I already considered my own. Your denouncement of our betrothal was a cruel blow, not just to your sister's tender heart, but to my own happiness as well.

After some months of desolation over my lost love, I resolved to begin anew and was joined with the Hertfordshire militia at the urging of a friend. I was, at that time, assured of the pleasant companionship of my fellow officers and the hospitality of the good people of Meryton. I made significant investment in the purchase of my regimental uniform, with full intent of remaining honorably with the regiment for some duration.

Had I known of your residence in the vicinity, it is probable that I would have declined the commission, knowing, as I do, of the implacable resentment you bear toward me. It is not in my nature to anticipate any evil disposition in you—at least not sufficient to compel you to poison my superior officers against me. Yet I have discovered that such has been done, with malicious disregard for my reputation in the community in which I was to reside for the winter. In spite of our past history, I had not thought you as low as this. The defamation of my character at your hand has forced me to resign my commission and quit the county. This is due in no small way to the refusal of even the innkeeper to extend the credit that is afforded every other officer in the regiment. I am informed that the denials are entirely founded in your slanders against my name, which my Colonel was compelled to disclose to the town in order to protect the general standing of the militia. I do not fault him in this—you are to blame.

As I was preparing for my departure, under the dark cloud of your obstruction, the officers billeted in the same inn as I returned from the private ball held last evening at Netherfield Park. My ears were filled with their tales of the ladies, the dancing, the food and the wine. You may imagine my interest when they informed me of the peculiar degree of attention you paid to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. It was the opinion of several who were in attendance that you fancied yourself violently in love with Miss Elizabeth, and that she appeared to their eyes to return your regard. Am I to wish you joy? I assure you that I am not so generous of spirit upon consideration of the great harm you have inflicted on me.

You first deprived me of my own chance at felicity in love and have twice removed the means whereby I am able to support myself in even the meanest of circumstances. I find myself inclined to repay you for your officious interference in kind, and have now arrived at the point of this letter.

During the time that I was at Ramsgate with Georgiana, I found her to be eager for my attentions. She, being somewhat reserved in nature, was deeply moved by my declarations of love but unable to reciprocate them audibly whilst she preserved her natural delicacy. Desiring to know of her true feelings, I urged her to express them, so she penned a letter, declaring not only her devotion and love but communicating in most animated language the depth of her passion and desire to elope and be wed to me. She mentions in the letter certain improprieties that took place between us, which you may interpret as compromising in nature. I assure you that at the time they occurred, these liberties were taken with full expectation that we would be married ere long, but since that event did not take place as planned, the exposure of the letter would be highly damaging to what is generally known of your sister's character. My character, having been thoroughly disparaged by you already, can suffer no additional harm from such revelations.

You are probably thinking that I am now to ask for monetary rewards for my silence regarding the truth of what occurred at Ramsgate. You are correct in this thought, although it is primarily for my own comfort, and not as a punishment to you. In truth, the loss of money would be insufficient pain to one who has so much of it, so the details of these transactions are not to be included in this letter. They will be provided to you at such time as I have secured an untraceable means for the transactions to take place. Today, I will instead tell you the true cost of my silence.