A Will of Iron

by Beutler Linda

  Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut for a few steps after walking away from the Darcys to avoid them hearing her irrepressible giddiness. It was not so annoying to be called “Mrs. Collins” when there was no longer a Mr. Collins. Once outside in the spring morning air, she began to skip and found herself laughing. Upon reaching the palings out of Rosings Park, she stopped to gather her breath. Do not let freedom render you deranged, Charlotte. She tittered again. Lady Catherine has proved herself even more useful in death than she was in life! Fearing to give the appearance of losing her wits in front of Jane, Charlotte took a deep breath and proceeded to the vicarage.

  After telling Jane everything except of Elizabeth’s narrow and unwitting escape—leaving that onerous task to the lady herself—the two women sorted through the mourning gowns and donned deepest black. Jane selected a gown of charcoal grey barège for Elizabeth.

  “I look rather well in black, I think.” Charlotte turned her figure at profile in the mirror while Jane laced the back of the gown. She was grateful that Jane, although full of incredulous alarm for the safety of the living, was not excessively sentimental for the dead.

  Jane reflected, “You did not come to love my cousin, did you, Charlotte?”

  “No. I did manage to convince myself for a time that I was content, but I do not know how much longer I could have pretended. No, it must be said, I shall enjoy wearing black for a year, for it means I am free. And with so little expense! There are ever so many gowns here.”

  “Where will you settle? Surely Colonel Fitzwilliam will not wait long to name a new vicar.”

  Charlotte shrugged carelessly. “Yes…where shall I settle? I shall have some independence, thanks to Anne de Bourgh. Not much for frivolity, but certainly enough for security. But I have come to love these woods and hills. With an affable gentleman like the colonel as the neighbourhood’s preeminent fixture, who may well marry an amiable wife, Hunsford will be a pleasanter village. Perhaps I might carry on here.”

  Jane nodded. “I suppose a woman of independent means might not want to settle too near her family.”

  Charlotte met her eyes as they gathered the tea things. “It is but three miles from Longbourn to Netherfield.”

  “Yes, so it is.” Jane gave an imitation of her sister’s arch look. “Perhaps that is Mr. Bingley’s one imperfection.” She broke into a laugh. “It is fortunate he has only leased the place.”

  Elizabeth stood as Jane entered the sitting room, and the sisters embraced. “What a thing to have seen, Lizzy—the two bodies. I should have fainted myself.”

  Elizabeth looked at Charlotte.

  Charlotte shook her head to indicate she had not told Jane everything.

  “That is not why I fainted, Jane. I must tell you, Lady Catherine would have poisoned me too. She made her evil tea and cake the morning I came to see the de Bourgh jewels, but she was called away.” Elizabeth’s eyes darted down. “I became distracted by my emotions. I cannot explain more exactly than that, but I could not concentrate on looking at the jewellery, nor was I hungry or in need of tea. I was more in need of you! When I stood looking at our dead cousin, and saw the same kind of cake on the table, I realised my escape and what had saved me. It was then that I swooned.”

  Jane took her sister’s hand. “That explains it. I was sure you could not be so delicate.” She smiled a little.

  Elizabeth sat more upright. “I should say not!”

  “But how terrible for the Darcys and the colonel to have a murderess in the family!” Jane shook her head.

  “Yes,” said Charlotte, watching Elizabeth, “and Mr. Darcy always so particular about his family’s reputation.”

  Elizabeth did not respond but rather stared into the fire. Such crimes as these would see the light of truth and the subsequent inaccuracy of modern journalism—or what passed for it. There was no hiding what had happened this day even if he would wish to. What must he be feeling?

  Jane did not like to see her sister so dispirited. “Lizzy, the world will know of this, but it does not reflect upon Mr. Darcy or his sister. Mr. Bingley says he is quite highly thought of. And by the time Miss Darcy is brought out, there will be other scandals for the ton to devour. This will be long settled.”

  At the mention of Mr. Bingley, Elizabeth brightened. “And what of Mr. Bingley, Jane? Were his apologies handsomely worded?”

  Jane laughed. “Oh, yes, and profuse in number. He is quite vexed with Mr. Darcy for knowing I was in London, and I fear there may be some cross words, but I cannot fault Mr. Darcy; I was too withdrawn. I was so fearful of appearing complaisant about Mr. Bingley’s affections that I would not reveal a hint of mine.”

  “Have you declared yourself, then?” Charlotte asked.

  Jane tilted her head and attempted to appear mischievous. “No, but Mr. Bingley has made his regard plain to me, and so, at the proper moment, I shall do the same for him. As for today, I enjoyed his apologies far too much to interrupt them. It was very wrong of me!”

  Elizabeth embraced her sister. “Oh Jane, I have always loved you, but you are even more lovable when you are in love! Do you not wish to shout it?”

  Jane laughed quietly. “Indeed. To speak of my feelings aloud to Mr. Bingley will be a great relief.”

  Darcy was just about to enter the room to tell the ladies of the magistrate’s arrival and that Elizabeth and Charlotte would be questioned. He wished to determine to his own satisfaction that Elizabeth could withstand the rigours of an interview. He stopped when he overheard Elizabeth’s teasing enquiry after Bingley’s apologies and Jane’s reply. Mr. Bennet had raised two clever daughters, but the elder was more likely to cover her keen observations with a thick veneer of benign goodwill. Elizabeth, to the contrary, withheld nothing and seemed to relish a challenge. She was his severest critic. And she was nearly taken from me—can I ever forgive my aunt? His thoughts reminded him that he must write to the Archbishop. He turned away without speaking.

  Georgiana, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Mr. Bingley joined the ladies in Anne de Bourgh’s sitting room. Charlotte made an exaggerated pantomime of presenting the tea and how she was making it, to everyone’s amusement.

  “Lizzy, might we open the curtains now? I believe they were drawn for fear the bright sun would give you a headache.” Georgiana moved to the windows.

  “Please do! I had wondered why the room was being kept so dark. Pray, do not keep it so for me.” Elizabeth moved to Georgiana’s side to view the prospect. When she turned, the light illuminated the painting over the fireplace, catching Elizabeth’s attention. She had never seen a mansion so simple and so happily situated, and she moved to the picture as if under a spell. “What is this place?” she asked, before drawing close enough to read the nameplate on the frame.

  “Ah!” The colonel moved next to her. “That is Pemberley, Darcy’s estate.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes moved over the painting as Georgiana came to stand by them, and the colonel put his arm absently around his cousin’s shoulders.

  “Is it truly so lovely, or is there some artistic license?” Elizabeth’s voice was low with wonder.

  “That is exactly as it looks as one approaches on the coach road from a village called Lambton. You approve?” Georgiana asked.

  “I think there are few who would not approve,” Elizabeth murmured. He loved me enough to envision me as the lady of his manor? Or was it simply some manly desire he could not fight but did not think through? He has surely thought better of his inclinations now… No, Lizzy, that is unfair. He has made improvements based on my cruel complaints. He has restored Mr. Bingley to Jane. Did he do it because it was right or because it would please me or perhaps both? How much of this can I bear—to know I have thrown such a love aside?

  Jane smiled fondly at Bingley, who had begun extolling the particular virtues of Pemberley. He explained his favourite features,
wholly unaware of Elizabeth’s mounting distress.

  Feeling tears sting her eyes, Elizabeth turned away. “I have stayed too long indoors. I shall take a walk.”

  Jane saw the colonel and Georgiana exchange a significant look. Will they think my sister mercenary for taking such an interest? But she has never cared for Mr. Darcy’s good opinion. Or she never did before… Jane was surprised at herself; she wanted Lizzy to soften towards Mr. Darcy. Perhaps opinions were already altering in Mr. Darcy’s favour, but Lizzy was ever too vain of her own powers of observation to easily admit a mistake. Jane became determined to speak with her, for what a grand thing for dearest Lizzy to be in love with Charles Bingley’s best friend.

  “Lizzy,” she said. “Charlotte and I brought you a dark grey gown. We should observe the mourning of our cousin when we go out. And we must write to our father when you return.”

  By mid-afternoon, it was clear the magistrate would require two days to conclude the necessary business, and he would return on Monday. Darcy and the colonel invited the ladies from Hunsford to a light repast, and Maria was brought to join them. It was all anyone wanted for dinner after such a day.

  After the meal, a carriage was called immediately, and the colonel rode back to the vicarage with the ladies. Charlotte had agreed to give him the 1811 volume of Anne’s journal.

  Meanwhile, Darcy and Bingley awaited his return in the billiards room. Darcy admitted everything to Bingley: his mistaken notions of Jane Bennet and, more painfully, his affection for and benighted proposal to Elizabeth.

  Bingley felt far too sorry for his friend’s failed offer to attempt any remonstrance of his own. Elizabeth’s near brush with death at the hands of Lady Catherine de Bourgh made him even less inclined to speak harshly to Darcy. Bingley knew Jane would have been devastated to suffer such a loss. This thought lead to others, both more pleasurable and confusing. He lost his concentration for the game.

  Bingley aligned a shot, taking enough time about it as to annoy Darcy. For all his effort, Bingley missed. “It seems, due to my ineptitude at Hertfordshire and my being so easily persuaded to feelings not my own, that Miss Bennet no longer assumes that the quality of likeability testifies to goodness.”

  Darcy studied the table. “You think she no longer believes you to be a good man?”

  “Why would she?”

  “That I cannot say. Who knows why anyone loves anyone else? No, I shall not speak of why, only that I overheard the sisters speaking after Jane arrived here today. You need have no fear for her affections, Bingley.”

  Bingley’s smile lit the room. “What did she…?”

  Darcy held up a hand. “Do not ask. I shall not disclose particulars. Women cannot love proud men—trust me in this—and I shall not make your head swell by supplying details I was not meant to know. I have influenced you more than I should. Whether you love Jane Bennet enough to make her an offer, you must be above my paltry persuasion.”

  21 September 1811

  What in heaven’s name have I gotten myself into, and how low can be the character of the man I have chosen to father my child? I pray daily for a quick conception, and twice a day when I have been with him, which now totals four times.

  He thinks to play me the fool. I gave him the funds for his purchase of a commission in the regiment stationed at Sissinghurst. Today he has revealed that they are to be moved to a place called Meryton, in Hertfordshire, for the winter.

  Firstly, he will be nearly fifty miles away instead of less than ten. Damned annoying not to have him easily at my beckoning. But now comes his perfidy: he has explained, using insultingly simple terms—have I not proved my wits and that I have the measure of him?—that he has been advised by some vague acquaintance already within the regiment that ’tis better he waits to join after they have moved to Meryton. This was of little consequence to me, excepting he requests a duplicate of the sum I have already given him that he might buy his commission later. He thinks… Well, I am sure I do not know what he thinks except that I am a foolish woman and part easily with my money. His new frock coat, the ghastly scent he wears (doubtless thinking it alluring), and perhaps gaming debts have wasted the original sum.

  Such knavery is to be expected, I suppose. Is this not why I selected him? He is the worst sort of fellow, and no one would ever suggest we marry.

  Damn the man. —A de B

  Chapter 14

  A Knight Sardonic Arrives

  Saturday evening, 18 April 1812,

  the Hunsford vicarage

  After sending Maria safely to bed, Jane, Elizabeth, and Charlotte gathered in Charlotte’s sitting room. They talked of desultory topics, and none could find any comfort—not in reading, as Charlotte attempted, in handwork in Jane’s case, or in writing letters. Elizabeth felt a letter to Mrs. Gardiner was owed but could not string two words of sense together nor properly mend her pen.

  At last, Jane spoke of something substantial. “Lizzy, had you some understanding with Colonel Fitzwilliam?”

  Charlotte looked up sharply.

  “Colonel Fitzwilliam is no longer an object, Jane. I cannot say truthfully he ever was.” The corner of Elizabeth’s mouth curved; she was amused at herself. She had only ever wanted the colonel to be a window into the soul of Fitzwilliam Darcy—at first to confirm she should dislike him and now to offer her some hope that Mr. Darcy did not dislike her.

  “I am relieved to hear it. It was my instant fear, when I arrived and the colonel behaved so oddly, that I had been the means of your heart being broken. I own I thought badly of him, Lizzy.” The relief was plain on Jane’s face.

  Charlotte continued to look at Elizabeth, and Elizabeth was provoked by her expression to respond, “Charlotte, I have found the colonel to be pleasant on every occasion, and he will, without doubt, make the right lady an amiable husband. But to make a felicitous match, he will need his equal in sly, discerning humour and guarded candour. She will need to be quick and observant and have a compassion for the trials he has suffered in service to his country.”

  Elizabeth observed her friend as she spoke. Never had she felt herself to be more the centre of Charlotte’s attention. “Now tell me, Charlotte, when did you first know you were in love with Colonel Fitzwilliam?”

  “Lizzy!” Jane exclaimed. She appeared mortified at what her sister was suggesting about Charlotte’s character.

  Charlotte blushed swiftly, confirming Elizabeth’s suppositions. To ease her friend’s agitation, Elizabeth suppressed her smile. She and Charlotte were captivated by men who could not return their affections. It was both comforting and sad.

  “You will not believe this of me, Lizzy, but it was love at first sight.”

  The two friends reached across the table and held hands. “How truly maddening, dear Charlotte, to discover your true love whilst married to a man you had just learnt to tolerate.”

  Jane’s surprised stare swept from one of her companions to the other.

  Charlotte nodded ruefully. “You saw when you arrived that I had convinced myself to be happy, Lizzy. I could have lived contentedly had I never met Colonel Alexander Fitzwilliam. Love is humbling…is it not?” She met Elizabeth’s gaze as if waiting for a glimmer of recognition.

  “Whatever do you mean, Charlotte? You imply I am in love.”

  Jane smiled softly at her sister. She took one of Elizabeth’s hands as Charlotte clasped the other. Both women spoke at once: “But you are.”

  Elizabeth looked at their hands as Jane and Charlotte completed the circle. “I know,” she said. “It is too dreadful.”

  1 April 1812

  I must write again today, for I am all astonishment. It would seem my cousin Darcy is God’s own fool—an April Fool. He is in love with Miss Elizabeth Bennet! I could not be more delighted by this latest of life’s absurdities. She is certain of his disdain.

  I st
opped outside the vicarage during my afternoon excursion, and Mrs. Collins paid me her attentions. As I often contrive, I asked Mr. Collins to bring me some trifle from the house. I knew Darcy had called in the morning, and Mrs. Collins informed me he had found Miss Bennet alone, its being a market day. She revealed, with some amusement, that he had appeared puzzled and seemed thrown by his time with Elizabeth. I believe Mrs. Collins suspects him.

  I had the advantage of her in watching him frown, fidget, and fuss through last night’s dinner and the quiet family evening afterwards. He displayed every mannerism a discomfited Fitzwilliam Darcy ever did: twisting his signet ring, rubbing his hands over his lips, appearing to muse on ponderous matters as he paced, running his hands through his hair distractedly, all of it. But to this, he added something new: the occasional fleeting smile.

  Oh, yes! But now, how is the lady to be worked on? This is a Sisyphean task, because I suspect Darcy of some deceit as he will never speak to EB of her elder sister. What has he done? —A de B

  Sunday, 19 April 1812,

  the Hunsford vicarage and church

  Charlotte Collins stood at the doors of the Hunsford church. There was no vicar to lead the Sunday service, and early in the morning, the black hangings of deep mourning were spread around the doors and various architectural impedimenta of the building’s exterior. The Cold Cook had prepared Mr. Collins to be seen by those of his parishioners as cared to view the remains of a man known to be murdered by the high-born harridan who had managed him and the entire town with an iron fist. Needless to say, the numbers of people so moved were legion.

  His widow gave every appearance of strength and grace, keeping her astonishment private. The grandeur of her widow’s weeds was much admired, for the town ladies knew they were hand-me-downs from the murderess and thus did not begrudge Mrs. Collins her elegant, if slightly outdated, bereavement. Few of the villagers travelled in such lofty circles as to judge silk bombazine de classé and that sateen under sarcenet was now preferred.