A Will of Iron

by Beutler Linda

  Darcy and Elizabeth watched through their respective windows as Lady Catherine drove by in a somewhat erratic fashion in a brightly coloured curricle, along a cart path towards the south of Rosings Park. Amidst such an amazing sight, they failed to notice the entrance of Colonel Fitzwilliam.

  Upon entering the room, the colonel beheld Maria and Georgiana at the pianoforte discussing music, and he smiled a little. Seeing Darcy and Elizabeth at separate windows with their backs to him changed his expression to one slightly more sardonic in nature. Upon a settee, Charles Bingley and Jane Bennet, his Jane Bennet, engaged in a blushing, stuttering tête-à-tête. He cleared his throat with extreme disapproval, not noticing Charlotte Collins watching him with her spirited grey eyes.

  “Would you care for tea, Colonel?” she asked, rising from her chair.

  Bingley stood at once and happily held out a hand to the new arrival. “Colonel Fitzwilliam, spanking to see you again!”

  As if performing mirrored dance steps, Darcy and Elizabeth turned into the room. Separated though they were, they seemed united.

  The colonel held out his hand to Bingley for a somewhat limp handshake, and they exchanged bows. Was Mrs. Collins repressing a smirk as she handed him his tea? Behind Bingley, Jane Bennet was watching his back with something resembling appreciation in her eyes. The colonel knew that look. With nearly audible clanking, the blinkers fell from his eyes. That is her idea of manly perfection, is it? That prancing jackanapes? That giggling prat? Then she is not the woman for me. He looked towards Darcy, feeling less heartbroken than thwarted. His cousin wore a sunny smile of airy unconcern. Damn the man!

  Elizabeth and Charlotte looked from cousin to cousin with perceptive expressions. For reasons each her own, the two ladies smiled equably at the transitory and foiled affections of Colonel Alexander Fitzwilliam.

  29 December 1811

  What would you have me say of the vicar’s wife? What a conundrum she is. Her name is Charlotte Collins, formerly Lucas, and her family are near neighbours of the estate Mr. Collins is to inherit.

  She is not tall, neither fair nor dark, and of middling figure. But her grey eyes are intelligent, and she must occasionally hide a blush at some foolish pronouncement of her husband’s. As to the nonsense of my mother, Mrs. Collins will learn to hide her astonishment better in time. I cannot think why she would marry into a situation such as this. Relations with the man must be most distasteful, and she cannot have had any accurate information about the disposition and manners of my mother. Given the exorbitant praise heaped upon his patroness by Mr. Collins, I am certain this is so.

  Poor Mrs. Collins must have entered the neighbourhood assuming an independent control over her household that she will never have while Mama yet lives. Given that the lady appears to be on the wrong side of five and twenty—she may be older than me—Mr. Collins must have been seen as a welcome pis aller, and she must be happy to no longer be a burden to her family. But the fact remains, she has married one of the stupidest men in England. How can she make herself easy with such a man as her master and my mother as his exacting benefactress?

  Soon and very often, Mrs. Collins is going to wish the current incumbent of Longbourn might die of a sudden fit, no matter how intimate and pleasurable her friendship with the family. Most assuredly, when the letter comes announcing Mr. Collins is to inherit, the lady will get herself to Hertfordshire before the dust has settled from the express rider’s horse. —A de B

  Chapter 12

  Death Comes for Breakfast

  2 February 1812

  The horror of what I can now describe is beyond measure, but with my dreams and recent memories, I am suddenly able to illuminate the death of my father at my mother’s hand.

  Their squabble escalated into something nearer a brawl, but Papa would not defend himself. I was taken away but was called to them the next morning only to see the damning evidence of my mother’s brutality upon my dear father’s bruised face. He would not meet my mother’s gaze, and the decision for her to move into the dower cottage appeared mutual in its achievement and equally pleasing to both. But subsequent events did not bear this out.

  My mother began to spend hours on end in the library. The door was locked. After a week of visiting that room more than she ever had before, her research, if such it was, ended as quickly as it had begun.

  One evening at twilight, she bid me walk with her to the stables, where I was a great favourite. She had made a treat for the stable hands and trainers, and she shared it in equal measure with all the men there.

  As a child, and a sickly one, it meant nothing to me that it was soon reported some illness had swept through the stable servants, and the smallest of them, a boy not much older than I was then, had died. I did not connect her treat with their illness until these mad recollections beset me.

  To keep me from fussing that mere servants had been given a sweet and I, the heiress, had not, a similar sponge cake was presented to me when we returned from the stables. It was not redolent of almonds, as the other had been, but was instead glazed with citrus, which suited me much better.

  Some days later, we returned to the stables. There was much activity, for my father had just returned from London where he had gone for matters of business—likely his will. My mother insisted the men stop their work to partake of her treat, but they resisted. She labelled them all ungrateful wretches, and nearly stuffed the cake into the mouths of those not inclined to take it. Soon many of the men were writhing upon the ground and crying aloud. It frightened the horses, and most began kicking and snorting, stamping and squealing in an ear-splitting cacophony that terrorised me.

  My parents took their breakfast without me the next morning. All the servants I encountered mentioned the illness that had beset the stablemen the previous evening, but they made no mention that my mother and I had been there. I later learned all the men had died!

  That afternoon, my nursemaid reported Papa had taken ill. That evening, I was sent to him, and never had I seen anyone so changed. He was all over red and sweating. My mother was most solicitous, holding cool cloths to his face. He spoke little except to murmur he loved me. I was not allowed to stay long. It was the last I saw of him.

  My mother murdered him, poisoned him with something reeking of almonds, to spare her the risk every woman faces. She did it for greed and control. She practiced her dark arts on the stablemen, killing nearly a dozen, to refine her methods.

  Will anyone wonder why I have made the choices I have done and wish for nothing more than to be free of the daily sight of her? And mark me well, I shall be. —A de B

  Saturday, 18 April 1812

  the park at Rosings

  Elizabeth rose early, slipping quietly from the bed to dress for a walk. She placed Darcy’s letter in her pocket, careful to note that Jane was still asleep and would not see its hiding place.

  The morning was fair, but the air was heavy with dew, and every leaf she brushed by left a wet mark upon her pelisse. She found her favourite stump in the sun and sat to read. In what she knew was an act of the purest folly, she placed the pink diamond ring upon her betrothal finger and set to her task.

  The reading was made more poignant by Mr. Bingley’s appearance the previous day. It was all made right; everything Mr. Darcy could do to correct his errors had been done. As her fingers moved over the dear words, the ring glinted in the morning light.

  Elizabeth could not help imagining her bejewelled hand held in the masculine firmness of Darcy’s. She closed her eyes.

  “Miss Elizabeth?”

  Her eyes opened in a panic, and she saw Colonel Fitzwilliam standing at the edge of the glade. She crammed her letter into her reticule, hoping he had not seen it.

  “Colonel Fitzwilliam! Good morning, sir!” she said brightly, trying to sound unperturbed. “What brings you into the wild places? Another tour of the park?
”

  He stepped forward. “I received a queer note this morning. The midwife wishes to meet me here.”

  “In this place?”

  “Yes, I believe so. Are there many meadows hereabouts with single stumps at their centre?”

  Elizabeth became pink-cheeked, embarrassed at the interruption in her reverie. “If the midwife wishes a private word, I should take my leave.” She curtsied to go.

  “Please wait, Miss Elizabeth. I have been foolish. You must have seen the forceful attraction I felt at meeting your sister. I was powerless to hide it, but it has passed. She has set her heart on another.”

  Elizabeth nodded with a faint smile. “Indeed, sir. You could not have known it, but when you spoke of Mr. Darcy separating Mr. Bingley from the threat of an imprudent marriage, you were speaking of my sister.”

  She imitated the colonel, “‘I understand there were some strong objections to the lady,’…or so you were told. I had some notion that he was involved in separating them, and you were my confirmation.”

  Elizabeth had a singularly gratifying moment of beholding the colonel utterly staggered. She held up a staying hand and continued. “You owe an apology to your cousin more so than to me. In a most mean-spirited and unkind manner, I have held Mr. Darcy’s actions against him. In truth, he only wished to protect his friend, and Jane was ever reluctant to reveal her feelings.” She looked down. “Do you know of…of the proposal?”

  “Ahem…yes. I do know something of it.”

  “Yes, well, this episode was one I threw in his face. I was impolitic.” She paused before murmuring in wonder, “And now Mr. Darcy has made it right.” Did he do this for me? “Oh, I only mean that now Jane and Mr. Bingley are in proximity and may find their way forward as foolishly as two people in love may be supposed to do without interference.”

  “Darcy tried to warn me that Miss Bennet’s regard might centre on someone other than me.” The colonel shook his head as though confused. “It is as if I had a brief, startling illness and have now recovered. Please forgive me for any distress I may have caused you.”

  “Me?” Elizabeth’s voice sounded slightly alarmed.

  The colonel laughed ruefully. “I understand you.”

  “Explain me to myself then if you would be so kind.” She attempted to sound nonchalant.

  “It would seem it is not the fate of Alexander Fitzwilliam to win the heart of either of the eldest Miss Bennets.” He motioned towards her reticule, held by the hand wearing the ring. “But am I to wish you joy?”

  “Oh! Oh, no!” She took off the ring and placed it in her pocket. “No, that is nothing. Girlish silliness. Please, say nothing of it. Forget you saw it.”

  The colonel looked at her curiously. “As you wish.”

  “Ah! Colonel Fitzwilliam! My apologies, sir, for being late.” Mrs. Spiggotson hurried into the glade.

  “Mrs. Spiggotson, I am Colonel Fitzwilliam, and this is Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

  Introductions were civilly exchanged.

  “I should leave you,” Elizabeth said. “You have matters to discuss that do not involve me.”

  Mrs. Spiggotson responded, “Not directly, no, ma’am. But I must advise you, if you please, do not accept any invitation to take tea or any refreshment alone with Lady Catherine. She is not to be trusted, and”—she looked more particularly at the colonel—“sir, I fear your aunt is not in her right mind.”

  The colonel laughed abruptly, trying to pass off the warning. “Within the family, this is not exceptional information.”

  “I am not in jest, sir. You see, I know all of Miss Anne’s… um… situation. As I believe this lady does…” The sturdy little midwife glanced at Elizabeth. “But Lady Catherine has it all wrong and will not be corrected.”

  “LIZZY! Lizzy! Oh, Lizzy, I am so glad I found you!”

  Maria Lucas came sprinting to a stop amidst the threesome.

  “Maria!” Elizabeth took the girl by the shoulders to still her, and met her gaze. “Steady yourself. You are all in a lather! What can be so dire?”

  “It is Charlotte! She is in a panic. I have never seen her so hysterical. She says you are to return at once—that she requires your help.”

  “Of course, Maria.”

  After hasty civilities, the two young ladies were away as fast as propriety would allow with a man watching their retreat. As soon as they were beyond the meadow, Elizabeth began to run with Maria following behind.

  Charlotte was indeed quite frantic when they found her in her sitting room. Every drawer was opened, every cushion was on the floor or cast about; the entire room was upset. “Lizzy! Oh, Lizzy, please tell me you found the last volume of the journal and have taken it away to read.”

  Her eyes were beseeching, but Elizabeth had no good news to impart. “I do not know where you kept it, except that you said it was in your Oakley where Mr. Collins would not venture.”

  “Damn it…” Charlotte muttered, much to the shock of her sister.

  Elizabeth was known to speak ill under her breath when provoked and ignored Charlotte’s slip of the tongue. Her older friend had taught her most of the infamous words she knew, which Charlotte in turn had learnt from her several brothers. “Where did you hide it?” Elizabeth asked. She removed her pelisse, slipping her ring from its pocket to the pocket of her gown, and handed the pelisse to Nell, who had appeared to take her outerwear.

  “Amongst the mourning gowns from Rosings.” Charlotte made a dash up the stairs with Elizabeth hard upon her heels.

  “And Albertine brought more on Wednesday?” Elizabeth asked.

  Charlotte started. “Oh, bloody bollocks…” The dressing room was a madhouse of gowns and camisoles, stockings and petticoats, spread hither and yon as if a modiste’s warehouse had exploded.

  Maria stepped back with her hand to her mouth.

  Elizabeth put her arm around Maria’s shoulders and steered her from the room. “Perhaps you should stay in your room, my dear? Shall I come for you when your sister is in a better humour?”

  Maria nodded, her eyes seeming permanently widened by her elder sister, a vicar’s wife, cursing with such ease and facility.

  When Elizabeth entered Charlotte’s dressing room, her friend had sunk to the floor, now in a pelter of ungovernable tears. It was an unprecedented sight.

  Elizabeth shook Charlotte’s shoulders. “What is in the journal, Charlotte? What can be so very bad? I read nothing more or less untoward than any other part.”

  After several deep breaths, Charlotte was able to speak. “The—the material point is that Lady Catherine will know we have read it. You and I know the truth.”

  “On my walk, I came upon Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was to meet the midwife at her behest, and I talked with her myself. She says Lady Catherine is undone by this and is not to be trusted. Her ladyship has drawn incorrect conclusions from what she has read, and we are not to accept any invitation where we may be alone with her.”

  Charlotte pulled herself up on her knees and frowned. “What could be misconstrued?”

  “You would know better than I, Charlotte. Perhaps Lady Catherine does not remember Wickham, or—”

  Charlotte jumped to her feet. “Wickham is not named in the second volume. He is only ever ‘Mr. C.’ Lizzy…this morning Mr. Collins received a note to arrive early—to take breakfast with her ladyship.”

  “Where is Jane?”

  “Out with Mr. Bingley.

  “That is a blessing. Charlotte, we must go!”

  Mrs. Collins nodded, and the women scrambled to their feet, stumbled down the stairs, and made their way as fast as they could for Rosings.

  The same morning, Rosings

  the small summer breakfast parlour

  Mr. Collins was in awe. Never had such an honour been bestowed upon
him, to take an entire meal alone with her ladyship. The food was arrayed on warming trays along the sideboard. Upon the table, tea and coffee were already steeping and a perfectly luscious-looking sponge cake with a thick glaze was awaiting them. The room was redolent with the aroma of almonds, which was one of his favourite flavours. He breathed in the scent. The knowledge that Lady Catherine had remembered his preferences swelled his chest with pride. He and his beloved patroness were of one mind.

  “Ah! Mr. Collins, prompt as ever! I do so appreciate that you take my requirement for punctuality to heart.” Lady Catherine swept into the room with a rustle of black skirts and passed Mr. Collins who was making a deep bow of deferential submission. He owed her nothing less.

  Lady Catherine stood by her chair, and as no footmen were present, waited for Mr. Collins to rise from his awkward position to draw out her seat. He was all obsequious concern as the great lady settled herself.

  “I have arranged this assignation with you to demonstrate my approval for the penetration of…your understanding during this most difficult time.”

  Mr. Collins sat, feeling immensely pleased, and opened his mouth to respond, but Lady Catherine continued to speak. He flattened his lips over his teeth to silence himself and nodded.

  “Anne was most appreciative, it seems, of your many, repeated attentions to her. Pray, fetch me that black volume upon that chair.”

  Mr. Collins stood. “Of course, your ladyship.” He had not noticed the finely bound book before and handed it to Lady Catherine with another bow.

  “I shall read to you from this journal she kept, for she mentions you often, most especially in January, but first, let us take a little to drink and some of this digestive cake.” Lady Catherine fixed her hawk-like visage upon Mr. Collins, expecting him to give away some guilty emotion in learning that Anne had written of him, but instead, he appeared not only surprised but pleased. She gave him a creamy smile as she poured out his tea and then coffee for herself.