A Will of Iron

by Beutler Linda

  Lady Catherine’s only response was an irritated shake of her shoulders as if to settle her feathers. “Yes, well…”

  She turned back to Mr. Collins, and her eyes narrowed in a way that made him flustered for it accentuated her Roman nose.

  “We must ask your pretty cousin, Miss Bennet, to stay for the funeral. I would not have any but gentlewomen wait upon the Archbishop and my brother, the earl, and his countess. I think we can trust Miss Bennet in such a circumstance, for all her bold opinions.”

  From over Lady Catherine’s shoulder, the hawk arose from the ground with a visibly bleeding pigeon in its talons. It was a frightful sight, rendering Mr. Collins all astonishment that his splendid benefactress could wish to embody so alarming a creature.

  “And Mrs. Collins with her. They will serve the coffee and tea. They know their place and will be silent.” Lady Catherine punctuated her plan with a nod.

  A footman entered the room and cleared his throat.

  “Yes?” Lady Catherine drawled at the servant.

  “Mr. Andrew Steventon to see you, ma’am.”

  Lady Catherine thought for a moment, trying to place the name.

  “He is a local attorney, your ladyship,” Mr. Collins prompted.

  “I know very well who he is,” she fussed. “Oh, send him in.”

  Mr. Collins noticed that the little attorney with birdlike eyes viewed the interior of Rosings much as the midwife had. The clergyman’s tut-tut was barely audible. He felt the lower orders should at least make the attempt to appear more accustomed to fine surroundings, though he quite understood the tendency to be overwhelmed when faced with the great chimney-piece and so many glazed windows. He had only recently learnt there were seventy-five steps, exactly seventy-five, in the grand staircase and of the finest travertine marble. If given a moment, he would recall the name of the Italian village from whence it was quarried.

  “Steventon!” Lady Catherine pronounced. “State your business.”

  “It has come to my attention, your ladyship, that Miss de Bourgh has passed.”

  Lady Catherine rolled her eyes. Who but the doctor would have spread the news? What more might this odious man know? “Have you come to express your condolences?”

  The little man seemed confident. “Indeed, ma’am. I am sorry to lose so pleasing a client, always amiable. But I am come to inform you that Miss de Bourgh left us with the expression of her final wishes. I had the honour of preparing her Last Will and Testament some three months ago, although it was her wont to alter it rather constantly. Her codicils have codicils…” He chuckled but what was found humorous by the lawyer did not incite amusement in his present company.

  For once, it was Lady Catherine’s lot to stare in astonishment.

  Steventon continued, “With all due haste I shall assemble the several parties benefiting from Miss de Bourgh’s largess as mistress of Rosings Park and her father’s only heir.”

  Mr. Collins quaked at Lady Catherine’s mounting rage.

  “And who might those beneficiaries be?” Lady Catherine’s voice was a low threatening hiss.

  “I am not at liberty to divulge the particulars, but her principal heir is Colonel Alexander Fitzwilliam. Mr. and Miss Darcy are mentioned. She has also been quite generous to Mrs. Elspeth Jenkinson, Mrs. Charlotte Collins, and Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

  “Miss Elizabeth Bennet?” Lady Catherine shrieked. She swept her wide-eyed visage on Mr. Collins. “And your wife? My dear Anne cannot have been in her right mind!” Lady Catherine turned and fled the room, still emitting frantic sounds that could only rarely be recognised as words of the King’s English. The lawyer followed her.

  Upon a moment’s consideration, it struck Mr. Collins that the only time he had previously heard such a noise, it had emanated in similar amplitude and duration from Mrs. Bennet when Miss Elizabeth had refused his offer of marriage.

  Unsure whether he had been dismissed, Mr. Collins sat again for some minutes. At last, he ventured a look at his tin pocket watch, decided Mrs. Collins would be wondering at his long absence, and quietly took himself home.

  20 February 1812

  For joy! I am now quite certain I am with child. It is over ten days since my courses ought to have commenced, perhaps nearer a fortnight. I did not bleed in January at all. My bosom is tender, and I cannot bear a corset. Also, I have been unwell most mornings since the first of the month. In this cold weather, I wear many shawls and keep apart from my mother, thus she has not noticed my discomfort. I am so full of mirth and hope, I cannot complain.

  I sent Paulette to Mrs. Spiggotson with a note outlining my ailments, and she has confirmed that I am likely “a setting hen,” as she so charmingly stated it. She has suggested we meet in a fortnight at the cottage where I had my assignations with Mr. C, and she will examine me.

  My delight knows no bounds. Never did I dream I would derive such liberation of spirit from a thing women before me have done since time beyond measure. By this month next year, I shall be a Mama myself and an independent woman living in a distant place, as far from Rosings Park as it is possible to be and still be a good English woman on fertile English soil. I shall style myself a widow with a husband lost in the war. Yes, it will all be well worked-out.

  My release is at hand! —A de B

  Chapter 3

  Cooing to Broken Hearts

  Wednesday, 8 April 1812

  London, Darcy House

  I used to rule the world, Alex, or at least I thought I did,” Fitzwilliam Darcy mused as he stared into the courtyard of his London residence.

  His languid posture as he leaned against the window frame was uncharacteristic, but so had his manner been since arriving in London from Rosings.

  Colonel Alexander Fitzwilliam did not respond immediately, unsure how to deal with his despondent cousin. Darcy’s present dejection was unprecedented. He could be either affable and intelligent or high-handed and haughty, even lapsing into the dictatorial, but to see him easing into the early afternoon unshaven and unshod was an entirely novel circumstance.

  Finally the colonel spoke. “Your heart has been broken, Darcy, quite savaged. I understand, but I daresay, life must go on. Certainly, you should be sad, but you must maintain decorum. Georgie will be here soon, and you ought to think how your appearance will affect her. She has never seen you thus.”

  Darcy kicked absently at the baseboard with his bare foot. “I have never seen me thus. I have never before been found wanting by someone whose good opinion I value so highly. The past year has taught me that I govern nothing, certainly not the actions of men, and I know nothing of women’s hearts—not my sister’s and most decidedly not Miss Elizabeth…” Darcy’s throat tightened before he could say “Bennet.”

  The colonel stood abruptly. “You have been rejected by one of the best marriage prospects—if you overlook her want of fortune—that either of us has seen in several years. I therefore give you leave to wallow in self-pity for two more days, which will be one week from when you brought this tragedy upon yourself. At the end of two days, I expect to see improvement.” He spoke as if explaining regulations to a raw recruit. “Shall I write to my mother and ask her to keep Georgiana one more week?”

  Darcy turned to his cousin. “A week? Only a week? Who am I, Charles Bingley?” Darcy instantly regretted the words. Bingley deserved a better friend than he had been through the winter. What was it she said, that he exposed Mr. Bingley to the world’s derision for indecision and caprice? Not a friend at all.

  “No.” Darcy shook his head. “I must write to Bingley. I should have written straight away. The injustice I have done him may be repaired; he needs to know.”

  Darcy turned and looked towards his desk, but it seemed an insurmountable distance, and he instead leaned his head against the smooth wood moulding around the window.

&n
bsp; The colonel cleared his throat. “Darcy, what of your sister?” He tried to sound gentle even though he did not feel gentleness was deserved. When no answer came, his tone became sarcastic. “You remember? A tall, pretty, shy sort of girl?”

  Darcy glared. “Do not write to your mother. Let Georgiana come this afternoon from Matlock House as arranged. She will provide a distraction.”

  “But did you not say you have written to her about Miss Elizabeth?”

  Darcy looked even more distressed but said only, “Georgie may be more easily put off by a harsh glare than you are, Alex.” He sighed. “How many times must I repeat the story of my folly? You, Georgiana, probably Bingley…”

  “Why Bingley?”

  “How else am I to explain the depths of my lunacy? My hypocrisy? My ‘selfish disdain for the feelings of others’?”

  “‘Selfish disdain for the feelings of others?’ Did she say so?”

  “Oh yes, she most certainly did.”

  “Then she does not know you, Darcy. She does not know your goodness.”

  “Oh, she knows me very well, Cousin. Better than anyone. It would be vain to deny it. Other than my dealings with Wickham, everything she said of me is true. The last night at Rosings, I came to admit—after the anger had somewhat lessened—how I must have always appeared to her, and further consideration of her words gave me ample evidence of their justice. Would that I had been so circumspect before proposing. She apologised if her spirited behaviour led me on, but my own pride undid me. She gave many signs of disapprobation; I simply would not believe them.

  “And the letter I wrote… I said more than I ought, especially about Bingley and Miss Bennet. How arrogant of me to attempt to defend myself while not knowing the heart of her sister. I moved the two of them around as if they were as insensible as chessmen.”

  The colonel aimed a sigh of disgust at his cousin and looked at his pocket watch. “Here is my suggestion: if your sister is indeed to join us this afternoon, you must get thee to a valet. Have a good soak, shave, and get yourself up smart for Georgiana’s arrival. I shall stay with you one more night so you do not have to face Georgie’s questions alone, but that is as far as I am prepared to go. My leave is over at the end of this se’nnight. Cooing to your broken heart—a wound largely self-inflicted—is not how I intend to spend it.”

  “You are all things benevolent, Alex.” Darcy turned a practiced glare at his cousin, unwilling to admit aloud that he was right. “Although my advancing beard could be seen as a demonstration of my virility, the effect is not appropriate for Georgie.”

  “And you stink. I have smelt much worse, but you do not reek of a gentleman.”

  “Yes, yes, certainly…” Darcy muttered his way out of the study.

  Colonel Fitzwilliam settled himself at a large table covered with a folio containing maps of France that, given the current military actions, kept him as well entertained as a romantic novel would have suited Georgiana.

  After a fleeting hour, a footman entered the study and looked about in confusion before clearing his throat.

  “Yes, may I help?” the colonel asked.

  “I am sorry, sir. I understood Mr. Darcy to be with you. I am bid to inform you and the master that Miss Darcy has arrived, and will join you in the drawing room in half an hour.”

  “Thank you,” the colonel responded as he returned his gaze to the maps.

  A few minutes later, Colonel Fitzwilliam was wondering whether it was time to dip into his cousin’s excellent brandy when another discreet knock was heard at the study door. The colonel found he was half hoping that orders had arrived to return to his regiment posthaste.

  Darcy’s perfect butler, Mr. Simpson, entered. He held a letter. “An express, sir. It is addressed to both you and my master from Rosings Park.”

  “Thank you, Simpson; you may go,” Darcy said as he entered the room behind the butler. He took the missive from the salver, and Simpson’s exit was confirmed by the door clicking shut. “From our blasted aunt.” Darcy sat at his desk and read the letter while his cousin watched, awaiting a thorough report. When Darcy’s face paled, and his hand holding the letter thumped slack upon the desk, the colonel stood and moved directly to him.

  He noticed, upon taking up the letter with no resistance from Darcy, that the sealing wax was black—an announcement of death. He read the terrible news. “Poor, poor Anne,” the colonel muttered. “I suppose we must return as precipitously as we came away?”

  Looking pained, Darcy stood. “Yes, and Georgiana must accompany us. The entire family will gather. Let us tell her, and the three of us can share this distress.” For the briefest moment, his mind neglected an obvious fact.

  The cousins started out the door with the colonel beginning to think of wording an express to General Willis requesting bereavement leave.

  Darcy moaned, “Oh, God,” and halted in his steps as apprehension swept over him.

  “Darcy?” The colonel turned.

  Darcy pinched the bridge of his nose. “She will still be there…she was not to come away until this Friday. I am bound to see her.”

  “Elizabeth Bennet?”

  Darcy nodded.

  “I cannot imagine we shall spend much time in the company of the Hunsford crowd. Surely, our aunt will require better for Anne than the prattling of William Collins. Nothing less than the Archbishop of Canterbury will do. You know Lady Catherine; she will not want the Fitzwilliam aristocracy polluted by the vicar Collins.”

  Darcy winced. “No, I would wager not.” He shook off his trepidation and returned to the more dutiful dismay of relating the death of Anne de Bourgh to Georgiana.

  7 July 1811

  Mama has outdone herself. Even within Little G’s hearing, her verbal blows rain down on Darcy constantly, and worse now that Alex has had to return to his duties. How Darcy bears it, I do not know. Mama insists he propose to me, thinking this will stabilise a home for Little G, who by all appearances is quite contrite. Poor Darcy is due to leave tomorrow. Little G will stay until August, and we are all in search of a more thoroughly researched companion for her. Once a lady is hired, Little G and said companion will travel to Pemberley. Darcy is expecting guests—some people named Bingley. Mama sniffs that they are nouveau riche, as though the de Bourghs were not. She hates the French but loves employing their insults. —A de B

  23 July 1811

  I think we have found a companion for Little G. Mama is crowing with the credit of it, but it is, as usual, undeserved praise, as she only knew someone who knew someone, when in truth, Darcy found notice of the woman from a gentleman at his club whom Mama knew only distantly. The lady was here yesterday, a Mrs. Annesley, and we all liked her, not that my opinion was required. Darcy and Alex interviewed her, and Darcy had previously contacted her references. She is a widow of perhaps thirty-five years of age who lost the three children she bore her husband one after the other to a fever, and then lost the man himself. Life may have beaten a lesser woman, but Mrs. Annesley is intelligent and without complaint. Once my cousins had completed their interview, they allowed my mother a share of the conversation, and nothing Mama said discomfited the lady in the least. This I witnessed for myself as Mama insisted, “Anne and I shall observe her and give you our opinion.” She never asked what I thought, but had she, I would have said I found the woman quite pleasingly observant.

  Little G is much changed. She is loath to play any instrument except that in Mrs. Jenkinson’s room, and she seems to have developed a horror of performing. Perhaps it is only a horror of my mother; one could not fault her for that. What is it about music that renders my mother such a fool? I notice Little G wearing childish clothes, and she does not walk out as she used to. The summer flowers in the cutting garden are at their height, but she will not go abroad, even with me. She has not spoken of her experience with Wickham but she did
confide to me that she never liked Mrs. Younge, Wickham’s accomplice, and she wishes she had the courage to have said so to Alex, who would have been more sympathetic than her brother. G believes she has bitterly disappointed Darcy. I daresay she has, though Darcy will not hear of it. Wickham had her believing he was in constant convivial correspondence with Darcy and there was no schism in their childhood friendship. Poor Little G. It is thus proved that it is possible to know too little of the world and to be made weak by cosseting—as if the example I embody is not proof enough. She is not a spoilt child…far from it. For all her physical and material advantages, she persists in a profound shyness and modesty. This is manifested more now than ever.

  G will remain with us for perhaps ten more days. Mrs. Annesley will join the family here as soon as she has settled her affairs in London where she lives with a brother. They will remain for another five days or a week and then proceed to Pemberley to stay through August and September. Once the heat of summer breaks, Little G will return to town and await the pleasure of her brother and Alex. I do agree with Mama to this extent: the girl needs distractions. More music lessons, more drawing…anything to restore her confidence.

  I do admit to some envy. How I would love to trade Mrs. Jenkinson for Mrs. Annesley. Mrs. J is a dear old thing but has little wit. Mrs. Annesley is clever. I am unkind, but I come by it honestly, do I not? —A de B

  Chapter 4

  Suspicions Confirmed

  Thursday, 9 April 1812

  the Hunsford vicarage

  It was a calm afternoon, and having taken a small meal with Charlotte and her cousin upon his return from Rosings, Elizabeth fled from his repeated recitation of the plans for the arrival of the Archbishop of Canterbury and of Lady Catherine’s “so very noble”—but probably more akin to sullen—grief. The journals of Anne de Bourgh awaited her, and the reading of them was rapidly becoming an irresistible pastime.