21. Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-One

The post-carriage stopped in the inn in centre of Meryton, and Mr. Collins stepped down to the cobbled street with a sigh of relief. He had not enjoyed his journey from Rosings in the least, having stayed only one night in Hunsford before returning home, not wanting Lady Catherine to know he had not done so immediately. He adjusted his coat and settled his hat on his head, brushing dust from his clothes with a fastidious care.

Meryton was bustling, despite the snow on the ground and the chilly air. Townsfolk went about their business, horse's hooves clattered on the cobbles. The air was filled with the murmur of conversations, and Mr. Collins' stomach rumbled as he caught the scent of freshly baked bread from the baker's shop.

"Mr. Collins!" He looked around to see Mr. Wickham approaching, a broad smile on his face.

"Mr. Wickham, how do you do?" Mr. Collins pumped the other man's hand. "I trust you are well?"

"I am indeed, sir, and how was your trip to Rosings? I take it you have just returned? Welcome back to Meryton, sir. We have missed your company." Wickham's tone was easy and friendly.

The words were polite, but perhaps he meant them. Collins seized on it, staring up into the taller man's face, searching for some hint of approval. Wickham had been kind to him when not a soul would acknowledge him at the Assembly, and he was so very lonely.

"Would you care to come to Longbourn for dinner tonight, sir?" he asked, blurting it out without quite meaning to. "I am sure Cook will be able to provide something... perhaps not to the standard to which you are accustomed, but..."

"Thank you, Mr. Collins, I would be honoured," Wickham said, and Collins found himself smiling with relief. "I should be glad to hear how Lady Catherine is doing, and indeed what plans she has for Mr. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth Bennet."

"Ah." Mr. Collins puffed up a little. "Yes, I am afraid that Miss Elizabeth has earned her ladyship's severe displeasure. I am not at liberty to say..." And indeed he was not, but it would be very pleasant to talk to someone who would listen. Wickham had always been polite and deferential, and Collins liked him.

He would be glad to have company tonight. The thought of sitting alone, night after night, was a sobering one. It was New Year's Eve, and seeing in the new year alone and lonely was an unpalatable thought indeed .

"The dinner hour approaches. Shall we walk to Longbourn together?" Wickham offered, and Mr. Collins nodded happily. It was nice to just have someone to walk with; Wickham's company felt like a shield against the disapproving glares of his neighbours.

"Welcome home, sir." The new housekeeper, Mrs. Berry, opened the door to them, curtseying, and a maid was waiting to take their hats and coats.

"Thank you, Hill." Collins fussed with his waistcoat, straightened his collar, and glanced at his reflection in the mirror, running his fingers through his hair. "Mr. Wickham will be dining with me tonight. Is dinner ready?"

"In a few moments, sir; I'll let Cook know you are ready to dine."

"Very well." Collins turned to Wickham, gesturing for the militia officer to precede him. "Shall we?"

They made their way to the dining room, where the table was laid with a not-quite-clean tablecloth, simple silverware, and plain dishes. A modest meal of roasted chicken and vegetables was quickly set out for them.

"Please, Mr. Wickham, be seated." Collins sat at the head of the table as befitted the master of the house, and Wickham at his right hand. "I am sorry the meal is so meagre, but Cook..." He glanced at the maid standing at attention by the door, and then rose to go to the sideboard. "Allow me to pour us some wine."

"Thank you, Mr. Collins." Wickham leaned back in his chair, smiling easily. "It is most kind of you to invite me to dine. I am sure it will be delicious."

Collins looked at the chicken and vegetables, the rather meagre portion of potatoes, and hoped the meat would not be too dry and Mr. Wickham not too hungry. He poured a generous glass of wine for Mr. Wickham, and another for himself .

"Would you care for a leg or some breast, Mr. Wickham?" He took up the carving knife, and Wickham smiled.

"Breast, if you please, Mr. Collins."

"Of course, of course." Collins carved. "I am afraid we do not have the luxury of a footman," he said apologetically, and Wickham smiled.

"You are fortunate in your staff, Mr. Collins. I am sure they do their best."

"Indeed, indeed they do. They are new, and of course they are not used to... well, things will be quite different when Lady Catherine's plans come to fruition."

"Indeed, sir, I am sure they will," Wickham said smoothly. "You have a fine home here, Mr. Collins, and I am sure it will be even finer once Lady Catherine has had a hand in it."

Collins relaxed a little, taking a generous mouthful of his wine. Wickham had the knack of putting people at their ease, he thought, with his charming manners. "I fear we have no soup or fish tonight..."

"That chicken smells quite delicious," Wickham said with a warm smile. "I am sure it will be more than sufficient."

Collins only hoped so, taking another gulp of wine before cautiously cutting into the chicken on his plate. It did not seem dry at all, much to his relief.

"Indeed, it is quite delicious," Wickham said after a few mouthfuls, and Collins preened under the compliment. "Tell me, Mr. Collins, were you able to properly attend Lady Catherine on your visit to Kent?"

"Indeed I did, Mr. Wickham, indeed I did! Her ladyship has been so kind, so gracious..." Collins could not help himself, and he launched into a long monologue about Lady Catherine's many graces, her kindness, her generosity, her intelligence, and her many accomplishments. Wickham listened politely, eating his dinner, and finally Collins came to the point, unable to resist boasting. "And of course, I was able to tell her about Mr. Darcy's foolish fixation on Miss Elizabeth."

"Oh?" Wickham said with an interested look, and Collins nodded.

"Indeed. Lady Catherine was most displeased." He sat back in his chair, smiling. "Would you care for more wine, Mr. Wickham?"

"Please, Mr. Collins." Wickham held out his glass, and Collins poured for him. "I am sure Lady Catherine will know just what to do."

"Indeed, indeed! Lady Catherine is the most accomplished woman, Mr. Wickham, the most intelligent! She will see to the matter, and all will be as it should be." Mr. Collins, flush with warmth from the wine, smiled to himself, imagining again a tearful, contrite Elizabeth kneeling at his feet, begging him to marry her. "All will be exactly as it should be."

The maid brought out a plum pudding for dessert, and though Mr. Collins was not quite sure about the cream, by that time he had drunk a little too much wine to care, and certainly Mr. Wickham happily polished off a large bowl.

"Well, that was a most pleasant meal, Mr. Wickham! Perhaps you would care to join me in the study for a glass of brandy?" Collins mopped his lips with his napkin and rose.

"I would be honoured, Mr. Collins." Wickham pushed his chair back and followed Collins to the study.

Collins lit a few candles, annoyed that the maid had not already anticipated this need, and gestured to one of the armchairs by the fire. "It is a chilly evening." He gazed into the flames. "Well, a glass of brandy will do us both good, I am sure." Collins went to the sideboard, pouring them both a generous measure of the fiery spirit. "Here you are, sir. "

"Thank you." Wickham took the glass and sipped, feeling the warmth spread through his veins. "That is a fine drink, Mr. Collins."

"I have my late cousin to thank for it," Collins said with a sigh. "My dear father could never afford such luxuries."

"Well, here is to your inheritance, sir." Wickham raised a toast with his glass, and Collins chuckled before taking a hearty sip and looking about him.

"Longbourn is a fine prize." He fell briefly silent, brooding about the other prize that should have been his, for Elizabeth should have been there tonight too, gracing his table with her beauty and charm. How Mr. Wickham would envy him when she was his wife at last!

"I hope Lady Catherine's intervention does not come too late for Miss Elizabeth's reputation," Wickham said, and Collins looked at him curiously.

"I beg your pardon?"

Wickham took a long sip of his brandy. "Mr. Darcy and I have known each other since childhood," he said at last. "We were raised together. His father was my godfather, and I had every expectation of going into the church under his patronage. But when the late Mr. Darcy died, his son refused to honour his father's wishes. I found myself bereft, and in financial difficulties, and Mr. Darcy refused to lift a finger to help me."

Collins frowned. "I always found Mr. Darcy to be very proud," he said slowly, and Wickham nodded.

"Indeed. We were never friends, you understand... but I digress. Mr. Darcy, I know, has a great deal of respect for Lady Catherine, and I have no doubt he will listen to her regarding Miss Elizabeth. I hope his throwing her off does not do too much damage to her reputation. "

"I am sure it will not," Collins said, thinking that perhaps it would merely add to the pressure Elizabeth would feel to come back to Longbourn and beg his forgiveness. He smiled.

Wickham smiled. "We shall see, Mr. Collins, we shall see." He drained his glass. "Another, perhaps?"

"Of course." Collins refilled Wickham's glass, and his own. "You were saying, about your own past with Mr. Darcy?"

"Ah, yes. Well, with no other prospects I was forced to join the militia, and I am sure you can imagine how poorly that suits me." Wickham sighed.

"Indeed, Mr. Wickham. Your charming manners are quite wasted on the militia!"

Wickham laughed. "Thank you, Mr. Collins. You have the right of it. And to add insult to injury, I have been forced to endure Mr. Darcy's presence here in Meryton. I fear he has been most unkind to me."

"Unkind?" Collins prompted, and Wickham nodded.

"Mr. Darcy has turned a number of influential families against me, which I am sure you can imagine is most unfortunate for a man in my position."

"Oh, indeed, indeed." Collins sipped his brandy. "Mr. Darcy seems to have a particular talent for that!"

Wickham sighed. "Ah, well. We must all make our way as best we can, Mr. Collins."

"Indeed." Collins poured them both another drink, leaving the brandy decanter on the table between them. "I... I am sorry you have had such an unfortunate time, Mr. Wickham."

Wickham smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Collins. I am sure Lady Catherine will make all well for you, at least. You are fortunate to have so noble and beneficent a patroness."

"I am indeed!" Mr. Collins nodded sagely, delighted that Mr. Wickham seemed to have the proper understanding and appreciation that Lady Catherine certainly deserved. What good company the man was, and what a good thought by Mr. Collins to invite him to dinner.

My first real friend , Mr. Collins thought, growing a little maudlin, and smiling mistily at Mr. Wickham. He reached for the brandy decanter, annoyed to find it empty, and shouted for the maid to bring him another. Wickham clapped his hands together happily, and Mr. Collins smiled, basking in the warmth of the other man's approval.

"Well, Mr. Wickham, I... I think it is time for me to retire," Mr. Collins said eventually, rising unsteadily to his feet. "And you, sir, it is snowing and very late. Please, stay the night here at Longbourn."

"I appreciate your hospitality, Mr. Collins. I think I will." Wickham rose, swaying a little. Collins rang the bell, and after a few moments one of the maids appeared.

"Please show Mr. Wickham to a room," he said, trying to draw himself up to his full height and swaying a little. "Good night, Mr. Wickham."

"Good night, Mr. Collins." Wickham followed the maid up the stairs, watching her neat little bottom sway in front of him. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Molly, sir," she said, not looking back at him.

"Well, Molly, you're a pretty little thing, aren't you?" Wickham reached out, catching her by the shoulder and pulling her to a stop. "Very pretty indeed." He leaned down to her, his breath hot on her cheek, fingers brushing her jaw. "I think perhaps you should stay with me tonight, Molly. I can make it very worth your while."

Molly stepped back quickly, ducking out from under his arm. "This way, sir," she said, and hurried on up the stairs, Wickham stumbling after her, cursing under his breath. She stopped at a door on the first floor, opening it. "Your room, sir."

"Thank you, Molly," Wickham said, and she bobbed a quick curtsey and fled. "Come back!" he called after her, but she was already gone. "Damn it," he muttered, stepping into the room. He leaned against the bedpost and fumbled, trying to remove his boots, but gave up after a few moments and collapsed onto the bed, passing out almost before his head hit the pillow.

Mr. Collins left his study, feeling satisfied with his evening's entertainment and Wickham's company, though the room swayed a little around him. He paused, his hand on the door handle, and turned the key in the lock. He did not trust his new servants, and he was sure they would steal his money if they had the chance.

Collins checked the lock again, satisfied that it was secure, put the key in his pocket and turned away, making his way up the stairs unsteadily. In his drunken state, it had not occurred to him to place a fire-guard in front of the fire, still burning merrily after Collins and Wickham had been tossing coal and logs on it all evening. He didn't see the ember drop from the grate, landing on the old, dry rug in front of the fire. It smouldered for a moment, then a tiny flame began to grow.

Collins reached the top of the stairs, feeling proud of himself. He was sure Lady Catherine would approve of his prudence in locking the study door.

The rug was old, and dry as tinder. The flames spread quickly, racing across the floor. It wasn't long before they reached the legs of the chair, the wood beginning to blacken and burn. The upholstery caught fire next, the flames leaping higher. The crackling and popping of the burning wood grew louder as the fire spread, consuming the chair and moving on to the desk .

The bookshelves were next, the pages of the books curling and blackening as they caught fire. The flames climbed the shelves, feeding on the dry paper and wood, the heat in the room growing intense.

Mr. Collins was jolted awake by a tremendous crash, and for a moment he lay still, disoriented, his head pounding. What was that? He coughed, a violent, wracking sound, and tried to sit up. His eyes were streaming, and the air was thick with acrid smoke. He coughed again, the sound tearing at his throat, and looked around in confusion. The ceiling above him was glowing orange, and he could see flames licking at the plaster.

Mr. Collins shrieked in terror as the truth finally registered in his drink-fuddled mind; the house was aflame! He scrambled out of bed, coughing uncontrollably, his eyes streaming, and stumbled to his feet. He was disoriented, his head swimming, the effects of the wine he had drunk with Wickham still lingering. The heat was oppressive, and he could hear the crackling of the flames as they consumed the room.

What was happening? He couldn't understand, couldn't think clearly. The smoke was so thick he could barely see, and his eyes were stinging, his vision blurred. The bed linens were beginning to smoulder, and he could see the curtains at the window catching fire.

He had to get out. He had to escape. Mr. Collins stumbled towards the door, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated, his head spinning. The heat was unbearable, and he could feel the flames licking at his heels. He fumbled for the door handle, his hands shaking, and finally managed to get it open.

It did not even occur to Mr. Collins, in his panic, to knock on the door to the room where Mr. Wickham slept, nor to shout a warning.

Perhaps it would have made no difference, even if he had.

Mr. Wickham lay sprawled across the bed, deeply asleep, his mouth slightly open and quiet snores rumbling in his chest. He was oblivious to the chaos unfolding around him, his breathing slow and even. His handsome face was relaxed, a faint smile playing on his lips as if he were dreaming of something pleasant.

The first flickers of orange light began to dance across the walls of the room, casting eerie shadows that flickered and jumped. Wickham's peaceful expression did not change, his chest rising and falling gently in deep, inebriated slumber.

The fire crept closer, the flames licking at the bedcovers. The crackling of the flames grew louder, but still he did not stir. The shadows cast by the flickering flames danced on the walls, creating an eerie, unsettling atmosphere.

The heat became intense, the air thick with smoke, but Wickham remained oblivious, his deep slumber undisturbed as the smoke filled his lungs. He would never wake.

Mr. Collins stumbled towards the stairs, barely able to see where he was going for the smoke. His eyes were streaming, his vision blurred.

The heat was oppressive, a suffocating blanket that seemed to press down on him from all sides. The smoke was so thick he could barely see his hand in front of his face. He stumbled forward, his lungs burning with every breath. He had to get out, had to escape, but he couldn't see where he was going, couldn't think clearly.

Oh, God, he was going to die. The thought struck him suddenly, a cold, hard truth that pierced through his panic and confusion. He was going to die here, in this burning house, and there was nothing he could do to stop it .

Fear gripped him, a cold, icy terror that made his heart race. He didn't want to die, didn't want to leave this world, not yet. He had so much he still wanted to do, so much he still wanted to achieve. He wanted to make Lady Catherine proud of him, wanted to see Elizabeth contrite, wanted to marry her and make her obey him.

He found the top of the stairs at last, and a surge of hope drove him forward. But the bottom of the stairs was engulfed in flame, and he cried out in despair as he realised there was no escape.

He was trapped, the smoke and flames all around him, and there was no way out. He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Tears streamed down his face, whether from the smoke or from his own fear and regret, he did not know. He had tried so hard, had done his best, but it had not been enough. He was going to die, and all his dreams and ambitions would die with him.

His legs gave out beneath him and he collapsed to the floor, the hard wood cool beneath him for a moment before the heat began to seep through. He coughed violently, his lungs burning, and tried to crawl forward, but he had no strength left. He lay still, the heat growing more intense, the smoke filling his lungs, and listened to the crackling of the flames as they consumed the house around him.

If Mr. Collins had ever taken the time to truly familiarise himself with Longbourn, and if he had not been quite so drunk, he might have realised that at the other end of the corridor was the servants' stairs, and a potential escape. He might have hurried down them into the cool stone kitchen and found the servants rousing as the smell of smoke began to seep in, might have run outside with them and watched as Longbourn burned… safe and alive.

Instead, he lay as the flames consumed him entirely, and his last thoughts were of how this was all Elizabeth Bennet's fault.

Downstairs, in the servants' quarters behind the kitchens, it was the smell of smoke that roused them. The thick, acrid stench seeped into the rooms, waking the servants from their slumber.

"Fire!" Mrs. Berry, the housekeeper, was the first to realise the danger. "Fire! Everyone up! Get out! Fire!"

The maids screamed, and there was a wild scramble for the doors. The sounds of the fire grew louder, the heat more intense. They ran, heedless of anything but the need to escape, to get out of the house before it was too late.

The cook, Mrs. Davies, herded the maids out of the kitchen door, urging them to hurry. "Quickly, girls, quickly! We must get out!"

The servants fled the house, coughing and gasping for breath, their eyes streaming from the smoke. They gathered outside, staring in horror at the flames that now consumed Longbourn.

"The master? And his guest?" the maid Molly ventured, her voice trembling.

Mrs. Berry said nothing, only shaking her head slowly, staring at the inferno raging through the bedrooms at the front of the house.

"If they ain't out, they ain't comin' out," one of the grooms said the words with grim finality.

The fire consumed Longbourn with an insatiable hunger, flames licking at the walls with greedy tongues. The timbers creaked and groaned, the intense heat warping and weakening them until they collapsed with a resounding crash. The sounds of the fire were deafening – the crackling of the flames, the crashing of fallen beams, the roar of the inferno as it raged through the house. The snow falling outside did nothing to quench such a ferocious blaze.

Family portraits, carefully preserved for generations, were devoured by the flames. Mr. Bennet's beloved books, his pride and joy, were reduced to nothing but charred ashes.

The fire raged on, unstoppable, consuming everything in its path. The once-beautiful house was reduced to a pile of smoking rubble, the flames finally dying down as dawn broke.

The once-grand house was now a blackened ruin, charred timbers standing stark against the ashen landscape. The devastation was total, the fire having consumed everything in its path. The skeletal stone structure of the house's exterior walls was all that remained, the roof having collapsed inwards, the walls blackened and crumbling. A charred piece of furniture, unrecognisable, stood forlornly in the midst of the ruins, and here and there a melted window frame hung, twisted and misshapen.

Charlotte Lucas stood outside, her eyes filled with tears as she gazed at the scene, her father Sir William among those who were preparing to enter the smouldering ruins to search for Mr. Collins and Mr. Wickham, Mrs. Berry attempting to pinpoint the rooms where the two men had slept. The tears rolled down Charlotte's cheeks, reflecting both her sorrow and the weight of the duty she now knew she must undertake. She stared at the ruin of Longbourn for a long moment before squaring her shoulders and turning away. She must write to Elizabeth, and tell her what had befallen her home.