A Will of Iron Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 22

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Linda Beutler

  The Red Chrysanthemum

  Longbourn to London

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Will of Iron

  Copyright © 2015 by Linda Beutler

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any format whatsoever. For information: P.O. Box 34, Oysterville WA 98641

  ISBN: 978-1-936009-44-2

  Cover design by Zorylee Diaz-Lupitou

  Layout by Ellen Pickels

  Prologue

  7 April 1812

  This has been a most trying evening. Mama continues furious that Darcy has gone away again without extending an offer of marriage. I say, bless him. She goes on and on, and I do wish she would invite the vicarage guests to dinner to ease the strain on me as she does not yammer quite so much in company. Or perhaps the presence of others makes it easier for me to ignore her. Selfish, Anne!

  After feeling achy and fatigued all afternoon, I now have an increasingly sharp pain. It seems to be inside of me behind my right hip. I pray it is naught to do with the baby. I excused myself from Mama early, and Mrs. J is preparing a draught for me.

  Oh, how Mama pines for my cousins, but I confess I was glad to see the back of them. Darcy and Alex interrupted my study of Elizabeth Bennet, and I shall be happy to return to sketching her character. What an interesting young woman she is. How might she develop if given a chance to marry well or possessed of the funds to assure her independence? Throughout the day, I considered her appearance Sunday evening and grow convinced she does not view marriage as her destiny. That she exercises some hold over Darcy is fascinating. I do so long for him to settle and find happiness. It may as well be her as anyone. That there appears no affection on her side is odd, as surely she must know he is eligible and coveted. We cannot accuse her of courting his money; I shall say that.

  Darcy’s life has been one of duty with little enough pleasure. Circumstances have wrung the capacity for joy out of him, poor man. He was my favourite cousin when we were children, but grief and duty have ruined him. He was certainly more out of spirits than ever when he left here, and I did not learn more of what might have transpired between him and Miss Bennet.

  If the morning finds the pain decreased, I shall drive to the vicarage and perhaps convince EB to join me in the phaeton for a little tour. I do think I would like her to know there is more to me than she might surmise. Our odious vicar will no doubt see this as a sensational act, but what do I care now? Soon I shall have need of a friend made of sturdier stuff than dear, simple Mrs. J is. Although my actions court disgrace, it is my own selfish release I seek, and Miss Bennet might be a better companion to me—more astute certainly and capable of unconventional thought. And, in return, I am able to set her wages very high indeed.

  Perhaps I shall give EB a little gift tomorrow, something she could sell if her circumstances ever come to that necessity. Knowing what I have already arranged, one might deem it foreshadowing, but I pray it is not. Here is Mrs. J with my tea and draught. —A de B

  Chapter 1

  A Death at Rosings

  Wednesday, 8 April 1812

  Rosings

  Lady Catherine de Bourgh stood at the foot of her daughter’s bed looking at the lifeless body. She could still hear in her mind the frenzied, incoherent wailing of Mrs. Jenkinson, Anne’s companion, when she had entered her ladyship’s bedchamber just after dawn. It would take days to erase the sound from her memory, but erase it she would.

  “Daft woman,” Lady Catherine muttered. That the woman would burst into Lady Catherine’s room without first allowing the maid to awaken her ladyship properly and that Mrs. Jenkinson’s first coherent words involved begging—no, beseeching—that she not be blamed for Anne’s death were not to be borne. She dismissed Mrs. Jenkinson summarily.

  Lesser maids were now assisting Mrs. Jenkinson’s removal, and the larger footmen would see the harmless, tiny, twittering woman off the grounds of Rosings Park. They would help her catch the post coach to London, and Lady Catherine would not provide a character.

  With a sigh, she shook her head. It was a revelation after nurturing and abetting her daughter’s hypochondria for over twenty years—since Anne had caught a stubborn cold at the age of four and learnt to manipulate her mother with exaggerated or altogether imaginary ailments—that there actually might have been something seriously wrong. Perhaps the arrival of the doctor would solve the mystery. For now, Lady Catherine ordered the body not be touched and turned away to dress more carefully than she had earlier in the haste of panic.

  She stopped before crossing the hall to her own suite, turning a grim eye in appraisal of the painting of Fitzwilliam Darcy next to Anne’s door. “Fie, Nephew…I shall have you understand she died of a broken heart, I am sure.” A movement outside the windows at the end of the hall caught her eye. She looked at her pocket watch. It was ten o’clock, and William Collins, the vicar, was making his way to Rosings from the Hunsford parish house, crunching along the gravel as he did most every morning. I could set my clocks by him. Well. This morning he can wait until the doctor arrives and I am more formally attired.

  “Albertine!” Lady Catherine called with unnecessary stridency. Her maid was already standing in the dressing room with arms extended to begin removing the morning dress and replace it with a mourning gown and black veil.

  “Oui, madame?” Albertine was a Yorkshire woman through and through—born Bertha Donald—but it pleased Lady Catherine to pretend she had a French maid. In her heart, she never trusted the French, an intuition she boasted of in the present political atmosphere—“I was right, you see,” she often said—still, it was the fashion to have a French maid. Since Bertha was not opposed to learning a few words of what Lady Catherine thought a quite slovenly language, everyone was appeased.

  “Unpack all of my widow’s weeds from when dear Sir Lewis died. I cannot imagine my figure has altered much in these fifteen years. After the doctor has gone and I have written to the family and the Archbishop of Canterbury, we shall try to salvage what we can. We must send some of the old gowns to Mrs. Collins to wear. For now, this gown I bought when old Mr. Darcy died will do.” She was soon waiting to receive the physician in a gown fitting her much like a sausage casing.

  William Collins was not a clever man, nor was he astute. He was not adept at anything in particular although he was verbose. He was a passable gardener through diligence rather than intuitive skill. But for all of that, even he could sense the situation was far from well at Rosings. The usually loquacious footman, who would relate the latest gossip along with speculation as to her ladyship’s current mood and chat until his mistress’s arrival necessitated his return to feigned taciturnity, was not present. The housekeeper, a d
our woman, led him to the small drawing room where Lady Catherine usually received him. He sat alone for quite some time.

  By the head of the bed stood the impatiently waiting physician of the inert Anne de Bourgh. He looked up, amused, as Lady Catherine bustled into the room, her panting bosom straining at the buttons of a black bombazine and satin pelisse covering a black lace and mesh gown over a white petticoat. She stopped on the opposite side of the bed and, for one quiet moment, observed the ashen face of Anne in her final repose.

  The physician cleared his throat. “Ahem, your ladyship. Might we have the curtains opened? Making my examination with natural light would be most efficacious.”

  Lady Catherine waved a hand, and the two chambermaids flung back the draperies, admitting the pale spring sun. Even this displeased Lady Catherine as the loss of her daughter was at last beginning to weigh on her. She would have found a polite drizzle more suitable.

  “Well?” asked Lady Catherine.

  “With your assistance, ma’am.” The physician took a handful of counterpane and waited for Lady Catherine to do the same. Together they drew down the bedclothes that covered the corpse.

  “Ah!” gasped Lady Catherine.

  “Oh, my!” echoed the doctor. The lower half of Anne’s torso down to her knees was covered in blood, still rather brightly red, having been covered and kept warm by the last heat from her feverish body.

  Anne de Bourgh died wearing a heavy, white flannel nightgown, and it was soaked in various hues of red that faded to a quite unfortunate shade of pink at the stain’s outer reaches.

  For all her appearance of strength, Lady Catherine turned away and motioned to her maid for a chamber pot in which to vomit; however, her acute nausea did not go quite that far, as much as she felt it could.

  “Would your ladyship take something to calm your stomach and nerves?” The physician was quick to place the needs of the living over those of the dead.

  Lady Catherine shed a raven feather from her black lace cap as she violently shook her head until she could murmur, “No. No, thank you.” She motioned for Albertine to bring a chair, and she sank into it.

  The physician watched her carefully. “Do you feel well enough to answer a few questions, your ladyship?”

  Lady Catherine settled her wits and returned to form. “Of course I do.”

  “These will be indelicate questions, madam.” The physician cast a doubtful eye upon the chambermaids and returned his gaze to Lady Catherine.

  “What indelicacy would bother Anne now? Pray, ask your questions, Dr. Roberts.”

  “Were her courses difficult for her?”

  It occurred to Lady Catherine that she had no notion whether her daughter’s monthly bleeding was regular, difficult, scant, or voluminous. “Candid as my dear daughter was about her physical limitations and ailments—although she was always so very brave—had her monthlies been unusual in any way, I can only assume she would have been forthcoming.”

  The physician merely nodded, thinking it odd that the mother of the neighbourhood’s most wealthy virgin had no knowledge of her daughter’s particulars. He looked at the three other occupants of the room, the lady’s maid and two chambermaids, and lowered his voice. “She was not with child?”

  Lady Catherine stood, levitated by righteous outrage. Wild-eyed, she motioned for her maid to approach and snatched the fan from her hands. Oscillating it as vigorously as possible, she hissed, “No, sir, she most certainly was not!”

  Again, the doctor glanced about the room. “Lady Catherine, may I ask after Mrs. Jenkinson? I find it highly unusual for so intimate a companion to be absent from her mistress’s side. Has she been made unwell by these circumstances?”

  With her indignation firmly on exhibit, Lady Catherine explained her utterly justifiable release of Mrs. Jenkinson from her employment.

  “Madam, you make my task a great deal more difficult. How am I to ascertain a cause of death when the person most likely to have last seen Miss de Bourgh alive is banished from the house?” The physician shook his head with disapprobation. “Do you suspect anything untoward?”

  “I most certainly do not,” came the mortified reply.

  The physician turned and sniffed the tumbler sitting near the bed. It smelt of brandy and elderberry cordial. There was an empty vial of laudanum, but the teacup smelt of nothing stronger than chamomile.

  “And what of Paulette, Miss de Bourgh’s maid?”

  “Ah, well. She is presently making an inventory of my daughter’s jewels. Mrs. Jenkinson might have wished to take a souvenir to which she was not entitled.”

  The physician stifled his chuckle. He knew Lady Catherine well enough to find her typically ridiculous in considering petty theft a greater insult than the possible accidental poisoning of her daughter.

  “May I speak to Paulette, please?”

  The doctor covered the body. Albertine stepped into the next chamber, Anne’s sitting room, and returned with Paulette, a younger but otherwise similar person to Mrs. Jenkinson: small, frail, nearly feeble-minded, skittish, and timid. The little maid hailed from one of the poorer districts of London and, like Albertine, received a French name. Paulette approached with lowered eyes.

  “You need not fear, Paulette; Miss Anne is covered,” the physician began. “I would ask you to speak of Miss Anne’s recent health. Were her courses regular?”

  The maid glanced at Lady Catherine fearfully. “Answer him, Paulette,” came the order.

  “Yes’m.” Paulette faced the doctor. “She has not bled since after Christmas, sir. I remember ’cause her time came Christmas mornin’, and she was sore put out. Went around mutterin’ for days.”

  “What? Why was I not told of this?” Lady Catherine adopted the tone of an imperious despot.

  The little maid lowered her head and responded with a barely audible, “It was to be a secret, ma’am.”

  And with that, the curiosity of the physician was fully engaged. “With your permission, your ladyship, I believe I must make a physical examination of your daughter’s body.”

  Lady Catherine looked at him stupidly. She was most displeased.

  “I must beg your leave to touch her, Lady Catherine.”

  She frowned and narrowed her eyes. She surveyed the maids. “Paulette, Albertine, stay with me. You two”—she pursed her lips at the chambermaids—“go!”

  The chambermaids did not require a second instruction.

  Upon finishing his examination—made more lengthy by the unsurprising, repeated fainting of Paulette—the physician requested the maids leave the room. When he and Lady Catherine were alone, he drew himself to his full height, if slightly bent with a back infirmity, and said, “I believe your daughter died from complications primigravida.”

  Lady Catherine tried to appear sage. “Yes, I have warned her of that many times.”

  The doctor lowered his eyes and sighed to suppress outright laughter. “Let me remind you, ma’am, primigravida refers to a first…um. Hmmm. I do believe your daughter”—he dropped his voice—“was with child.”

  Lady Catherine’s eyes flew open. The colour drained from her face then returned in full force, and she made every effort to chase the doctor from the premises.

  It was of no concern to him that a caterwauling Lady Catherine hurriedly escorted him from the house. He hied to Hunsford village where he sought Mrs. Spiggotson, the midwife. He had learnt more of female complaints from her than from any medicinae liber.

  1 July 1811

  And so starts another half-year of my ramblings in these blank pages. Long, or so it is to be hoped, in the far-off future, someone will come upon these ravings and sputterings and think what a strange life I had been forced to live and what a thoroughly odd woman I was to accept this lot with so little outward complaint. I accept the disapprobation of the f
uture with a wink. Perhaps this year something will happen. Perhaps this year I shall find an escape that does not involve making an unhappy marriage. I have come into my inheritance and now have both the means and the wit to contrive something.

  …And so, indeed, it already has! Merely two hours after writing that first of a half-year’s daily paragraphs, my cousins, Darcy and Georgiana, followed later by Alexander, arrived with more than their usual bustle and fanfare. Little G is soggy with tears. Darcy tries with little success to control a towering rage in her presence. Only Alex, for all his military bombast and tendency to morbid metaphor, shows the silly chit any compassion. It seems Little G has been interrupted in a scheme to elope with a highly unsuitable person, and has been unceremoniously deposited here whilst her guardians decide whether anything more must be done to secure her reputation. Mama is true to form, insisting too loudly for the necessary secrecy. One could set a clock by the manner and punctuality of her comments. As ever, I cloak myself in disinterestedness and ennui and shall choose my moment after Darcy and Alex have gone to listen to Little G’s tale as no one else will and try to help her if I am able. Of course, advice to the lovelorn is not my long suit. I know nothing of such matters. —A de B

  3 July 1811

  Little G’s saga gains in the telling, and each day brings a new revelation. It seems the unsuitable suitor was George Wickham, son of Uncle Darcy’s steward, John Wickham. His plan was to compromise her and gain access to her 30,000£, leaving her ruined and shamed, taking a nick out of the Darcy family’s old escutcheon. He sounds an interesting sort to be so blinded by the need for revenge, but revenge for what? That his father was not George Darcy? It must be quite a thing, the drive to release one’s envy. Had Mama been a man, would she have been such a one, jealous of the good fortune of a friend?

  I do vaguely recall George Wickham when at Pemberley as a child, but Mama would have kept me well away from such a playmate. I believe he is slightly younger than Darcy, perhaps a year older than I.