Page 12 of Mr. Darcy's Folly
“Come, come!” Mr. Collins was already reaching for his coat. “We must not keep her ladyship waiting. Though perhaps, my dear,” he added to Charlotte with unusual thoughtfulness, “you might wish to wear your second-best shoes.”
Elizabeth and Charlotte exchanged glances. There was nothing for it but to change quickly and brave the downpour for the short walk to the great house.
Rather predictably, Elizabeth thought, they arrived at Rosings in a sorry state. Her hem was thoroughly soaked and spattered with mud, and her feet were wet through although she had chosen her sturdy walking shoes for the enterprise. Charlotte’s carefully arranged hair had begun to droop beneath her sodden bonnet. They were each armed with an umbrella, but unfortunately the rain had been blowing in sideways, rendering them all but useless. Poor Maria had fared the worst of all—her coat was too short to protect her skirts, and the pale yellow muslin she wore was now liberally dotted with muddy splashes. Her shoes, not suited for such inclement weather, were quite ruined. Even Mr. Collins, for all his determined cheer, resembled nothing so much as a wet crow, his black coat glistening and his neckcloth wilting.
In the entrance hall, they made a futile attempt to make themselves presentable. Elizabeth tried to shake out her skirts without creating an even greater mess on Lady Catherine’s marble floors, while Charlotte discreetly wrung out the edge of her pelisse into a potted plant. Maria looked close to tears as she attempted to brush the mud from her dress.
“You shall have to allow it to dry and remove it then, Maria,” Elizabeth whispered.
Mr. Collins was too busy extolling their gratitude for the invitation to Lady Catherine’s butler to notice he was dripping steadily on the rug.
When they entered the drawing room, Elizabeth was further mortified, for the contrast between their party and those within was painfully obvious. Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy were both impeccably dressed. Miss de Bourgh, wrapped in several shawls on the chaise, looked as delicate and untouched as a hothouse flower.
Lady Catherine’s eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline. “Good heavens! Mr. Collins, you should have taken the carriage. I would have sent it, had I known you would attempt to walk in such weather. Mrs. Collins, you are positively drenched. And Miss Lucas!” Her voice rose in genuine horror at Maria’s bedraggled appearance. “Miss Bennet—” Her gaze travelled from Elizabeth’s muddied hem to her dampened curls with an expression of aristocratic dismay.
Maria shrank behind her sister, her cheeks flaming as red as those on Lady Catherine’s drunken cherub figurines.
If her cousin did not mind embarrassing himself, Elizabeth would happily leave him to it, but he had humiliated the three of them as well because he could not be bothered to wait out the weather. Elizabeth did not think she had ever been as angry with a man as she was with Mr. Collins. Not even Mr. Darcy.
Darcy had been watching the rain from the window at the far end of the drawing room that overlooked the path to the old orchard and had thus missed the approach of the little party from the parsonage. When they appeared in the doorway, wet through and in disarray, his heart clenched at the sight of them. Of poor Miss Elizabeth in particular, with the ends of her dark curls dripping and her normally bright eyes shadowed with discomfort. He dragged his eyes away to see that Mrs. Collins appeared equally drenched, while her young sister Miss Lucas looked as though she had walked through a river rather than merely down the lane, her yellow muslin frock ruined beyond repair.
“My dear Lady Catherine.” Mr. Collins bowed. “I would never presume upon your generosity by expecting the carriage to be sent in such inclement weather. The horses must be protected from—”
“Nonsense,” Darcy cut in, noting how Miss Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed at her cousin’s pronouncement. The swift, sardonic glance she cast at Mr. Collins told him all he needed to know about who had insisted they all walk rather than either declining the invitation or waiting for a carriage to be sent. He felt a surge of disgust at the man’s complete disregard for the ladies’ comfort.
The parson sputtered. “Oh, Mr Darcy, I assure you I have nothing but the deepest concern for—”
“Yes, quite,” Darcy interrupted, his patience wearing thin. He caught Miss Elizabeth pressing her lips together, no doubt to hide a sense of vindication that her cousin’s behaviour would not go unremarked upon. The sight of her trying to maintain her dignity while water dripped from her skirts made him want to shake the pastor until his brains rattled. If he had any.
Anne surprised them all by speaking up. “Mother, might I offer the ladies some dry stockings? And perhaps my blue slippers would suit Miss Lucas? Her shoes are quite ruined.”
Miss Lucas’s face brightened with relief even as she stammered, “Oh no, I could not possibly—”
“You most certainly will,” Anne said with unexpected firmness. “Mrs. Jenkinson, would you show the ladies to my dressing room? And have someone see to drying their shoes properly.” She pressed her lips together and stood. “Perhaps I shall accompany you.”
Darcy was pleased to see his usually passive cousin take such initiative. “Peabody.” he said to the butler, “have Mrs. Wilson bring down some warm blankets immediately. And bring tea as soon as the ladies return, but not before, for it must be hot,” he emphasized, noting how Miss Elizabeth was attempting not to shiver.
“Indeed,” his aunt agreed, warming to the role of beneficent hostess now that others had taken the initiative. “Mrs. Jenkinson, you might also locate your spare pelisse.”
Mrs. Jenkinson nodded, but Darcy sent Anne a look. “Never you mind, Mrs. Jenkinson. It is an excellent idea, Mother, but I have ever so many clothes that are out of fashion now.”
She had added that last so that her mother would not complain. In fact, Anne’s fashions did not alter much from year to year, and it was true she had many gowns she no longer wore. There was no need for Mrs. Jenkinson to give up her own clothing, and Anne’s annoyed expression told Darcy that she had needed no prompting from him on that score.
His aunt nodded regally. “Very well, Anne.” She turned to Darcy. “Do you see how well she would do as the mistress of an estate?”
Anne had been the mistress of Rosings as of her twenty-fifth birthday, more than four years ago now. But she had thus far been happy to allow her mother to play the part.
After the ladies had departed with Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson, Fitz turned to Mr. Collins with an expression Darcy had last seen him wear when dressing down a particularly incompetent lieutenant.
“Mr. Collins,” Fitz said with dangerous pleasantness, “I wonder if you might explain your thinking in requiring three ladies to walk through a rainstorm?”
“I— that is to say—” Mr. Collins mopped his brow with a sodden handkerchief. “Her ladyship’s gracious invitation was most pressing.”
“Not pressing enough to endanger anyone’s health,” Darcy cut in coldly. “My aunt would never expect guests to walk through a deluge to attend her.” He could not be certain that was true, but he was angry, and he knew how to prick his aunt’s pride.
Lady Catherine drew herself up. “Indeed not! I am most seriously displeased, Mr. Collins. To think that Mrs. Collins and her sister might catch their death of cold! And Miss Bennet, whose constitution cannot be as robust as Anne’s, just think of it!”
Darcy and Fitz exchanged an incredulous glance at this extraordinary pronouncement, but neither contradicted her.
