But neither, it was equally true, did she present the appearance of a fortune huntress. No, he would swear to that as well. Miss Bennet, quite frankly, was an enigma. An enigma that Bingley had pierced and he had not? Bingley had been adamant that she loved him! Darcy crossed his arms over his chest and stared out the coach window at the rolling hillocks and fields just come into their spring green. No, that chain of thought was unprofitable; the last link in the affair had been forged. He clenched his jaw as consternation seized him. That last link had been the one that bound him to Miss Bingley in a distasteful conspiracy of silence against his own friend. How he hated such disguise! How he despised the whispered fears of discovery Caroline Bingley never ceased to pour into his ear until Miss Bennet was safely gone from Town. However he might bow to its necessity or congratulate himself on Bingley’s escape from the perils of such a family, the odium of the measures he had employed would remain a blot upon Darcy’s conscience.
His conscience! Darcy closed his eyes against the cheery March sunlight slanting across the coach’s seats. That staid organ of guidance and reproof had been of no comfort to him for quite some time. In his solitary moments, it churned up the dark anger he’d been forced to acknowledge at Norwycke, and it delivered him a sharp pang every time he surprised that expression on Bingley’s face. Bingley was still pluck to the bone and ready with a smile, but behind it lay a shadow that Darcy had been confident would fade upon their return to Town and its many diversions. It had not, and Darcy knew his friend to be struggling to regain his former state by that private, reflective look of his, which spoke of the presence in his body of only half a heart. Bingley maintained his social life with determination but only a portion of his former eagerness. No lady’s name had been associated with his own, although more than a few had been the recipient’s of some small attention. Bingley read more and spoke less, exhibiting the reserve Darcy had formerly accused him of lacking, in the hope, Bingley once told him, of setting himself to rights again. It was likely a lost cause, for how did one regain innocence of heart or forget the sweetness of love? Darcy had been wrong about him. Miss Bennet’s heart may not have been touched, but Bingley’s truly had, and he would ever carry the wound. What other course had been open to him? None — and still act the part of a true friend and mentor.
Then there was Elizabeth. Had he done well with her? His characterization of her family had been unmercifully accurate, save for her and her elder sister. In that, he had done them a discourtesy in his recital to his cousin. Heaven forfend that she should ever hear of his words or that they should ever be associated with her. It was true that the unsuitable circumstances and temper of the Bennet family were impediments for Bingley. It was doubly so for himself. Although lack of fortune was not of paramount concern to Darcy, the insurmountable difficulty lay in the degradation of such a connection and the unending embarrassment the behavior of its members would invariably visit upon him and his family. “…surely, if the lady were otherwise desirable,” Richard had opined, blithely multiplying the beneficial effects of distance. Although the lady was more than desirable, the moon was not distance enough to belie the difficulties! Yet did he not continue to rack himself with thoughts of her, dreams of her, and these blasted, entangling strands of silk that corded him up and bound him to her?
Darcy’s fingers went unerringly to his waistcoat pocket, but a rustle of newspaper gave him pause. Looking up from under his brows, he watched his cousin, waiting for assurance that he was well engrossed in his reading. A disdainful snort and a “Well, I should hope so! Idiot!” proved Richard’s attention to be engaged. Darcy slowly drew them out, the threads that had both served and tormented him. “Perhaps…if it were proved that the lady was devoted to the gentleman…” He had said that, traitorously holding out the exception to himself, knowing it impossible. She was in Hertfordshire; he was in Kent, or London, or Derbyshire — it did not matter where. They would never meet again unless he proposed it, nor should they. More than mere miles were involved. To attempt to engage her affection would be the act of a libertine, for nothing honorable could come of it. She would always be her mother’s daughter; he would always be the son of his father — Darcy of Pemberley.
His fingers closed around the threads. Drawing himself up, he turned to the coach window and quickly released the catches, letting the upper pane slide down. It came to rest with a soft thud. The rattle of the harness chains and the sound of the horses’ hooves upon the road were suddenly louder, catching Fitzwilliam’s attention away from his paper. “Ah, fresh country air!” He grinned at Darcy and then went back to his reading. Darcy looked down into his gloved palm at the dulled, tattered silks. Then, closing his eyes against them, he leaned out the window and let them fall. Caught by a spring breeze, they drifted away, coming to rest by the side of the road.
“Who is that man, do you suppose, Darcy?” Fitzwilliam’s face was full of amused incredulity. He cocked his head toward the window as the coach came up upon a short lane that led to a modest home. “By the look of him, he must be a clergyman; but a more queer bird I challenge you to find. Look at him!” Darcy roused himself to glance in the recommended direction and was brought up straight with a start of recognition. “He keeps bowing and… Here!” Fitzwilliam was out of his seat and had the window down and was now leaning out of it.
“For Heaven’s sake, Richard, do not —”
“Greetings, my good man!” Fitzwilliam bellowed out the window as they passed and then sat down with a laugh. “Can that be our aunt’s new clergyman, come to replace old Satherthwaite?”
“Mr. Collins,” Darcy informed his cousin through gritted teeth. How could he have forgotten that that tedious little man, who on the merit of his collar had claimed such undue familiarity with him at Bingley’s ball, would be here.
“Collins? You have met him, then?” Fitzwilliam asked in surprise.
Darcy nodded. “In Hertfordshire last autumn, when I accompanied Bingley on his ill-fated hunt for a suitable piece of property. Collins is related to one of the families in the neighborhood.”
“How is he, then? As good at bowing and scraping as old Satherthwaite? Lord, what a sycophant he was! But it still made me cringe to see the way Her Ladyship led him about his own business.”
“I suspect our aunt would have more of the same in any parson whose living depended upon her, but whether he meets or exceeds Satherthwaite, I cannot say. I
“Introduced himself?” Fitzwilliam’s astonishment was complete. “Why, the cheeky fellow! Aunt Catherine would not like to hear of that! I suppose when we meet I should expect to be greeted with my Christian name!”
Darcy snorted inelegantly in reply but lapsed into silence as memories of that occasion claimed him. The man had first intruded on his notice during his awkward attempt to lead Elizabeth through a country dance. Initially, Collins’s ineptitude had seemed humorous, but the lady’s mounting humiliation at her partner’s want of skill and proper courtesy had nearly moved him to intervene. He had resisted the temptation and then, when Elizabeth’s ruffled emotions had calmed, surprised her and the entirety of the room with the offer of his hand for the next set. What had followed had been of equal parts pleasure and pain. Like the threads he had finally put away from him. Like the memories he had not yet succeeded in sending after them.
The coach rolled on the short distance to Rosings, the seat of the de Bourgh family and home of their widowed Aunt Catherine. Darcy could see by a sudden display of restless attention to his neckcloth and the disposition of his coat and waistcoat that his cousin had begun marshaling his reserves of good humor and gallantry in final preparation for their reception and stay. Lady Catherine had terrified Richard when they were boys, but as he had matured and discovered the byways that led to female sensibilities, he had put that knowledge to good use with their aunt. For years now he’d turned her up sweet, as sweet as a woman of their aunt’s disposition was ever likely to become; but it was an achievement, he always insisted, that required careful, yearly cultivation.
They passed the gates and began the sweep through the park. The horses under James’s easy rein quickened their pace, scenting that their labors were nearly done. As they rounded a curve that took them near the open grove Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s grandfather had cleared, Darcy’s thoughts were interrupted by a flash of color, like that of a lady’s gown or pelisse. Frowning slightly, he twisted about, trying to satisfy himself with what it might be, but the density of trees and the swiftness of the coach made it impossible.
“See something?” Fitzwilliam asked.
“Nothing…a servant on her way to the village, I suppose.” Darcy shrugged and then added with a teasing smile, “And no, I do not know whether she is beautiful.”
“Darcy, you know I do not trifle with servant girls!” Fitzwilliam looked at him, affronted. “His Lordship would have nailed my hide to the stable door if I ever had and is perfectly capable of doing so still!” Fitzwilliam shuddered as he elaborated on the lengths to which he believed his parent capable of going in show of his disapprobation of
