Page 29 of Mr. Darcy’s Fiery Passion

Parrish had been put out when he came back from London. Darcy had seen it in the stiffness of his back these three evenings. The servants' hall had told him within the hour that Miss Elizabeth cut his master's meat. She read to him in the evenings, too. Parrish had borne it in silence.

Now Parrish had his office back. And it was plain the terms galled him.

"After breakfast," said Darcy, "I shall dictate a letter to Miss Darcy."

"Very good, sir."

He disliked dictating. A letter in another man's hand was only half his own. He sat by the window now and spoke, and Parrish wrote at the little table. It was a dull letter. It told Georgiana he was mending, and that Hertfordshire was flat, and that Bingley sent his compliments. It did not tell her anything true.

"And a line to Colonel Fitzwilliam," he said. "Tell him Mr. Wickham is at Meryton. He has joined the militia there."

Parrish's pen stopped.

He looked up. For the first time that morning, his face was not still.

Parrish had been a footman at Pemberley when George Wickham was a boy. He had carried the boy's trunk to school. He had seen a good deal of that boy the old master never saw. He knew exactly what Wickham was.

"Young George, sir?" he said. "Here?"

"Here."

"And the Bennet girls are living in Meryton. The younger ones, at Mrs. Phillips's."

"Yes."

Parrish set down the pen. "Does Miss Elizabeth know what he is, sir?"

He had not asked about Miss Bennet, or the younger girls in Meryton. He had asked about one young lady only. He would not have asked it about any other lady in England, and they both knew it.

Darcy looked out of the window. "Miss Elizabeth knows what she has been told."

"Then she might be told otherwise." Parrish paused. "If you will forgive me, sir."

"Write the letter, Parrish."

Parrish looked at him a moment longer. He took up the pen again. He wrote the line to the colonel in his neat footman's hand. He sanded it and folded it.

Darcy knew he had hurt him. He saw no way to mend it without saying more than he could bear to say. So he said nothing.

At noon he went down.

He could not stay in his room all day. Bingley would come looking for him, or worse, Mrs. Bennet would send up a posset. He came down the stairs with his arms at his sides and his cravat too tight.

The door of the little parlor stood open.

He heard Mr. Collins before he saw him. The voice was slow and grave and very pleased with itself. It was reading aloud.

"God made the country, and man made the town." A pause. "A most improving sentiment, my fair cousin. I shall omit the next several lines. They are not suitable."

Darcy stopped in the hall.

It was Cowper. It was The Task. It was their book.

He could see them through the door. Mrs. Bennet sat by the fire, beaming, with her work in her lap. Jane sat by the window. Elizabeth sat on the parlor sofa with her bad foot up on a cushion. Mr. Collins sat very close beside her, with the book held up before his face. He was turning pages Darcy knew by heart.

"Pray, go on, sir," said Elizabeth. Her voice was very even.

"I shall skip to the passage on the sofa. Most apt, in your situation." Mr. Collins cleared his throat.