Hunt day began a little gloomy and cold, but by the time all the riders had converged upon the courtyard, the sun had burned away the chill. Pemberley was filled with guests, the most serious hunters having spent the night in order to get the best rest, and hence the keenest sense in pursuit of the fox. The field would consist of four-and-twenty hunters, not to mention a few unlikely riders (beyond the Mistress of Pemberley). In truth, Elizabeth was somewhat relieved about a turn of events she learnt of but the night before. For she believed if her own endeavour was ultimately untoward, a public show of other impolitic riders would dilute her infamy.

Eventually disabused of the notion that Elizabeth was already with child, Mrs. Bennet had turned her attention to the still unmarried Kitty, applying to Mr. Bennet to stay on for the weekend of the hunt. This application may well have been upon Kitty’s behalf, but it was at her mother’s behest. For Mrs. Bennet was riding the heady crest of three married daughters within the year. Her optimism bade her believe that Derbyshire society in general, and the auspices of Pemberley specifically, would offer Kitty more opportunity of matrimonial possibilities than Hertfordshire.

Mr. Bennet was not in favour of the extension of their visit, complaining he could not sleep well in any other bed but his own. That had always been his given reason for his reluctance to travel, but there was a truer one.

He had a keen interest in books, and Pemberley’s vaunted library had held him captive for the first half of his visit. However, his love of literature fared a poor second to his admiration for independence. That was primary, and relished beyond any other possession. Once Mrs. Bennet found him hidden in a deep chair, twirling a glass of brandy, The History of Rasselas, The Prince of Abyssinia open in his lap, all joy of Pemberley evaporated. In the home of another he had not the opportunity to take his leave upon some solitary errand as he did when at Longbourn. Confinement with his wife was tolerable only when there was chance of escape.

Mrs. Bennet had a trying voice when at ease; in want of something she could be quite strident. Mr. Bennet thus now chose to listen to her at his leisure for a few days more, rather than deny her, only to hear of her unhappiness all the way home. Hence, stay they did.

Adding to the happy party at Pemberley was Georgiana (who did not ride, but loved to watch those who did). Accompanying her home from London was Newton Hinchcliffe, a nephew of the Millhouses. This young man was a pale, esoteric sort of fellow (not at all as one would expect a kinsman of the Millhouses) and an Easter term graduate of Oxford.

He was prone to brooding, but Lady Millhouse had misinterpreted his lugubrious expression as poor digestion, insisting he return to the country, for she was well aware that fresh air would cure any malady. (“One good feist is all he needs,” she had announced to all.)

His despondency, however, was born not of gas, but of academia. As it happened, he had come precariously close, and then in the end, had failed to earn a coveted double first at Oxford. After suffering with him through this near miss, his family was left hanging precipitously the previous summer when, disappointed in matters educational, he had flirted with the possibility of renouncing High Church for Low. He was only rescued from this scandalous act by being reminded that did he do so, he would have to forgo not only dancing, but his impressive cerulean coat and satin waistcoat. Evangelism demanded black. Duly reprimanded (what was he thinking?), his reformist tendencies were set aside for sartorial splendour. Hence, he found consolation in self-expression.

Deciding whether to promote his soul in paint or verse tortured him for over a month, but ultimately the decision was made by merit of reason. Painting had the incentive of requiring a paid model (he did not favour landscape—the outdoors, you know), but suffered the misfortune of being untidy. This, along with the understanding that one could be staring out the window and still call oneself a writer, decided him in favour of a literary career. Once that decision was made, he only tore himself away from his London garret at the insistence of his aunt. Lady Millhouse was quite certain he should die was he never to leave town.

The imposition his window placed upon his time left little for writing and, in lieu of any from his own pen, he turned to the convenience of the published works of others. That this poet had never actually written a poem did not alter the admiration of the feminine sort. For he had a pronounced single blonde curl that just grazed a set of eyebrows over a pair of particularly soulful brown eyes. If that did not a poet bespeak, what else could? Thus saith Kitty and Maria.

Indeed, forefront in admiration of young Hinchcliffe were Miss Bennet and Miss Lucas, who, even though Elizabeth glared at them mightily, became faint in the presence of the poetic (if not poet) Newton Hinchcliffe.

The competition for young Hinchcliffe occasionally became a larger rivalry than Maria and Kitty’s friendship could withstand (Kitty once, in a snit, yanked one of Maria’s ringlets), but it was to no avail. As well-tended as was his blonde forelock, one might surmise that it was purposely upon display. But so intent was he upon examining his own angst, their swooning went for naught. Young Hinchcliffe was more quixotic in word than in deed. Thus their histrionics did not excite him to love, merely frightened him. And, much to their displeasure and Mr. Darcy’s, he sought the becalming company of Georgiana, with whom he shared a common interest in the written word.

Darcy disliked the overwrought sensibilities of young Hinchcliffe in reverse proportion to Kitty and Maria’s regard for that young man. The moment they would swoon, young Hinchcliffe took to the garden with Georgiana (which was quite as outdoors as he chose to go). The two strolled the grounds in deep conversation whilst Darcy frowned and Kitty and Maria sat glumly in the window, watching, united again in defeat.

That is, they sat there mooning over Mr. Hinchcliffe until they caught sight of a far too familiar figure emerging from a hired coach. Nothing could clear a room faster than the spectre of Mr. Collins.

It is a seldom-argued truth that events anticipated with dread occasion with much greater dispatch than those that do not. Thus, although Mr. Collins’s visit was expected, Elizabeth had not properly steeled herself by the time he arrived. However, his wife accompanied him, and the chance to see Charlotte again occasioned Mr. Collins a more welcome guest (but just by the merest margin).

He and Charlotte had travelled to Derbyshire from Kent at a great deal of personal sacrifice. As vicar to Hunsford, Mr. Collins explained to those who remained in the drawing room beyond his introduction (primarily those hitherto unacquainted with him), he rarely had time to draw himself away from his exceedingly important duties to make such a trip. He did so then only as a favour to his very favourite cousin, Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy.

“I, of course, come under the personal condescension of the Mistress of Rosings Park, Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” Mr. Collins said, then ducking his chin in all due modesty, clarified, “Mr. Darcy’s aunt.”

Satisfied that all present were aware of his elevated connexions, he bowed ever so dramatically. So deep was his genuflection, a few there were confused as to whether or not to applaud. Lady Millhouse was not among them.

“I dare say sir, you are a goose, are you not?”

Obtuseness having been elevated to his own particular level of virtuosity, Mr. Collins bowed again in Lady Millhouse’s direction to acknowledge the kind words.

Settled in the drawing room with teacups on their knees, Elizabeth engaged Charlotte in conversation. (Mr. Darcy had to take care of urgent business in another part of the house—a far, far distant part of the house.) Thus, Mr. Collins looked about the room at his illustrious company. He saw his decision had been the correct one. There were far more persons of consequence in visit to Pemberley than Rosings Park. Moreover, he was not cousin to Lady Catherine.

Yes, he was frightfully satisfied with his decision. Had he not allowed that self-satisfaction to inflate as he did, he could have saved himself a great deal of beleaguerment. As it was, he set about ingratiating himself with whomever he could. Mr. Bennet sat nearest, betwixt himself and Lady Millhouse. His uncle, Mr. Bennet, was a gentleman, but as what little he had was already entailed to Mr. Collins by reason of five daughters, the good vicar looked to Lady Millhouse for opportunity to curry favour.

“Cousin Elizabeth tells me you are a horsewoman of unparalleled proficiency, Lady Millhouse. Nothing suits the constitution better than the fresh air and exercise of a good hunt!”

However, Lady Millhouse bested even Mr. Bennet when it came to enjoying a truly fallible being.

She addressed Mr. Collins, “You have come here to hunt, Mr. Collins?”

Lady Millhouse inquiring of him? Mr. Collins was delighted by her interest, and although he had not, the suggestion from a woman of her import bade it seem much more likely.

He said, “I am most honoured at the suggestion, Lady Millhouse. I do enjoy nothing more than a hunt. And I flatter myself that there are few who enjoy taking a fence more than myself.” (He had not actually ever taken a fence, but he had been atop a horse which travelled past several.) “However, as a lowly clergyman, my wife and I were forced to travel by hired equipage. Hence, at the moment I am afoot. I fear I must,” he bowed low again, “graciously decline.”

“Nonsense! There are many horses here. I am certain Mr. Darcy will lend you one. The weather is superb! I must have you hunt!”

Hence it was decided. Elizabeth, not married to Mr. Collins, and therefore horrified at the possibly fatal consequences of his riding to the hunt, cut a look at Charlotte (who should have been). Mrs. Collins, however, betrayed nothing but benign indifference to the precariousness of her husband’s immediate future.

Whilst Mr. Collins sat upon the edge of a chair attempting to gain Lady Millhouse’s attention (“Ahem, Lady Millhouse? Lady Millhouse?”) that good lady had turned to Mr. Bennet.

“And you sir? Do you hunt?”

Having been reduced to escaping from his wife’s company to that of Mr. Collins, Mr. Bennet was in desperate enough straits to think he would like to do just that. Nothing sounded better than riding out all day with persons other than Mrs. Bennet. Indeed, if Mr. Collins truly mounted a horse, seeing that alone would be worth the trouble.

He answered, “I hunt, but it has been near a dozen years since I rode to hounds, dear Lady Millhouse. But I think it an excellent notion.”

“Lady Millhouse. Oh, Lady Millhouse,” Mr. Collins continued to try to regain her attention.

She shushed him, “Mr. Collins, do not fear, you are not imposing. Pray, he is not, is he, Elizabeth?”

Lady Millhouse had Mr. Collins by the hand and was out of the room before Elizabeth could stop either of them. Her father sat in his chair chuckling, but stopped when he looked at Charlotte. He observed the same disinterest as did Elizabeth.

Now seriously fretting, Elizabeth bade her, “He would not truly attempt such a thing, would he, Charlotte?”

Charlotte smiled a strange little smile, took another sip of tea with all the complacency of someone who saw no reason to be troubled. If Charlotte was not in fear for her husband, then Elizabeth decided it was not a burden that necessarily fell to her, and turned her worry toward her own horsemanship.

Early the next forenoon, whilst many a guest was still in their morning-gown, Lady Millhouse pounded upon Mr. Collins’s door.

With much swilling of wine, the field of riders awaited the hounds to be put in. When the hubbub surrounding the pre-hunt toasting reached its apex, Elizabeth and Scimitar eased into their midst. None too boldly, she looked about waiting to be discovered. It took her a moment to descry her husband, for he was not astride Blackjack, but rode a blood-bay named Jupiter. That he eschewed his beloved mount for the best fence horse in the barn announced just how earnestly he took such a hunt.

He spotted her, and waved a greeting. Forthwith of occasioning that happy beckoning was his simultaneous recognition of Scimitar beneath her and what that betokened. He was quite unamused.

“Pray, what design do you propose? Where is Lady?”

“Under a guest who does not intend to jump, one must suppose,” Elizabeth answered firmly.

He turned about in his saddle searching for Fitzwilliam. When he espied him upon an unfamiliar black gelding, he affixed him with an icy stare. Witnessing it, Fitzwilliam flicked the end of his reins against his palm, pursed his lips, and remained silent. Darcy redirected his ire to his wife. However, his voice remained very calm, in a curious, strained way.

“Pray, how do you come to ride Scimitar, Elizabeth?”

Fitzwilliam overcame his quiet to rise to her defence.

“A surprise for you, Darcy. She has been under instruction every day…”

However, his voice trailed off, as if not really determined to provoke Darcy further. Despite such consideration, his cousin’s temper was roiling quite magnificently.

To Elizabeth, Darcy repeated, “Every day, indeed. I am all astonishment.”

His anger surpassed any pique she might have imagined. His face overspread with a shade of hauteur rivalling the one that she had witnessed that fateful evening in Kent. Eventually, it took on a most peculiar and unpleasant rosy hue.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam declared me capable of handling Scimitar and that you would not deny me the hunt,” she said sprightly.

Her attempt at a smile died a dismal death, however, and she felt a bit cowardly about ricocheting the blame back toward Fitzwilliam, the success of which exacerbated her guilt. Darcy returned his glare to Fitzwilliam, who sat very straight in his saddle and drew upon the reins of his horse, edging him away.

Still holding Fitzwilliam in his eye, Darcy said to Elizabeth, “How frightfully happy I am to know that Colonel Fitzwilliam knows my mind better than I myself. I shall be certain to confer with him in the future and ask him what is my will that day. It will save my mind a great deal of bother.”

Fitzwilliam looked a bit disconcerted by Darcy’s sarcasm. Elizabeth was shocked by it herself, for she was certain he was, for some reason, angrier at Fitzwilliam’s complicity than at her covertness. The ill-conception of the entire scheme was falling readily apparent when Lady Millhouse turned her horse to join them.

Heartily, she said to the Master of Pemberley, “Wait until you see her perform, Darcy! You shall be quite astonished. I think in time your sweet wife will ride to covert as well as any gentleman here.”

Darcy looked at Lady Millhouse without comprehension.

“You have seen Elizabeth ride?”

“It was Lady Millhouse who instructed me, for I promised you I would not ride out alone,” Elizabeth told him.

Flustered, Darcy said, “I see. I see.”

It took a moment for Elizabeth to understand that Darcy had believed that she had spent her time in Fitzwilliam’s company. Evidently his anger had been whipped into a lather by indiscriminate jealousy. Upon the realisation of his misapprehension, his countenance crimsoned ever more.

He said, “Very good,” several times more than necessary.

“Well,” Elizabeth reflected to herself, “when it comes to his wife, the Master of Pemberley is as chary as any other man.”

She would even have offered him that, had she the opportunity. However, upon the edge of the group a commotion commenced that stole everyone’s attention.

For, indeed, Lady was under a rider who did not intend to jump.

The commandeered Mr. Collins was attempting to mount her with the help of one footman on all fours and a second to leg him up. The first attempt was but partially successful, in that Mr. Collins got his leg over, but Lady lowered her head and he slid down her neck, returning to the very spot from whence he had started.

Mr. Darcy, always impenetrably grave at social indiscretions and yet in high dudgeon over his misapprehension, had further reason to glower.

Mr. Collins was moderately tall, immoderately heavy, and somewhat ungainly. Hence, he was altogether amazed he had managed such a feat and was still standing. The footman, who had struggled mightily just to get him up, called for reinforcements for another go. Another footman joined him and this double effort almost prevailed. An additional heave actually raised Mr. Collins to saddle level again. However, quite fordone from the first attempt, as he endeavoured to fling his leg over, Mr. Collins’s strength failed and he fell back.

This might not have been met with the laughter that it did, had not Mr. Collins, in the splayed position that he was, landed atop one footman’s shoulders. Moreover, in an effort to right himself, Mr. Collins frantically grabbed the poor man’s head. Regrettably, this grappling dislodged the footman’s wig and it sagged over his eyes, thus rendering the poor man momentarily sightless. In his blind confusion, the be-Collinsed footman attempted to rid himself of his unwanted passenger by unloading him atop Lady. This, however, was all too successful, for while Mr. Collins was ejected from the footman’s shoulders onto the back of the horse, momentum propelled him beyond.

Had there not been the good fortune of a portly wine servitor happening by right then, Elizabeth’s premonition on behalf of Mr. Collins neck might have actually been realised before he was able to mount his horse.

As it was, there was only a great deal of noise and egregiously wounded dignities of the unwigged footman and flattened wine server. Mr. Collins apologised to the footman whilst atop his shoulders and he apologised further to the wine server whilst the man was underneath him. If Lady had not been startled by the clatter of silver and trotted for the barn, he most probably would have offered apology to her as well.

“Mr. Collins,” Lady Millhouse explained, “you need a shorter horse!”

Mr. Collins was really not inclined to think he needed a horse at all, but Lady Mill- house seemed so very certain he did, he dared not argue. Moreover, very nearly actually getting atop a horse gave him more confidence than prudence would have allowed.

At that moment it was announced that Mrs. Bennet had but just discovered her husband’s intent to ride, for her voice could be heard somewhere upon the other side of the toasting riders.

“Mr. Bennet! Mr. Bennet! You will be killed! Mr. Bennet!”

Concurrent of Mrs. Bennet’s fears for Mr. Bennet’s life was heard the call that the quarry had been flushed from the gorse. Hounds began to bay and the horses, well-attuned to the hunt, began to jig.

The excitement was infectious. Elizabeth was certain no heart raced with more anticipation than did hers (in particularly good spirits now that she saw Lady had escaped Mr. Collins and her father had eluded her mother). As they began to canter out, her excitement built. Darcy shadowed her persistently, but could not quite abandon the subject of how she came to ride Scimitar. She explained to his enquiry as best she could (whilst trying not to bounce more than post upon the cantering horse’s back) how Fitzwilliam saw her fall.

In a bit of a chide, she asked, “How did you think I came to ride Scimitar, Darcy?”

It came as no surprise that he changed the subject.

“Let us catch up to the others.”

He kicked Jupiter into an easy gallop and called to Elizabeth to stay with him and bade her not attempt anything untoward. In other circumstances, Elizabeth might have rebelled. She had, however, gained enough wisdom from her fall not to want to repeat the experience and so she did not promote Scimitar unduly.

Once the horn sounded, Lady Millhouse forsook any interest in Mr. Collins’s equestrian attempts and left him to find another horse upon his own. Once it commenced, Lord and Lady Millhouse brooked little distraction from the hunt, heedless whether it was their hunt or someone else’s. Lady Millhouse, however, catching sight of Elizabeth, insisted she be more aggressive and show Darcy how well she could ride.

In encouragement, she called, “Lie upon your oars, Elizabeth! The tide is with you.” (Her father had been a navy man.)

The day was fine and crisp, spirits were exalted, and Elizabeth took a few low jumps. After his initial contretemps, Darcy manifested every sign of good humour. Indeed, with all due understanding of provocation, he challenged Elizabeth to prove her horsemanship, kicking Jupiter into a run. She countered with a kick of her own and their horses competed. Darcy’s amusement at the idea of her contesting him was evident and she sought to show him up. Of course, even upon Scimitar she was no match, but he allowed her to think it a race for a time before he moved ahead of her.

Had he not been so smug, he might have been watching Jupiter’s path more closely. But as exacting a bit of a gloat absorbed all his attention, he did not see the fox that had been the instigator of the entire day run directly into his path. Jupiter did, however, and swerved almost in a pivot. Decidedly.

Darcy, of course, did not swerve. After a momentary midair excursion, he fell hard to the ground. Jupiter, aware that something impolitic had occurred, first ran in circles and then stopped, shuddering slightly, and hung his head. Elizabeth did not see the horse’s contrition, only Darcy down.

Tall as Scimitar was, she withstood no hesitation and leapt from him even before he had come to a full halt. Landing upon all fours, she scrambled to her feet and flew to her husband’s side. He had initially sat up, having only wounded his dignity (which was in far greater abundance than that of the unwigged footman and flattened wine server). She fell to her knees, calling his name.

Well aware he suffered no injury, he allowed her concern to birth the possibility. As she hovered over him, he lay back and moaned. He portrayed great trauma with impressive melodrama, only to betray himself by a furtive peek to gauge her reaction.

She smote him on the shoulder with a closed fist.

“What mockery!” she cried and rose to leave.

He caught her arm and drew her down to a kiss.

“If you are to nurse me, begin with my lips.”

“You, sir, shall be fortunate if I do not deliver you true impairment, for you deserve it!”

Once he was up and walking about, Elizabeth bade him assure her he was fine by operating all of his limbs, then he legged her back atop Scimitar. She took the horse’s reins, looked down upon him, and made an announcement in feigned hauteur.

“I understand, Mr. Darcy, that horses tend to go where their riders are looking. Hence, perhaps you should be looking ahead, if that is where you hope to go.”

She kicked her horse forward. Darcy understood that a line had been drawn in the sand. He leapt onto Jupiter and took off after her, and neither went in the direction of the fox.

Unbeknownst to them, they had a chance for him still. For as Darcy and Elizabeth set about their own frolic, the fox had been trailed and lost. Scattered about upon futile quest for the vixen, the sound of a second baying of the hounds bade the other hunters converge.

“Tally-Ho” was sounded.

All joined a headlong race toward the quarry that was high-tailing it to the far side of the hill. One-and-twenty riders had just gotten up to speed at the crest when they were startled by meeting a horse and rider (both terms could be used quite loosely) flying head-long in the direction whence they had just come.

The second commotion of the day had the same instigator, but different means. The initial dilemma involved Mr. Collins’s attempt to mount a horse; the subsequent, upon his attempt to stop one.

For some helpful person at Pemberley’s stables had located a horse nearer to the ground for Mr. Collins to ride to the hunt. Due to its shorter stature, Mr. Collins presumed his substitute ride was less of a risk to jump as well. However, the pony he rode was a Connemara and that Mr. Collins’s feet hung below its belly did not convince the animal it was impossible to leap a fence with him aboard.

By the time he met the field, his pony was running full out, and Mr. Collins had abandoned his reins. Indeed, they flapped about behind him whilst he clung to the pommel of the saddle. The pony’s strides were quick, which did not suppose them smooth to a rider who had never actually acquainted his posterior to a post. Thus, Mr. Collins flailed about quite impressively. It was apparent that a miscue had occurred when he and his mount passed the pack of hounds upon the other side of the hill. Evidently, the high-pitched squeal which Mr. Collins was emitting excited the dogs off the trail of the fox and onto him and his pony.

Because the dogs were plunging forth in the opposite direction behind Mr. Collins, the riders stopped in stunned disbelief, each taking his own counsel upon what to do next. Some commenced to follow the hounds after Mr. Collins; some held their ground. Eventually all came to an astonished halt, uncertain they believed their own eyes. For the Connemara pony, quite in a mind of its own (for lack of any other) took a wide turn, rounding the group, and headed back the other way with Mr. Collins still floundering atop him.

He disappeared back over the crest of the same hill whence he first came, the forty dogs baying upon his trail. As Mr. Collins’s shrieks echoed off into the distance, each rider decided independently, yet synchronously, to follow.

They rode but a quarter of a mile before they came upon a fearful sight. A thorny thicket was warily being eyed by two-score silent hounds. Some sat looking into the brush; others shambled about in tongue-hanging exhaustion. The Connemara pony stood quivering, its saddle hanging ominously to one side. As the riders approached the thicket, the master of the hounds and the huntsman met them. All stopped in an informal semi-circle, silently peering into the tangled copse.

In a moment, Fitzwilliam and Mr. Bennet (it was his nephew after all) urged their horses forward a few feet, and then stepped down. Except for a slight rustling breeze and the heaving breaths of the winded animals, all was quiet. Both men looked first at the other, then to the bush. Thereupon, Mr. Bennet reached out, gingerly drew back a branch, and peered into the thick gorse.

There was movement. Upon hearing some unintelligible sound, the dogs began to bay again. Immediately, two more men jumped down in aid. The thorny branches were pulled back and Mr. Collins was removed scratched and gibbering from the thicket. The field stood in murmuring relief that he had not been killed, only rendered witless (no one saw that as a serious impediment for him).

It was only when Fitzwilliam investigated him for injuries that he found the point of his landing congruous with the highly sought fox (much more flattened than was the wine server). And fortune allowed Mr. Collins to leave the course virtually buggered, but senseless of it.

By late afternoon, when Darcy and Elizabeth eventually overtook the hunt, most of the hunters were in an odd mood, simply meandering toward Pemberley in polite wait for their host and hostess. When the Darcys caught up, the only notice that was made of their absence from the field was that there was no notice made of it at all. Elizabeth espied Mr. Collins lying upon his stomach across the saddle of a pretty little pony, grunting each time that the animal took a step. She turned to her father, a question upon her lips.

However, Mr. Bennet put up the flat of his hand and said, “Ask not.”

Lady Millhouse, who took notice of everything, rode up next to Darcy, reached out, and grandly slapped him upon the back.

“I say, Darcy, as often as you plough that field, it will surely yield you a good crop soon.”

Lord Millhouse was as silent as his wife was candid, yet laughed heartily at his wife’s remark. Darcy had long accepted her earthy euphemisms, but until that day, only others had suffered them. If Elizabeth heard, she made a great pretence of being unwitting of it.

Hitherto, Darcy knew he should have taken offence at such a comment. His dignity was abused somewhat that day too, yet the sun-dappled grounds they trod bade him not to deny what he knew to be true. Protestation always invited further study.

Therefore, he simply spurred his horse up to Fitzwilliam’s, and, in penitence, asked him of the hunt.