The Knights of Derbyshire

By DJ Clawson

This story continues the series that began with "A Bit of Advice." At this point, you really have to go read the others before trying to read this one. New characters abound. This is story 6.

Guys, I have to knock my "twice a week or 15 comments, whichever comes first" policy up to 20 and see how THAT goes. I really, really, really appreciate your comments, but I can't post every day. The story will go too quickly and you won't appreciate it. Trust me.


Chapter 3 – The Matter with Mr. Collins

"The soonest we can expect a reply is probably within a week," Darcy explained to George, who was pale and sweaty, but hardly incoherent as the local doctor tended to him, ordering the servants to provide various supplies. There was little to do for a cold but sit it out. "If they respond positively, Isabella could be here by Christmas."

"Only if she wants to be," George said. "I don't want to force her to do anything else she has no wish to do. She is devastated. She was in love."

"She believed herself to be. She is not old enough to tell the difference between fleeting romance and emotional attachment."

George leaned his head sideways to give his uncle a look.

"I am not saying she had no feelings. In fact, they could have been passionate. Nonetheless, they were not reciprocated and you were wise to act as you did. It was a great stroke of luck that you were there in time," Darcy said. When his nephew only sighed, Darcy continued, "You have more sympathy here in Derbyshire than you could possibly imagine. I rescued your Aunt Kincaid from very similar circumstances. She was not six and ten and meant to elope with a man –" Realizing that it was, very awkwardly, George's own father, he said, "– a man who was after her fortune. Let us leave it at that. The circumstances are still painful to me. Your Uncle Grégoire would say that it was an act of G-d that I happened to visit her and discover the plot in time, and for once, I would agree with him about the hand of the Divine." He shook his head. "I am starting to talk like him."

"Reading too many of his columns?"

"Precisely," he said with a smile. "Nonetheless, the chief difference between you and me is I was seven and twenty when I had that terrible duty of consoling my sister, and a man of few pressing obligations at the time. In that way, I was very fortunate." Of course, they had also almost stepped into an incestuous marriage, but he didn't need to say that. He didn't know it at the time, and George didn't need to know. For strange reasons, he told George many things he was unwilling or unable to tell his own son, often because George was older, or had more weight on his shoulders at this time in his life, but this he would leave out of the family history. "You did well, George. Anyone who is not proud of you is a fool."

"My mother is less than pleased."

"I will make no further comment, but I will not withdraw my former one." Darcy rose from his chair as there was a knock at the door. "Hopefully with all of these relatives around you will still manage to get some rest, even if you have to ask me to forcibly eject them."

George smiled. "Let them in."

Darcy opened to door to his nephew Charles, who bowed. "Uncle Darcy."

"Charles. Come to see your cousin?"

"Yes, sir."

"Your mother is here?"

"She is with Aunt Darcy."

He nodded, and left them together, returning to his study. His son, when he inquired, was still at Kirkland or on his way back. He had not written Bingley personally, trusting Elizabeth to do that, and he had other things to see to. The doctor assured him that George was a strong boy and his health would quickly return, to which Darcy just nodded.

Upon entering his study he withdrew a fresh piece of paper and prepared his pen, pondering how he would phrase this to Grégoire. His brother visited often, but would not be coming for Christmas. Patrick was still a toddler and traveling in the cold was not good for him, and Grégoire rarely left his wife and child except in dire emergencies. The only way this would escalate to an emergency – as it seemed, the real emergency had already been averted – was if Lydia Bradley challenged his sheltering of George (and possibly Isabella) in some way, and Grégoire would be little help with that. He would still want to be informed of his nephew's doings, but his presence was not required when it was so cold and hard to travel. It did not look to be an easy winter for Derbyshire. Landlord concerns immediately kicked in, but Darcy shoved those aside for the day and focused on the new presence in his home and what needed to be done.

Fortunately there was no need to pen a letter to Georgiana, a task that would have been terrible indeed, as it could not be done without unintentionally forcing both of their emotions about Ramsgate to the surface. It was always painful to open wounds anew. She was not at home, but on her way to Pemberley with her husband and child for Christmas, and even if she had been delayed, she would not receive the letter before her departure. When she got here, it would be Elizabeth who would comfort her. Elizabeth was better at that. Elizabeth, as always, was invaluable. It seemed as if he had been married longer than the sum of his bachelor years, and he could simply not imagine what he would do without her. Had he been remiss in telling her that? Guiltily he scratched himself a note to find something special for her for Christmas.

Actions were always so much easier to him than words.


Jane Bingley's distress at the news was obvious. Elizabeth had picked a private sitting room for just that reason. "Lydia is responsible for outbursts in the past, but to throw her son from his own house? Surely she regretted it immediately. Surely she will send someone to fetch him immediately or come herself."

"I hope for her sake that she does not come herself," Elizabeth answered. "And I do not think George particularly wishes to return to the Bradley house. The only concern he voiced to me was for his sister."

"Isabel is turning into such a charming lady," Jane said. "She has never expressed discontent with her life in Cheapside. And she has her younger siblings to dote on." The Bradleys now had two daughters and a son, all still very young. "Mr. Bradley is a good man and has never treated her unfairly, and she has nothing to worry about concerning an inheritance."

"Apparently she has everything to worry about," Elizabeth said, "if she is to receive advice that lands her in Scotland."

"Lizzy!"

Elizabeth smiled. Jane was not naïve, just unwilling to see ill in her sister, however deserving she was of it. Or at least, she would not give up her positive thoughts without a fight. "I think the events as recounted are ample proof of that. Either way, we wrote that Isabel can come to Pemberley if she wishes to see George, so it is up to her as much as it can be. And as much as she may love her siblings and her parents, you know how she adores her brother. Mr. Bradley is a good man, but it is only George that I can say truly has her best interests at heart."

"Poor George," Jane lamented, and Elizabeth frowned in agreement. "And to be sick on top of it."

"It is just a cold. Besides, we all know colds can come about at most auspicious times."

To that, Jane could only hide her grin behind her teacup.


The flow of visitors stopped with the two Bingleys as they departed and Geoffrey returned from Kirkland. Mr. Bingley sent his regards but would wait until the appropriate time for a sick visit, probably before their dinner the following evening. Darcy was reassured verbally by his wife that nothing else could be done at this juncture; all the appropriate people had been contacted, and there was no traveling to be done for almost anyone in this weather.

Dr. Maddox would only be called if George worsened. Sir and Lady Maddox (and children) were not coming to Derbyshire for Christmas this year. They were hosting the Hursts, the Townsends, and the Bertrands for Christmas at their manor outside Cambridge, where Dr. Maddox was a full professor of very good standing in his department. The only new addition to that particular party was Mary and Andrew Bertrand's daughter Margaret, whom the Darcys had formally met at her christening in July. To their relief, Joseph Bennet had taken a liking to his little half-sister "Maggie" and was often seen holding her. The only ones missing from the picture were Brian and Princess Maddox, who were abroad with the yearly company boat trip to Japan and due to return in early spring. With no children, they had time to travel widely and seemed to take great delight in doing so, and to lavish attention and gifts upon their extended family of nephews and nieces when they returned. Nadezhda Maddox was a strong woman and was a good balancing force for Brian's wild nature. He proved a responsible business partner to Bingley, an avid scholar in all things exotic, and a loving husband. That he could not be a father seemed to not affect him, at least openly. The Maddoxes were a private couple in their little, strange house outside London and what they said to each other in Romanian or behind closed doors was anybody's guess.

The old generation was gone, with the exception of Mr. Bennet. The group that had once been young couples were now parents, some of them with children entering adulthood. They collectively braced themselves for the tumultuous years when their children would become marriageable and the entire race to marry and settle would begin anew with the next generation.


At the same time that George Wickham was riding to Derbyshire, hoping to be well-received at Pemberley, the Bellamont family received a very strange guest. With a bit over two weeks to Christmas, they did not expect anyone from England, much less a Rector for the Church of England.

Only Grégoire Bellamont recognized him immediately. "Mr. Collins." He bowed. "Do come in, sir. You must be freezing."

"Mr. Bellamont." Mr. Collins, Rector of Hunsford and heir to Longbourn, was indeed standing at the doorway to their house on the Irish coast, his black cloak soaked with melted snow. "Thank you for receiving me."

"It is no trouble," Grégoire said, not questioning any further until he dispensed with his self-appointed duties of washing the hands – or at least the fingertips – of his guest with a silver cup that sat by the doorway over a bin. It was an old monastic custom and he took a perverse pleasure in the annoyed look his brother gave him when enduring it. "Welcome to our home." He handed him a towel. "You are very fortunate. We are about to serve supper. But first, is there some emergency?" Honestly, he could not conceive of a reason for the sudden appearance of Mr. Collins. "Are your wife and children in good health?"

"They are, thank you. No, there is nothing that cannot wait until after dinner."

It was not a large house and the smells from the kitchen filled the dining room, which was the next room over. "Caitlin! We have a guest!" Grégoire called out. There was a servant to take Mr. Collin's coat, but no others visible. "And Mr. Collins, I am pleased to introduce my son Patrick." With great pride he lifted Patrick out of the makeshift pen in the dining room, where the boy had been chewing on his wooden building blocks. "Patrick, this is Mr. Collins. It is important to welcome guests. Say hello to Mr. Collins."

Patrick, who was almost three and actually far more interested in the toy still in his hands, did manage to say, "Mitter Cowlins!"

"Very good." Grégoire kissed his son on the cheek and set him back down in his pen. Almost on cue, his wife appeared in the doorway, still wearing an apron. "Caitlin, this is Mr. Collins, a cousin of Mrs. Darcy and a distinguished rector in Kent. Mr. Collins, my wife, Mrs. Bellamont."

Mr. Collins bowed to the woman before him, who eyed him skeptically before curtseying. "I hope yeh like stew."

"I do, madam."

The seating at the table was not conventional and Grégoire knew that, but he never let it bother him. He sat at the head, with his wife on his left and his son on his right, even though Patrick needed to sit on a book to reach the table, or eat standing, and usually made a mess of things. Mr. Collins was placed beside Caitlin, as it was generally the less messy side of the table.

They stood for grace. Grégoire bowed his head and said slowly, so his son could try (and fail) to mimic the words, "Benedic, Domine, nos et haec Tua dona quae de Tua largitate sumus sumpturi per Christum Dominum Nostrum. Bless us, Oh Lord, and these Thy gifts which we are about to receive through Thy bounty, through Christ Our Lord. Amen."

"Amen."

They sat down to dinner, which consisted of stew and some black bread. They had a much wider variety of spices than the locals had and Caitlin was getting very good at using them. Mr. Collins went on about the stew, and how flavorful it was, and though Grégoire could not contradict him, he did cast a glance at Caitlin, who raised her eyebrow at him. He wanted to answer 'I know' but didn't feel it was appropriate. Whatever was really on Mr. Collin's mind – what had dragged him out to the middle of nowhere, Ireland, in December – would clearly not come out in casual conversation.

After dinner, Grégoire offered Mr. Collins a glass of whiskey and said, "I will be with you in a bit. Unfortunately, it is time for Compline. If you wish, we have numerous books I think will be to your liking."

Mr. Collins nodded and retired to the sitting room as Caitlin went to put Patrick to bed. Grégoire tried to put his mind off his guest and retreated to the chapel. He knew the prayers by heart, but he had a book on the stand anyway.

When he returned to the main section of the house, Mr. Collins was still in the sitting room and rose to greet him. "Mr. Bellamont."

"Mr. Collins. Perhaps now you will tell me why you've come so long and so far."

Mr. Collins nodded, but did not smile. "I've been reading your column."

"Oh? I did not know it was picked up in Kent."

"It so happened that I heard a most intriguing sermon by the vicar in charge of sermons in Hunsford, now – I mainly am in charge of tending to the flock – and I asked him about it, and he immediately told me that he had pilfered it from some Papist work." He coughed. "Excuse the euphemism."

Grégoire just smiled and refilled Mr. Collins' glass. "Of course. But the column is anonymous."

"Yes, but Lady Anne Fitzwilliam of shire is my patroness, as you may recall, since the entail on Rosings was destroyed. When I mentioned it to her, she said she had heard something from Mr. Darcy about how you were writing columns for Irish papers and had even been picked up by a weekly in London."

"I have."

"From there, it did not take much investigation. I have been following it ever since. I admit that I do not always understand – but anyway, that is not precisely why I am here." He paused, holding the drink in his hands as he was seated again. "May I be plain with you?"

"I am a very plain man," Grégoire said, and stoked the fire one more time before returning to his armchair.

"I have come for your blessing."

Grégoire had a hard time not breaking into laughter. "I am quite confused – have you changed your affiliation, which I last remember as being with the Church of England?"

"No, sir, I have not."

"And have you forgotten that I am no longer a man of the cloth, much less a priest, and have no powers of benediction, even if my sort of blessing were not, as you would say, Papist and heretical?"

"No, I have not." Mr. Collins played with the glass. "I usually pride myself on being a most logical and reasonable man despite my pursuit of a career in the Faith. However, I admit that there are things that I am at a loss to explain and so is everyone else. For example, you cured Lady Catherine when she had her heart failure."

Grégoire frowned. "I did not cure her. I may have soothed her pain with willow bark tea, which is a perfectly scientific remedy and has no basis in faith or the mystical realm. She did eventually, when it was her time, die of a failed heart."

"Nonetheless, it was a miracle."

Grégoire's frown deepened. "Please do not begin down this path, Mr. Collins, as I can now see it clearly. I am not a miracle worker, no matter what everyone thinks. There is a logical explanation for almost every circumstance surrounding me that has been deemed a miracle," he insisted, though he was lying. He did consider his son's birth to be a miracle, as Caitlin was not a child-bearing woman, but that was not his doing – it was G-d's, and he had no way of explaining that to people that seemed to convince them. "It has caused me nothing but trouble and several times almost taken my life!" He took a gulp of his whiskey. Realizing his voice was close to anger, not at Mr. Collins but at his own history and how much pain it brought him just at the memory, he forced himself to lower his voice and its intensity. "Please, sir – tell me what it is you desire and I will tell you, plainly, that I am not capable of it and we can be done with this nonsense. I may be a Papist who believes that His Holiness the Pope holds the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven, but I do not believe in or wish to encourage superstitions."

Grégoire Bellamont rarely raised his voice; he in fact could not recall a time he was so inclined that did not involve just a desire to be heard over his infant son's screaming. It seemed to have a powerful affect on the rector, who trembled but did spit out an answer, "You must understand my situation. I am a father with four daughters." When Grégoire did not respond, Mr. Collin's continued, "I am due to soon inherit the Longbourn estate, as is my right as the son of Mr. Bennet's younger brother. For years I have scrupulously saved money – and I am very well paid, I admit, for the little that I do – to provide for my family and provide inheritances for my daughters, but when I come to inherit Longbourn, it will be a financial burden I will not be able to bear. It is a massive house in comparison to my home in Hunsford. If there is to be any security for my daughters, I need a son."

Grégoire raised his eyebrows. "Has Mr. Bennet died?"

"No, sir, he has not."

"Then I do not fully understand. I do know of the Longbourn entail through Mrs. Darcy, but to my understanding, it is not your concern until his expiration, and last I saw him, he was rather fit for his age." He took another sip. "Nonetheless, it is important to plan ahead, I suppose. Should I leave my mortal coil tomorrow, Heaven forbid, there are arrangements for a steward to manage the accounts until my son comes of age so that my wife can live comfortably here as long as she wishes." He paused. "Tell me – what does your wife have to say of this?"

"She – She shares my concerns, of course. I suppose."

Did she even know he was here? Grégoire didn't want to ask. "Does she desire a son?"

"For hereditary purposes, it is essential."

He decided to phrase the question differently. "Is she happy with the daughters she has?"

Mr. Collins now smiled. "Yes. Very much so."

"And you are as well, I presume? They are well-behaved, obedient children?"

"Yes. Yes, they are. And they take after their mother, who is very beautiful."

"And have you seen to their education?"

"Yes, of course. In particular, my third daughter is a great scholar of Greek and Latin, but they all have rudimentary knowledge of literature and religion – beyond, of course, all of the standard sewing and pianoforte and all that – "

"Of course. And they are happy in their environs?"

Mr. Collins had to consider the question. "Yes, I suppose they are. They are often in Kent, of course – the older ones, shopping and the like, or walking around Rosings, which is very beautiful – as you know. And my eldest daughter has a little rose garden beside my vegetables."

"So no one has expressed any discontent, any desire to move to Hertfordshire?"

He paused again. "No."

"And you said that you have saved money so fastidiously that you could provide for them decent inheritances, so that they might find good marriages?"

"Yes."

"Then it seems to me that there is many a man who would be quite envious of your position, Mr. Collins. You have a loving wife, a home you are quite fond of, a profession that suits you, and four daughters whom face no great distress and seem to be, from your accounts, happy and growing into respectable ladies, as I have no doubt they will be. You have been diligent in setting aside your earnings to provide for your family, which is a very important fatherly virtue, and are rewarded with a loving family. So, why all this concern?"

Mr. Collins fumbled for an answer. It was not an easy question, which was why Grégoire asked it. He sat there quietly and gave the rector time before he answered, "T-There is the problem of Longbourn –"

"A foolish Papist ex-monk I may be, but I have some understanding of property law in England, and though you will inherit Longbourn, you have no obligation to live in it. Though I know you may not sell it, you may certainly rent it, as my brother did to Lord Richard until Geoffrey turned five and ten and the entail could legally be broken. You could even rent it out for a profit, thereby furthering your own financial interests in terms of providing for your family, who seem so well-settled in Hunsford." He continued, "When I purchased this house, my wife said it was too large. I assured her that we would need the size to host my relatives, and that I owned quite a number of books and would like the space for them." He looked to his side, and then the other. All of the walls of the room, but for the sections with windows, were lined with bookshelves. "Now we have filled this house – with books, with furniture, with pictures – but most importantly, with a child. He is perhaps not old enough to express discontent, but I cannot imagine that he would if he could. If this place were to burn in fire it would be G-d's will and I would move on, but until that fateful day that hopefully will never come, or until I pass on, this house is my home in every meaning of the word and I have no desire to leave it. On the other hand, if my wife came to me and said, 'I hate this house' I would leave it in a heartbeat. So you see, my own desires are dictated not entirely by my own will but of those that I love. I would recommend that you do the same."

This idea seemed positively new to Mr. Collins. "But the heritage of the Bennet family and the entail meant to protect it – "

Grégoire waved it off. "That entail was written by some men generations before who wanted to protect their own interests and keep the world the exact same way it had always been and was in their lifetime. But change is essential to the world. The only things that stay the same are G-d and his Divine Plan, and He has yet to inform us of its particulars, so we must keep guessing. Do not be burdened by the past when you have more immediate concerns – the happiness of your family, which so far, you have been so qualified in providing."

Mr. Collins sat for a while. Grégoire was quite content to let him do so. In his mind, he was already composing his next column.

"How do you think of such things so easily, Brother Grégoire?" Mr. Collins said.

Grégoire looked up. "With the logic and intelligence given by G-d to every man, Mr. Collins."

Of course, if that was true, Mr. Collins would not be here, asking for his help. Grégoire was not wont to say that, but instead to congratulate Mr. Collins on his good decision to stay in Hunsford no matter where the die of fate was cast , and to be relieved of the burden of worrying about a son. The Englishman stayed the night, and left in the morning with many thanks that took far too long.

"What did t'at silly man want?" Caitlin asked at his side, as they waved good-bye to the rector.

"He wanted a miracle. Instead he got some cheap advice. I think I might have cheated him, my darling."

She kissed him. "Yeh sure cheat people in the nicest ways, den."

...Next Chapter – Dark Conversations