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Prologue

Posted on 2008-08-20

Mr. Darcy was in trouble.

It really didn't matter whether he was responsible, or whether he was the only one responsible, or whether he had ever been told of his responsibilities, but by his virtue as a male, and a husband, at that, he had a certain duty to attend these things.

Which he hadn't. Hence the trouble.

His married friends had warned him, when still a bachelor, that this would happen. It's a whole different world, having a wife, they said. But he had scorned their advice, saying that any wife he took would learn soon enough that he was always right.

And he was. But sometimes, it seemed, she was more right.

So now, as he stood listening to his wife describe his recent failings, he contemplated the effectiveness of diverting the stream that led through the south pasture, and whether he would then have to move the flock currently using that field. This was all a silly matter -- really, why was she so offended? -- and would blow over if he simply let her talk. And talk. And talk. But then a word caught his attention.

"You want me to go through what?"

"Labors," Elizabeth said with exasperation. "Really, I think it's only fair."

"I'm sorry, Madam wife, I know it's the trials of becoming a parent and all, but I'm really not built for that sort of thing," Darcy replied.

"Not labor -- labors," she said, stressing the plural.

It didn't help.

"Tasks. Ten tasks, to make up for what you did," she explained again.

He spluttered. "But I have work to do, as well you know. Responsibilities to this estate and my people. The harvest is getting underway. And yes, I know you weren't here last year, so you wouldn't know how things work, but I simply must be out there to supervise."

"Then you can supervise while accomplishing my tasks. They won't take long if you apply yourself. Heracles did it," she said with a smirk.

"Heracles?" he choked. He could only imagine. "Have you been getting into my books again?"

"Well, it's not my fault you have so much better a library than my father," Elizabeth said, her brow arching.

Darcy subsided with an indistinct grumble.

"What was that?" she asked.

"I said, 'Where would you like me to start?'" he said, baring his teeth in an attempt at a smile.

She responded to that smile with a brief thinning of the lips, but then turned and picked up a slip of paper from the desk and consulted it. "Well, let's see. The first thing I have here is for you to visit your Aunt Catherine."

The smile disappeared. "I refuse to see that woman."

"I just want you to deliver her an invitation. Convince her to come visiting -- for her niece at least, if she still refuses to see me."

"I'd have thought you the last person to advocate her return to the family fold," he snorted.

"Well, yes," she said, "but someone should make an effort for a reconciliation."

Now that would be a Herculean task, indeed. But after a moment of thought he decided he was willing to give it a try, if it would get him back in his wife's good books again. And her out of his.

That couldn't be too hard, could it?

"Are you out of your mind?" Anne asked with a sniffle. Her tone of voice revealed how little doubt she held on the subject.

Indeed, Darcy was beginning to question his sanity himself. But perhaps it was simply exhaustion that clouded his brain. It had been a long trip down to Kent and an even longer one into the drawing room where his aunt held sway. But it was a very short trip to the battlefield.

His reception at Rosings Park had been slightly more tepid than the arctic in January, but Lady Catherine's expressions -- and she had a few choice ones -- had quickly disabused him of any notion that his task would be easily accomplished.

At present the invitation to Pemberley rested untouched on his dressing table where his valet had left it earlier while unpacking. Darcy was in the gold salon with his cousin Anne. Mrs. Jenkinson, the older woman who served as her companion, sat in the corner half-napping. Lady Catherine had yet to descend for dinner.

"My mother would rather dine with the devil himself than your wife," Anne said now. "At least the devil might listen when she tells him how to do his job."

"Do you think it's really that bad?" Grimacing, he ran a finger under his collar. "Is it warm in this room?"

"It's for my health," she replied. "And for your health I'd suggest not bothering to mention the reason for your visit."

"So you think I have no hope?"

Anne thought for a moment while blowing her nose delicately in a white-laced handkerchief. "Perhaps slightly more hope than that of me convincing her to take me to London," she said. "But slightly less than that of Satan accepting the invitation to côtelettes d'mouton à la soubise and my mother's company."

"Is that what we're having tonight?" Darcy asked with a shudder.

"My mother's company, yes, most likely, but as to the menu I have no idea. Did you really think Mama would consult me on such a thing?"

"It was a long shot."

"So is your request. But you'll be able to discover that yourself in a minute. I believe I can hear the sweet strains of Mama's voice in the hall."

As, indeed, could everyone else. Even Mrs. Jenkinson, who been hiding her increasing deafness from her employer with an inversely proportional increase in head nodding, sat upright as Lady Catherine was heard berating a footman for having moved a table three inches from its rightful place.

Darcy shifted his chair back into the carpet divots and stood as his aunt came into the room.

"Ah, Nephew," she said with a grave nod.

Darcy bowed. "I am," he replied.

Anne blew her nose with an odd, explosive snort. Lady Catherine frowned. "I see some of that unattractive pertness so common in your wi-- that woman is infecting your own behavior, Nephew."

There was so much to say to that, but, deciding it would no doubt hurt his cause, Darcy contented himself with, "And how are you, Aunt?"

It was an undoubtedly safe topic, at least for his diplomatic mission if not his boredom, for on such inducement Lady Catherine was moved to inform him of her every ache and pain, the effect of the weather on her joints, and the stresses of dealing with neighbors and servants. Darcy found himself nodding nearly as often as Mrs. Jenkinson.

At last, however, dinner was announced and they proceeded into the dining room. There, over the soup, sweetbreads, and côtelettes d'mouton à la soubise ("Good guess," Darcy murmured to Anne under the cover of rearranging his napkin), Lady Catherine held forth on the subjects of the proper way to plant roses, prepare oysters, pack a suitcase, and organize infantry, none of which she had ever done but would have if she had ever learnt. Her discourses over the courses so well filled the time until the ladies rose to remove to the drawing room that Darcy had no opportunity to raise the subject of familial harmony. Even had he wished it.

But after he had downed a few glasses of bravado and made his way to where Lady Catherine was discussing how pleasant a way to pass an evening it would be if any of them knew how to play the pianoforte, Darcy took the plunge and explained the reason for his visit.

"How would you like to visit Pemberley, Aunt?"

Lady Catherine choked on her tea.

"I believe 'as mother-in-law' is out of the question now," Anne said blandly as she directed a footman in the proper method of waving her fan.

"Uh, yes. Yes, I would have to agree," Darcy said, setting down his cup and saucer and attempting to mop up the new stains on his jacket and shirt.

"Well, I never!" Lady Catherine wheezed.

"Actually, you did try--" Anne began.

"Upstairs I have an invitation from my wife to visit in a month or two," Darcy said, interrupting his cousin. "We would love to have your company for --"

"I wouldn't set foot in the same house as that sly, scheming woman you married. She has no conception of good breeding, nor, I've no doubt, how to run a household. But then, I had warned you --"

"Aunt Catherine, I really must protest your insults to my wife," Darcy said, clenching his teeth. "Elizabeth is a lady and, more so, she is my wife and as such deserves your respect."

"Respect! She deserves my respect? And what respect has she ever shown to me?"

"Well, there's this letter, for one . . . and . . . well, she's never been disrespectful to you."

Lady Catherine spluttered, her face reddening. "I seem to recall a certain conversation, Nephew, that we had last year before your marriage. There, without doubt, was this disrespect you say she has never shown me. I was simply offering her advice --"

"I believe the word is 'insulting,' Mama," Anne said blandly.

"-- and she repulsed my well-meaning counsel with words too horrid to recall."

"If I remember rightly, such phrases as 'insolent girl' and 'unladylike tramp' were scattered throughout your summation of the conversation when you repeated it to me in London," Darcy said. "I highly doubt now -- as I did then -- that respect had anything to do with your intended guidance."

He hesitated significantly. "But we are willing to forgive that if you would --"

"Forgive me, indeed!" Lady Catherine huffed. "Well! You can certainly forget any notion that I would visit Pemberley. I have no desire to shower any attention on your undeserving spouse. I am sorry that I should not be able to rescue your sister from the influence of that woman, but perhaps Georgiana could visit me here. I should like that -- and so should Anne."

Darcy eyed his aunt with annoyance, wondering if strangling her would count towards fulfilling his task. Probably not.

"Aunt Catherine, I would greatly appreciate it if you would consider this invitation," he said placatingly to his aunt, who sat stiffly in her chair, gazing regally across the room and pretending not to hear him. Mrs. Jenkinson nodded helpfully. "Elizabeth is making an effort to reconcile the family," Darcy continued. "A family that has made no overture of welcome to her, I might add. I should think you could make some little concession."

"Absolutely not! I shall give her no preference. I am highly displeased." With a frown, she stood and looked at her daughter, who now rested back in her chair and closed her eyes as the footman waved the fan back and forth. "Come, Anne. I wish to retire."

With a half-stifled sigh, Anne rose and followed her mother from the room, leaning lightly on the footman's arm. As she went through the doorway, she shot an apologetic glance over her shoulder at her cousin, mouthing the word "Later." Mrs. Jenkinson, who had no idea what had just happened, followed nervously in their wake.

"So, that went well," Darcy muttered to the empty room. He didn't have a clue how to recoup this loss. Perhaps, he reflected grimly as he retired to his room, he ought to have listened closer during dessert to his aunt's strictures on organizing a regiment. She certainly knew how to rout an opponent.

Well, there was nothing for it but to retreat and try again tomorrow. The only problem was scouting the lay of the land: perhaps Anne would know.

"I would imagine she's still at her toilette," said Anne as she packed away another roll. She dusted her fingers on her napkin with dainty grace and took a sip of tea before taking up her fork again. "And she's still angry," she added.

Darcy stared across the breakfast table at his cousin, his expression bordering on awe. "I thought you had a poor appetite."

Anne paused in the midst of shoveling an entire rasher of bacon into her mouth. "For what Mama puts on the table, yes. Which is why I have to get to the breakfast room before she descends for the day. Otherwise Hopkins takes all my favorites away, and I'm left with digestive biscuits." She winked at the butler, who was pouring her another cup of tea.

A shudder ran through Darcy's frame, either at the thought of digestive biscuits or at the thought of his aunt coming downstairs.

"So why the rush to get Mama to Pemberley?" Anne asked as she carefully cut her kippers.

Darcy hesitated, unsure he wished to reveal the whole, embarrassing truth. But Anne was always a calm, rational creature, if a little odd sometimes, and would understand how difficult this was for him.

"It's not that funny," Darcy said stiffly as a piece of fish flew past his head.

Anne set down her fork, pushed back her chair, and doubled over in laughter. At last her snorts diminished and she choked out, "Oh, Fitzwilliam. You, of all people. . ."

"Yes, well, this doesn't help my cause."

"No, it doesn't," Anne said, sitting up and continuing her breakfast. "Nor does it help me eat enough that I can last until tomorrow."

Darcy chewed thoughtfully on a piece of toast. "So how do I get Aunt Catherine to accept the invitation?"

"Why not just give it to her?"

"What, how would that work?" Darcy asked doubtfully.

"Well, you would take it in your hand and, with a forward motion, place it in hers. Usually there's a little speech accompanying that explains the gesture . . ." Anne sighed. "Basically, you're just going to have to swallow some more of your pride. She loves it when people grovel. Why do you think Mr. Collins got his living? It certainly wasn't for his talent with sermons."

Darcy acknowledged the truth of that. "Speaking of groveling," he said, "what's happened with you? Where did little deadpan-Anne go?"

"I think it's my spinster status," Anne said, sitting back and pushing her plate away. "Ever since you threw me over for someone so unsuitable, I have become distrait. Or, at least, that's what Mama tells herself."

"Are you finished, Miss Anne?" the butler asked.

Anne nodded, then stared after the food as it disappeared through the servants' door. A dismayed expression wreathed her face. "I might have eaten too much this morning," she said with a grimace. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"As you are every morning, my poor dear," Lady Catherine said, sailing into the room. "Hopkins!" she bellowed. When the butler came back through the doorway, she asked him to bring the digestive biscuits up.

"He really ought to have had them here by this time," she continued grimly as the butler went to do her bidding. "I shall have to speak with him on it."

Her attention then turned to Darcy, who had diligently applied himself to his shirred eggs. "Ah, Nephew. You are still here."

"As far as I can tell," he muttered around a forkful.

Lady Catherine shot him a look, but said nothing as she sat down and waited for the footman to approach with the morning's offerings. She dismissed two of the options and settled on the ham cakes, studiously ignoring her recalcitrant relative.

With a grimace, Darcy swallowed his eggs and his pride. He picked up the letter beside his plate and, reaching across, placed it in front of his aunt. She looked as if it would rear up and strike her.

"And what is this?" she asked.

"The invitation, Aunt Catherine. From my wife," he explained further when she made no move to take it.

"I can see that," she replied repressively. "But I am no more inclined to consider it than yesterday. You have greatly insulted me."

Darcy sighed. "I do apologize for my behavior last night, Aunt. I cannot imagine what I was thinking to have spoken so. And I am sure Mrs. Darcy would apologize to you, were she here, for her behavior to you prior to our marriage," he continued, wondering how far he might be able to stretch the truth. "You have always had a most generous nature, and I can only beg that you might be so magnanimous as to forgive us our sins."

Too far. "I do not appreciate your levity," she said.

"Perhaps Fitzwilliam is expressing himself inadequately," Anne suggested with an ironic glance at her cousin. "Mrs. Darcy no doubt says it much better in her letter, Mama."

Lady Catherine hesitated, then took up the letter. "This is poorly worded," she said when she had read it through. "There is no indication as to when we are invited to visit."

"It doesn't have a definite date, of course, as we're not sure exactly when the child will be born --"

"Infants aren't very punctual, are they?" Anne murmured.

"-- but we could send an express when the christening was settled."

"Born?" Lady Catherine echoed. "Are you having a baby, then?"

Darcy, with no small measure of paternal pride, said that they were.

"Will it be a boy?" Lady Catherine asked.

"I think he will be too young for Anne, Aunt."

Anne waved a hand airily. "That's all right. Probably wouldn't be my type."

"And there is no way we could know that yet," he added.

"I don't see why," Lady Catherine replied. "I knew immediately when I was having Anne that she would be a girl. Your wife clearly does not have the refined feminine sensibilities necessary for these sorts of things. I should have known.

"Well," she continued, setting aside her plate and standing, "I suppose I had better go tell my maid to pack."

"What, now?" Darcy said in some surprise.

"Of course!" Lady Catherine gave her nephew a stern glance. "You were remiss in not telling me sooner, Fitzwilliam Darcy. It is quite natural that your wife would desire my good counsel in this situation. In fact, I am beginning to think better of her for it."

Well, that was good, but still . . . "I don't think she's expecting you," he stammered.

His aunt looked at him with exasperation. "Of course not. She's expecting a baby. Now, I will need you to find Hopkins and tell him to have the carriage ready by this afternoon. There is no time to be lost."

And with that, she exited the room.

Hopkins, who had cleverly waited until his mistress had left, entered. "Will you be needing anything more, sir?"

"A vicar and a notary, I think," Darcy said with a pained look.

"Sir?"

"I think my wife is going to kill me.

Posted on 2008-08-27

Upon notice that Lady Catherine and entourage were half a day's ride from Pemberley, Elizabeth did not, as might have been expected, murder her husband, but she did retreat to her rooms and refuse to come out.

"They're your guests," she shouted through the door.

"You did invite her," Darcy shouted back.

Naturally, he did not receive a reply.

As he was about to walk away in frustration after a few minutes of glaring at the innocent oaken panels, a letter slipped beneath the door. He picked up the sheet with its broken seal and read the sloppily written missive.

"What is this?" he asked with admirable restraint.

"Your second task," came the answer from the other side of the door.

Which is why, less than an hour later, Darcy could be found on the road northbound. It was a full day's ride, and leaving so late in the day -- directly after returning home from another trip -- meant he was forced to spend a night on the road. He had only a groom along to care for the horses and to watch his back when necessary, so they made better time on horseback than if he had had to bring the carriage and his valet. So with the brisk pace and silent company, Darcy felt as though the trip wouldn't be completely horrid.

Of course, that was before it started raining. Darcy, wet and sniffling, was in a decidedly irritated mood by the time they pulled up at the Bell and Whistle in Newcastle. After washing his face and hands and changing his attire, Darcy went in search of his host, in hopes of finding some information. He had come to the right man.

"Aye, aw knar wheor t' blaggard be,"¹ the innkeeper said, spitting on the ground beside where he stood under the porch cover, watching for the post to come in. His earlier friendliness was forgotten with the discovery of his new guest's association. "E'll be theor nobbut a few days maer but; t' reds be movin' yeut."¹

Darcy sighed. The words were nigh on unrecognizable, but not so the expression on his host's face. "He owes you money, I suppose?"

"Aye. 'Asn't paid nawt but a bob in weeks. But aw'm neet t' anny yen. 'E aas a lot iv brass about heor." ²

Such as it was, it wasn't a completely unexpected revelation. After discovering how much was owed, Darcy grimly counted out a few shillings and placed them in the startled man's hand. The suddenly more congenial innkeeper gave the required directions with fawning graciousness and waved him off as if to a soldier son on the way to war.

His reception at his destination was less welcoming.

"What are you doing here?"

"If I may come in?" Darcy asked politely of the scowling man blocking the doorway.

With a muttered oath, the man stepped aside and Darcy eased past him into the cramped, dismal quarters. When the door shut behind him, he was plunged into near darkness until a door to the side opened and a pretty blond stepped into view.

"What's he doing here?"

"I don't know," replied her husband. "What are you doing here, Darcy? Come to lord it over us lesser folk?"

"I've come to do a favor for my wife."

What with the pale sunlight streaming from behind her, the expression on the woman's face wasn't visible, but her voice brightened considerably as she clapped her hands and cried, "Oh, lud! I'd wondered if Lizzy had gotten my letter. I'm so glad -- I'd almost given up hope she'd respond. But why did she send you?" she said, suddenly turning suspicious. "Last time it was just a few banknotes and a brief letter."

"Last time?" Darcy echoed, raising a brow. "How long have you been siphoning funds off my wife?"

There was silence in the hallway until Darcy spoke again: "Perhaps we might sit down and talk about what needs to be done."

"Why?" Wickham asked harshly. "You can't have the money back, you know. It's all gone."

But Lydia, who had less of a history with and thus less of a fear of the newcomer, realized the possibilities of his visit and decided to be polite. "Come in and have a seat, Mr. Darcy. Would you like some tea?"

He followed her into the room whence she had come, a shabbily furnished parlor with peeling wallpaper and dirty windows. He moved a stack of half-folded laundry from a chair to sit down as Lydia fiddled with a tea tray that had been sitting on the table.

She glanced at him with a dismayed expression. "It's a little cold. Perhaps you and my husband can talk while I go heat some water."

"That sounds wonderful, Mrs. Wickham," Darcy replied graciously. "Thank you."

And with an expressive look meant for her husband, she hurried from the room, tea tray in hand. Darcy turned to the man who still stood to one side of the door, his shoulders rounded defensively and his hands thrust deep into his pockets.

"How long did it take you to go through the settlements?"

Wickham cursed. "She barely brought me anything. And you tied up her dowry so well I can't touch it."

"That was the point," Darcy reminded him. "How much do you owe now?"

The other man shrugged sullenly. "Enough it'll be hard to get out of here. She isn't a cheap wife."

Darcy refrained from mentioning that the bill at the inn had been for the ale. But perhaps, he reflected, Lydia had turned sot. With Wickham as her husband, he wouldn't have blamed her.

"So what are your plans?" he asked now.

Wickham curled his lip. "Why, are you going to help us?"

"As a matter of fact, I am. As a favor to my wife, mind -- and the last of its kind, I trust. You will provide me with a list of your creditors. This afternoon would be best; I wish to spend as little time here as possible."

"Not up for a happy family reunion?"

"Not when you're the family," Darcy replied.

At that moment, Lydia came bustling back into the room, a steaming teapot and several chipped cups on the tray. She set it down somewhat clumsily and set about pouring out the tea. "That sorry excuse for a milkman down the lane has been refusing to take our trade lately, so we don't have any cream, but would you like sugar?" she asked.

Darcy, who had been eyeing the weak-looking tea with some discouragement, accepted gratefully. The cup she handed him was filled at the bottom with well-used leaves, but he drank it with tact and smiled when she looked at him in hopeful expectation.

"So you will help us?" she asked.

He nodded. "I will arrange payment for all of your creditors here, within reason. I would appreciate if you would make a list of any of the shopkeepers in town to whom you owe."

The lines on her forehead cleared as she smiled brightly. "Cor. I knew writing Lizzy would be the right idea. Mama was able to send a little, of course, and Jane, too, but of course neither of them have the pots of money Mrs. Darcy does."

Darcy's teeth set on edge. "My wife does not have pots of money."

"Well, no, but you do, and she's your wife, right?" Lydia continued, unfazed. She turned to Wickham with narrowed eyes. "See? Some husbands aren't so tightfisted and know how to treat their wives right."

"If you wouldn't squander our money on those stupid bonnets and expensive shoes, perhaps we'd have some left at the end of the month, you daft woman," Wickham replied with a snarl.

"Oh, and your drinking and gambling and heaven knows what with those loose women helps us keep house, I'm sure," she shot back.

"Yes, well," Darcy said, setting his cup and saucer down on the table between a well-worn copy of Belle Assemblée and something fuzzy he had no desire to identify. "I should undoubtedly be leaving. I have a few errands to run, and I will return in an hour for your lists."

And with a bow, he saw himself out, closing the door behind him on the sound of renewed squabbling. He didn't truly have any errands to run, so he returned to the inn and took a seat in the public taproom, accepting a glass of ale from the good innkeeper.

There were yet fifteen minutes to the hour when the door opened to the taproom, this time admitting not another local, but Wickham, who stood wind-blown and flustered on the threshold. Spotting Darcy at one of the long oak tables, he strode briskly over and threw himself down opposite.

"Look, Darcy," Wickham said in a hushed but intense voice, leaning over to speak and casting his eyes nervously around the tap room at the unfriendly gazes of the other patrons. "You could front a little more on the deal, couldn't you? I mean, what, I have to be able to set my wife up in a proper fashion in our new placing, and all. You've seen how it is."

Darcy set his tankard down with a thud and eyed the other man coldly. "I think we know each other a bit too well for that, Wickham. I wouldn't trust you with a brass farthing, much less a few pounds. I will pay off your debts, and our association will end; that is all. I have cleaned up after you one too many times."

Wickham glared for a moment before thrusting back the bench he sat on and standing. He reached into his coat pocket and from it took a set of papers, which he threw on the table in front of Darcy. "There. Have joy of your task."

And he turned and strode out of the taproom, slamming the door behind him. There was silence for a moment, all eyes swiveling between the door and Darcy, and then the conversation resumed. Darcy took up the papers and flipped through them, tallying up the amounts. It appeared he had brought enough from his safe at Pemberley to cover all of the debts, which were only a little more than the first time he had done this. As well, a few of the creditors could no doubt be satisfied with arrangements of payment from his bank.

The task of contacting all the shopkeepers, innkeepers, and militiamen took only the rest of the afternoon, and it was barely dark by the time Darcy returned to his room at the inn. He lay down on his bed with a sigh. It would be good to return to Pemberley tomorrow, a job well done. This was by far easier than his last task, only requiring of him a little money and a little more willingness to face his old foe.

Or, at least, that's what he thought until he came down the stairs the following morning.

"Innkeeper!" he called upon reaching the taproom.

The man came out from the kitchens, wiping his hands on his apron. "Ah, sir. Ye be up."

"Yes, and ready to be on my way," Darcy said jovially, his good mood spilling over. "Would you rouse my groom and have our horses saddled and ready waiting in half an hour? 'Til then I'll be happy to have some of your hearty northern fare to break my fast ere I go."

His host seemed nervous. "Aw'd bring ye belly-timmer, sir, and happy. An' mevvies . . . mevvies as ye bide heor a bit, ye might taak te good few gowks theor,"³ he said, his eyes shifting to the other side of the taproom.

With a foreboding feeling, Darcy followed his gaze to the other side of the room, where a group of a dozen or more men of the shopkeep and barkeep ilk were ranged, all gazing in his direction. Many of the faces were familiar, ones that he had seen only the day before. Every last one of them held a slip of paper in their hands, and Darcy didn't have to see the signatures on them to know whose vowels they were.

"They be heor te settle t' hoits' debts, ye ken," the innkeeper said in a low voice. "Heard ye be payin' their gate." ⁴

The phrase that escaped Darcy's lips clearly crossed the boundaries of language. With red cheeks and an embarrassed bow, the other man beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen.

Darcy, meanwhile, approached the group. "How may I help you?" he said, looking 'round at the faces before him. "I pray dearly that you have not been so foolish as to extend credit to the Wickhams again."

The men shuffled nervously. "Aye, sir, we has," said one man, clearly the one elected to speak as their leader. He stepped forward, clutching his cap in his hands. "Mebees wes feuls, an' mebees we divvint deserve a haipeth. But ee seem a canny soul an' honest. We've wives an' bairns te feed, and the Wickhams seem a fly-by-night, if ivvor we seen. We b'ain't nivvor seein' a fardin o' that brass wivout yor help."⁵

The others nodded and murmured their agreement, and Darcy sighed. "It seems that I am the fool, truly. Yes, I will pay all of the bills that you present to me here. But from here on, if any of you accept their signature for anything, you are paying for it on your own backs. I am not underwriting their expenses."

He looked around at each of the men, who nodded in relief and understanding. Then, in an orderly fashion, he paid from his pocket for the small items and arranged for the others to be drawn from his accounts. When the last man had thanked him and left, bowing, from the taproom, Darcy turned to the innkeeper, who had stood nervously to one side during the last of the exchanges.

"Now for breakfast, my good host," Darcy said. "And do tell my groom we shall not be leaving quite yet. It appears I have one more order of business to attend."

When Darcy was admitted into the Wickhams' quarters some time later, he realized this piece of business might take longer than he expected.

"What is this?" he asked, picking up a fashionably pink poke bonnet that sat on a suspiciously new-looking table.

Lydia shot a nervous look at her husband, who stood against the fireplace, glaring. "Why, that old thing? Just something I've had for ages," she laughed shakily.

"And you've just never bothered to remove the tag hanging off the back of it, I suppose," Darcy said dryly, tossing the bonnet back onto the table and wandering over to a small roll-top desk that appeared reassuringly antique.

"Here now, what are you doing?" Lydia cried as he began to pick up little scraps of paper and examine them.

Darcy turned his head and fixed her gaze. "Discovering how much your little shopping trip is going to cost me this time. I suppose you followed me around town and for every tradesman I paid off, bought something from them on newly restored credit."

"I did no such thing!" Lydia cried, her cheeks filling with a blush that told him she had done exactly that. She turned to her husband. "What, are you going to let him talk to me like that?"

Wickham shrugged. "Why not?"

In spite of himself, Darcy had a hard time keeping his lips from smiling at the expression this response inspired. He turned his attention back to the task at hand.

"You really cannot be spending more money," he said over his shoulder as he continued to tally up these new bills. "You don't have any more to spend."

"But you do," Wickham said.

"That's right!" Lydia agreed. "Why should you begrudge us a few pounds, when you have so much? Besides, I didn't spend all that great an amount."

Darcy sighed. "I told you yesterday that I would not be paying for your every whim," he said sternly. "I have told the shopkeepers not to extend you any more credit, and the pubsmen no more ale. If they do, it shall not be I who pays."

Lydia shrieked in dismay, but Wickham only frowned more deeply. "And what's to stop us from simply going on to the next town and doing our shopping and our drinking there?"

It was a thorny question. He could not go to every shop and pub and inn in the district, Darcy readily admitted. Nor could he imprison the two of them here to prevent them from going out to these shops and pubs and inns without raising a few eyebrows. Severing the connections was not enough. He needed to cauterize them.

"Yes, but why here?" Bingley hissed at his friend in a voice low enough not to carry to the couple who was descending from the carriage. Jane stood at the bottom of the stairs, graciously welcoming the Wickhams to Netherfield.

"Well, for one, it was on the way home," Darcy said.

Bingley, who rarely questioned his good friend's logic, gave him a look of utter disbelief.

"Fine -- only a little ways off my path. And besides, you and Jane are the only ones who can stand having them around," Darcy said with a grin.

Bingley sighed. "Well, I suppose that's true. But you could have warned us."

1. "Yes, indeed, good sir, I do know where that rather disreputable person resides. Though, I do regret to say, he'll be there only for a few more days, as the militia will be moving to a new location elsewhere, I believe."

2. "Yes, I admit that he does owe me some money. He has paid almost nothing in weeks on his rather long bill for ale. But I'm not the only one with my pockets to let; he owes a lot of money to people hereabouts."

3. "I would be very happy to bring you some stottie cake, grilled oysters, and perhaps even a few sausages, sir. And maybe, while you're waiting, you might be able to talk to the -- and I regret to call them this -- fools sitting over there."

4. "They're here to settle the Wickhams' debts, which are unhappily large. They've heard that you are paying all of their bills."

5. "Yes, sir, we have. Maybe you're right, and we're fools; maybe we don't deserve even a halfpenny; but you seem to us a very kind and honest person. We play upon your sympathies, sir, because we know we'll never get any of our money if you don't help us."

Posted on 2008-09-03

"I wish for a deer," said Elizabeth.

"You already have one," Darcy replied with a smile that somehow didn't communicate through the oak panels of the communicating door in their suite. "I am your dearest."

"No, a deer," Elizabeth repeated, stressing the "e." "I would like one for the lawn."

Darcy laughed unsteadily. "Please be serious, my love. Now, what is my third task?"

"To find me a deer."

"And whence shall I get a deer? They don't sell them in the shops. Or, at least, none that I frequent."

"I don't tell you how to complete your tasks," Elizabeth said. "I simply tell you what they are. Now, I expect to see a deer on the lawn by tomorrow afternoon. Let's say three o'clock."

It was useless to remonstrate with her, Darcy realized after the fifth time he offered an alternative. No, she didn't want a peacock, or a folly by the lake, or a man holding a sign that read "deer" -- nothing so simple. She must have the full-blooded, fawn-colored, white-rumped deal. Antlers were optional.

"But do find one alive," she added.

So out went Darcy, searching for a deer. The pickings, not surprisingly, were slim. By the time he had ridden the length and breadth of the estate, he had come to the disheartening and unharted conclusion that there were simply no deer on his land. That would have been too easy.

But luck was with him as he crossed the south pasture, his horse scattering the sheep flock that milled about the field. He mightn't have even caught sight of it, there on the edge of the wood, if not for the flash of white as it bounded away, startled by his approach.

With a whoop of excitement, he gave his horse its head, and they bounded across the field and over the border fence, into the wood. They followed the deer trail for some time before Darcy had to admit two things: first, he was lost, and second, he had no idea where the deer had gone.

As well, he finally realized the likelihood of him catching a deer while riding his horse was slim. Sure, his horse was fast, but it was also loud. So to get anywhere near a deer he had to be stealthy.

But now, at least, he knew where the animals were located.

So he rode back to the house for supplies. He avoided his aunt, who held sway in the drawing room with a nervous Georgiana as hostess while the lady of the house was "indisposed," and sought out Mrs. Reynolds in the kitchen, where she also was avoiding his aunt.

"You wish to do what?" she asked, confused.

"I am deer stalking," he replied. "I need items to stalk deer."

"Well, the guns are in the gun room, but I should think you'd know that."

"No, I need this one alive."

"They're very difficult to eat alive," she said, puzzled.

"I need it on the lawn."

"Why would you kill a deer on the lawn, when you could kill it in the wood?" She looked at him oddly. "Has all this dashing about given you an illness?"

"No, I need to put a live deer on the lawn by three in the afternoon tomorrow," he explained.

"But we don't have any deer."

Darcy gave up and simply handed her the list of items he would need to go deer stalking. She continued to look at him doubtfully, but went about finding the equipment he needed.

At last he rode out again on horseback with a satchel of tools and a satchel for his lunch. ("If you're going to act strangely, you should at least do so with some food in your belly," Mrs. Reynolds said motheringly as she packed the bag.)

In the wood where he had lost the deer earlier, he set up a pile of bait and a trap involving great lengths of rope and a few trees as pulley systems. He went behind a convenient shrub and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

At last he realized that he might be standing downwind. So he switched his hiding spot to one further away and in a different direction to the one the slight breeze was traveling. Crouching down behind the shrubbery, he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

He had lunch as he sat, eating as silently as he cold, but still no deer were seen. He leaned back against a convenient tree trunk and, what with the soporific effect of the food and the soft sounds and heavy warmth of the wood, he soon fell asleep.

It was the rustling that woke him, and in his excitement at seeing his warning system tug and the grogginess of being half-awake, he yanked on the main rope and tied it tight to his stake, then leapt from his hiding place to see . . .

"Bingley! What are you doing?"

"At the moment I'm caught in some sort of trap, I think," his friend said with a laugh. "I wonder who left this here?"

"I left it here," Darcy replied, reaching down and untying the rope again. He went to help his friend remove his foot from the noose. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, I asked Mrs. Reynolds where you were, and she directed me out here, and then I saw your horse tied to the fence and came this way, and then I saw this food . . ."

"No, what are you doing here?" Darcy repeated. "Pemberley, I mean."

Bingley flushed slightly. "Well, you see, as much as we love having the Wickhams stay with us normally, Jane's not really in a state to, er, deal with them right now."

"I don't blame her. So, what, you left them at your home? Isn't that a bit risky?"

"Oh, no, I'm sure it'll be fine," Bingley said with a confident smile.

Darcy made a mental note to send his man of affairs to keep an eye on them. And the Bingley silver.

"So, what are you doing?"

"At the moment, a whole lot of nothing," Darcy replied with a sigh. "I've been trying all day to get a hind, and it's not working."

"Get behind what? "

"No -- a hind. A deer. A buck, a stag, whatever I can find."

"Oh." Bingley looked confused. "Er, why do you want a deer?"

"It's quite a tale," Darcy said ruefully. "And as I'm getting nowhere here, why don't we go back to Pemberley and I'll tell you the whole story."

Over a few glasses of port and a few games of billiards, Darcy told Bingley all.

"Well, you know how women are," Bingley said with a laugh after his friend had finished. "Especially when they're in a delicate condition. Why, just the other day Jane was asking me for ices. Ices! Where would I get ices except in London?"

"I think asking for a deer is a bit different," Darcy said wryly. "And I wouldn't necessarily call the state she's in 'delicate.'"

He sighed. "Much as I hate it, I have to admit I don't think I have a chance of catching a deer. I'll probably be forced to go back to Elizabeth and eat humble pie."

"Well, that's not likely, without catching the deer," Bingley said. "Besides, I thought you said you needed it alive."

"I do. I meant . . . oh, never mind," Darcy muttered, leaning over to line up his shot.

When he had put a few balls in, he straightened and leaned against his cue thoughtfully. "I was just thinking about this, Bingley, and I bet we could do better if we worked together. You would wait by the trap while I chased one or two into the area. They'll smell the food, become curious, and, when the timing is right, you pull the trap and we'll have a deer."

Bingley agreed it seemed the perfect solution. But perhaps that was the wine talking.

In either case, the next morning the two went out and set up the trap. Then, leaving Bingley crouched behind a tree, Darcy went out looking for a deer.

Again, the task was easier said than accomplished. For nearly two hours he wandered the forest before spotting a deer. Unfortunately, by this time he had become lax in his stealth, and the graceful, long-limbed animal went haring off in the wrong direction.

But after circling around, Darcy finally got the hind headed toward the trap. Then he went to find Bingley.

"Are you ready?" Darcy whispered as he crept toward the still figure slouched beside the end of the rope.

"Snnighzzk, huh? What?" Bingley rubbed his eyes and sat up straight.

"Apparently not." Darcy took the end of the rope in hand and peered through the leaves. There on the edge of the small clearing was the deer, curious now as she edged toward the food. "Perfect. Come and get it."

He felt Bingley move into a crouch beside him but did not take his eyes from his prey. Their breathing sounded loud in the stillness of the wood, and he wondered that the deer did not hear them. Or smell them.

"What is that stench?" Darcy asked in a disgusted whisper. "You smell like manure."

Bingley colored to the roots of his hair. "I thought if I smelled like horses, the deer wouldn't be afraid of me. So I went to your stables and rubbed some hay on my jacket. But . . . er . . . I don't think your grooms do as great a job mucking out the stalls as I thought."

Darcy shuddered, but went back to watching the deer. By this time, and despite their whispering, the hind had sidled closer to the food, her neck outstretched and nostrils flaring. Just a foot more, and they would have her. A surge of excitement ran through his veins, and his hand tightened on the rope, tensing for the moment in which the deer would step into the trap. Bingley's breathing beside him had gotten more ragged, and Darcy knew that he, too, could feel the suspense.

Hence why the loud click of a hammer being cocked made them jump so high.

"Put your hands where I can see them."

Darcy cursed under his breath as the deer, startled by the sound of the firearm and the low but authoritative voice, bounded back into the wood. Bingley had already raised his hands in surrender, and, with a sigh, Darcy did the same.

"We don't treat poachers too kindly," the man said sternly. "The two of you are in deep. . ." he paused and sniffed the air. "My word, if you haven't been already. What is that?"

Bingley cleared his throat embarrassedly and turned slightly to look over his shoulder. "Sorry. That's me. I thought if I smelled like an animal--"

"Bingley? Charles Bingley? What in heaven's name are you doing trying to poach my deer? And why do you smell like something the cat dragged in?"

Darcy turned around in surprise as he recognized the voice, now it had lost its rough edge. "Lynley?"

The man looked now at him in justifiable surprise. "Darcy! What the devil is going on here? What are you doing on my land?"

"Nothing that warrants use of that," Darcy said, eyeing the barrels of the rifle still pointed in their direction.

Alexander Lynley, son of The Honorable Charles Lynley and The Lady Honoria Lynley and neighbor of the Darcys for the length of his twenty-odd years, grinned as he lowered and uncocked his weapon. "Not so sure about that, Darcy -- you still haven't explained why you were trying to poach our deer," he said cheekily. "But, hey, why don't we adjourn to Lynley House and you can tell me over a glass of something." His eyes darted at Bingley and his grin broadened. "And perhaps I can lend Bingley, here, a set of clothes and a few buckets of water."

Back at the house, over a few glasses of Bordeaux and a few good-natured jokes at Bingley's expense, Darcy told Lynley all.

"So let me get this straight -- your wife asked you to get her a deer, and you did it," Lynley said from his perch on the arm of the sofa in the comfortable male bastion of the Lynley library. As he spoke he gestured with the hand holding his glass of wine, making Darcy fear for the continued unsullied state of the carpet. "Or, at least, are trying to," Lynley amended.

"What? Yes," Darcy said, his eyes still trained on the sloshing liquid.

"I will never get married," Lynley muttered into his glass before taking an unhealthy swig.

"Well, you know how women are," Bingley said, trying to defend his friend. "Even my angel Jane sometimes confuses me. Why, the other day she was asking me for ices. Ices! Where --"

"But you say you wanted a live deer?" Lynley interrupted.

"Of course. What would she do with a dead one?" Darcy asked dryly.

"And you tried to catch one?"

"Of course."

"With rope and bait?"

"As you saw."

"Why didn't you just ask me?"

"Ask you what?"

"For a deer."

"What, do you have one?"

"Well, not with me, no, but out back, yes." Lynley said, waving his glass in the direction of the stables. "Had a little problem with some poachers recently and one of our fawns was caught in a trap. Won't ever be the same, certainly, but in a few more months should be able to walk without a noticeable limp. Mother has too soft a heart for those deer. Especially the cute ones."

"So could I have your deer?" Darcy asked, feeling his hopes rise.

"No," Lynley replied, draining the rest of his glass. "But I would let you borrow it for the afternoon, if you promise to return it. Mother isn't here for a few more days, anyway, so she won't notice in the least. Hence why I only hunt here when she's in Bath."

Thus, after a few more glasses of wine and a few more laughs, Darcy and Bingley set off with the fawn carefully loaded into a cart. Well used to humans by this time, it didn't fuss too much, and they crossed the three miles between estates in less than half an hour. With five minutes to spare, they unloaded the deer, which, though confused about its surroundings, was ready willing to eat the grass that grew on the plush lawn at Pemberley, as well.

Task accomplished, Darcy and Bingley stood in some confusion as to what to do next. They hadn't waited long before a window was thrown open and Elizabeth leaned out in some excitement.

"Is that my deer?" she called, unmindful of the gardeners' stares.

"It's not yours, exactly," Darcy shouted back. "It's the Lynleys. I'm just renting it."

"Well, where is my deer, then?"

"You didn't ask for one to own, my love. You only asked that I have one on the lawn by three." He pulled out his watch. "And I got it here in time."

Elizabeth didn't answer. After a moment or two, she pulled back out of sight and the window dropped shut with a bang, startling the deer, who despite its leash and gimpy leg tried to bolt.

Bingley and Darcy managed, with some difficulty and a helpful lullaby from Bingley, to soothe the beast. When it had gone back to eating, they looked up to see Jane crossing the lawn toward them. Bingley grinned like a fool.

"You look lovely, sister dear," Darcy said with a bow as she came close. "Absolutely radiant; marriage clearly suits you."

She blushed and reached in to exchange kisses, an awkward thing with the protrusion in front of her.

"I am sorry I wasn't here to greet you upon your arrival," he continued. "As you can see, I was busy."

Her eyes darted everywhere but his. "Yes. Elizabeth told me all you've been doing," Jane said in her soft, mellifluous voice as she patted the small fawn on the head. "In fact, I've been asked to give you this," she added, holding out a small note on scented paper.

"What is this?" Darcy asked, with a sliver of hope it was other than he expected.

It wasn't. "It's your fourth task," Jane confirmed.

Darcy read it and groaned. "I should have guessed.

Posted on 2008-09-10

Mr. Darcy was back in Kent.

This time, however, it was not to his comfortably appointed rooms at Rosings he was directed, but to the small, cramped spaces of the parsonage. Luckily, it was only a lane away.

"The master is not in," said the frazzled maid who answered to his knock.

"Well, then, is the mistress of the house at home?" Darcy asked.

The black-clad, mobcapped young girl in the doorway stared at him with wide eyes, as if unsure what to do. Then, with a spasmodic nod, she turned and hurried toward the rear of the house.

Bemused at the situation, Darcy stepped through the open door and hesitantly made his way in the direction she had retreated. Before he had traversed half the hallway, Mrs. Collins came hurrying out of a doorway, the nervous young girl right behind her. She stopped in surprise when she saw her guest already inside, and the maid bumped into her back.

"Hattie, go fetch us a tea tray, will you," Mrs. Collins said with a gentle smile for the young girl who now looked on the verge of tears. "Cook will show you how to get on."

After the maid had hurried off, Mrs. Collins turned to the tall man who stood in her hallway. "Mr. Darcy, welcome to our home," she said with grace. "Would you care to follow me into the morning room?"

When they had seated themselves in the comfortable salon, his hostess smiled warmly. "I do apologize for our maid, sir. She is new, and we have yet to train her properly at answering the door. We don't receive many visitors, and certainly not of your stature, you see."

"It is my fault entirely," Darcy said politely. "I was not expected and have the unpardonable distinction of being my aunt's nephew. I take full responsibility."

Mrs. Collins' smile deepened, but before she could reply, the maid hurried through the doorway, tea tray rattling. She set it down hastily on the small table in front of her mistress, then stood awkwardly, her eyes darting nervously toward the forbidding man on the other sofa. Darcy smiled at her gently, and the young maid blushed and looked down at her feet.

"You may go, Hattie," Mrs. Collins said smoothly, then poured the tea.

"So," she said when the silence had lengthened somewhat as they both sipped at their tea. "I do hope Eliza is doing well?"

"Oh, er, yes," Darcy replied with a nod. "She is doing very well."

When it appeared he had no more to say, she offered him a cake. He accepted gratefully, not having eaten anything on the road.

"I do understand Lady Catherine has gone to visit Pemberley," she said when, again, the silence stretched.

"Yes," he replied. "Yes, she is visiting. Actually, I, er, had hoped to speak with your husband about that."

Mrs. Collins cocked a brow in curiosity. "I am afraid Mr. Collins is away for some time yet. He is out ministering to his flock."

"Oh, do you keep sheep then?" Darcy asked distractedly as he glanced out the window in search of his host.

"Sometimes I feel that I do," she murmured. "Would you care for more tea?"

Turning his attention back to his hostess, Darcy accepted her offer. As she filled his teacup, Mrs. Collins introduced a more mundane subject. He followed her lead, and they chatted about the weather and the state of the roads for some time.

As they continued to speak, Darcy found himself marveling that this sensible woman should have married such a great bore of an idiot, no matter he was Elizabeth's cousin. That wonder intensified when Mr. Collins returned from his acts of mercy.

"I am most honored by your condescension as to visit our little parsonage. Most honored," Mr. Collins was saying for the third time after recovering from the shock at seeing the nephew of his most esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, gracing his home with his presence. There had been a moment or two of confused calculation as he tried to decide whether he ought to welcome him, given the state of affairs between the relations lately, but the knowledge of Lady Catherine's visit to Pemberley, added to the sheer impracticably of not welcoming such an imposing and influential gentleman, weighed the scales heavily in Darcy's favor.

So, with only a few words of reproach to his wife for not sending the maid out immediately to fetch him ("She probably would have gotten lost," Mrs. Collins murmured), Mr. Collins turned the full force of his sycophancy upon his distinguished guest.

"I am astonished, gratified, most pleased -- no, indeed, most humbled by your coming so far a distance to bring us tidings of our beloved Lady Catherine," Mr. Collins said after taking the opportunity several more times to say how honored they were by his condescension. "It shall be most rewarding to be able to share news of her ladyship with the congregation this Sunday. I am sure that they are all most concerned with the journey she has undertaken, and with the health of the jewel of this parish, Miss Anne de Bourgh."

"I am happy to do so," Darcy said somewhat ironically. "But I fear you have misunderstood the reason for my journey."

Mr. Collins blanched and humbly begged his pardon. Most humbly.

"I am here to invite you to Pemberley."

While Mr. Collins recovered from his fainting fit on the sofa, Darcy explained to Mrs. Collins the reason for the request.

"Oh, that sounds just like Elizabeth," she said in some amusement. "That is, in a strange way, I suppose. I understand women get a bit . . . emotional at that time. I can still recall Mrs. Bennet locking her husband out of Longbourn when she was awaiting the birth of her youngest."

"Why, you would have been quite young," Darcy said in surprise.

"Well, thank you," Mrs. Collins said with a twinkle in her eye. "But it is truly because all of the scenes were enacted at Lucas Lodge, where Mr. Bennet and eventually all but Kitty came to stay."

"Pemberley seems to be filling up just as fast," he replied in some dismay. "But I think Elizabeth was hoping that the two of you might be able to keep Lady Catherine out of the way -- or perhaps, I understand, even convince her to come back to Rosings."

"I wouldn't hold out too much hope for the latter," Mrs. Collins warned. "But I suspect having my husband to fawn over her might shield Elizabeth from the both of them. And I have missed Anne's conversation, so I should be most willing to go."

Mr. Collins, who had been ignored since his swoon, now awoke groggily and declared that, indeed, they would be most, most humbly pleased to accept the invitation to Pemberley, and were most grateful for his condescension, and they could pack this instant -- as Lady Catherine has always instructed, of course -- and would Mr. Darcy like a tour of the parsonage?

Darcy tried to insist he would not take his host away from his duties, but Mrs. Collins, with a most subtle smile, waved away his attempt. "No, please. Enjoy yourself."

So Darcy was given the grand tour of the most humble residence of a most grateful benefactor of Lady Catherine de Bourgh's good grace. He was shown the many improvements made to the parsonage on the advice of his aunt, from the shelves in the closet to the bench in the garden ("There is a much grander one at Rosings, Mr. Darcy, and, of course, it must be so much more plain than is your custom"), as well as several changes that baffled the tour guide ("I am certain, Mr. Collins, that Lady Catherine had discussed this table placement with Mrs. Collins. No doubt it is simply one of those woman-to-woman things"), and through it all he was forced to utter inanities about how interesting it was, though he really did do his best to sound interested.

When they at last returned to the front hall, Mrs. Collins, dressed in a most suitable brown traveling gown, was already efficiently directing the footmen with the trunks.

"Oh, no. I've been expecting something of the kind ever since Lady Catherine departed," Mrs. Collins said in an aside to Darcy as her husband fussily took over the task. "I've even had a curate cousin of mine on standby. Although, to be honest, I rather thought the suggestion would come from either my husband or our benefactress herself."

"Given time, I would imagine that would have been so," Darcy said with a smile. "Still, I am impressed."

Mrs. Collins smiled and thanked him. "But, please, excuse me; I had best unconfuse our poor servants, or we will have clothing strewn from here to Derbyshire," she said with a sigh as she watched a footman struggle to reconcile his master's orders with the usual way straps attached to the carriage's frame. "I assume you will not be riding inside?"

"So long as the weather holds out," he replied.

It didn't. Before they had gone two miles, the heavens opened and Darcy was driven into the carriage by the surety he would otherwise have a cold by journey's end. After only ten minutes, however, he wondered if the possibility of sniffles might not be better than the headache that had already formed between his brows from the determined babble of his good host.

"How do you do it?" he asked Mrs. Collins when they stopped at a posting inn. Mr. Collins had hurried inside to prepare the innkeeper and his wife for the arrival of Mr. Darcy, the nephew of the most esteemed Lady Catherine de Bourgh and owner of Pemberley in Derbyshire. Darcy and Mrs. Collins remained for a moment beneath the awning as the rain came pelting down around them.

"Do what?" Mrs. Collins asked in confusion.

"Survive." Darcy had noticed Mrs. Collins sitting serenely opposite them in the carriage the whole time, her expression interested and not glazed over as his own had no doubt been, her head nodding occasionally and at appropriate moments. "You don't seem to be aware in the least that your husband is a bombastic prattle."

"Why, what a horrible thing to say," she murmured.

Darcy bent a steely gaze on her until she at last cracked the smile hinted at in her tone. "If it is any consolation, sir, I am completely aware of his pomposity," she said. "But, really, I don't believe you looked anything less than polite as he spoke, either."

"Of course not," Darcy said stiffly. "I learned well my manners."

"I meant no offense," Mrs. Collins replied. "I was merely illustrating that we all appear very polite."

"Yes, but I highly doubt you live with a perpetual headache the size of Lower Canada."

"He's not that big, really."

"How do you listen to him talk all the time and not wish to stuff him in some trunk and ship him off to Pegu?" Darcy asked, his hands thrust wide.

"Oh, that's simple, really. You see . . ."

But at that moment Mr. Collins returned from the inn to discover what was delaying them, and they were ushered into the private parlor bespoke them. Conversation was effectively at an end.

The next half hour was filled with pompous nothings on Mr. Collins' side and civil assents on the other, and Darcy, for lack of good discussion, found himself filling his own time and belly with the unappetizing food placed before him.

Thus upon returning to the carriage, disgruntled already because of the continuing poor weather, he not only had a headache but also now a stomachache. And still no idea of how Mrs. Collins stood it.

In his agony, Darcy tried everything to make the other man stop his babble, from interjections to changes of subject to an attempted introduction of "the silent game." But each further endeavor only served, besides making Mrs. Collins more and more amused, to make his frustration more complete. Nothing, he concluded, in heaven or on earth could make this man be quiet.

"Of course not," Mrs. Collins scoffed when they had stopped again at another inn. "Why, by all that's holy, did you ever think that possible?"

"I don't know," he said piteously. "I was desperate."

She shook her head. "Well, I shall be kind and help you out. You've done enough in the past few hours to brighten my day, so I'll let you in on the secret of tolerating my husband."

He leaned forward eagerly.

"Counting."

"Counting?"

"Counting."

"I don't think I understand," Darcy said, shaking his head.

So she explained about her system of choosing a particular word or phrase -- one her husband would commonly use -- and keeping track the number of times he said it. It not only kept her interested in his monologues, she said, but also, especially when she chose a phrase he would generally say when looking for a response, it helped her to nod and respond in the appropriate places.

"That's brilliant," Darcy said in some awe.

"I know," she replied.

When Mr. Collins returned and they had remounted the carriage and began trundling off to Derbyshire again, Darcy began implementation of the Suffer the Inanities of Collins program. At first, he was unsure how to choose his word or phrase, but after only ten minutes or so, he had no trouble.

"And when she had been here last," Mr. Collins was saying, "Lady Catherine had just advised Mrs. Hambreth of the absolute impossibility of planting petunias in her garden. Naturally, Mrs. Hambreth, who has not often the opportunity to benefit from her ladyship's most benevolent advice, being some twenty or so miles away, was properly humbled and awed by this condescension, and most grateful. But Mrs. Potter, one of my parishioners, said to me after services on Sunday that she thought Lady Catherine had been officious in her demands -- demands, if you can believe she called them that.

"But I believe, in my most humble opinion, that those who were blessed by God with those qualities such that put them above the rest, be it beauty, wealth, power, or intelligence -- or, in the case of Lady Catherine and her daughter, all of these -- they are bound by duty to respect and love their fellow humans, no matter how lowly. And we, as those who are more humble --"

Mr. Collins suddenly blanched and gasped. "Though, of course, I mean no disrespect, Mr. Darcy. You have, as has Lady Catherine, been most blessed. Most blessed, indeed. I did not mean to include you amongst us lesser beings. I assure you I am most grateful, most grateful of your gracious condescension in having come so far a distance to bring us to Pemberley. And, indeed, grateful to have been thought worthy of an invitation to your distinguished residence. I can only hope that Mrs. Collins and I may be of some service to her ladyship. We are most grateful for your thoughtfulness. Most grateful."

Darcy continued to nod. Mr. Collins continued.

But this time, Darcy didn't feel quite as annoyed as Mr. Collins elaborated on his theme of the gratitude of the unwashed masses for the attentions of those who were placed by nature above them. He was able to ignore, while still appearing to attend to, Collin's interpretation of the parable of the ten talents and several other misapplied passages. It was as though the world had suddenly flipped on its axis.

And as the sound of Mr. Collins' voice washed over him, Darcy smiled inwardly with contentment. He could, indeed, survive this. The day, which had become so miserable, suddenly brightened immensely and the sun came out.

Darcy immediately stopped the carriage in order to ride outside.

"I do apologize for abandoning you," he said to Mrs. Collins later when they had stopped at another posting inn.

"It's perfectly understandable," she replied, taking his hand as he helped her out of the carriage. "I am more than used to it by now. And, besides, it is only until we arrive at Pemberley and we are in the presence of her ladyship again. I have a wholly different strategy for her."

"Still, I am most humbly grateful," Darcy said, drawing a slight smile from Mrs. Collins. "And impressed at your ingenuity. I should have strangled him long ago."

"Oh, strangling is too messy," she replied as she shook out her skirts. "No, no; poison is the way to go. Now, if you will excuse me, I had best see to getting us rooms. My husband will have them thoroughly confused by now."

Slightly stunned and wondering if he should put a fly in Collin's ear, Darcy watched as the lady glided into the inn. In the end, he decided not -- it might have been a joke

Posted on 2008-09-17

"I really do hope this next task will not take quite so long," Darcy said through the connecting door of the master suite. "Or, at the very least, will not make me travel so far."

"I don't believe it will," Elizabeth replied. "In fact, I shall insist upon it only taking a day."

This did not reassure him. If anything, it made him more apprehensive than ever.

"Your fifth task is to single-handedly clean out the attics."

The fear was justified.

To Darcy's knowledge, it had been decades, if not centuries, since a thorough cleaning of the attics had been done. Darcy, in fair company with a slew of his ancestors, had kept up the tradition of simply throwing unwanted -- but historically significant -- items into this slowly shrinking room. The last piece of furniture that made its way into the attics, an ungodly awful armoire that had been used by the queen on her progress, had been wedged between a filigree hallway table and a ghastly green chaise lounge. It had been all they could do to shut the door.

With a heavy heart, Darcy ascended the stairs to his next task and opened the door. He felt somewhat like Pandora as a toy of some sort fell out of the attic and bounced its way down the narrow stairs. Or, more precisely, staring into this dark, sweltering, chaotic room was like gazing into the bowels of hell. Though a few floors up.

But needs must, he thought, turning his back on this scene of rampant untidiness and sitting down upon the steps. Not that his wife was the devil, he amended to himself, but he was devilishly tired of these tasks, and she was certainly enjoying this in her usual impish manner. Single-handedly, indeed! How the deuce was he supposed to do that?

"It's utterly impossible," Darcy complained to Bingley in the breakfast room half an hour later. At the other end of the table, Anne and Jane were competing for volume of edible intake and Mrs. Collins was doodling on a slip of paper something that looked suspiciously like a parson-shaped human in a trebuchet sling.

"Women like to ask impossible things, I think," Bingley said thoughtfully. "Why, just the other day Jane expressed a wish to redecorate the bedchamber. Redecorate! Now, naturally, I had to tell her we couldn't do that, considering it isn't our bedchamber, to begin with, and we certainly don't have the time to do anything of the sort. So I suggested maybe she talk to Elizabeth about it and they might be able to do some sort of redecorating, or gardening together, or maybe cleaning and . . . oh."

Darcy groaned piteously, his head falling into his folded arms with a thump.

"Is it really that bad up there?" his friend asked.

"Worse," he replied, his voice muffled by the ham. "And to clean it single-handedly by the end of the day? It can't be done."

The two looked up at the sound of a snort from the other end of the table. It was at first unclear from which of the three women the rude noise had issued, but probability fell on Mrs. Collins as she continued: "It's perfectly simple how to do it."

Darcy, who had experience with her devious mind, was not surprised. Bingley, who understood the situation not at all and her statement even less, asked her how this could be.

Her response made Darcy laugh. And, sensible as it was, he went immediately to carry it out.

"I would like all of this removed to the main hall for sorting," he said as he stood at the top of the stairs. He swept his hand to encompass the room.

Mrs. Reynolds gaped at him, then at the mess, then at him again. "Why?" she finally managed.

"It's a long story," he said.

Putting her hands on her hips, Mrs. Reynolds stared him down the way she had when he was seven and he had stolen five tarts from the kitchen.

With a sigh, he explained all.

By the end of it, her lips had curved upwards in a fondly amused expression. "Ah, lovers' tiffs," she said. "I remember those days. Mr. Reynolds and I were always bickering about something when we were first married. But, oh, how sweet it was to reconcile." Her gaze grew wistful.

Darcy felt awkward.

"Well, now," Mrs. Reynolds said, her expression sharpening as she pulled out a pencil and paper. "Getting to business, I think the easiest way to do this is to remove nothing that does not need to be removed. I wouldn't wish to have the servants carrying things down when they'll only need to carry them up again."

"Perfectly acceptable."

"We can probably use the nursery on the next floor down to hold some of the overflow before we make more space," she mused, jotting down some notes. "And we'll have it out before the baby comes, of course."

"Er, yes. About that . . . you see, I need it all done by this evening."

Her brows rose. "You hadn't mentioned that. I suppose I can corral a few more servants to help. The tweenies have not much to do -- or so you'd think with their carrying on belowstairs," she muttered.

"And they must only use their right hand," Darcy added.

Amazingly, her brows shot even higher. "The right hand?" she echoed. "Why the right?"

"I suppose the left would work as well," he answered. "But only one."

"Any reason why?"

"It must be done single-handedly."

At first, she simply stared at him, uncomprehending. Then slowly an expression of dawning realization spread over her face. "Why, you sly pup!" she laughed. "Well, well. We'll have to see what we can do."

Only a quarter hour later, a slew of servants, each using only one hand, were busy carrying furniture and trunks and other moth-eaten items out of the room. Darcy directed at first, indicating which items could stay (neatly, of course) in the attics, which would be given to the poorhouse ("Those poor people, having to now inherit this," Mrs. Reynolds murmured as a badly woven tapestry depicting the end of a hunt was earmarked for alms), and which could be restored to the family rooms -- or, at least, the tour rooms.

By mid-day, however, Mrs. Reynolds had begun to direct which items went where. As she been around longer than he and as a good servant probably knew his and Elizabeth's preferences better than either of them, he decided to give her free rein.

Darcy, therefore, had nothing to do and had the choice between sitting in the oppressive heat of the attic, with its blocked windows, or descending to the kitchens for a glass of lemonade.

He found Lady Catherine already there.

"Fitzwilliam Darcy. I have been looking for you," she began.

"Is something the matter, Aunt?" he asked tactfully.

"Yes. This kitchen is a disaster. I insist you do something about it."

Darcy sighed. He waved away Cook, red-faced and holding a lethal-looking frying pan in one hand, and offered his arm to his aunt. "Why don't we go discuss it in the drawing room?"

Though still upset, she accepted his escort and the two of them retreated upstairs to the comfortably appointed room on the east end of the building. "Now, Aunt, tell me what has gotten you so upset," he asked when they were both seated. "By the by -- where is Mr. Collins?"

Lady Catherine screwed up her mouth with distaste. "That is just what I wished to discuss with you. My parson is ill upstairs; it appears he ate something that disagreed with him. And, as I was informing your cook, it is not to be borne! Why, only imagine if it had been I who ate the tainted food! Or, worse, perhaps, Anne. You know how delicate a constitution she has. Why, it could have carried her away."

"Now, Aunt Catherine," Darcy began, "perhaps it was something he ate yesterday at one of the inns at which we stopped. His undoubtedly strong constitution simply was not able to hold out for any longer. I shall have the doctor look in on him. Yes, and Anne, too, Aunt.

"Was there anything else I might do for you?"

"Yes," she replied, huffily sitting back in her chair. "You may tell that wife of yours that I wish to see her. I do not believe this nonsense about her being 'indisposed.' I have not been sick a day in my life. And certainly not when I was expecting Anne. You shall tell her that I expect her to wait upon me here in the drawing room in an hour."

Darcy had no choice but to say he would relay the message.

On his way to the master suite, he stopped by the Collins' guest rooms and mentioned to the lady that perhaps Pemberley might not be the best place for the parson's demise. Mrs. Collins apologized and said she would make sure he saw the doctor when he came.

Elizabeth, meanwhile, was plotting someone else's demise. "You told her what?"

"I told her that I would tell you that she told me to tell you that she wished to see you in the drawing room in an hour . . . that is, forty minutes from now," Darcy replied.

"Yes, but why? Where is Mr. Collins? Why is he not keeping her occupied?"

"He's sick, I'm afraid." Darcy decided not to mention why.

"She probably didn't give him enough," Elizabeth muttered. "Do you think Lady Catherine would be satisfied with Georgiana?"

"No, I believe she wished to see you. Unless, of course, I have another wife somewhere around here," he said. He paused significantly and then laid his trump card: "I never thought you were afraid of her."

Silence for a moment, and then the reaction hit.

"Truly, though, I had best be off," Darcy said smugly when it seemed she had nothing to say, other than some unintelligible spluttering. "Attics don't clean themselves."

Except, it seemed, for his.

"There's only that little bit in the corner yet to do," Mrs. Reynolds said as she consulted her list. Darcy stood at her side and smiled bracingly at a pair of footmen carrying a heavy trunk out the door. "And then, of course, we need to bring up the items left in the nursery," she said.

"I must say, though, Master Fitzwilliam," she whispered confidentially when the two servants had descended the stairs some way, "we are all flagging a bit. I've done all that I can, but it's rather warm up here, and very hard work. They've been going at it for quite a few hours without much rest."

Darcy thought about this for a bit. "What we need is a rally," he said at last. "Perhaps I might be able to work beside them for a bit. Support the cause."

"Oh, no," Mrs. Reynolds replied. "It's too dusty and close up here for the Master of Pemberley to be rubbing shoulders with his servants."

"Well, then something else," Darcy replied, a little discomfited. "Perhaps some refreshments? A bit of food and a good ale for each now, with the promise of a small celebration afterward."

"Just the thing!" she cried with a smile.

Thus when the servants got to work some time later, the loads were lighter and the accidents funnier. Perhaps there were a few more items dropped down the stairs, and Mrs. Reynolds had to remind them frequently to use only one hand, but no one complained or seemed grumpy.

"They do seem to be taking as long as before, though," Bingley commented when he joined the party upstairs. "If not longer."

"Perhaps, perhaps," Darcy replied, leaning back on a Cromwellian-era sofa that wasn't at all comfortable and sipping at his mug.

"Don't you think you ought to be doing something?" Bingley proffered doubtfully.

"I tried, but Mrs. Reynolds rejected my offer. I seem to be single-handedly cleaning the attics without lending a hand." He chuckled to himself.

Bingley peered at his friend through the drifting dust. "Are you drunk?"

"Not likely."

"Good, because your presence is requested downstairs."

Darcy groaned. "Where downstairs?"

"Your wife's bedchamber. Or, at least, the door thereof." A blush could be seen on Bingley's cheeks even in the dim light of the attic.

Even had Darcy been drunk, he would have heeded the call. No telling what she would assign him next if he didn't dance the required tune.

"Yes, madam wife?" he said through the door. She was back in her room again; it must have been a short visit.

"You must get rid of your aunt," she said.

"You should probably ask your friend Mrs. Collins for help with that," he replied.

Elizabeth said that she had already thought of that, but she decided merely to try to send her back to Rosings: "She is getting on my nerves."

"I didn't know you had nerves; have you been taking lessons from your mother?"

A snort issued from the other side of the door. "Just get rid of her, will you?"

"Is that one of my labors, then?"

"Of course not. You still have the attics to finish." She paused. "By the by, how are you getting the attics done when you're spending all your time running around?"

"Oh, you needn't worry; I'll have them clean by this evening."

"Single-handedly?" she asked suspiciously.

"Single-handedly."

"Hm."

"But as to your request, I'm afraid I cannot," Darcy said. "I have my hands full with these tasks of yours. I cannot be taking on alternative quests; I'm an errant knight who's rather pressed for time, actually."

"Then what am I supposed to do with her?"

"You could always go back to Plan B."

"Charlotte's got her hands full, too," Elizabeth said with a gusty sigh. "Oh, well. I shall think of something."

Darcy, though vaguely troubled by that promise, returned to the attics, where the last of the items were being brought up the stairs and placed artfully around the near-empty room.

"Very well done," he said to Mrs. Reynolds, who was directing the placement of a low table amid a circle of chairs. "Even my aunt could not have achieved this with more precision."

"I doubt you could tell her that," she replied as she checked off another item on her list.

"True. She hasn't been up here, by the way, has she?"

"No, indeed," Mrs. Reynolds said with some asperity. "I would have used one of those guns in the rack there before I would have allowed that. No, no, this has all been quite efficient."

"Good." Darcy looked around proudly. "Mrs. Darcy will be pleased."

As, indeed, she was. Until, of course, she discovered the scheme.

"I told you to clean it by yourself," she said through the door.

"No, no; you merely told me to single-handedly clean the attics by the end of the day."

"Yes: single-handedly."

"And we only used one hand."

Elizabeth could not contain her laughter, making her reproaches ineffective: "Your methods are suspicious, sir."

"Perhaps. But as you told me before, you don't tell me how to do my tasks, you simply tell me what they are."

"Piqued and repiqued and capotted to the devil," she said in admiration.

"Sterne, hm? I see you've been sneaking into the library again."

"What did you think? I sat around here all day and plotted your next task?"

"I suspected it."

"Well, for that and for your cheating ways, perhaps I shall, indeed, spend all night, if not all day, planning the next labor. I had been thinking of something easy, but now I'm not so sure."

"So, no reward, then?"

Elizabeth laughed at that. "If what I hear is accurate, I think that party you've planned will be quite enough."

And, indeed, it was. With the flowing ale and the high spirits created, no doubt, as an overreaction to the bone-weariness of the workers, the festivities in the ballroom and spilling outside onto the lawn did not cease until the early morning hours. But if the servants were all a little sluggish in the morning, the light too bright, and Lady Catherine's demands too loud, it was all as nothing compared with the headache Darcy developed when presented with his next task. But that, dear reader, is for next chapter