Posted on 2013-03-03

"Drive on, Chapman."

At Mr. Darcy's command, he and his cousin drove away from Rosings. Colonel Fitzwilliam sank back gratefully into the comfort and luxury of Darcy's spacious well-sprung travelling coach. He was in uniform, prepared to visit his regiment upon arriving in town in a few hours and then to seek out some of the diversions afforded by being once more in the capital.

The colonel thought with pleasure of London and its amusements now that the season was just getting underway. He was weary of Rosings, his tiresome aunt, his insipid cousin Anne, and the dull inhabitants at the parsonage. Except for the lively clever Miss Bennet, of course. But even her company was beginning to pale and he was sure she had noticed that his fund of conversation was running dry and that he had started to repeat all his best ideas and sayings. A fellow had only so much he could remember about travelling and staying at home and new books and music, right? Unless he was forever reading and thinking, like his gloomy cousin sitting over there across from him and gazing out the window. Which reminded him ...

"By the way, Miss Bennet never asked me a thing about Wickham. In fact I did not speak to her at all. I stayed for an hour in the parsonage sitting room, but she continued out walking and did not return before I left. Though I cannot think why you would expect her to bring him up to me as a subject of conversation."

Mr. Darcy shook off his distraction and replied with a sigh, "She became acquainted with him in Hertfordshire where a militia regiment he serves in was quartered. She alluded to some information Wickham had shared there. It was obvious to me he had been spreading falsehoods about our dealings and I took the time to relate to Miss Bennet a more accurate presentation of the facts. I offered you as a corroborator in case she had doubts."

"Ah. I would imagine she had an unfavorable opinion of your character if she was judging you by Wickham's version."

"Yes. I believe you may safely assume that," Mr. Darcy answered, in a tone that could not have been drier, before adding quietly, "And no less so for her suspicion that I conspired to separate Bingley from her sister."

The colonel reacted to that with a great deal of gleeful gloating self-congratulation. "So it was Bingley! Ha! I was right! I had no idea the lady was her sister, but I told her I thought it was Bingley, that I was nearly certain it was Bingley. Well. Well. So I was completely right!"

Mr. Darcy exclaimed in alarm, "What do you mean by 'you told her'?"

"I meant Miss Bennet, of course. She and I were having a stroll through the park and I shared that you had recently saved a fr--"

"You unthinking idiot! You petty blather-tongued gossip! You are far too fond of the sound of your pretty voice; starring in the Rosings drawing room and monopolizing respectable people's conversation and attention; so wonderful at choosing music and simpering round the piano forte! I would like nothing more at this moment than to twist off your bulbous nose and stuff it in your receding chin. By God, you remind me of Wickham. You are equally preening and charming and glib and loose-tongued; and perpetually whining and moaning the same as he about not being rich and independent and having to marry for money. I tell you now that if you have any plans to ease your problems by marrying Georgiana one day, you may forget about that!"

Nearly out of breath with ire, Mr. Darcy bellowed, "Chapman, stop the coach!"

Colonel Fitzwilliam, who was shorter than his cousin by a good five inches, found himself hoisted by his epaulets, tossed from the carriage, and deposited on the roadside, from where he heard his cousin say, "Be happy you have a fine dry day for your walk, Cousin. Bromley is a mere four miles ahead. Be sure to mention Lady Catherine's name at the Bell and you will be attended to! Drive on, Chapman."