Page 12 of Fortuitous Encounters

Her other new friends all recognised the newcomer, with various levels of disapprobation. Miss Darcy had turned white as a sheet; surely the story of Miss Darcy and this unknown man would not be to her liking. Miss de Bourgh stared at the man as she might a common criminal awaiting sentencing or the hangman. She clearly held no good opinion. The colonel unconsciously opened and closed his fist while reaching to his side for his non-existent sword. Elizabeth was uncertain whether to be happy or sad he was unarmed. In the end, with the looks the man generated, it likely made little difference; he still had his fists.

The man stepped up to Mr Darcy and spoke with an insolent air. “Ah, Darcy, I happened to notice your cousin trying to find you at your townhouse. It seemed odd, so I naturally rode directly to Rosings to tell your aunt what was about. She, of course, asked me to attend her to fetch the tart back.”

He sneered at Miss de Bourgh with undisguised contempt; apparently, there was a similarity of feeling between the two.

He continued blithely, “I say, Darcy, are you not the master of protocol? Will you not introduce me to your new acquaintances? Which is yours: the tolerable one beside you, or the decidedly un-handsome one over in the corner?”

The man was clearly egging Mr Darcy on, probably under the impression he could get away with it indefinitely. Perhaps they knew each other well, or perhaps he had been taunting him for years, depending on Mr Darcy’s gentlemanly conduct to keep him safe. What he did not know was that Elizabeth Bennet had no such scruples and was not to be trifled with.

She opened her mouth to deliver the wretched man the set-down of his life. She had it all worked out in her mind; it was to be the most vicious bit of verbiage ever uttered in Hertfordshire—nay, in all England. He would cry for his mother before she was through with him, and the set-down would be severe enough to be handed down with all the éclat of a proverb.

Just as Elizabeth started speaking, however, she was absolutely and thoroughly frustrated in her quest. She could not deliver her perfectly calculated set-down, for the man in question was being dragged across the floor, screaming like a baby. His screams likely stemmed from his head experiencing some pain—or at least that seemed the likely cause, since he was being dragged across the floor by his hair by none other than her good friend John Lucas. Apparently, he had heard the comment and was not enamoured with the cretin’s description of either his sister or his oldest friend. She was unsure whether he disliked the description of Lizzy or Charlotte more, but since either would do, she was satisfied.

Darcy asked, “Is your friend likely to kill him?”

With a mischievous smile, Elizabeth replied, “It is unlikely, since his father would no doubt beat him for it, and he might miss too much school with a trial. He will probably just thrash him within an inch of his life. Of course, he will almost certainly cut that ridiculous queue off his head along with at least half his hair. It is hard to say what else he will do. It probably depends on the relative availability of creosote versus tar, and other practical manly concerns.”

Darcy could not stop laughing. “That is excellent. It will save me some solicitor’s expenses. It might have cost some coin to defend your friend. I should have done that years ago. Would it be unseemly to go out and watch?”

Elizabeth laughed heartily at the sentiment, happy to see that Charlotte’s brother and her friend’s forthright manners were not being looked down upon by her new friend.

“There are some benefits to being savage,” she said. When exactly had she stopped thinking of him as an acquaintance and started thinking of him as a friend? Was it that he blithely offered to defend her friend without a second thought, or had it approached her more gradually? One thing was certain—over the last few hours she had begun to like him entirely too much for her own good.

She turned to him. “I assume you know that… that… that—”

She could not bring herself to use the word gentleman, or any other word short of scoundrel, but thought she should keep her language ladylike, at least for the moment.

“Yes, I grew up with him. His name is Wickham, son of my father’s steward. I will tell you his story in all its particulars on the morrow. He is the reason I wanted to talk to you about my sister.”

Elizabeth noticed two or three of John’s friends following the screams. Perhaps they thought John might need assistance to deliver a beating, but more likely they just wanted to see the show. It must have been exceedingly difficult for them to choose between spectacles, but since all they had inside was an old dragon-lady, and outside they had the formidable John Lucas about to thrash some stranger, the opportunities for outdoor entertainment likely seemed more appealing.

With that thought, Elizabeth startled, because the matron made her way across the dance floor. She paid not the slightest attention to anybody, though there were not any couples very seriously dancing anyway. Having a man dragged through the dance floor by his hair, screaming like a banshee, was not particularly conducive to the activity.

The matron simply walked in a straight line from where she was to her stated objective, neither looking right nor left, nor slowing or stopping for anything or anybody. Anyone who had the temerity to stand in her way probably would have received a rap from her walking stick, but either nobody was willing to challenge her—or more likely, they judged the show was just about to start.

She eventually stopped right in front of their group and surveyed the scene as if she had found herself in a den of iniquity, rather than a country assembly room. She stared at Mr Darcy, and at the smaller than propriety strictly required gap (much smaller) between the gentleman and herself with a sneer, and opened her mouth to speak.

“Darcy, what are you doing here among this rabble, and what have you done to my daughter? How can you pollute your august personage with such as these? It is insupportable! You saw how they treated poor Mr Wickham—they are practically savages! I shall not stand for it. You know me for my frankness, and I must say that you cannot possibly be here deliberately. You must come away at once! What were you thinking? Come along, Anne!”

Darcy was lost for a moment. Not two hours before, he had viewed Miss Elizabeth’s mother with open disdain, but here was a walking, breathing example that could be the archetype for bad manners. In fact, he was quite tempted to apologise to Mrs Bennet at once for ever doubting her.

Anne had been recovering nicely with the Bennet sisters, but now appeared the pale and sickly creature she had always seemed. Meanwhile, how would he deal with such an affront on manners, dignity, propriety, familial relations, and plain decency?

Darcy drew himself up, and what he said surprised Elizabeth exceedingly.

“Lady Catherine, these are my friends, and they will not be spoken of as such. Not by you—not by anyone!”

The ‘lady,’ who had not even bothered to be introduced, did not seem to hear. “You have been mucking about in society for a decade now. It is high time you did your duty. You must do your duty to your ancestors, to your family, to your tenants, to your estate. Come away from this place and do your duty!”

About every third word was punctuated by a sharp rap of her walking stick on the floor, which Elizabeth found either exceedingly annoying or amusing. She would have to think upon it later to see which, but for the moment annoyance was in the lead.

“Lady Catherine, while I will pay you the respect due as a relative, I do not believe this to be the appropriate time or place to have this discussion, and I will not have you speak of my friends in this manner. Do not test me!”

A second reference to his friends in two sentences did not escape Elizabeth, and she smiled at the impression she, her sisters, and her friends had made on the gentleman. Who would have thought they might be friends after such a wretched beginning? Perhaps good friends, or even very good friends one day.

The lady still had not deigned to be introduced, but she could be none other than Mr Collins’ noble patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. She stuck her nose even higher in the air, a feat Elizabeth would have thought nigh on impossible.

“This is as good a time or place as any. None of these people are important; say what you have to say, but I will carry my point.”