Page 34 of Infamous Relations

“Mr. Bingley?” Jane’s mouth fell open inelegantly with shock. “What are you doing here?”

“I came as soon as I discovered your presence, dearest Miss Bennet,” Bingley declaimed with a broad smile. “I say,” he noticed Elizabeth then, “is Miss Elizabeth all right?”

“I should say clearly not, young man,” Mr. Gardiner said dryly, taking a step forward, but Darcy was ahead of him, his hand hovering just above Elizabeth’s hair.

“Eliz-Miss Elizabeth, I beg you, please do not cry. Only tell me what I may do, to ease your distress!”

Looking up at him, Jane marvelled that none of them had suspected Darcy’s partiality to Elizabeth while they were yet in Hertfordshire; it was writ large on his face now, in the agonised expression he wore, clearly wanting to take Elizabeth in his arms to comfort her though he had no right to do so.

“Mr. Collins,” Jane said clearly, fighting to keep her voice steady. Looking past the utterly bemused Bingley at the Colonel, who met her gaze and nodded. “It was Mr. Collins. I am afraid that Mrs. Collins guessed the truth and confronted her husband with it. He attacked her…”

“He nearly killed her,” Trent put in vehemently, from his position kneeling beside Charlotte.

Fitzwilliam’s face hardened. “Where is he now?”

“He ran off,” Charlotte whispered weakly, before Trent hushed her again.

“Come, Darcy. We need to find him. He must have taken leave of his senses.”

“Yes,” Darcy stared at Elizabeth, whose sobs had eased. She kept her face turned away from him, though; he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and awkwardly offered it to Jane. “We will find him,” he promised, caught at Bingley’s sleeve and tugged him from the room in the Colonel’s determined wake.

“What in God’s name is going on?” Bingley demanded plaintively as the door closed. “Why is Miss Elizabeth so distressed? Miss Bennet barely looked at me…”

“For God’s sake, man,” Darcy said, exasperated, “she hasn’t seen you in six months, ever since you apparently decided she didn’t suit you after all. Did you expect her to fall at your feet?” He regretted the snap almost at once, because Bingley drooped like a kicked puppy.

“No, I… I suppose not,” he muttered. “Especially not after Caroline and Louisa were so unwelcoming when she came to visit.”

“Bingley,” Fitzwilliam said, exasperated, “right now we have more things to worry about than your hopeless inability to manage your impossible sisters.”

Bingley’s mouth opened and closed again. He looked at Darcy, who was already heading for the door.

“What in God’s name is going on?” Bingley asked again.

Fitzwilliam hesitated, glanced at the closed parlour door. “Right now, we need to find Mr. Collins. The man has run mad; he almost killed his wife. He can’t be far away. Come on, Bingley, let’s move!”

Given a clear direction and a clear target, Bingley could move quite quickly, it transpired. The three men hurried down the path to the gate together, looked up and down the lane.

“Where would he go?” Bingley asked. “Not the church, surely…”

“Rosings,” Darcy and Fitzwilliam said simultaneously.

“Trying to save his own skin by throwing Elizabeth to the wolves. Or to Lady Catherine, rather,” Darcy surmised.

“You were right the first time, when you said to the wolves,” Fitzwilliam said grimly. “Which way would he go, though?”

“The eastern lane is quickest,” Darcy said, “but we already know he prefers to avoid getting his feet muddy.”

“The western lane, then!” Fitzwilliam and Darcy started running. Seeing no other option, Bingley ran along with them.

They were about halfway to Rosings when the most ghastly sound made them all start to run faster; it was a sound all three of them had heard before, that of a horse in terrible pain.

The sight that greeted them around the next bend of the lane was so shocking that all three men stopped in their tracks, staring with horror before hurrying forward again. A man dressed in the livery of Rosings lay still in the grass closest to them; Bingley stooped to check on him as the other two continued on.

One horse stood shaking in the traces of an overturned carriage; the second lay squealing and thrashing on the ground, one foreleg dangling at a horrible angle. Fitzwilliam didn’t even hesitate before drawing the small pistol he had in his coat pocket and putting the poor animal out of its suffering.

A blissful silence fell, broken only by the distressed panting and occasional neigh from the other horse. Bingley came up then, reached to try and calm the unsettled animal.

“The coachman’s alive, looks like he was knocked out in the crash, but he’s coming around now. What’s happened?”