We Have Mary King to Thank – Part 3, by Jack Caldwell

Greetings, everyone. Jack Caldwell here.

Here is Part 3 of our story. Last week, we learned a new word: OBNOXIOUSEST. Well, I think it’s a new word. If “obnoxious” means “extremely unpleasant”, I suppose “obnoxiousest (obnoxious-est)” means “supremely unpleasant,” or something like that. I’ll leave it to Mihaela to have the final say.

Anyhoo, last time out, y’all were a little tough on ODG. Let’s see if she redeems herself some in this chapter. Since it features Mr. Collins, she can’t help but look better! And a certain Loud-Mouthed Plot Device makes an appearance. Thanks goes to my lovely Beta Babe, Debbie!

Part 2 may be found HERE.

Back to our story:

Part 3

ELIZABETH SAT IN HER BEDROOM, staring out the window, her face wet with tears, Mr. Darcy’s letter still in her hands. She did not recall having slipped it into her pocket until she returned to the parsonage. Its presence was discovered upon reaching her room. Curiosity overwhelmed her anger, and she read Mr. Darcy’s words rather than consign them to the fireplace’s flames.

What a difference Mr. Darcy’s words and actions appeared when written! The first half of the letter was devoted to the matter of Mr. Bingley and Jane. He expressed no regret for what he had done, his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and insolence. She wanted to dismiss his argument entirely.

Widely different was the effect of a second perusal of that section. He declared himself to have been totally unaware of her sister’s attachment. She could not help remembering what Charlotte’s opinion had always been or deny the justice of his description of Jane. Jane’s feelings, though fervent, were little displayed, and there was a constant complacency in her air and manner not often united with great sensibility.

Still, the central mystery remained—why was Mr. Bingley’s happiness any business of Mr. Darcy’s? He claimed Mr. Bingley’s great natural modesty led to a stronger dependence on Mr. Darcy’s judgment than on his own. Did it follow that Mr. Darcy was required to advise Mr. Bingley? A loveless marriage was an evil indeed, but was that his real reason for interference? Was Mr. Darcy as officious as Lady Catherine? Was he keeping Mr. Bingley available for his own sister? The letter gave no clue.

Her sense of shame was severe when she returned to the part of the letter in which her family was mentioned in terms of such mortifying yet merited reproach. The compliment he paid her sister and herself was not unfelt. It soothed, but it could not console her for the contempt which he held for the rest of her family. In fairness, however, she now considered that Jane’s disappointment had, in fact, been the work of her nearest relations. Reflecting how materially the credit of both Jane and herself was hurt by such impropriety of conduct, Elizabeth felt saddened beyond anything she had ever known.

The second half of the letter was far more civil but just as horrifying as their interview. The pain the Darcys experienced due to the betrayals of Mr. Wickham and Mrs. Younge was palatable on the page. It was clear Elizabeth had been deceived as to the character of Mr. Wickham, Mr. Darcy, and Miss Darcy. The former, she had grown to loath. For the girl, she had pity. As for Mr. Darcy—

How could she desire to slap and embrace a person at the same time?

‘I will only add God bless you.’

His charitable closing words joined the others that haunted her. She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. She could think of neither Darcy nor Wickham without feeling she had been blind, partial, prejudiced, and absurd.

How despicably have I acted! I, who have prided myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! Who have often disdained the generous candor of my sister, and gratified my vanity, in useless or blamable distrust. How humiliating is this discovery!

Yet, how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind. But vanity, not love, has been my folly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were concerned.

Till this moment, I never knew myself.

There was a knock on the door. “Eliza,” said Charlotte Collins, “we have guests. Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam have called.”

For a moment, Elizabeth panicked. How could she face Mr. Darcy now after their awful interview? Just when she resolved to plead illness, her courage reasserted itself. She dashed away her tears.

“I shall be down in a moment, Charlotte.”

~~~

Elizabeth entered the room to behold Colonel Fitzwilliam deep in conversation with Maria Lucas while Mr. Collins had cornered Mr. Darcy near the fireplace. As unsettling as Mr. Darcy’s presence was to her peace of mind, she could not, in good conscience, leave the poor gentleman to her cousin’s pompous pronouncements and absurd opinions. She did not think overmuch why she needed to “save” the gentleman from Derbyshire. She only knew she must. After greeting the colonel, Elizabeth moved to the fireplace to undertake her mission of mercy.

“Mr. Darcy.” She curtsied, her eyes never leaving his cravat.

“Miss Bennet.” Was his voice hesitant? Was he as uncomfortable as she? Of course, he must be! How mortifying to be in the company of the hoyden who last evening had with so little attempt at civility utterly shattered his hopes. Who only hours ago utterly dismissed him. Jane—she must remember Jane’s pain or she would surely weep.

“My dear cousin, are you well?” inquired Mr. Collins. “I suspect going out of doors this morning on one of your rambles has affected you most inconveniently! It is as Lady Catherine says—too much sun is a disadvantage to one’s health! Why, your eyes are as red as a beet!”

“No, I am well, truly,” Elizabeth declared. “The spring—sometimes it affects my eyes.”

“Yes,” offered Mr. Darcy quietly. “My cousin Anne suffers from that malady.”

“That cannot be, sir!” cried Collins. “Miss de Bourgh is descended from the august Fitzwilliam line.”

Darcy turned on him, his voice cold. “Mr. Collins, do you claim a better knowledge of my cousin’s health than I? I have known her all my life.” He gave Mr. Collins the same hard stare he did at Mr. Bingley’s ball so many months ago—a look that clearly stated the recipient had crossed the line of polite discourse. At the time, Elizabeth thought Mr. Darcy officious, displaying his overall contempt of all things Hertfordshire. But now, she saw that Mr. Darcy used that look like a weapon, one wielded only against the rude and thoughtless.

Mr. Collins paled. In November, in Meryton, he was impervious to Mr. Darcy’s glare. But in April, in Hunsford, the cleric’s armor against discredit failed. “I-I beg your pardon, my good sir! Of course, you would know the state of your fair intended’s health far better than I!”

Mr. Darcy glanced at Elizabeth, and something strange happened. He shut his eyes, sighed, and straightened his posture. In a far more conciliary manner, he answered. “Your concern for the health of my cousin does you credit. I tell you my aunt puts on a brave face on such matters, but Anne has never been well, not even as a child.”

“Too true, Darcy,” added Colonel Fitzwilliam from across the room. “The finest physicians in London have attended Anne, and they all say the same. It is a shame, really, but there it is.” He turned to Mrs. Collins. “Her only joy is driving her phaeton about, when the weather and her health allow it.”

“Then,” Collins asked of Mr. Darcy, “you will remain here after you marry?”

The conciliatory Darcy fled, and what remained was the stern Master of Pemberley. “Mr. Collins, you speak of matters that are of no concern of yours.”

“Mr. Collins,” injected a slightly more polite Colonel Fitzwilliam, “Anne will never marry.”

“But-but Lady Catherine—”

The colonel rose. “Cannot a mother have dreams for her daughter? Certainly, my aunt wants for Anne’s happiness.” The look he shared with Mr. Darcy belied that statement, but it was lost on Mr. Collins. “Unfortunately, things are fated otherwise. My aunt chooses to express her hopes, as fruitless as they are. We humor her. It does no harm.”

Mr. Darcy scowled at Mr. Collins again. “Yes—just as long as others do not spread gossip and false tales.”

“F-far be it from me, my good sirs. But, poor Miss de Bourgh!” Mr. Collins began to wring his hands. “That the fairest flower in Kent should be stricken! We must pray for her—indeed, we must all pray for her! Next week’s sermon—I must include her in next week’s sermon!”

“My aunt would not want her business broadcast in church.”

Mrs. Collins rushed to her husband’s side. “My dear, you know Lady Catherine’s desire for privacy. It would not do to displease her or embarrass Miss de Bourgh.”

Abashed, Collins could only agree.

Colonel Fitzwilliam sided up to the couple. “Subtlety, Mr. Collins. Subtlety is called for here.”

Elizabeth doubted that Mr. Collins had ever been subtle in his entire life.

Mr. Collins stood in indecision, worrying his lip. “You are right, my good colonel. I-I should perhaps study my books—certainly there will be something I can use.”

“That is a wise decision, my dear,” Mrs. Collins soothed as she patted his hand.

“I must begin my work this instant! Forgive me, gentleman, but my study awaits!” With that he dashed out of the sitting room. The others could only watch in various emotions, from astonishment to mortification.

“Ah,” began the colonel, breaking the awkward silence, “we came to farewell you. Darcy and I return to London in the morning.” He looked to his cousin, but that gentleman said nothing. “We hope you have passed your time in Kent not unpleasantly,” he said to Elizabeth and Maria.

While Maria assured the colonel of her delight with Hunsford and Rosings, Elizabeth was fighting mixed feelings. Mr. Darcy’s presence could only remind her of his bad behavior—and hers too. Yet, there was a faint pain in her breast. Would they ever meet again? How was she to apologize?

Elizabeth was abruptly brought out of her musings by Mr. Darcy’s deep voice.

“Is there any service we might render for you, Miss Bennet?” He stared at the top of her head, avoiding her eyes. “I—we would be willing to deliver a letter to your sister in town.”

She was just able to resist asking why he would do such a thing. “I-I have one I have begun upstairs.”

“We can stop by as we depart tomorrow, if you like.” Yes, there was definitely pain in his voice.

“It will be ready. Thank you.”

He bowed. “It would be an honor.” Mr. Darcy then took his leave of Maria and Charlotte, and the two gentlemen left the parsonage.

Maria looked over at the tea service, forlornly unused. “Whatever shall we do with the tea?”

“Never mind that,” Charlotte declared. “Eliza, what have you done to Mr. Darcy?”

~~~

It took no little time for Elizabeth to assure the others that they did not hear what they heard or saw what was before them. Assured of her indifference, she was allowed to retreat to her room and Jane’s letter, only to sit and stare at it.

What could she say? That the unpleasant and stoic Mr. Darcy declared his love and proposed to her, proclaiming his intensions and wishes in a manner only Mr. Collins could surpass in offensiveness? That Mr. Bingley’s sisters and friend convinced him to abandon her? That Lady Catherine’s wish to unite Rosings and Pemberley was an utter fantasy? That the handsome and charming Mr. Wickham was an absolute scoundrel who almost seduced a fifteen-year-old heiress? That Mary King was in danger of marrying a rogue?

Elizabeth sat back. How did Mr. Darcy know of Mary King’s fortune? He never said. Instead, he expressed his concerns for Miss King’s happiness.

No, he was concerned for Miss King because he believed she was her friend. Elizabeth did not admit that they were only common and indifferent acquaintances. Mr. Darcy did not want Mary King to marry Mr. Wickham because he thought she was her friend. After all that had happened, after all they said to each other, he was worried about a person he thought was her friend.

Did that not mean he was worried for her? Did he still love her?

“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

Impossible!

Was it not?

Part 4 next week. Four little words:
“Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

There‘s someone who has never been subtle in her entire life. If she ain’t obnoxiousest, nothing is!

Until next week, this has been the Cajun Cheesehead Chronicles.

It takes a real man to write historical romance, so let me tell you a story…