Page 59 of The Lost Prophecy

The clergyman had not mentioned Lady Catherine once.

During their previous acquaintance, Collins had introduced his patroness into conversations concerning illness, dancing, shelves, marriage, and the proper dimensions of a sitting room. This morning, he had neither contributed advice nor corrected anyone. His hands were clasped tightly on his knees, and every unexpected movement in the hall drew his eyes to the door.

Hurst noticed the scrutiny. He followed Darcy’s eye, studied Collins, and lowered his voice. “He has been watching us since we entered.”

“He touched Louisa yesterday,” Darcy explained.

Collins heard him. His fingers tightened on his knees, and he pulled his chair farther to the door before realising he had done so. The retreat carried no pompous offence or injured dignity. He simply wanted more space between himself and the man whose wife had felt dead beneath his hand.

The front door opened again. Light steps sounded in the entrance hall, followed by Hill’s voice and the rustle of outdoor clothing as she relieved Miss Elizabeth of her pelisse, bonnet, and gloves. A moment later, she entered the drawing room with her cheeks coloured by the cold, rubbing warmth into her bare fingers as she approached the company. The gentlemen rose.

The True Blood reached Darcy first, warm and living beneath her skin, but another scent travelled beneath it. Wickham. His residue clung to her right hand, faint yet unmistakable to the vampire who had created him.

Hurst’s eyes moved from Miss Elizabeth’s bare hand to Darcy, and the sudden stillness in his posture confirmed that he had detected it too.

Darcy’s hand closed into a fist. Wickham had approached her closely enough to leave a trace on her skin. He had dared to touch the True Blood.

Every question Darcy needed to put to her was impossible in a drawing room occupied by her parents, three sisters, and a clergyman whose discretion could not survive contact with information. He could not demand an account of her movements without presuming an authority he did not have, nor could he enquire how Wickham had touched her without inviting Mr Bennet to conduct a far more searching interrogation of him. The quill knife remained in Mr Bennet’s hand, and Darcy saw no reason to test whether its domestic purpose restricted its use.

Miss Elizabeth’s gaze travelled around the room, paused on Hurst, and settled on Darcy’s fist. She walked to the sofa occupied by her younger sisters but stopped before she reached it.

“Good morning, Mr Darcy.” She indicated his closed hand with a slight movement of her fingers. “Has my family offended you?”

“Not at all.” Darcy forced his fingers to open slowly. “An old grievance intruded on my thoughts.”

“Has the grievance lately acquired a red coat?” She kept her voice low near her sisters.

Darcy studied her. She had identified Wickham from a single guarded remark and referred to him without offering his name to a room where it would not have survived five seconds without public examination. “It has.”

“Then it called on my aunt yesterday and gave a most affecting account of its injuries.” Her left hand closed over her right, concealing the place where Wickham had touched her.

“I do not doubt the performance was affecting.” Some of the rigidity left Darcy’s shoulders, although Wickham’s scent lingered on her skin and prevented genuine relief.

“It was certainly practised.”

Darcy felt so proud of her at that moment. She had heard Wickham’s tale, examined it, and declined to accept it merely because its teller had a handsome face, an officer’s coat, and a grievance polished through fifty years of repetition. Darcy had not expected her trust, but the evidence of her scepticism struck deep.

She moved on towards her sisters, and the company resumed their seats.

Before Darcy could respond, Collins rose.

He walked behind the central sofa, giving Hurst a wide berth before stopping near Darcy. His complexion was ashen, and the cheerful self-importance which generally entered a room before the rest of him had disappeared.

“Mr Collins.” Darcy shifted so that he could observe both the clergyman and Miss Elizabeth. “Are you unwell?”

Collins glanced at Mrs Bennet, then at Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty. His eyes lingered on Miss Elizabeth’s hand before moving to Hurst. The effort of deciding where the greatest danger lay appeared to exceed his experience.

“I am uncertain.”

Collins neither elaborated nor invoked Lady Catherine. He stood before Darcy in silence, frightened and aware that the truth would sound deranged if presented to the people around him. Unknown terror had accomplished what education, society, and exposure to Mr Bennet’s wit had failed to achieve. It had made Mr Collins almost sensible.

Mrs Bennet rose before Collins had finished being uncertain. “My dear Mr Collins, you must sit down at once. Hill, bring another cup of tea. Perhaps the fire is too low, although I have repeatedly instructed the servants that a gentleman of Mr Collins’s constitution cannot be expected to survive on the same quantity of coal as the rest of us.”

“No, madam, I require neither tea nor additional heat.” Collins retreated from her concern and nearly collided with Darcy’s chair. He recovered his balance without taking his eyes from Hurst. “The difficulty is not precisely physical, although it manifested itself through physical sensation and may bring consequences which extend considerably beyond the body.”

Hurst settled farther into his seat. “Most difficulties do, if encouraged.”

Mrs Bennet waved Hill to the tea table, unwilling to allow either medical uncertainty or a guest’s refusal to interfere with treatment. “You have been walking too much. I warned you that the road to Meryton is damp, and gentlemen are very susceptible to damp when they have not been raised in the country.”