Blurb: In this Twelfth Night role reversal set at Rosings, Miss Anne De Bourgh and Colonel Fitzwilliam appear to have switched personalities and bodies, resulting in some rather farcical goings-on and an earlier-than-usual happy ending in an otherwise canon-ish setting.
Sheep May Safely Graze: A Twelfth Night Role Reversal
by Jancat10 and JustineR
Part the First
Elizabeth Bennet and Maria Lucas arrived as planned at the Hunsford parsonage on a fine spring day. Elizabeth was delighted to see her friend Charlotte well-settled and seemingly happy with her new situation: her own home, her own servants, her lovely spring garden, and even, unaccountably, her new husband.
Once Elizabeth had settled in, she joined her dear friend in the cozy sitting room, enjoying a cup of tea and a quiet moment now that Mr. Collins had been called away to mediate a squabble between two parishioners over a gargantuan beet that had grown precisely halfway under the fence separating their cottage gardens. Maria had by this time retired to her room in exhaustion after his endless dissertation on root vegetables as a symbol of Christ's sacrifice for our sins.
After Lizzy had shared the latest news of her friend's loved ones in Meryton, Charlotte was anxious to pass along some exciting news of her own. "Lizzy, you shall be interested to hear, I think, that an old friend of yours is here visiting. Can you guess who it is?"
"Mr. Wickham?" Elizabeth asked hopefully.
"Goodness, no," laughed Charlotte heartily. "But, truly, at this rate, you shall never guess who it is. It is Mr. Darcy!"
Just as Elizabeth took a deep breath in preparation for excoriating the character of that horrid man, a commotion was heard in the drive. Charlotte went to the window and pulled aside the curtain. "Come see who it is, Lizzy! It is the Colonel, in his little phaeton!" she called.
And indeed, the tiny, dainty vehicle, with bells all a-jingle, had just turned into the lane and was crawling slowly their way.
"The Colonel?"
"Oh, yes. Colonel Fitzwilliam. He has come here to Rosings to recuperate, you know. He is one of Lady Catherine's nephews, just like Mr. Darcy."
"To recuperate? Oh, dear, was he injured fighting on the Peninsula?"
Again, Charlotte gave a great, jolly laugh. "The Colonel, fight on the Peninsula? No, indeed! His health would never permit it. Apparently he has always been a weak, sickly sort of man." Leaning forward, she said, sotto voce, "I hear that when he was a boy, his mother worried so about his fragile constitution that she dressed him in girls' frocks and doted on him as if he were her favorite doll."
"Is that so! How strange, then, that he should become a soldier." Lizzy's eyes sparkled at this absurd contradiction.
"No, not at all, since he is the second son. The family purchased a commission for him, as is normal in these cases."
"But how could he possibly lead men into battle, if he is so very ill?"
"Officers do not do so very much hard work, I hear. I imagine he was simply carried about on a palanquin covered in soft cushions, waving his sword to indicate his orders while the men dashed to and fro and fought Boney." Upon hearing this, Lizzy wondered if Charlotte had ever read anything other than Mrs. Radcliffe's novels.
"In any case," continued Charlotte, "he is suffering from some kind of dreadful wasting condition and is on leave from His Majesty's Army until he has effected a full recovery. Though that does not seem likely to occur, I must admit."
By this time, the Colonel's phaeton had drawn slowly up in front of the parsonage, and Elizabeth and Charlotte went out to meet it. The Colonel was indeed a very sickly looking man, with thin, bony fingers, a sallow complexion, thinning light brown hair, and bleary, watery eyes. As he set down the pony's reins, he pulled a handkerchief from his lacy cuff and dabbed his nose with it.
"Hello," he cried in a reedy voice before lapsing into a fit of dry coughing. Then the Colonel broke into a weak, strained smile. "You must be Mrs. Collins' particular friend. Lovely to meet you. I am—" He bent over, hacking into his handkerchief for a moment, and then looked up, gazing intently at Elizabeth. "It is the reaping season, you know. My aunt is having all the lawns trimmed back for Easter services." He shook his head and shuddered, waving his hand about. "Sheep and scythes everywhere."
Elizabeth took a step back as the sputum-stained handkerchief fluttered in her direction. Reflecting on how Mr. Darcy had brought ruin upon Mr. Wickham, she could not help but wonder whether his actions had somehow led to this man's sad condition as well. Were there no limits to his selfish, spiteful nature?
As the Colonel sputtered some more, Charlotte stepped in and introduced him properly to Elizabeth, simultaneously inviting him to come inside and join them for some tea. Coughing, he politely nodded his agreement and collected his belongings—a scarf, mitts, a plump cushion and a book—and put them into a straw satchel on the floor of the phaeton before he grabbed fruitlessly at the back of the seat in a vain effort to disembark gracefully.
Elizabeth rushed to his assistance as he struggled down from the phaeton. She and Charlotte each took a spindly arm and led him inside to sit by the fire. He placed his cushion on a chair and settled into it. A hot cup of tea seemed to revive his spirits. "Mrs. Collins," he whispered, "you would not by chance have a drop of brandy to sweeten this lovely cup, would you?"
Charlotte rose, stood on her tiptoes and reached around a fat round kettle on a high shelf, nearly dislodging a china shepherdess in the process. She sat down clutching a bottle. The Colonel tittered. "Oh my. This will be grand."
Indeed it was. The brandy worked as a magic elixir, clearing the sickly man's eyes and throat and revealing a sharp-eyed intelligence and wit.
"Miss Bennet, I am so pleased to meet you at last. My cousin has spoken highly of you." His rheumy eyes narrowed. "His letters have been full of stories. You read books, you traipse through mud, you are devoted to your sister..."
Elizabeth, outraged, swallowed back her first retort and reached for the brandy. "He wrote to you, about me?"
"Oh, Darcy does his best to entertain his less fortunate, less traveled relations. He gives counsel to his friends and family and apprises us of the human condition." A bluish finger reached out and tapped the bottle. "Mayhap a touch more in my cup?" Elizabeth and Charlotte watched, fascinated, as the Colonel beseeched them with fluttering eyelashes.
Charlotte obliged, and the Colonel drank deeply from the teacup, his pinky crooked delicately in the air.
"Aah," he said, visibly warming, "Much better, that. Well, the purpose of my trip here is, in fact, something other than to chit-chat about my cousin's correspondence habits. I am commanded to invite both of you, and of course your husband, dear Mrs. Collins, for dinner at Rosings tomorrow evening."
"Commanded?" asked Elizabeth, perplexed. "By whom? I thought you were on leave from the Army."
Charlotte giggled nervously for a moment before she regained her sense of decorum and resumed her customary placid demeanor.
"Why, by my aunt, the inestimable Lady Catherine De Bourgh, of course. She is quite the grande dame, as you shall see. But also by my cousin Anne." Elizabeth looked at him inquiringly.
He continued, "Darcy's description of you, particularly your love of the outdoors, has piqued her interest beyond all reason. She is simply wild to make your acquaintance, Miss Elizabeth."
The Colonel smiled a big, friendly smile and then suddenly he was taken with a most peculiar, pinched look. He opened his eyes wide, reared back, drawing in a large breath, and then all at once pitched forward as he was seized by fifteen tiny, mouse-like sneezes, each one tripping over the last in its apparent anxiety to begin, as the Colonel fumbled for his handkerchief while his teacup and saucer flew across the room.
"Do you by any chance have a cat, Mrs. Collins?" he wheezed into the damp handkerchief after he had collected himself once more.
The next evening, their wait in the vast entryway at Rosings was mercifully brief. A heavy stomping and the approach of a booming yet melodic singing voice alerted the Hunsford party that the good parson's recital on window treatments and banister polishes must soon come to an end, and that company was on its way.
"From door they went behind the bar,
As it's by common fame reported;
And there upon a turkey chair,
Unseen the loving couple sported:
Bet being call'd by company,
As he was taking pains to please her;
I'm coming, coming sir, says he,
My dear, and so am I, says she, sir..." *
The words became clearer as the rich tenor voice drew nearer.
"Hark," cried a blushing Mr. Collins. "I believe that the elegant Miss De Bourgh will be joining us."
Elizabeth, busily trying to decipher the meaning behind the unusual lyrics, felt a shadow pass over her and looked up. A woman unlike any she had ever seen approached them. Her large head sat upon broad shoulders. A wide smile split her ruddy cheeks. Great spools of red hair spired on either side of her head. Rather like Mrs. Goulding's jam-slathered scones, mused Elizabeth. The woman crossed the room briskly, her skirts swishing, her shadow growing, and the floor quaking from her heavy steps. Those were no slippers, Elizabeth realized. Instead massive black riding boots peeked out from under her full skirt.
"I say, you must be Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" boomed a low, cheerful voice. Miss De Bourgh reached out the largest, thickest hand the young woman from Longbourn had ever seen, seized Elizabeth's gloved hand, and shook it vigorously up and down. "Happy to make your acquaintance. Old Darce never stops singing your praises!"
She leaned forward and winked. "Dare all these tales be true?"
"Well, I hardly know, since I have not heard them myself, of course. I understand that he has quite a talent for... fiction," murmured Elizabeth, thinking of his slurs against Wickham.
"No, no!" Anne replied with great joviality, "my cousin always tells the truth, even when he might be better served by painting a bit of a prettier picture, if you know what I mean!" By now she was standing rather close to Elizabeth, and nudged Elizabeth's ribs knowingly with her elbow. Elizabeth involuntarily moved away a step.
"Indeed! I see you are your cousin's greatest defender, then," Elizabeth smiled, deciding to play along.
"Oh, yes! Jolly good fellow, even if he is a bit of a stick in the mud. He is a bloody good shot, and a top-notch rider! You should see the fellow on a hunt! The foxes practically throw themselves in his path, he is that good."
"And do you join him in these pursuits, Miss De Bourgh?" Elizabeth asked.
Mr. Collins started to interject, "Oh, yes, Miss De Bourgh is—," but then Miss De Bourgh herself interrupted him,
"Oh yes. We box, we joust, we ride and race. We no longer fence, of course," she sighed heavily and pulled at her sleeve. "Terrible danger of disfigurement and scarring. And Darcy has such a pretty face."
"Oh, you should have seen them wrestle as young pups and kits," cried the Colonel, now slowly tottering into the hall. "Always an even draw..."
"Until he grew to manhood. Got his whiskers and finally learnt how to pin me!" Anne bellowed.
The Colonel smiled and nodded at the guests. "I see my dear cousin has been entertaining you with fanciful tales of Darcy and De Bourgh feats of strength. Perhaps I could enjoin her to discuss her adventures on the pianoforte?"
Anne caught his smirk and parried back. "Oh yes, painting screens and tabletops is my evening delight, you old coot." She moved to cuff his ear as though he were an errant schoolboy. "As if anything could tear me away from my dear horses, sheep and goats on a cold winter's night!"
Elizabeth glanced between the cousins, one tall and robust and bursting with pent-up energy, the other frail and slight, his head bobbing with every sniffle.
"And your cousin? He is here as well?" she asked.
Anne's answer, something about Darcy running into her riding crop and ripping a hole in his breeches, was interrupted by the appearance of an older, only slightly less immense woman whose tall, powdered wig and wide, panniered skirts spoke of a bygone age. She glided smoothly into the room as if she were on wheels, her heavy, gold-ornamented brocade gown just barely swinging as she came to a stop in front of the woman one could only presume must be her daughter.
"Anne! Enough of this rousting-about nonsense. Show our guests into the sitting room, at once. And go put on a fichu and some jewelry. And some slippers! Take those filthy barnyard boots out of my house. Make yourself presentable for your cousin, young lady."
"Mother, how exactly can I show the guests into the sitting room while at the same time you have me stripping off my perfectly good shoes? It doesn't add up, I tell you!"
Anne chuckled and winked at Elizabeth. The latter bit her lip and turned to Charlotte, who was busy observing the scene with a sort of fascinated bemusement. To laugh, to flee? Rarely was Elizabeth Bennet so at a loss for words.
"I shall do the honors, never fear," interjected the Colonel, introducing Elizabeth and Maria to Lady Catherine and then wanly waving the guests down the mirrored hallway, the great lady herself leading the way. "Please, right this way," he said, mincing along on tender feet. Anne nodded and stomped away into the darkness.
"Darcy," she yelled, her voice fading down the hallway. "They are here! Get your breeches on!"
Elizabeth bowed her head and allowed herself to be herded down the garish hallway. In the ornately framed mirrors, she could catch glimpses of her companions. Charlotte maintained a placid smile. Her husband's face was crimson with anxiety as he focused on his feet and tried to keep from running over the slow-moving Colonel. Elizabeth's own reflection betrayed tension and amusement while Maria gazed about in awe and wonderment. All Elizabeth could see of Lady Catherine was her imperious nose and the tips of the feathers protruding from her bonnet.
As the Colonel shuffled across the sitting room with agonizing slowness, Elizabeth had time to look around and examine her surroundings. The centerpiece of the room was a large gilded armchair and ottoman, behind which hung a magnificent tapestry shot through with red, blue and gold, depicting in fine detail a Roman orgy. Elizabeth quickly averted her eyes, only to find that all around the room were similar artistic reminders of the decadent Classical past. Around the opulent throne, other chairs were carefully situated, facing it as if in supplication to its awesome power. Lady Catherine marched to the great chair and poised to sink into it, spreading her already wide skirts even wider, evidently oblivious to the rather shocking sight behind her. She waved imperiously to the others, gesturing that they might join her.
Before the Colonel was more than halfway to the large, soft, pillow-strewn chair that seemed to be the ultimate target of his creeping perambulation, Mr. Darcy burst into the room through a door in the far corner.
Words were spoken, exclamations were made, but Elizabeth's attention was immediately drawn to Darcy's breeches. They were really quite lovely, she thought, a golden fawn color, and they fit him like a glove. No rips or tears appeared in these breeches, though she thought she detected a slight hitch in his gait. Ah, so it was that sort of riding crop incident, she mused. Had he been sans breeches in his rooms whilst she stood just down the hall, she wondered?
"Hello, Miss Bennet."
Her head jerked up. Mr. Darcy was staring at her, his head angled and his mouth curved in a soft smile.
Elizabeth nodded and replied curtly, "Mr. Darcy." How's your bum? she thought, but bit back the words. Her eager, yet confused, expression, eyes aglow and lips pursed, left Mr. Darcy dumbstruck.
He turned around quickly and made his way to the Colonel, who was clearly in some distress, and assisted him in stepping over the lumps and rolls in the vast, drab olive-green carpet. Elizabeth wondered if this was where the bodies of disobedient servants and dependents were buried.
"Darcy, your cousin is fine. You should be helping your closest relation to her chair," Lady Catherine hissed, her arm extended and wavering as she hung just above her seat. Elizabeth could hear the huge jewels around her neck making a discordant clacking noise.
Darcy answered, "Yes, Aunt. Let me help my cousin get settled first." And he did help his cousin into his chair, fluffing the pillows gently and holding the Colonel by the elbow as he gently lowered himself onto the seat, rather winded by this time.
Darcy next assisted his aunt and was beginning to edge his way toward the chair next to Elizabeth when Anne came striding back into the room, now with a lace fichu carelessly tied around her neck in a futile attempt to cover her ample, muscular bosom. A horse-shaped, gem-encrusted brooch was pinned haphazardly to her chest. She cut Darcy off and plumped down in the chair next to Elizabeth, knees apart, and leaned forward on her elbows to try to catch Elizabeth and Charlotte's conversation. Anne's companion, Mrs. Jenkinson, rose from her chair across the room and came to stand behind her, whispering urgently that she assume a more demure pose, but Anne brushed her off. Mrs. Jenkinson subsided and faded into the woodwork. Darcy, visibly disappointed by Anne's choice of seat, was forced to choose a chair on the other side of the room.
Elizabeth bent her head closer to Charlotte and whispered, "Why does the Colonel always surround himself with so many pillows?"
Anne must have had very acute hearing indeed, because she guffawed and boomed, "Why so many pillows, you ask? Because his piles are troubling him again! Can you imagine, a military man, on horseback, with piles! Not that he ever had a good seat to begin with..." Anne slapped her thigh heartily and chortled at her cousin's discomfiture. "And wheezing and sneezing the likes of which you've never heard!"
Darcy cleared his throat. "Anne, did you order tea or would you like to go make it yourself?"
This is the lady betrothed to the great and powerful Mr. Darcy? Well, well, Elizabeth thought, tea time would always be entertaining, and might possibly be highlighted by hurly-burly and mumblety-peg games.
Lady Catherine shouted, "Darcy! Do not be absurd. Anne, make tea?" She craned her head around, searching. "Mrs. Jenkinson! Mrs. Jenkinson! You must order tea at once. Why have you not ordered it already? Where is that wretched woman?"
A loud tweet broke through the tumult. All heads turned to look at the Colonel, who held a tiny whistle between his fingers. "At your service, Aunt."
Mrs. Jenkinson re-materialized out of the woodwork, took her abuse from the great Lady Catherine, and scurried off to fetch tea for the party.
The group sat in uncomfortable silence for a few moments until Mr. Collins could stand it no longer. He burst out, "Miss De Bourgh, will you not grace us with your extraordinary musical talents? I have never heard such skill, such feeling, such—"
Now it was the Colonel's turn to guffaw, although he did so very delicately into his handkerchief so as not to set off a coughing fit.
"Oh, Mr. Collins. Don't be a sillyhead," Anne said. She turned to Elizabeth, who was beginning to eye the doorway anxiously in hopes of that elusive tea service.
"Elizabeth. Might I call you that? And you must call me Anne." The ginger-haired woman smiled impishly and her fichu began a slow slide off of her shoulder, exposing her massive, muscled bosom. "I understand from my cousin that you are a most accomplished musician. Nothing made him happier than hearing you play and sing last autumn in Hertfordshire."
Elizabeth sat wide-eyed. All attention was upon her, as were Anne's hands upon her person. She scooted back in her chair, and slowly drew back her knees from the large hams which rested upon them. Elizabeth turned her head and met the dark stare of Mr. Darcy. She felt her nostrils flaring.
"Oh, truly, I play very ill. My skills have been greatly exaggerated."
Anne, her hands back in her own lap, shook her head sadly. "I would scarce believe it, Elizabeth. Darcy has never so vibrantly praised a lady's playing.
"Here at Rosings, nobody plays, nobody sings. I had so hoped..."
Elizabeth felt her resistance ebbing but was saved, for a time, by the arrival of the tea. The tea was weak, the ginger biscuits were dry, and the seed cakes were too seedy, but somehow the small meal restored her cheerful mood. Until Lady Catherine's voice broke through the clatter of spoons and mumbled conversation.
"Miss Bennet, who were your masters? Who provided your musical instruction? Are you a proficient?" She thrust out a thin arm and pointed a shaky finger at the peach-colored pianoforte across the room. Rosy-cheeked cherubs frolicked around its curlicued edges, and Elizabeth thought she detected a green-beaked stork amongst the babes. Such innocents had no business sharing a room with that unclothed, brazenly depicted Roman frolic which hung above her hostess's head. If nothing else, the colors clashed. She wished she could dash across the room and cover the cherubs' eyes.
"That is a finely tuned instrument," continued the great lady, "able to determine the worthiness of those who touch its keys."
"Shall you dare, Elizabeth?" asked Anne.
Elizabeth steeled her nerves and, if only to take her mind off the decor, answered with determination, "Yes. I shall."
Anne jumped up. A shower of crumbs and seeds and a teaspoon flew off her ample lap. "Yippee!" She grabbed Elizabeth's hand and gave her a shy smile. "I would be honored to turn your pages."
They were the only ones who did not notice Darcy quickly sit back down.
The next morning, Elizabeth decided to take a walk in the woods at Rosings. As she passed near the stables, she heard a horse approaching her from behind. It was Anne, sitting astride a giant steed, snorting steam from flaring nostrils. The horse looked quite overheated as well. Anne jumped from the horse and they cantered side by side up to Elizabeth.
"Good morning, Elizabeth!" she panted. Anne's face was aglow from her exertions and the early sun cast a particular light on her face, emphasizing a sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and a bit of downy hair above her lip. Her eyes sparkled as she stood, awaiting her friend's greeting.
"And a good morning to you as well, Anne. It is a beautiful day for a ride. Your horse looks to have had quite a run."
Anne pulled gently on the reins and nuzzled her face against the beast's nose. "Yes, Hercules is quite my partner in crime and sport," she cooed. Suddenly, her face lit up in an expression already familiar to Elizabeth. "Do you ride? Would you like to jump on with me and race across the meadow?"
Hercules lifted his head and leaned toward Elizabeth. Alarmed by his equine overtures, she stepped back, stumbling over a pile of mossy pebbles. Anne caught Elizabeth's elbow and steadied her. "Never fear, Elizabeth. I have you. Hold on."
Elizabeth smiled and backed away. "I must be off before Charlotte worries for me and I miss Cook's muffins." She tried to ignore Anne's crestfallen expression. But the clouds soon cleared as Anne remembered the message she had hoped to deliver to her new friend.
"Say, tomorrow afternoon Darce and I are reprising our annual Fitzwilliam family Greco-Roman wrestling tournament. The Colonel traditionally acts as referee. Will you not join us? Maybe you could have a role, as well...towel girl, perhaps?" Anne asked enthusiastically.
Elizabeth's affirmative response came quickly, but her enthusiasm could be measured less generously than could her curiosity.
The next afternoon found the cousins and their guest on the prettyish lawn behind the great mansion. The servants had set out a wooden platform covered with a circular wrestling mat, and erected a graceful little pavilion next to it. Charlotte had begged off attending on account of the continuing argument between the cottagers about the enormous beet, Mr. Collins and Maria also staying behind to assist her in the negotiations. Thus the Colonel and Elizabeth sat together in the pavilion, in comfortable, well-cushioned chairs, sipping barley water, while Darcy and Anne prepared to do battle on the mat. The two cousins were attired in gladiators' tunics, cloth skirts below and leather straps criss-crossing here and there above, and they circled each other like two hungry, sandal-shod bears.
Elizabeth began coughing, perhaps having swallowed a stray fly while her mouth hung open, agog at the sight of so much bare skin. Oh my, she thought. How...furry. And muscular. And Mr. Darcy was all these things, too. She took a long swallow from her glass, and heard the Colonel chuckling.
"Quite a picture they make, hmm? As you see, Darcy is quite athletic."
"Yes, yes indeed," Elizabeth croaked. She'd never before seen a man's legs or chest and the sight was quite riveting. Even if it was Mr. Darcy.
Not quite sure where to look, she inquired, "Will Lady Catherine be joining us?"
A long watery sigh emerged from the Colonel. "No indeed. Not that she disapproves, exactly, though. Anne is an energetic girl and has always lacked suitable playmates who could challenge her. Her mother appreciates these contests within the family. You see, to her, they speak of nothing so much as compromise. Hands insinuated here and there, you know?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "She worries for Anne's innocence," he guffawed before breaking into a raspy cough.
"No, the real reason she stays away is that bodily fluids that are not her own make her swoon," he said with a wink once he had recovered his breath. "Trust me, I am an expert."
"And did you never take part in these competitions yourself?" Elizabeth asked.
The Colonel sneezed with a squeak and then chuckled. "Me? My goodness, no. But of course others have been in on the fun over the years—my brothers, various childhood chums and so forth. One year there was a milkmaid with a particularly strong grip..." He sniffled. "Well, shall we?" he chirped.
The Colonel pulled out his little whistle and tweeted it sharply. He clapped his gloved hands together in delight and called, "Lads, let us begin! And lasses, as well." Sitting forward attentively, he adjusted his lap robe and rearranged his shawl, ready for the match to commence. He blew the whistle again, and Darcy and Anne began to grapple, each seeking some sort of handhold wherever they could.
Elizabeth was unsure that this was entirely proper, but none of the others seemed to find anything amiss in the situation. Well, the cousins were engaged to be married, were they not?
The Colonel urged the two combatants on, watching carefully for any kind of misconduct. Suddenly he blew his whistle again as Darcy crumpled to the mat.
"Foul!" he cried. "Anne, hands above the waist!"
Anne laughed uproariously as she sportingly offered Darcy a hand up. "Sorry, old man. Slipped and all that. Reminds me of the year George Wickham grabbed your—"
"Yes, yes," gasped Darcy, still a bit winded. "Never mind that."
"Oh, so you are acquainted with Mr. Wickham, as well, Anne?" Elizabeth inquired.
"Indeed I am, that execrable, lying, scurrilous dung heap! If I ever see him again, I'll run him through with Dickie's dress sword," Anne shouted as she turned her back on Darcy to gesture just how she would deal with Wickham when next she saw him. Her tunic skirt fluttered in the breeze, exposing intermittent glimpses of her rippling tree-trunk thighs.
The Colonel quickly blew the whistle and Darcy made use of Anne's inattention to grab her and toss her bodily to the mat, pinning her before she knew what he was about.
Anne gave a great hoot of laughter as she lay prone. "You scabrous fox! You mangy cur! Taking advantage of my attentions to Elizabeth to best me!"
"A warrior never lets his guard down, not even to admire a pair of fine eyes," called the Colonel.
Darcy looked uncomfortable and politely asked the Colonel to shut it.
Anne laughed boisterously, springing back to her feet and beckoning to Darcy to re-engage in combat. "Come on, then, old man, best of seven as always!"
The Colonel once more blew his whistle, and they were off again, grunting, sweating, straining, and grabbing. Anne also engaged in nose-twisting, ear-wrenching, and the occasional administering of elbows to the gut, while Darcy stuck to the rules like a true gentleman. Once or twice, Elizabeth lifted her handkerchief to her face to wipe off a drop of the combatants' spittle or perspiration. Both Anne and Mr. Darcy were admirable physical specimens, but it was Mr. Darcy's sense of fair play and adherence to propriety that most impressed her. That and his forearms. They were dappled with soft fine hairs shielding firm muscles, muscles which firmly commanded the awkward physical situations created by Anne's rocking and pounding and writhing upon his person.
Did every man have such wondrously powerful thighs? And such an impressively broad chest? Elizabeth reached for her barley water, surreptitiously stealing a glance at the Colonel. No chest there; in fact, there was so little meat upon his bones that she shivered imagining him in a tunic. Then she noticed the odd gleam in his pale eyes as he watched Anne's every move. His nostrils flared a bit with every tumble and thud.
In the end, in spite of a gushing bloody nose, Darcy narrowly emerged the champion and was awarded the laurel wreath. He wore it proudly after he had bent low to allow Elizabeth to place it on his head, while Anne looked on enviously. At the Colonel's direction, Anne jammed some cotton wadding up Darcy's nose to stanch the bleeding. Then the combatants sprawled on the grass before the pavilion, bulging muscles gleaming with sweat, breasts heaving with exertion. Darcy looked quite done in, as well. While Anne sported bright red spots on her cheeks and blew in and out like a mighty wind, Darcy's flush was of a different sort indeed. Elizabeth sought his eyes; alas, she did so in vain, as he seemed quite unwilling to return her gaze. Suddenly he turned over, concealing all but his broad, glistening back and firmly muscled backside to her inquisitive eyes. An angry red welt on his thigh marred the image of perfection. Ah, gulped Elizabeth, the riding crop incident.
"Anne, I do not believe you have ever bested Darcy. At least, not since—"
"Yes, yes, yes, since his man hair grew in," Anne grumbled dismissively. "Why must you always compare us, Dickie? My cousin and I are not each other's equal. No one is my equal," she said quietly.
Elizabeth and Darcy both looked at Anne. Her face was in shadow, her chin resting on her knees, which were pulled up and providing a startling exhibit of her unmentionables. Both quickly looked away.
The Colonel chuckled. "Now Anne, neither of you is the other's equal, nor the other's dream match. You are large and strong. Darcy is handsome and agile. You both ride hard but your seats are so different. You would make a ridiculous pair, indeed." This revelation led to a bout of coughing into his already well-dampened handkerchief.
"Then it is a bloody fine thing we have spurned my mother's ridiculous, empty-headed notion of our nuptials," Anne muttered.
Darcy smirked and rolled his eyes. "Indeed. I am no match for you."
Elizabeth's head was spinning after this interchange.
"You mean to say that you two are not...engaged, as I had heard reported?" Elizabeth ventured, looking between Anne and Darcy.
Darcy looked startled at the very thought, and Anne guffawed loudly, "Good Lord, no! What in the name of all that is holy ever gave you that idea? We should never suit. He bests me every time, you know! Where is the fun in that? He is too much man for me!"
"As is she, for me," Darcy returned, nodding to Anne in polite agreement. "But may I inquire, where did you hear such a falsehood? Was it by any chance—" he looked sickened at having to say such a distasteful name— "George Wickham?"
Elizabeth averted her eyes. Perhaps she might have made some kind of misjudgement regarding that man, after all.
Anne rounded on Darcy and boomed, "What? That scoundrel is roaming the countryside spreading lies about you again? How many times did I tell you we should have set the dogs on him that last time he came begging for money? But no! You will do anything, anything, to protect your sister's good name, and look where that has got you!"
"Annie, really," scolded the Colonel, casting a sideways glance at Elizabeth as he delicately wiped his pursed lips with a serviette.
"Yes, Anne, please, have a little decorum—" Darcy protested.
"Decorum, you say!" shouted Anne as she jumped to her feet and towered over all of them like the Colossus of Rhodes, meaty hands on her ox-like hips. "I have listened to both of you lo these many years and done my best to follow your strictures about decorum, and reputation, and appearances. And look where all this skulduggery and deception have left us! Right back where we started—only that monster has spread his poison even farther afield. Well, I shall not stand for it another second. From now on, no more masquerades, no more tiptoeing about. Air out the cupboards, clear those skeletons out of the wardrobes. I am living my life in full truth from this time forward!"
"Anne, let us not be hasty—" cautioned the Colonel.
"No! I am marching straight to the stables to blow off some steam with Roger the stableboy. And to visit my sheep. This evening, the three of us will have a little sit-down over port and cigars"—she pointedly ignored the Colonel's interjection about how port turned his stomach, and how cigar smoke gave him the vapours—"and talk about how we are going to put an end to this debacle at last. Good day!" She stormed off toward the stables, sandals flashing in the sunlight.
Darcy stood and said to the Colonel, "I will go after her. Please, will you explain it all to Miss Elizabeth? Everything?" he pleaded.
"Even...Georgiana?"
Darcy nodded sharply, and took off in pursuit of Anne. Elizabeth couldn't help but admire the pumping of his legs as he sprinted away from her. It was unseemly to look, she knew, but she couldn't help herself.
The Colonel cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Elizabeth looked at him inquiringly as he adjusted his lacy cuffs and took a sip of barley water.
"Well, then," he said, and he proceeded, between coughing spells, to tell her the long, sad, sordid story of Wickham's involvement with the Darcy family, and of his abortive attempt to elope with Georgiana.
"None of those things Mr. Wickham told me are true, then?" Elizabeth wondered aloud, her previous certainty beginning to crumble.
"I should certainly be surprised if anything he said was entirely accurate," responded the Colonel, mopping his brow after the exertion of having just spoken so very much.
"So Mr. Wickham is all bad, and Mr. Darcy is...all good?"
The Colonel chuckled wheezily. "I am not sure I would go that far, my dear lady. Darcy cares a tad too much about the color of his waistcoats and is a bit too proud of his curls and his august pedigree. Not to mention, he is always poncing about interfering in other people's business. Why, just the other day he was telling me about how he had saved his good friend, Bingley, from making an unsuitable match with a Hertfordshire maid whose connections to trade—"
"Oh! I knew it! That was my sister, Jane." Upon hearing this, the Colonel clapped his hand over his mouth in mortification, clearly wishing he had said less. Elizabeth continued stonily, "He has ruined her happiness forever. I nevertheless regret having misunderstood his character so grievously."
The Colonel leaned closer and rubbed the thin stubble on his chin. "How so, Miss Bennet?"
Reluctantly and in as restrained language as she could manage, Elizabeth revealed to the Colonel the history of her dealings with Mr. Darcy, his slights, insults, and odd attentions to her person. The Colonel could barely restrain his giggles at some particularly ridiculous points in her narrative.
"He said that? Truly?" chortled the Colonel, dabbing his eyes with his handkerchief. "What a ninny. In fact, he admires you quite a bit, you know," he commented.
"Oh?" Elizabeth cleared her throat. "I cannot understand why that might be so, if indeed it is. I have no arts nor allurements, no athletic skills beyond hill walking and puddle jumping. I am no match for his...prowess and interests. Nor, perhaps more importantly, for his station in life."
"No, indeed, and he feels that keenly, I have observed."
"So keenly as to have broken my dearest sister's heart and led his friend astray." Elizabeth's eyes narrowed and she glared at the Colonel. "Has Mr. Bingley ever taken part in these matches with Anne?"
Following a long coughing fit and a series of twittering sneezes, the Colonel dolefully looked at Elizabeth. "To what do these questions tend? Everyone wrestles or boxes with Anne. In their breeches and shirts, I will have you know!" He hacked for a bit. "Only Darcy and my brothers are so familiar with her.
"And not to put too fine a point on it, Bingley only tried once and she broke his finger. Now he serves as official mascot of the games, as well as booster-in-chief." He nodded. "Cheerful fellow. But sad these days. If your sister loves him, you should tell Darcy. He will listen, I believe."
Elizabeth sat pondering this for a few moments. "Very well. I shall endeavor to view him with clearer, less prejudiced eyes. Thank you for trusting me with your confidences."
She stood and offered the Colonel her hand to assist him in standing. He took her arm, leaning heavily on her, and together they shuffled back to the great house.
End of Part the First
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*Lyrics from a traditional English bawdy song, "Oyster Nan."