The colonel muttered something unintelligible and glanced under his lashes at Bingley, who did not return his look. Bingley coughed into his hand.
“Darcy…” the colonel began with no little trepidation. “As regards Elizabeth Bennet…”
Darcy flung himself back into his chair. “I was not aware we were regarding Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Admit it, man,” Bingley was moved to comment, “you cannot manage to spend a quarter hour without regarding her.”
“What of it?” Darcy glared. “We cannot all be as lucky in love as you, Bingley.”
“Well someone has been lucky with Miss Elizabeth, Darcy.” The colonel spoke in a quiet, serious tone.
“What? Has she accepted you? When did you make an offer?” Darcy was incredulous.
“I have not offered for her, but she has accepted someone. Bingley and I have both seen evidence. On separate occasions we have found her in the groves of the park, reading letters and wearing a little ring.”
“I am sorry to say it, Darcy, but it did appear to be a betrothal ring,” Bingley explained quietly. “I surprised her this morning. When I greeted her, she blushed and tucked a letter in her reticule, and I could see her struggle to remove the ring to her pocket as if I would not see.”
The colonel added, “When I saw her with it, she described wearing it as some ‘girlish silliness.’ But now Bingley has seen the same thing. The man in question must not have yet solicited the blessing of Mr. Bennet, else she would wear it in company, but she clearly has expectations.” He paused before lowering his voice to utter a sincere, “I am sorry, Darcy.”
Darcy looked at his companions, from one countenance to the other. It was rare to be the object of pity, and he did not like it. “You are quite certain? But you have no idea who?” He attempted to maintain a firm voice.
“No notion at all,” Bingley said. “And she is keeping her own counsel. Jane was as thrown as I when I asked her. Their father brought no letters…”
“And in any case, I saw her wearing the ring and reading a letter before Mr. Bennet arrived,” the colonel concluded.
The room was quiet for some minutes. At last, the elderly butler entered, asking whether the gentlemen would take port or brandy in the library, study, or billiard room.
“Bring at least a gallon of brandy here, if you would be so kind, Abernathy,” the colonel sighed.
There was a last letter upon the salver that carried the post. It was from Messers. Phawcett and Drippe, attorneys in London. The colonel read it through and announced, “We are summoned to the reading of our aunt’s Last Will and Testament on Thursday at eleven o’clock at Mr. Steventon’s office. One of her solicitors will be present.”
Darcy shook his head with exasperation.
When Bingley took his leave, the two cousins were left alone. There was an uncomfortable silence before Darcy also stood to say goodnight. With a pained expression, he turned back to his cousin before closing the dining room door. “You have no clue, Alex?”
Looking equally pained, the colonel asked, “Wickham?”
Darcy reddened. “No. No, I am certain he is not, and never was, a temptation on her side. Miss Elizabeth and I have struck a tenuous friendship. Together we convinced her father to cut any Bennet family relations with the man. No, not Wickham.”
The colonel shrugged. “I am at a loss. It did seem that one of us should have her…”
Darcy trudged to his rooms and sent Stafford away immediately, eschewing a bath or any other service. He sat before the fire until it was reduced to embers, and only when the room was nearly dark did he undress and slip naked into his bed. Although he had not imagined he would sleep, as his eyes grew heavy, he reached a hand across the bed to the woman who was not, and never would be, there to take it. As Morpheus embraced him, the arms could have been Elizabeth Bennet’s.
15 December 1811
My charming consort insists upon regaling me with tales from the wilds of Hertfordshire. Much as I hate to admit it, he is occasionally amusing. The militia has settled in and ingratiated itself with the local populace. They are invited everywhere. It seems my mother’s vicar has selected a bride, described by Wickham as a plain but intelligent woman, nearly a spinster. I had to ask, “How intelligent could she be?” and for once we shared a laugh. It is no small coincidence that Wickham finds himself in the same neighbourhood where Mr. Collins will inherit a modest estate, and we have remarked upon it more than once.
Wickham further reports there are now two ladies in the place who tempt him. One he describes as exceedingly comely and spirited, though not so wild as the two youngest daughters of some family who are allowed to chase officers morning, noon, and, one presumes, night. The lady he calls “Bouncing Bess”—he says, “Her titties jounce in a most appealing manner when she dances. I’d like to stuff my face between them.”—is generally well regarded throughout Meryton but is of little fortune. Learning this was a great disappointment to him. He does not pursue her but has settled for a chaste friendship, much as he desires to bed her. But is that not his response to any woman who is fair of face or who boasts of a fortune?
The newer lady is a recently minted heiress, Miss Mary King, and Wickham intends to pursue her. She has been away with relations in Liverpool, but she was brought home when her mother’s father died and left her in possession of a small fortune. She stays with an uncle as her mother is unwell and likely to die soon.
As an amusement, I informed Wickham he might call me Mary at his moments of urgency. This also made him laugh. We then got ourselves to our usual business…at least I have grown accustomed to it although I still wish the necessity to be acquainted with such a man, let alone allow him these liberties, would come to an end. —A de B
Wednesday, 22 April 1812
Colonel Fitzwilliam set out early to tour what he now endeavoured to think of as his park. If he could again catch Elizabeth Bennet with a letter and her ring, she would not find him so willing to pass off the issue. For Darcy to have any peace, the truth must be known. It did not surprise him that his cousin was not out riding that morning. A great quantity of brandy had been consumed, and the colonel would stake his soon-to-be-abandoned commission that Darcy had brooded away some further portion of the night.
He wandered the glades and groves for some time before deciding to call upon the vicarage. It had been his intention that, upon his return to Rosings, he would send an invitation for any that were willing to attend the burial of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Now that too many of the early hours had been spent prowling for Elizabeth Bennet, he determined it was better to present the invitation in person.
The colonel passed out of the park and approached from the side road, walking through the grassy verge to release its spring scent and, he hoped, soothe his spirits. He could see no activity around the side garden save the shapely rump of one of the ladies clad in a gown of black bombazine, bent over and plucking herbs. The ties of an apron accentuated a slender waist, showing the derriere to best advantage, excepting that it was clothed. He wondered idly whether it was Miss Bennet or Miss Elizabeth. The air was redolent of an herbal perfume from the bruised stems collected in the harvester’s hand.
When he neared the low rock wall that formed the boundary with the road, his view of the backside improved. He stood for a moment in appreciation before he coughed quietly to gain her attention. The garden nymph stood. It was Charlotte Collins.
Her face was flushed from her exertions, and it became more so upon seeing the colonel. She nervously wiped stray locks from her face, for she had only stuffed her hair under a simple straw work bonnet with no lace cap. She curtsied as Colonel Fitzwilliam made a quick bow.
“Good morning, Mrs. Collins.”
“Good morning, sir,” she exhaled, having not completely caught her breath.
“The household is well?” T
he colonel was surprised at himself at the sudden call for propriety. All he could think was that Mr. Collins had been a most fortunate husband and likely did not appreciate it.
The colonel’s decorum was amusing, and Charlotte’s grey eyes lit with merriment. She would play along with his excessively civil behaviour. But after asking, “And those at Rosings are well?” she could not suppress a smile.
Her smile pierced him, and the colonel laughed. “Well enough in health but not in spirit.”
Charlotte lifted her eyebrows and nodded, pleased to return to their usual banter and understanding.
“Today we bury our aunt, you see. That is why I have come. If you would care to attend us at two o’clock, we have a grave dug under the cedar of Lebanon beyond the conservatory. She did always hate the heat of a full west exposure.”
Charlotte’s smile grew wider. “I shall most certainly attend. It is the least I can do for her many kindnesses.”
The colonel eyed Charlotte closely. If there was some irony in her speech, who could blame her? “You will tell the others? And there will be a meal afterwards. Perhaps the others will attend that if not the burial?”
Charlotte nodded. “My father and Maria leave us this morning.” She waved the herbs in her hand. “These are for the carriage. But I shall give your message to everyone else.”
“I thank you, Mrs. Collins,” he said as he bowed.
“You are most welcome, Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
Jane Bennet and Charles Bingley attended the burial because they believed it was the proper way to offer solace to their friends through a difficult day. Charlotte Collins would offer her heartfelt if silent thanks for being delivered in one stroke from her absurd husband and his overbearing benefactress. Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Georgiana attended because they were obliged to do what was right. Elizabeth Bennet attended to offer forgiveness and to be in Darcy’s company. She did not pretend otherwise. Mr. Bennet would join them for dinner.
Georgiana stood apart, and as the simple pine box was lowered into the deep hole, she stepped forward and threw a great handful of herbs onto the coffin. Her brother looked a question at her.
“Borage for bluntness,” she explained.
There came a titter from everyone except Darcy and Elizabeth.
“What does it matter?” Georgiana asked churlishly. “She has driven away my companion, and it is put abroad that we are all touched by her madness. I shall never get a husband when I am ready.” Georgiana had worked herself into a state of nerves. “Nor will you get a wife, Brother!” She glared at Darcy before turning to her cousin. “Nor you!” She burst into tears and threw herself at Elizabeth.
Elizabeth embraced the girl and allowed her to cry. Darcy could not make out what Elizabeth said to soothe her, but did hear something to the effect of the ton having a notoriously short memory.
Georgiana wept the only tears that day. Her brother started to speak something perilously close to a sermon, but after his first sentence, “Let us hope our aunt finds the peace in the hereafter that she never found on this earth,” the colonel interjected rather loudly, “Amen!”
Colonel Fitzwilliam turned to catch the eye of Charlotte Collins, a glance that was noticed by Elizabeth and Darcy. Charlotte met the colonel’s look, blushed, and turned away.
Darcy’s quizzical expression caught Elizabeth’s suppressed smile. She captured his eye and, looking from the colonel to her friend and back again to Darcy, said softly, “Will you be my ally in this?”
His dimples deepened, and he nodded. Charlotte Collins and his cousin would be an ideal pairing, and he was surprised not to have apprehended it sooner.
Georgiana, who was still quietly weeping in Elizabeth’s arms, assumed Elizabeth’s question was to her. “Yes, I am your ally.” The girl stood straighter, wiping her eyes and returning her handkerchief to her pocket.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes, and could only imagine what Georgiana might have thought she meant.
Chapter 17
A Clash of Wills
Thursday, 23 April 1812, Hunsford,
the office of Mr. Steventon
Those who gathered not a fortnight before to hear the reading of Anne de Bourgh’s will met once again in the establishment of Mr. Steventon. Sitting at his desk was the lately elevated, austere, and proper-looking Sir Chauncey Phawcett. He did not meet anyone’s eye and fussed nervously with a thick stack of papers in front of him. The magistrate from Sevenoaks was also in attendance.
Mr. Bennet sat against the back wall. His second eldest daughter was still a week from coming of age, thus he chose to exert his fatherly authority. The various questionable events and her dangerous proximity to a murderess gave him a distinct sense of unease.
Lady Catherine’s abigail, Albertine, joined the august company. She smiled timidly at the garishly dressed Mrs. Jenkinson, who alone of the party was not in mourning. Her bilious green gown stood out amidst the black, dark brown, and grey.
Once the hopeful Albertine was settled in a chair near the window, Sir Chauncey cleared his throat to announce the beginning of the proceedings.
“Good morning.” He did not look at anyone. “We gather for the reading of the Last Will and Testament of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. The good lady’s will, as originally written, was a simple document, leaving all her worldly possessions to her daughter, Anne. However, since Miss de Bourgh’s death and the subsequent reading of her will, her ladyship sent a voluminous series of codicils to our London office.” The attorney at last glanced up to his silent audience, a growing blush upon his cheeks.
Colonel Fitzwilliam wondered idly whether the man had taken strong drink to produce such a flush to his countenance.
“As may be seen,” Sir Chauncey patted the documents in front of him, “Lady Catherine made many amendments to her wishes, I shall read only the most immediate and inclusive of these, as one codicil seemed to supersede the rest. ‘I, Lady Catherine Martha Fitzwilliam de Bourgh, being of sound mind and body, leave all of my worldly goods, the de Bourgh jewels, and the estate of Rosings Park to my faithful and devoted lady’s maid, Miss Bertha Donald.’”
There was a massed audible inhale of breath throughout the room, and Albertine gave a little shriek of glee. “I knew it! She were a lady of her word, was her ladyship!” Albertine stood triumphantly. “She said I would be wondrously rewarded, she did, for finding Miss Anne’s journal.”
Mr. Steventon spoke up, as though to a child, “Yes, well, my dear Miss Donald, not all is as it seems. Please resume your seat. We are not finished here.”
Looking contrite, Albertine sat.
“Unless I am much mistaken, Lady Catherine gives what is not hers to bestow,” the colonel grumbled under his breath.
“Quite,” Mr. Steventon nodded.
“If I might continue…” Sir Chauncey said. “It is apparent from my daughter’s spurious and faulty will that she was not in her right mind at any time during the period when her will was drawn and amended. Therefore, all of her estate remains in my charge, and I do hereby nullify all her bequests. And, because her named heir to the de Bourgh jewels has passed away due to a sudden illness, their ownership would revert to me in any case.”
Elizabeth coloured. “I do not understand; I have escaped her. What will be the disposition of the jewels?” Elizabeth cared not a jot for any but her pink diamond ring. She feared she must return it to its rightful owner if whoever that was could be determined.
“Right you should ask, miss,” said Albertine. She stood again with new haughtiness. “He just said they are to be mine!”
Mr. Steventon again affixed the maid with a disapproving eye. “Please, Miss Donald, be seated.” He did not raise his voice, but spoke with a pointedness that would brook no argument. Then more gently, “Miss Bennet, I believe all will be made clear to you shortly.”
&n
bsp; “Certainly, sir,” Elizabeth said.
Sir Chauncey resumed reading: “My late nephew, Colonel Alexander Richard Fitzwilliam…”
“Late?” The colonel coughed in shock. “Great God! Did she mean to kill us all?”
“Ahem.” Sir Chauncey had gone crimson to the tips of his ears. “If I may… ‘My late nephew was, in life, of no fit inclination, by nature or ability, to see to an estate of the magnitude of Rosings Park…’”
“What cheek…” muttered the colonel.
“Quite,” rejoined Mr. Steventon.
“… And the heir of my other lately deceased nephew, Mr. Fitzwilliam George Darcy, is my niece and not yet of age.”
“Ah,” Darcy murmured, “I am pleased to have such excellent company in my fate. Purgatory will not want for entertaining conversation or an excellent dance partner.” Darcy’s dimples emerged. Although he did not look up, he peeked at Elizabeth from the corner of his eye then at the colonel.
Elizabeth was at first alarmed that Lady Catherine had plotted an ill fate for Darcy, but at his equable response, she settled back in her chair, and the corners of her mouth quirked.
“I seem to have avoided her tea and cake,” Georgiana responded in a whisper to her brother.
“There is more,” Sir Chauncey said. “Because I am the obvious heir of both nephews, and they shared the guardianship of said niece, Miss Georgiana Darcy, I leave her guardianship to my brother, the Right Honourable Earl of Matlock, to whom it should have been left in the first place, as events have proven.”
“Of all the abominable…” Darcy reached for his sister’s hand.
“As to the living of the parish of Hunsford, which has fallen open with the passing of the reprobate William Collins, in whom I was most scandalously misled, if I have not elevated a candidate to that position already, I bestow the responsibility for the souls under my charge to Mr. George Wilkins, who had been considered for Vicar of Hunsford in July of 1811.”
A Will of Iron Page 18