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Mr Darcy had been in Kent for less than four-and-twenty hours when he and his cousin were waited on by his aunt's obsequious parson. How tedious. He went through the formalities of the visit by rote, paying little mind to the words he used and none at all to Mr Collins. He sat in silent indignation at being subjected to this complete and utter waste of time, and thanked the heavens above it was not likely to take more than half-an-hour.
He stole a glance at Colonel Fitzwilliam. His cousin, at least, was better at feigning interest. Perhaps he was finding genuine amusement in the parson’s meaningless babbling. Darcy never had the patience for this sort of obligatory social call and avoided them as much as possible.
Darcy's thoughts drifted back to the last time he had seen this gentleman. It had been at Bingley’s ball—where Mr Collins had had the audacity to approach him and introduce himself! More memories of that wretched evening returned to him as the minutes passed by in his aunt's parlour. Arguing with Elizabeth Bennet about Wickham. Her youngest sisters running wild. Her middle sister singing poorly and being humiliated by her father. Learning of the general expectation in the neighbourhood of Bingley's engaging himself to Elizabeth's eldest sister, and having that concern him for half the night. And then of course her mother.
It was one of the worst balls he had ever experienced, in fact! And that was impressive, because as a rule Darcy took no pleasure in balls. The only recollections of that night he could look back upon with any fondness were seeing Elizabeth enter the ballroom with the grace of a queen, and his pleasure when she finally accepted his offer to dance.
In truth, his only good memories of his entire time in Hertfordshire centred around Elizabeth. She was a rare jewel buried inside a small estate, next to an insignificant town, among nobody of rank or worth. He knew he liked her for her beauty and wit, but at the same time he could never have allowed their little harmless flirtation to progress into anything more. He knew he must marry well, for all his family's sake but especially Georgiana’s, and Elizabeth simply would not do. That was why he was not sorry to leave when he did. It was mostly for Bingley's sake, but Darcy knew, deep in his heart, that if he remained then this trifling infatuation would have led him into greater danger with each passing week.
He did wonder how Elizabeth fared now. Did she travel to London (to Cheapside) for the winter? Was she performing the same songs at neighbourhood parties or learning new ones? Did she ever think of him?
He wondered if she was happy. He believed she must be. He recalled her being popular among all four-and-twenty families around Meryton. She had endless occupation between her walks, her needlework and her extensive reading. And she had good companionship in the only other young ladies worth talking to: her sister, Miss Bennet, and her friend, Miss Lucas.
“...her sister and her friend,” he suddenly heard Mr Collins saying.
His mind snapped back into the present at hearing those words.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked Mr Collins. “Whose sister and friend?”
“My wife's,” Mr Collins replied, smiling in the pleasure of being able to utter those words.
“Miss Bennet and Miss Lucas are staying with Mr and Mrs Collins for some weeks,” Lady Catherine added.
Darcy felt his throat constrict. Another memory from Bingley's ball surfaced: Mr Collins dancing the first set with Elizabeth Bennet, and spending much of the evening by her side.
Could it be true?
Mr Collins's situation was eligible, from her perspective. They were of similar rank. Darcy believed he had heard that this man was heir presumptive of Longbourn, so this marriage would keep their estate in the Bennet line. Elizabeth was unlikely to receive a better offer, tucked away as she was in the country, and with no connections to introduce her to superior men.
Yet at the same time it was entirely repulsive. In intelligence, education, manners, and conversation, Mr Collins was as much Elizabeth's inferior as she was to… well, nobody. She was a treasure, and it was disgraceful for her to be shackled to someone who would not treat her as one. And Darcy had no doubt of Mr Collins taking her for granted—the man had eyes only for his patroness.
For Elizabeth to be subjected to this parson day after day, year after year for the rest of her life! It was unthinkable, and yet, Darcy could not stop thinking of it as the conversation continued around him. Elizabeth having dinner alone with Mr Collins. Elizabeth groveling before Lady Catherine. Elizabeth accepting Mr Collins's kisses. Elizabeth receiving Mr Collins into her bedchamber…
“I would like to call on your wife and her friends,” Darcy loudly announced, interrupting his own thoughts as thoroughly as he interrupted whoever was speaking.
He had to see for himself if Elizabeth really was married to Mr Collins. He could not spend another minute wondering without finding out for certain. And if he arrived at the parsonage and saw it was true, he would… he could… well, there was nothing to be done, but at least he would know.
“Of course, Mr Darcy!” Mr Collins hastily assented. “Do you plan to honour my home with your condescending visit now, or perhaps tomorrow, after you have had more time to rest and recover from your journey hither?”
“Now is fine,” Darcy replied impatiently, and as an after-thought added, “if it suits you.”
“Splendid—that would be splendid,” Mr Collins cried. “Please, allow me to hasten home ahead of you to prepare the ladies and arrange for refreshments. I will take my leave now.” And with more thanks and speeches to Lady Catherine, he was gone, leaving Darcy no choice but to carry out his impulsive decision and follow at a more leisurely pace.
On the short walk over Colonel Fitzwilliam asked, “So you know these ladies, then, do you?”
“Yes, we met during my time in Hertfordshire last autumn. Mrs Collins—before she was married, of course—Miss Bennet, Miss Lucas.”
It suddenly sank in that he would see Miss Bennet again too. It would be a good opportunity for him to assess how she fared now that Bingley had been gone several months. He was certain she would be her usual, cheerful self, because she did not truly love his friend. But it would be another thing to ascertain, in addition to the identity of Mr Collins's wife, not that either of those things were actually in any doubt.
When the maid let them in and Darcy stepped into the room where everyone stood waiting, his eyes found Elizabeth immediately. His heart sank. There she was, looking lovely in her simple dress and smiling politely at him. Married to Mr Collins.
His eyes moved over to the next woman in the room. Charlotte Lucas: the next confirmation.
When he looked at the third member of their party, he was caught by surprise. Instead of Jane Bennet, it was some mousy slip of a girl he could scarcely recall. What was her name? Miss Long? Miss Goulding?
“Mr Darcy, of course you are already acquainted with all the ladies,” Mr Collins said. “Colonel Fitzwilliam, may I present to you my wife, Mrs Collins…”
Charlotte Lucas was the one to curtsey? Why?
“...her sister, Miss Maria Lucas…”
The mousy girl curtseyed. Ah yes, of course, she was the younger Miss Lucas! But why…?
“...and her friend, my cousin Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
With great rapidity of thought, Darcy understood the scene before him. Oh, praise the Lord, Elizabeth was not married to Mr Collins—not married to anyone at all! A choir of angels sang in his head. Oh, rejoice! His heart began racing. He felt his hands shaking. Elizabeth was still single, and she was back in his company for the next fortnight, and he could… he could…
All at once, his jubilance left him, replaced by a growing sense of dread as he finally knew himself.
Elizabeth was still single, and she was back in his company for the next fortnight.
She was not the wife of Mr Collins, which would have been terrible.
Instead she was single, and he, Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, was in love with her.
And that was far, far worse.