by J P Christy
“Miss Bennet has accepted my proposal.” Bingley held out his hand to Jane, who clasped it happily. “And Darcy has gone to purchase a special licence.” We wish to be wed at Longbourn, perhaps as soon as next week. We would like you to officiate.”
“It would be my privilege,” Ainsworth said, very pleased.
“I am happy that our friend will also be our officiant,” Jane said. “We shall keep you informed of Mr. Bennet’s health and advise you when we set a date.”
“We will pray for your family,” Ainsworth said. Jane thanked him, and she and Bingley said their goodbyes.
≈≈≈
As the newly engaged couple walked along the path to Longbourn, Bingley laughed suddenly. “I cannot believe I am about to achieve my heart’s dearest desire!”
Jane leaned against him lightly. “My poor brain is nearly overwhelmed … both from my fears about my father’s condition and my joy that I am to be Mrs. Charles Bingley.”
“Say it again—please? Dearest Jane, say my name!”
She faced him. “Charles Bingley, the most amiable man of my acquaintance, who is everything a gentleman ought to be.”
He kissed her brow, her temples, her cheeks, and finally her lips. “I love you. I love you! I wish we could be married right now.”
“Well, there are those minor matters of the licence, the ceremony, and the witnesses. Also, the wedding breakfast, my dress, some flowers, and a ring.”
“This shall be a rushed affair. Will you regret not having a grand wedding?”
“If you are the groom, I will regret nothing.” Rising on her toes, she kissed him just beneath his ear. When he reached for her, she laughed and ran ahead on the path.
Grinning, Bingley waited a few moments to give her a head start before he pursued her. Thank you, Providence, for bringing Jane and me together.
≈≈≈
Following the piano incident, Lady Catherine sequestered herself in her suite at Kesteven Place for the next several days and nights. Thus, when Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson realized there were no immediate repercussions for their deception, they carried on, sightseeing, shopping, and generally behaving as if they were on a holiday. Anne did not go to the Thursday night ball, the last one of the season, and she no longer bothered to parade around the Pump Room.
On Friday when the ladies were out, Mr. Stafford called, leaving his card for Mrs. Jenkinson. Although he told himself he was not searching for her, he strolled through town, visiting the places he knew she and Miss De Bourgh frequented. It was at Sydney Gardens that he saw the ladies sitting on a bench. Fortifying himself with a deep breath, he approached them.
Anne saw Stafford first and nudged Mrs. Jenkinson. The ladies rose in unison and, after an exchange of greetings, Stafford said, “How fortuitous to meet you. Only a little while ago, I called at your residence.”
“Mama is indisposed, so we are ladies at leisure,” Anne said.
“I was hoping for a private word with you, Mrs. Jenkinson. May I call on you later?”
“One might say the walls of Kesteven Place have ears, sir,” she said cautiously.
“When Nora and I wish to speak privately, we go into the back garden. Speak with Nora here, sir. I will wander over there to gaze upon Avon Canal, and you may take my seat.”
“You are very kind, Miss De Bourgh. I am hesitant to displace you, but .…”
Anne cupped her hand to her ear. “Listen, the canal is calling for me to visit. Please excuse me.” As she walked away, she gave them a playful smile over her shoulder.
“Shall we sit?” Stafford asked, and they sat.
“Are you well, Mr. Stafford?”
“I am, thank you. This is a pleasant setting for a conversation.” He looked around, feeling nervous yet confident; then, to Mrs. Jenkinson’s surprise, he took her hand. “You have shown such a clear understanding of me, madam, I feel you already know what I am about to say.”
Puzzled, she smiled, but gave a slight shake of her head, no. “Have you come to tell us that you are returning home?”
“Yes, and I ask you to join me, dear lady, as my wife. I admire you and am confident ours will be a comfortable home of companionship and felicity, far away from a capricious employer who does not value or respect you.”
For perhaps three heartbeats, Mrs. Jenkinson considered his proposal. Mr. Stafford is a kind and decent man. I would be free of Lady Dragon. I could have my own home again. But when she thought of leaving Anne, she knew she could not accept; at that realization, her eyes sparkled with tears. “You are truly one of the best men I have ever known, and I am honored by your offer. But I cannot abandon Miss De Bourgh. I am her only friend, and without me, I fear her life would be short and brutish. I thank you, I thank you most sincerely, sir, but I must decline.”
Stunned, Stafford released her hand. “You feel an obligation to Miss De Bourgh?”
“I feel an obligation to my dearest friend.”
“I hope Miss De Bourgh appreciates you, for Lady Catherine does not. I feel I am leaving you in the lair of a monster.”
“May I count on your discretion, Mr. Stafford?”
“Of course.”
“I am helping Miss De Bourgh devise a scheme by which she may keep what is rightfully hers and yet be free of her mother’s control. Of course, it is critical that Lady Catherine remain ignorant of Anne’s intentions until we have a plan.”
Is this true? Or is it merely an elaborate fiction to justify rejecting me? Stafford studied Mrs. Jenkinson’s face; seeing the tears in her eyes, he believed her. “Yes, I shall keep your secret.”
She grasped his hand. “Your kindness overwhelms me, sir!”
Stafford stood. “I wish you and Miss De Bourgh a happy life away from her ladyship.”
“Thank you.” As Mrs. Jenkinson watched him walk away, a few tears slid down her cheeks, and she wiped them away quickly. When she glanced at Anne, she saw her friend looking at her with a concerned expression. Forcing a smile, she gave a brief wave.
Anne hurried to join her. “Is everything all right, Nora?”
“Yes. Mr. Stafford is returning home.”
“And?” Anne sat and took her friend’s hand.
After a pause, Mrs. Jenkinson said, “He proposed; he feels your mother does not value me.”
“He proposed! What did you say?”
“Of course, I declined. I cannot leave you to the mercy of a parent who cares nothing for your happiness. You must be free to live your own life, and you need me to help you.”
“Do you love Mr. Stafford?”
“No. Nor did he say he loved me.”
“But at social events, you often converse with him.”
“Your mother insisted I occupy him and any other gentlemen whom she does not consider suitable for you. It is true, however, that I have come to esteem Mr. Stafford.”
“Oh, Mama,” Anne groaned. She examined her friend’s face. “But you like Mr. Stafford.”
“Yes, as do you, Anne.”
“He would be an acceptable husband—no, he would be better than that. He is caring and gentlemanly. Oh, Nora, I am humbled you should make such a sacrifice for me!”
“It is no sacrifice, but your mother must never know! She brought you here to find a husband. Were she to learn I received an offer, she would be most upset with both of us.”
“We must find a way for me to free myself. Your choice today must not be in vain. Have you written to your brother lately?”
“I have been reluctant to reveal your situation in my letters to Peter, as I fear Spicer is under orders to read our mail.”
“Once we are in London, we will send our letters from Darcy House and receive our replies there. I shall copy sections of my father’s will into the letters so your brother can review them.”
“London,” Mrs. Jenkinson agreed. “We will find answers once we are there.”
When the ladies returned home late in the afternoon, they were told Lady Catherine would join them for dinner tomorrow to di
scuss the journey to London. Delighted to have another evening of freedom, the ladies dined in the private sitting room attached to Anne’s bedroom. As if by unspoken agreement, they made no mention of Stafford’s proposal.
≈≈≈
As Elizabeth and Jane were preparing for bed, Jane said, “When Charles and I—” Off her sister’s amused look, she declared, “Yes, I sometimes call him Charles, and it pleases us both.”
“Jane, I would only be concerned if you called your fiancé by a name that was not his.”
“When we went into the Laidlaw’s barn today, Mr. Ainsworth was spreading hay in a stall … and he was not wearing a shirt.”
“Oh.” After a pause, Elizabeth asked, “What did you think?”
After a pause, Jane said with a giggle, “I think our Mary is a lucky girl. Not that I understand anything that a lady ought not to understand.”
“Indeed not!”
≈≈≈
When Stafford first considered proposing to Mrs. Jenkinson, he envisioned himself rescuing a kind lady from a cruel employer. Of course, his taking a wife would also put an end to his family’s exhortations for him to marry. He knew his parents would not be pleased that Mrs. Jenkinson had been a paid companion; nevertheless, she was a gentleman’s daughter.
However, it was not until many hours after the lady had declined his offer that Stafford felt the full weight of his loss. He had imagined evenings of quiet companionship with her; he believed she understood his pain at the loss of his first wife; he was certain she would have guided him out of his grief. Now, as he brooded over Mrs. Jenkinson’s refusal, he became convinced she was exactly who he needed in his life.
Staring out his bedroom window at the nearly full moon, Stafford sipped this third glass of wine; his mood was by turns morose, sympathetic, disappointed, and angry. When the latter emotion roiled his thoughts, he considered sending an anonymous letter to alert Lady Catherine that her daughter’s companion was plotting against her. Thus, when Mrs. Jenkinson was dismissed by her ladyship—as she surely would be—she could freely make a choice which served her own happiness. Yet, when Stafford felt sympathetic, he admired the lady’s dedication to her friend.
29
“When you were in my arms, the impulse overwhelmed me.”
June 22, 1811
It is uncertain as to who told Lady Lucas of Mr. Bennet’s collapse. It might have been the apothecary’s son, or the maid at Lucas Lodge whose cousin was a maid at Netherfield, or various others. What is certain is that by Friday evening, Mr. Bennet’s collapse was known throughout the neighborhood in Hertfordshire. However, only Lady Lucas felt compelled to pass the news beyond the borders of the county. Thus, on Saturday morning, a special messenger was dispatched with a letter for Charlotte.
≈≈≈
At breakfast, Stafford informed his mother he would not escort her to Lady Russell’s dinner on Monday. In a scolding tone, she asked how he expected to find a wife if he did not leave the house. With a touch of bitterness, he replied that only yesterday he had proposed to a lady—Miss Anne De Bourgh’s companion—and she had refused him out of friendship for Anne.
“Mrs. Jenkinson rejected you to be with Miss De Bourgh?”
“She is a loyal friend.”
“Women have no such loyalties,” Lady Stafford scoffed. “We can’t afford them when marriage is the only respectable path open to us for a comfortable existence.”
“Clearly, Mrs. Jenkinson is an exceptional woman. Good day, Mother.” Upon leaving her company, he arranged to return to his home in Oxfordshire on Monday, knowing Lady Stafford would make an unholy fuss if he traveled on the Sabbath.
≈≈≈
At Hunsford Parsonage late on Saturday, Charlotte Collins considered it an act of Providence that her husband was away when the courier delivered her mother’s letter.
My Dear Charlotte, What can one say when God visits despair on one’s friends but bestows a blessing, a gift, on one’s own family? I scarcely know how to feel. It is unlikely that any of the Bennet girls have advised you yet of their father’s recent collapse. As Mr. Bennet is unconscious and may be on his deathbed, your friends surely have their hands full in caring for him as well as seeing to the welfare of Mrs. Bennet, who, rumor has it, is debilitated with nervousness and flutterings.
Only God knows whether this is Mr. Bennet’s time or whether, and to what degree, he will recover. I write you now so you can be prepared to give solace to your childhood friends when their father — as eventually, we all must — shuffles off his mortal coil (in the words of the Bard). Because you have written that Lady Catherine is away, I encourage you to visit us at Lucas Lodge soon. Your loving mother, Lady Lucas Postscript, Maria is having such a wonderful time in Brighton. She may even return with a fiancé!
Stunned, Charlotte sat with the letter in her lap for some time; then she tucked the undated letter into the back of her sewing box. Not like this—not now! Please let Mr. Bennet live until at least one of the Bennet daughters has married! My husband will not be kind to them in this difficult time. This news can wait.
≈≈≈
On Saturday evening, nearly a week following the “pianoforte incident,” Lady Catherine finally joined Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson for dinner. For much of the meal, her ladyship did not speak, so Anne pretended she was Elizabeth Bennet and endeavored to make casual, slightly impertinent conversation. However, her
mother refused to utter more than “yes,” “no,” and “it is of no interest to me.”
After the footman served Lady Catherine’s favorite summer dessert of ratafia cakes and syllabub, her ladyship told him to quit the dining room. As Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson exchanged wary looks, she captured their attention by beating her spoon on the dining table. “You shamed me with your deception regarding the pianoforte! Kindly enlighten me, Anne, as to why you kept your musical abilities a secret?”
“I enjoyed playing music, but you made it clear you did not enjoy my music. I did not wish to disappoint you, nor did I wish to abandon an activity that gave me pleasure.”
“I am shocked at your laying the cause for your deception at my door!” Lady Catherine then proceeded to describe her Anne’s many failings, including her broken engagement to Darcy and her inability to find a suitor, despite her fortune and estate.
Had I accepted Mr. Stafford’s proposal, I could fling my wine in Lady Dragon’s face! Mrs. Jenkinson thought, watching as Anne seemed to shrink under her mother’s tirade. Abruptly, she rose. “I have finished my dinner, so I shall excuse myself. Miss De Bourgh, are you done as well?” Surprised into silence, her ladyship glared at Mrs. Jenkinson, who maintained a neutral expression.
Slowly, Anne rose. “Yes, I am done. Good night, Mama.”
“Go on, get out!” Lady Catherine barked.
Moving to stand behind Anne, Mrs. Jenkinson placed her hands lightly on her friend’s shoulders and gave her a gentle push to lead the way from the dining room. “I shall guard your retreat,” she whispered. At that, Anne smiled timidly and exited, and a footman closed the dining room doors behind them.
Mrs. Jenkinson placed her arm around Anne’s shoulders, and Anne sagged against her. “I think I shall lie down for awhile.”
Mrs. Jenkinson quickly proposed an alternative. “Walk with me in the garden. We need fresh air. We need to be surrounded by all that is lovely in a summer evening.”
“Really, truly, Nora, I am very tired.”
“I will not allow it. Come.” In a matter of moments, the two friends were in the garden, where tall azalea bushes, bright with red blossoms, shielded them from the sight of anyone in the house. “As I and others told you at Lady Hopwell’s, your piano playing was delightful. I fear, however, Lady Catherine will not allow herself to be pleased by anything you do.”
“Why is Mama so disappointed in me? It was she who created the fiction of Darcy’s and my engagement; it was she who sent away my masters! It is as if she cannot abide the reality of who I am, so she ima
gines me to be another creature entirely.”
“Your mother is not rational; there is some angry madness in her. So, I caution you—indeed, I beg you—do not view yourself through her eyes.”
“She speaks such nonsense about what an accomplished lady I would be if only my health had allowed me to learn. She makes us both look foolish with such claims.”
“Your mother’s disapprobation is a tragedy, but more for her than for you. She cannot see what you have achieved despite the limits she places on you; for that I pity her.”
“Oh, Nora, on evenings such as these, I do not feel worthy of your friendship. If not for your concern for me, you would be betrothed to a good man who would give you a home.”
“Do not speak so! Yes, it is awkward that your mother is my employer, but you are my true friend. With you, I am not Mr. Jenkinson’s tragic widow; I am not Peter Shelton’s bluestocking sister. You understand me.”
Facing Mrs. Jenkinson, Anne placed her hands on her friend’s shoulders and rained light kisses on her cheeks and brow. In response, Mrs. Jenkinson framed Anne’s face with her hands. For a long moment, they gazed into each other’s eyes, and then Anne kissed her on the lips.
Oh, thought Anne, as she savored the sensation. OH. Sliding her hands around Mrs. Jenkinson’s waist, she pulled her close, and they kissed again.
Oh, my goodness, thought Mrs. Jenkinson as she relaxed into their kisses. It was some time before embarrassment overcame her, causing her to pull gently out of the embrace. “Anne—”
“Is that how it felt when you kissed Mr. Jenkinson?” Anne interrupted, her expression reflecting both excitement and pleasure. She pressed her fingers to her lips. “How delicious!”
“Yes. No. Well, not exactly. That is to say your lips are very soft, much softer than Benjamin’s.” Smiling shyly, she marveled, Anne isn’t shocked or … or disgusted … or angry.
Anne paced with restless energy, radiating the excitement of one who has made a wonderful discovery. “So unexpected—so delightful! Dearest Nora, I never knew!”
Mrs. Jenkinson was of two minds: she was transfixed by Anne’s unselfconscious acceptance of their kisses, and she was aware that what she felt was more intense and more pleasurable than she had experienced with her late husband. Is it because of the depth of my feelings for Anne?