A Death at Rosings: A Pride & Prejudice Variation

by Renata McMann

  “I’m not insulting you,” Miss de Bourgh said. “It isn’t a bribe. Believe me, you will earn your money. I know as a gentleman’s daughter you aren’t used to thinking of earning money, but you can, and without shame. In truth, you’d be almost noble. You can stand between me and my uncle. You can keep me from being an utter fool. I need you. I’m offering money because it is the only currency I know how to deal in.”

  Miss de Bourgh was giving a better argument than money. Staying a few weeks or even a few months to help someone who needed it was the right thing to do. She could always return home if things became unreasonable. Probably she wouldn’t be needed after a month, and that wasn’t a lot of time to give someone who seemed to have so much, but in reality had so little.

  “Even though I will be in deep mourning, suitors will approach me,” Miss de Bourgh said. She leaned forward, looking hopeful, perhaps seeing something of the war waging inside Elizabeth, though she was trying to keep her visage calm. “Maybe you’ll catch one. I know from Mrs. Collins that your mother would be upset if you didn’t take advantage of that. I’ll invite your sisters to visit. They might catch suitors as well.”

  Elizabeth sighed. No, she couldn’t be bribed. Not with money, at least. Love for her family was a different matter, however. Not only that, she realized, looking at the hope on Miss de Bourgh’s thin face. Miss de Bourgh truly did need help. Even that morning, Elizabeth had contemplated how few people Miss de Bourgh had in her life, and fewer still whom she could trust. Not that Elizabeth didn’t think Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam trustworthy, but did they know their cousin at all? Would they consult Miss de Bourgh and listen to her thoughts, or would they treat her as her mother had and uncle would?

  “I’d be honored to stay, Miss de Bourgh,” Elizabeth said. “However, I must decline being paid. It doesn’t seem right that I should be your guest, sleep under your roof and dine at your table, and also take your money. My conscience won’t permit it.”

  She would content herself with the money her parents would save without her there to feed and with the opportunity to invite her sisters to meet suitors. It was a nice dream, saving up enough to buy security for her sisters, but Elizabeth didn’t mean to remain long enough for that dream to ever take shape.

  Miss de Bourgh smiled. “I’m so pleased you’ll remain,” she said. “Are you certain about the money? I really do feel you should be compensated. There’s no shame in it.”

  “I’m adamantly certain,” Elizabeth said.

  “At least allow me to match whatever amount of pocket money it is you receive from your father,” Miss de Bourgh said. “That way, you can allow him to save, or you can have the opportunity to do so.”

  “That really won’t be necessary.”

  “I insist you either allow me to pay you or take the pocket money,” Miss de Bourgh said.

  Elizabeth sighed. She was starting to wonder why Miss de Bourgh thought she needed someone to stand up for her. She seemed quite sure of herself. Of course, Elizabeth supposed she was a lot easier to be assertive with than Mr. Darcy or the aforementioned uncle, Lady Catherine’s brother. Elizabeth couldn’t imagine what a male version of Lady Catherine would be like. “The pocket money,” she said.

  “Wonderful. You may move in this afternoon, for I’m sure I’ll need you tomorrow. I’ll send for the carriage.”

  “I’ll need to write my father for permission to stay away longer,” Elizabeth cautioned her, though it was likely a formality.

  “Of course, but you can move in while you wait for the return letter, can’t you?” Miss de Bourgh asked. “I’ll make sure there is stationery in your room.”

  Elizabeth nodded, standing. She wondered if Miss de Bourgh really needed her in the morning or was worried Elizabeth would change her mind if left to think for longer. “Thank you, Miss de Bourgh.”

  “Please, call me Anne. Could you ask the footman to step in?”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Please call me Elizabeth.” She went to the door and slid it open, stepping out to address the footman waiting there. “Miss de Bourgh would like to see you.”

  The man nodded and went in. Elizabeth could hear Anne telling him to have the carriage made ready and to tell the coachman to take her to the parsonage to collect her belongings. It wasn’t until Elizabeth was on her way back later that day, possessions in tow and having eaten a meal at the parsonage, that she realized her capitulation would likely mean she’d be seeing Mr. Darcy again, and soon.

  Well, she was supposed to be strong, according to Anne. Although she’d had vague hopes of never having to be in Mr. Darcy’s presence again after all that had been said between them, she would have to put those hopes aside in order to meet her commitment to Anne. She’d also have to set aside her anger at his insulting proposal and his interference in Jane’s happiness, if she could. It helped that her anger was tempered with her shame over misjudging him so fully. Maybe, she mused as the carriage rolled up Rosings’ tree-lined drive, she’d even find the opportunity to apologize to him for that.

  She alighted without help when the carriage came to a halt at the foot of Rosings’ imposing front entrance. For all she’d amused herself with silently mocking Mr. Collins’ awe of the place, it was an impressive manor, and daunting. She hesitated at the bottom step for a moment, wondering if she had any advice for the woman who was to be in charge of such an estate. What, after all, did Elizabeth know about managing a vast holding?

  The footman marched past with her belongings and she shook herself, hurrying up the steps. Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam, and likely a dozen other people, would know how to manage Rosings. Elizabeth simply needed to keep Anne from doing anything foolish or being bullied. She could do that. At least, she hoped she could.

  Elizabeth entered, finding a maid waiting to show her to her room. Elizabeth hadn’t been to the private sections of the manor before, but was unsurprised to find them as opulent as the more public spaces. She looked about the wide hallway she was being led down, wondering if she would ever become accustomed to the almost garish, slightly pretentious decor. She hoped not.

  “That’s Miss de Bourgh’s room,” the maid said as they slowed, pointing to the room after the one they stopped at. She opened the door to the room Elizabeth would use, stepping back. “And this will be your room, miss.”

  “Thank you,” Elizabeth said.

  “Will you need anything else, miss? Shall I assist you in unpacking?”

  “No, thank you,” she said.

  “Dinner is served in five hours, miss.”

  Elizabeth nodded, stepping inside and closing the door.

  She walked slowly about the room, pleasantly surprised. Not by the richness of it, which far exceeded any room she’d ever slept in, but by the subtlety. Though the furnishings were no less expensive, the bedding she ran her hand along no less luxurious, than anything else she’d encountered in Rosings, it was all much more understated. From the gentle curves of the writing desk to the subtle embroidery on the bed skirt, the room strove for elegance, and succeeded admirably. Elizabeth wondered if all of the private chambers were thus appointed, and why such good taste didn’t prevail throughout the dwelling.

  After a thorough inspection, she put away her few possessions and then seated herself at the writing desk. Both desk and chair were a bit tall for her, but she knew she was slightly lacking in stature. She was accustomed to encountering the occasional pieces of furniture that emphasized her lack of height.

  The desk was well stocked. Elizabeth wrote to her parents, telling them of her change in circumstance and asking their permission to stay at Rosings “while Miss de Bourgh needs me or until you need me at home.” She made no reference to Anne’s offer to pay her, but did bring up the pocket money, suggesting her father no longer needed to send hers. She made no mention of Mr. Darcy at all.

  Her letter to Jane, who was staying with their aunt and uncle in London, was more detailed but still didn’t reveal everything. She wasn’t quite
certain if it was shame, anger or discretion that kept her silent on her exchange with Mr. Darcy and his letter, but she couldn’t bear the idea of putting it to page. That meant she also couldn’t disclose what she’d learned of Mr. Wickham. She wasn’t even tempted to mention Bingley’s reason for leaving Netherfield, for she had to agree that, had his love been firm, he wouldn’t have been so easily swayed. In the end, she wrote Jane quite a bit about quite little, the letter leaving her rather dissatisfied.

  Once she was done, she dressed for dinner. She was about to leave her room in search of a footman to post her letters for her when a knock sounded at the door. She opened it to find Mrs. Jenkinson without.

  “Mrs. Jenkinson,” Elizabeth greeted, surprised. As she said the woman’s name, she realized there was potentially great awkwardness between them. Elizabeth was all but usurping the other woman’s place in the household.

  “May I come in, Miss Bennet?” Mrs. Jenkinson said.

  “Of course.” Elizabeth backed into the room.

  Mrs. Jenkinson entered and closed the door behind her. She looked around the room before turning to Elizabeth. “Lady Catherine never would give me this room. I always said I wanted it to be closer to Miss de Bourgh, because of her health, but in truth, it’s the nicest room. Everything isn’t gilded and dripping with gold lame like the rest of the furnishings.”

  “It’s not my intention to displace you,” Elizabeth said, feeling no need to mince words.

  “I know that,” Mrs. Jenkinson said. She smiled, easing Elizabeth’s discomfort. “I always knew I would leave as soon as Lady Catherine died. Miss de Bourgh is being very generous and she has set it up so my pension will continue for my lifetime, regardless of what she does or what happens with this estate. I should also be in Lady Catherine’s will, being her servant. It’s good of Miss de Bourgh to see I’m well provided for even without knowing what’s in her mother’s will.”

  “I didn’t know you were in Lady Catherine’s employ,” Elizabeth said. Anne’s comments from earlier came back to her and she realized she should have guessed. Why else would Mrs. Jenkinson spy for Lady Catherine, and why else would Anne have kept her on for so long, knowing what she was doing? She wouldn’t have, was the obvious answer.

  “I was very aware of it, as was Miss de Bourgh. I’m not certain Lady Catherine really understood how difficult that made it for both of us. Be good to her. I did what my employer wanted me to do, but I did my best for Miss de Bourgh as well. I even looked the other way about a few things.”

  “Midnight reading?” Elizabeth guessed, smiling.

  Mrs. Jenkinson chuckled. “I think Miss de Bourgh and Lady Catherine were the only two people at Rosings who weren’t aware it was public knowledge.”

  “Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam knew?” Elizabeth was a bit surprised by that. Mr. Darcy seemed stern enough to try to curtail the activity, for the sake of Anne’s health.

  “I should rephrase what I just said. All of the servants knew. They kept quiet because Miss de Bourgh was generous.” She eyed Elizabeth in a speculative way. “They also felt sorry for Miss de Bourgh,” she added. Her smile turned sad. “I’ll miss it here. Being a servant at Rosings wasn’t bad.”

  “You weren’t--”

  “I was a servant,” Mrs. Jenkinson said, interrupting Elizabeth’s protest. “I have few illusions. I was a servant, even though as a governess and companion I was considered almost part of the family. Almost. Miss de Bourgh means to treat you differently. I hope, for both of your sakes, you will stand up for her and if necessary, to her. Without her mother, I don’t think anyone knows how she will behave, least of all her. She can’t stay as she was unless she quickly marries a husband who will make all of her decisions for her, and I don’t think any good would really come of that.”

  “Thank you for your understanding, and your advice,” Elizabeth said, meaning it. “When did you plan to leave? Before you go, I would like to learn something from you about the workings of Rosings.”

  “I haven’t made arrangements yet, but there’s no time like the present,” Mrs. Jenkinson said. She smiled wryly and nodded toward the writing desk. “Why don’t you sit at the desk? I suggest you take notes.”

  Chapter Three

  Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam climbed into Darcy’s carriage, settling into the seat across from him. He was dressed in black, though nothing else about him was notably somber. He nodded to Darcy. “Good of you to give me a ride.”

  “We’re going to the same place,” Darcy said. He knocked on the roof and Alderson, his driver, started the carriage moving.

  “Who would have thought we’d be returning so soon?” Richard said. “Aunt Catherine was tough as nails. She seemed in fine fettle, too.”

  “They think it was her heart,” Darcy said, although he was sure Richard had received the same information he had.

  “I was surprised to learn she had one,” Richard muttered.

  Darcy didn’t smile. He wouldn’t pretend deep mourning, as he wasn’t much saddened by his aunt’s death, but he did think some decorum was in order. Besides, the joke hadn’t been amusing and likely wouldn’t ever be, no matter how many Fitzwilliams uttered it.

  That they would, Darcy was sure. The Fitzwilliams would have all been summoned. They would descend on Rosings and fill Anne’s home with a level of boisterousness bordering on crass. Darcy was sorry he would be forced to endure it. He didn’t think Anne would fare well.

  Darcy turned to watch the passing scenery, not in the mood to converse. Normally, Richard was the most tolerable of Darcy’s cousins, aside from Anne. Anne was easy to be around, though not because of any great affection between them. They, neither of them, preferred to speak, and so could keep each other quiet company.

  At least, Darcy hoped their ease didn’t stem from any affection on Anne’s part, because he bore her no more than cousinly regard. One of the reasons he didn’t mourn his aunt’s passing was the cessation of her ongoing, embarrassingly blatant attempts to force him to propose to Anne. He hoped Anne realized he didn’t hold her in that light and hadn’t simply been waiting for her mother to die. He wanted to help her keep Rosings in order and deal with their uncle, but he’d have to take care to assess her feelings toward him before he was too adamant on her behalf.

  “Did they say who was with her?” Richard asked.

  “I beg your pardon?” Darcy asked, turning to his cousin.

  “Aunt Catherine,” Richard said. “Did they say who was with her when she fell ill?”

  “I don’t believe it was mentioned, no.”

  “I wager it was that Miss Bennet. Beguiling girl, but she has a sharp wit. She probably said something that put Aunt Catherine over the edge.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Darcy snapped. He turned back to the window, aware he was showing too much temper. It was in poor taste to suggest that Elizabeth had caused Lady Catherine’s death, even in jest. Yes, Elizabeth had a quick wit, but she used it to be amusing and to avoid lying, not to torment elderly women, even ones as exasperating as Lady Catherine had been. Darcy had witnessed Elizabeth’s expert handling of his aunt and been impressed.

  Elizabeth, he thought, letting out a silent sigh. Would she still be in Kent? Even if she was, he wouldn’t see her. She wasn’t the sort of person his family would invite to dine with them in their time of mourning. She was no one, really. The daughter of a man who hardly maintained the title of gentleman and of a woman whose family was in trade. Elizabeth Bennet was barely even a member of the gentry.

  Added to her low status was that, for all of her wit, she wasn’t intelligent enough to recognize the greatest opportunity of her life; his proposal. He would have elevated her. She would have wanted for nothing. He would even have taken care of her mother and sisters, so long as he never had to see them.

  Darcy frowned out the window. It was all so beneath him. He should never have proposed to her. She was a country miss without fashion or accomplishments. That she hadn’t appreciated
what he had to offer only showed her lack of taste.

  Hopefully she had, at least, been intelligent enough to believe his letter. He couldn’t abide the idea that she’d been taken in by Wickham and might still be under his spell. Was he the only person who could see through George Wickham’s lies? In Elizabeth’s defense, Darcy’s own father and sister had both succumbed to Wickham’s charms. How could Elizabeth, who knew Wickham much less well than Georgiana and their father, be expected to see through him?

  He wished she had, though. He wished she’d seen Wickham as false, and been astute enough to see . . . see what? See the goodness in Darcy’s soul? See the truth of his love for her? If she’d seen into his heart well enough to see those things, she’d also have seen his disdain for her family, his embarrassment for her status and, worse, his certainty she would say yes to his proposal simply to elevate herself. He shook his head slightly, aware of how undignified his thoughts were. Elizabeth was right. He seemed to think so little of her, of where she came from, and of women in general, that there was no reason she, or any woman, should fall in love with him.

  If only he could as easily remove Elizabeth Bennet from his thoughts as he’d removed himself from her presence. Yet, headed back to Kent as they were, he was aware of a deep longing to see her again. An almost painful hope that she would still be there and her opinion of him would be changed.

  He wanted to fence with her again. He wanted to hear one of her clever remarks. He wanted to see her eyes light with humor and warmth. He knew he’d misinterpreted that warmth. It wasn’t warmth for him. It may have been warmth against him or for the argument. Whatever it was, it drew him to her.

  How could he have misunderstood her so completely? The clues had been there. They weren’t even clues, but statements. She was always polite, but she criticized him. Yet she did so enchantingly, and justly. That was what stung the most. Her reproofs had merit.