Mr. Darcy and Mr. Collins’s Widow
By Timothy Underwood
Copyright © 2015 by Timothy Underwood
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
A Request from the Author
About the Author
Chapter 1
Longbourn, 1807
The nightmare always went the same. She could never throw herself in front of her husband. Mr. Collins would strike Lydia. Elizabeth struggled to move as the sound of his blows echoed: knock, knock. Lydia’s tear stained face and accusing eyes were vaguely deformed. Action and speech were impossible, and her screams would not come. Mr. Collins’s fist rose. Fell. She hurt when the blow struck. That awful sound echoed.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Fifteen-year-old Elizabeth Collins awoke, soaked in sweat with a racing heart. The person outside knocked on the bedroom door again. “I’ll be up presently,” Elizabeth cried. The knocks ceased.
Elizabeth took deep breaths, but could not calm herself; she was very scared. Her father’s death’s six months earlier had made her life an endless nightmare. Jane had decided to listen to her mother’s demands and marry Mr. Collins. Elizabeth did the only thing she could to stop her. Despite everything she could not repent that choice.
Elizabeth placed her hand on her stomach — she’d miscarried this afternoon. She mourned the child, but did not feel really unhappy that Providence had chosen to take him away. Motherhood terrified her: her husband would treat her child the way his brutish father treated him.
Mr. Collins became angry when he heard — very angry. Only once had Elizabeth seen him this enraged. While the doctor remained he maintained appearances, but Elizabeth saw his carefully controlled tone and clenched fist. Once alone he pushed his face inches from Elizabeth’s, and exclaimed as she forced herself to not gag at the alcoholic odor of his breath, “I told you to give me a healthy son!”
His manner frightened Elizabeth, and tears began as she responded, “It is not my fault. I tried—”
“You disobeyed me. You may pretend otherwise, but it was disobedience. Disobedience. If you were a good wife this would not have happened. You owe me. Elizabeth, you owe me. You promised to never disobey. Remember?”
Tears rolled down her cheeks. Elizabeth frantically nodded. The memory of the day he extorted that promise made her sick with anxiety, “I did all I could.”
“You should have done better. You should not have destroyed my child. You — you have not behaved as a wife ought. You must be punished. I do not know how — I must think on it. What you have done demands great severity.” He looked down with a curled lip, “I cannot bear the sight of you. You are not sorry at all. You shall be.” He walked to the door. “When I return, I will have decided how to correct this insult.”
Mr. Collins left the house. Elizabeth nervously waited for his return so she could beg forgiveness again, but when he had not come home by midnight Elizabeth fell asleep in his bedroom while she waited.
Elizabeth knew not how to act. Last time, the only time, she’d disobeyed him he hurt Lydia. In her dreams he would beat her again and again; really he had only struck Lydia thrice before Elizabeth threw herself on her knees between them and swore to Mr. Collins she would never, ever, do anything he did not wish. Elizabeth kept that promise. Mostly.
Elizabeth and Lydia had told their mother what happened. Elizabeth wanted Mrs. Bennet to leave and live with her brother, so Elizabeth’s sisters would be safe from the monster she’d married to protect Jane. Mrs. Bennet screamed at them, “Liars! You lie! You both lie. Lydia, you gained those bruises when you fell. You know that is what really happened. Do not lie! Not to me. Do not make up such stories about Mr. Collins. He is an excellent son-in-law: he treats me with respect; he lets me stay in the house I was married in. You make up such stories because your father let you run wild, and now you hate that your husband expects you to act as a lady.”
Mrs. Bennet stood, and dramatically pressed her hand against her forehead. “Oh! Lord! Lord, what is to become of me. You shall offend him, and break poor Mr. Collins’s heart. He then shall throw us all into the hedgerows. Oh! If only you had not stolen Jane’s place — she would have been a good wife; she would not have created such lies.”
Mr. Collins had beaten Lydia when she visited Charlotte without permission. How would he punish her for losing his child? Who would he hurt? What would he do? Could he be convinced to only harm her, and spare her sisters?
Elizabeth stared at the door, dimly visible in the light given off by the flickering candle on her bedstand, and the red glow of the fireplace. She had no need to dress. When she fell asleep she had still been in her day clothes; the fine yellow silk of her dress was terribly wrinkled. Elizabeth hated how its quality had been purchased with his money. She would far rather be poor and unmarried.
He must have returned. It would be a servant sent to call her to the study so he could announce her fate. Elizabeth rehearsed a final time how she would grovel: he enjoyed it when she begged on her knees. While drunk Mr. Collins told her his father always demanded he and his mother beg on their knees whenever they really wanted something.
Elizabeth had created a list of things she would intensely hate. She could suggest them to him. Mr. Collins was fair. If she was sufficiently punished he would not do anything to hurt her further. No matter what she would protect her family.
Elizabeth’s pulse pounded as she walked to the door, her footsteps sounded eerily loud in her ears. Mrs. Hill stood there, her countenance grave. This was no mere summons to her husband. “What — what is it!” Elizabeth cried. Had he already hurt one of her sisters?
Mrs. Hill searched Elizabeth’s face for an eternity, then stated it baldly, “Mr. Collins is dead.”
The body lay on the parlor couch, the head tilted at a grotesque angle which showed his broken neck. The skin was chalky white in the flickering candlelight. Elizabeth’s stomach heaved and she clapped her hand over her mouth. But the nausea receded — and she’d been too nervous and sick to eat supper, so little could have come up.
His fat toad like face looked unusually ugly, and he lie there like a, like a — Elizabeth swallowed. There was no sufficiently vicious metaphor. He was the way he should have been born: dead. Elizabeth touched the frozen forehead. It was real. He was dead. He really was dead.
Relief flooded Elizabeth. She felt weak in her knees and couldn’t stop her smile as she collapsed onto the chair Mrs. Hill pushed behind her. Lydia was safe. Jane, Mary, and Kitty were safe. They all were. He’d not hurt anyone ever again. She could visit Charlotte freely. She could read novels and take solitary walks once more. He was dead, and could not hurt Lydia to punish her.
Elizabeth could do anything she wished. The entail had been
for three generations; it died with Mr. Collins. As his wife she inherited Longbourn. They were safe from poverty. Elizabeth felt an elated bubble of joy envelop her, and she wanted to scream in happiness. She was free!
It would be terribly improper if she appeared happy, and the forms should be observed. Elizabeth attempted to be serious. “How did it happen?” Elizabeth asked with far too much smile in her tone.
The stable master had gone out to look for the master after Mr. Collins’s horse wandered home alone. The broken remains of his earthly dwelling place were found two hundred yards down the road from the manor house. Mr. Brown could not be certain why Mr. Collins fell, but the odor of alcohol that emanated from his clothes made a strong suggestion.
The apothecary and several local gentlemen, among them her Uncle Phillips, noisily arrived, and woke the rest of the household. When she entered the room Mrs. Bennet threw herself on the body of her son-in-law with sincere tears.
Elizabeth managed a stiff immobile expression which she hoped appeared proper. Her mother was contemptible. She sacrificed her daughters to that creature in exchange for money. It was unsurprising she’d mourn him.
Never. Elizabeth would never forgive her mother. She convinced Jane to marry him to save the family from poverty. Elizabeth would never forgive her for that. She cared more for her consequence in the neighborhood than what happened to Lydia and Elizabeth. Elizabeth would never forgive her for that. Elizabeth remembered the look in Lydia’s eyes when Mrs. Bennet called her a liar. Elizabeth would never forgive her for that.
Elizabeth’s sisters entered wearing their nightgowns and robes, Lydia ran and hugged Elizabeth. Since that day Elizabeth had grown close to Lydia, and Elizabeth caught a flash of Lydia’s sneer at the body before her sister buried her face in Elizabeth’s chest. Jane sat to Elizabeth’s other side and squeezed her free hand.
Soon the rest of the neighborhood arrived, and the house became quite crowded. Mrs. Hill stayed busy offering refreshments, and Elizabeth could hear Mr. Phillips speaking to the parson about funeral arrangements. Everyone was all that was kind and sympathetic to the family, but no one really grieved. Mr. Collins had not been well-liked: most had noticed there was something amiss in his treatment of Elizabeth, and his manners did not create fondness. Only Mrs. Bennet wept.
When Charlotte Lucas arrived wearing a hastily thrown on morning gown, and a heavy woolen shawl Elizabeth flashed her friend a half smile. Sitting next to his body, and attempting to appear sad was the oddest experience Elizabeth had ever had. Charlotte pulled Elizabeth up and embraced her tightly whispering, “You should not have to play for everyone at a time like this.” She ordered Jane to keep company with Mrs. Bennet, then dragged Elizabeth to an empty room. Lydia came with them, and when the three were alone Charlotte embraced Elizabeth and said fervently, “The Lord has been kind.”
Elizabeth smiled widely as she whispered back through happy tears, “He has indeed.”
Chapter 2
Meryton 1811
The evening was interminable.
Darcy hated balls. They held little opportunity for good conversation. He was expected to dance with women he barely knew. And, even at the very best gatherings, the wine was invariably terrible.
He wanted to enjoy Bingley’s company — and keep an eye on him — as his friend settled into his first estate. He looked forward to the good hunting and milder weather that Hertfordshire offered; he was not here to meet the local gentry. So why was he in this ballroom, with its gaudy chandelier and scratched wooden floors? Why did he let Bingley drag him here? He was surrounded by dozens of self-important people of no fashion and little beauty. People who stared at him.
Bingley and his partner smiled happily at each other — unsurprisingly she was the prettiest girl in the room. Darcy scowled. It always amazed him how Bingley could enter a room and be friends with everyone in it within an hour’s time. Usually it entertained Darcy to watch Bingley meet new persons, but now he was bored. With Bingley occupied there was no one he cared to talk to, and for the fifth time Darcy wished he was home with a book.
Miss Bingley came up as Darcy scowled at a violinist who missed notes in every passage with the slightest difficulty. “Can you believe it,” she pointed at a woman talking to an older man, “for the past year that woman has directly managed her land without a steward or estate agent. Have you ever heard anything so shocking?”
Darcy had been introduced to the woman as the widow of a Mr. Collins, and would not have guessed she was eccentric from her appearance. “Surely it is a small estate? It would not be odd then.”
“No, indeed her holdings are the largest in the neighborhood, except Netherfield. Can you imagine it: she negotiates contracts; she directs workmen; she even collects rents herself — it is the scandal of the neighborhood.”
The description fascinated Darcy more than appalled him. It was hardly feminine, but he approved of any landowner who took their duties seriously. “Is the estate well-managed? Do you know which it is?”
“Longbourn is the estate, I believe it is three miles or so from Netherfield. I can’t imagine she does well at all, though Mrs. Phelps was impressed. She is a woman after all — it brings to mind Doctor Johnson’s quip, a woman managing her own lands is like a dog walking on hind legs, the surprise is that it is done at all.”
Miss Bingley clearly expected Darcy to share her amusement at the well-worn quote. He was still annoyed by how she hounded him during the carriage ride from London — he’d not come to Hertfordshire to marry Bingley’s sister either. Darcy decided to be contrary, “My aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, is quite involved in managing Rosings Park. She keeps a steward, but she supervises him most closely.”
Lady Catherine was not in fact a good example of estate management: three stewards had left due to annoyance at a her demands, and the primary qualification of the current was a remarkable ability to flatter and his willingness to never question orders, no matter how silly. Lady Catherine had been lucky to find him.
Before Miss Bingley recovered from his frosty tone, Darcy added, “I saw part of Longbourn’s lands during my ride this morning: it is a well maintained property — was it managed directly by her husband as well?”
“Oh, he died some four or five years ago. The steward was old and on his death last year rather than replace him she took all the work upon herself.” Miss Bingley placed a critical eye on the young woman again, “she has horribly misused her time, that dress is three seasons out of date — and her hair! That poor hair! Its potential is all wasted, alas. With an estate of that size she ought to have a better maid: all the Bennets are poorly dressed and coiffed.”
Darcy followed Miss Bingley’s eye, he saw no deep flaw in Mrs. Collins’s hair and dress. On the contrary, her black curls formed an elegant contrast to the white of her neck and they bounced prettily as she flung her hands about to emphasize her words. Her pale yellow ball gown enclosed a light and pleasing form. While he deferred to Miss Bingley as his superior in matters of female fashion, Darcy thought himself her superior in the judgment of female beauty.
The favorable impression Darcy had of her lands and the prettiness of Mrs. Collins’s figure aroused his curiosity. “I must properly meet this marvel for myself,” Darcy left Miss Bingley and cast about for a stratagem to enter her conversation.
“Mr. Long, I have tried to convince you out of concern for your wife and nieces. If you considered my arguments you would see borrowing to bring marginal fields under cultivation at this time is foolhardy. You should not attempt to clear that field.”
The florid gentleman patted Mrs. Collins kindly on her arm, “Nonsense, Lizzy, rents have never been higher — the increased income will pay off the mortgage in almost no time. As a woman you are naturally timid—which does you credit. But your female fears lead you astray when you meddle in business matters best left to men.”
There was a clear flash of irritation in the woman’s momentary frown. But almost immediately she fo
rced a polite smile onto her face, “Of course, we are the weaker sex, and while my advice was well meant, you may ignore it as you choose.”
When he entered the assembly hall Sir William Lucas had introduced Mrs. Collins to him. Without preamble Darcy asked, “Why do you think this is a poor time to bring marginal lands under plow: rents are higher than ever.”
Mr. Long laughed self-consciously, “Don’t let Lizzy give you the wrong idea of Hertfordshire society, humor her if you wish, but her father, God bless his soul, taught her she should debate like a man.”
Now her irritation was very clear: she wrinkled her nose, narrowed her eyes, and tightened her lips. Her face was expressive. Darcy also disliked Mr. Long’s reply. Darcy had not spoken to him. Once his intense gaze made Mr. Long flinch in embarrassment Darcy turned to Mrs. Collins, “Your father taught you to debate like a man?”
She nodded.
“Then explain: what argument convinced you now is a poor time to enclose wasteland.”
Mrs. Collin’s lips turned up into a smile at his direct request, “I must warn you, I have given this much thought indeed. Grain is expensive, because the war keeps us from eating Baltic corn, and we have had several poor harvests. But, the war will not go on forever, and even if it does by my calculation at least a tenth more land has been brought under cultivation in Hertfordshire, and improvements have made the potential yield on already cultivated lands much higher. Our population has not grown nearly so much, should we have a few good years the price of wheat could easily go back to where it was a decade ago — you’ll never pay off that mortgage, Mr. Long, if that happens.”
“Besides — some land sells at simply ridiculous prices, I sold a field earlier this year for nearly forty times what it brought in rents.” The woman shook her head in exasperation and gave a small laugh, “indeed, I have no desire to sell land which has belonged to my family for generations, but when my neighbors beg me to cheat them it is hard to say nay.”
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