Return to Longbourn
The Next Chapter in the Continuing Story of
Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice
by Shannon Winslow
A Heather Ridge Arts Publication
Copyright 2013 by Shannon Winslow
www.shannonwinslow.com
All Right Reserved
Except for brief quotations, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any similarity to real people, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover design by Micah D. Hansen
Original cover artwork by Sharon M. Johnson
For My Sister
Ruth
…who, by her unfailing support, humor, and enthusiasm, has added immeasurably to my life and to my writing career.
Soli Deo Gloria
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chatper 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chpater 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
About the Author
Appendix
Preface
It is no secret that I adore the work of Jane Austen. Her subtle stories of love triumphant and her witty, elegant prose suit my taste exactly. They have influenced my own writing more than anything else.
With Jane Austen’s stories so deeply entrenched in my mind, I often find myself thinking of and alluding to various passages from her books as I write. Instead of fighting the temptation to borrow some of her expertly turned phrases, I went with it. After all, I couldn’t hope to improve upon the master.
So, if you are a Jane Austen aficionado, you will no doubt recognize a quoted line here and there (a listing of which you will find in the appendix). I had a wonderful time tucking these little jewels in between the pages. My hope is that you will find just as much fun discovering them as you read. I trust you will accept this as I intend it – as a tribute to Jane and to her fans. Enjoy!
Respectfully,
Shannon Winslow
Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such odious subjects as soon as I can, impatient to restore every body, not greatly in fault themselves, to tolerable comfort, and to have done with all the rest. – Jane Austen (Mansfield Park)
Mary had blossomed in the interval since her siblings left Longbourn… Thus, well seasoned by time, practice, and renewed dedication, she made great strides toward the standard of the truly accomplished young woman she had always aspired to be…
…Kitty, meanwhile, continued to divide her time chiefly between Heatheridge and Pemberley according to which house was hosting the more interesting social events. She fretted over being already almost twenty with no prospects for marriage immediately apparent…
– The Darcys of Pemberley
Prologue
The letter from London was a true Godsend. He knew it the instant it arrived, and just as quickly determined what he must do. Now the fertile Shenandoah Valley of Virginia – which until so recently had encompassed all aspects of his life and every hope for the future – lay half an ocean behind him, the distance widening with each passing day.
As the creaking timbers of the deck dipped and rolled beneath his feet, Mr. Tristan Collins kept one gloved hand ready on the rail. He had long since overcome his initial discomfort with being at sea, to the point where his legs had learnt to compensate for the perpetual movement without any conscious effort.
“Mr. Collins, sir,” said the cabin boy, coming up behind him. “Capt’n says won’t you take supper with him?”
The distinguished young gentleman with sandy hair turned into the icy wind to answer the lad. “Thank you, Patrick,” he said with a wan smile. “Tell the captain I shall be along directly.”
Pulling his great coat more tightly about his person, he turned his gaze aft once more, to where the sun had recently sunk below the western horizon. He had no idea what he expected to see. There was nothing there, other than a fading glimmer of daylight and three thousand miles of cold, roiling brine – an impenetrable barrier, seemingly. But would only half an ocean be enough to keep the ghosts he left behind in America at bay… or to keep his own thoughts from forever flying back, like pigeons returning to their roost?
No, he would not feel truly secure until he once more set foot on the reassuring ground of his native country. In England, he would start again.
1
Ingathering
It is a truth universally acknowledged that every mortal being must at some point face the certainty of death and the day of reckoning. Despite his every effort to avoid it, this reality at last bore in upon Mr. Bennet, a gentleman who had long resided near Meryton in Hertfordshire. He had managed to live in tolerable comfort for nearly seven-and-sixty years, his contentment at least partially owing to the fact that he was rarely incommoded by bouts of serious introspection. Yet, in his final hours, he did at last pause to reflect upon the questionable quality of his earthly pilgrimage.
The traits of idleness and self-indulgence suggested themselves straightaway. Whereas these are not generally touted as virtues, Mr. Bennet reasoned that it would be outright hypocrisy to condemn in himself that which he freely forgave in so many others of his acquaintance.
With his conscience clear on that head, his two remaining sources of potential regret as he prepared to meet his maker were these. First, he had married unwisely and in haste. Yet he hardly thought it likely he would be chastised for that above, having already paid more than thirty years’ penance for the folly below. Likewise, he knew the consequences of his second regret – failing to produce a male heir – would soon be meted out on the terrestrial rather than the celestial plane.
Finally, the dying man considered that perhaps he should have taken his domestic responsibilities more seriously – disciplined his five daughters with some diligence when they were young and made better provision for his widow. This belated remorse, however, proved as transitory as it was ineffectual. Thus, being serenely satisfied with his deportment in this life and, therefore, confident of a favorable reception in the next, Mr. Bennet breathed his last.
~~ * ~~
“What is to become of me?” wailed Mrs. Bennet for what could be no less than the hundredth time.
Two days had elapsed since her husband’s sudden demise, and Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. She had taken to her bed upon the event with pains and paroxysms of every sort, acc
ording to her own exhaustive narrative on the subject. Mary and Kitty, being the only two of her offspring immediately to hand, had done what they could to quiet their mother’s gloomy effusions. Yet it seemed the more they reassured her of future comfort and security, the more Mrs. Bennet persisted in prophesying her own wretchedness.
“I daresay I shall be left to starve in the hedgerows!” she continued. “Indeed, I most certainly shall. Your father’s heir – whosoever he may prove to be – is sure to turn me out of this house before Mr. Bennet is quite cold in his grave. And if my family is not kind to me, I do not know what I shall do. Oh, why could we not have had a son? Then I should not be at the mercy of this horrid entail.” Her sorrow lapsed into consternation at the thought of that longstanding grievance. “It is unaccountable that anybody should see fit to will his estate away from his own female descendants for the sake of some distant relation. I shall never understand it should I live to be ninety. And now your father has gone off and left me to suffer for his ancestor’s madness on my own. How could he do such a thing? Then again, he never did have any compassion for my poor nerves!” Sobs again overtook her.
Kitty sat mutely by, her limited supply of consolation already spent to no avail.
Mary, with greater resources but perhaps less patience, took temporary refuge downstairs. She thus received the first intelligence of an approaching carriage. Hearing the unmistakable sound of gravel grating on the sweep, she hurried out to see which of the expected parties had arrived.
Immediately upon the apothecary’s pronouncement that Mr. Bennet’s illness was of a grave nature, an express had been sent to each of his other three daughters, all of whom lived at a considerable distance from Longbourn. The two eldest, Jane and Elizabeth, were both married (some seven years past) and resided not far from each other in the north of England. Lydia, the youngest, had been married, widowed, and then married again. She would be traveling from Plymouth where she was settled with her new husband’s family.
Mary waited on the porch, clasping and unclasping her hands in an attempt to compose herself for what was to come. She knew it fell to her to convey the news of their father’s fate to the occupants of the elegant equipage now approaching. From its size and grandeur, it belonged to one of her well-to-do sisters from the north rather than the more modestly situated Lydia. For this, Mary was profoundly grateful. Lydia’s wild nature rendered her entirely unfit to soothe Mrs. Bennet’s fears. Either one of the others would be of more practical use, both to their mother and to herself.
As the carriage slowed to a stop before her, Mary distinguished Elizabeth’s anxious face at the window, looking for some sign of encouragement. Mary could give her none. Instead, she slowly shook her head, allowing her somber countenance and conspicuous garb of mourning to answer Elizabeth’s unspoken question. Papa was dead, yet to be spared the necessity of speaking the words aloud was some little relief.
Elizabeth disappeared again into the depths of the carriage – and presumably into her husband’s arms – not to emerge for several minutes. Mary did nothing to hurry her. She preferred that the office of bearing with Elizabeth’s initial spasms of sorrow should fall to her brother-in-law, Mr. Darcy, instead of to herself.
The tide of grief had already threatened to overpower Mary more than once. Yet she dared not give in to it. Outward expression of emotion was both foreign and frightening to her, so long had she practiced the art of stoicism. That philosophy had served her well in the past, enabling her to endure the disappointment of every one of her sisters being favored, complimented, courted, and three married ahead of her. Now, however, its strictures allowed her neither vent for her own sorrows nor protection from the false presumption of others that she had none.
By contrast, no one thought it possible Mrs. Bennet would demonstrate herself mistress of her feelings now, considering how little facility she had shown for it in the past with far less provocation. Kitty could not or would not exert herself either. Because of their weakness, Mary felt doubly obligated to play the unassailable tower of strength, at least in their presence. She was certain her relations could not even conceive of her crumbling, having never witnessed any symptom of it before. As a point of personal pride, she intended to keep it that way. So, when Elizabeth finally alighted from the carriage with the help of Mr. Darcy, Mary embraced her but shed no tears with her.
“We are too late, then,” surmised Elizabeth when at length she pulled away. “Papa is already gone?”
Mary nodded. “Sadly, yes. Two days past. It was very sudden.”
At once, Mr. Darcy stepped forward to place an arm firmly about Elizabeth’s shoulders. She leant back against him and, after a pause to collect herself, she asked, “And Mama? How does she do?”
“Exactly as you might expect,” said Mary with a significant look. “Kitty is with her now, and Lady Lucas and our aunt Phillips have attended her every day since the crisis began. Still…”
“Yes, yes, I see. So Jane and Lydia are not yet come?”
“No, although they are every moment expected.”
“Then the weight of this has fallen primarily upon you, dear Mary. I am sorry for that. You look pale. How much you must have gone through!”
“Come, Lizzy, steady yourself,” urged Mary, seeing her sister on the verge of breaking down again. “Mama will be eager for your company.”
“Yes, of course,” said Elizabeth, drying her eyes. “Let me to her then, although I know not what comfort I may be.”
~~ * ~~
By the end of the day, the family was fully gathered to Longbourn: all five of Mr. Bennet’s daughters as well as two sons-in-law – the third, Mr. Denny, Lydia’s second husband, being a military man away with his regiment. Mutual solace and the comfort of their mother were their common goals. Yet, even during this time of family unity, their natural pairings persisted – Jane with Elizabeth, Lydia and Kitty together, and Mr. Bingley with Mr. Darcy.
Once again, Mary felt herself the odd one out, accepted by all and yet the particular friend of none. It came as no surprise; it was always thus. Although she made no doubt her sisters loved her even as she loved each of them, their true commonality ran little further than their blood lines. None of the others shared her thirst for intellectual and musical accomplishment, and neither could she enter into their pursuits, her younger sisters’ so trivial and the elders’ now so thoroughly domestic. As for the men, they were something of an enigma to her, like another species altogether – vastly intriguing but far too foreign to trust oneself to completely. Perhaps if she had had a brother, she might have come to understand the sex better. As it was, Mary found little companionship there either.
Her chief consolation came from making herself useful. With her mother indisposed, Mary rightly appropriated the role of acting mistress of the house, seeing to it that the servants were supervised, the rooms orderly, family and visitors well fed, and every other practical need met. For her efforts, she might hope to be thanked but not truly esteemed. In that regard, she felt a special kinship with Martha from the Bible, whose worth she always considered unfairly disparaged. Although she counted it a very fine thing to sit reverently at the master’s feet for a time, sooner or later somebody had to attend to the utilitarian as well. She had taken that role upon herself, allowing others leisure to weep alongside of their father’s casket. Her own sorrows she reserved for solitary hours.
“Sister Mary,” said Mr. Darcy from the doorway of the library, wresting her attention away from her private musings as she went about her business. “I was going to look for you. Would you be so good as to step in here for a moment?”
“Of course.” She followed him thither, her curiosity to know what he had to tell her heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner connected with the documents he held. Within, she found Mr. Bingley as well, seated to one side of her father’s desk. The sight of the empty chair behind it, where she had been used to seeing her father habitually situated, gave Mary fresh pang
s.
Darcy moved as if to take Mr. Bennet’s customary place before apparently thinking better of it and remaining where he was. “I am afraid this concerns the legal matters attending your father’s death. Mr. Bingley and I will gladly undertake the duties involved if only you will set us off on the right course. I thought you might have some knowledge of Mr. Bennet’s affairs – the whereabouts of his business ledgers and legal correspondence, for example. We have located these few items,” he said, indicating the papers in his hand. “There must be more, however.”
“We are sorry to disturb you at such a time, my dear,” added Mr. Bingley. “It is only that there are a few importunate questions that will not wait. Your mother, you see, is in no state to guide us.”
“No. No, indeed not,” Mary agreed soberly. “Whatever I may do, I am at your service, gentlemen.”
“Thank you,” returned Mr. Darcy. “We will not keep you long. Please, do be seated, though,” said he, pulling out her father’s chair for her.
Mary understood it as a gesture of respect – a mark of confidence, an acknowledgment of her position of increased responsibility within the family. And perhaps she felt the compliment more deeply than she ought to have done. Nevertheless, with a dignified bearing she took the seat presented, perceiving that by doing so she laid claim, however temporarily, to a portion of her father’s authority as well. It was a mantle she was prepared to shoulder by virtue of an orderly mind (one better suited to business than usually thought befitting a female), a mind further schooled by conscientious study.
“I believe I can be of some use. Papa confided a great many things to me, especially toward the last. I flatter myself that his trust was not misplaced.”
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