A Will of Iron Read online

  But I cannot wish the man on Little G. I have not spoken to her yet. She is to be with us a month, so there is time to offer her comfort and the warning due one who may inherit an even more vast estate than Rosings if her brother does not find a suitable wife. I pray daily for Darcy to marry. Anyone will do as long as it is not I. —A de B

  Chapter 2

  Into Safekeeping

  Wednesday, 8 April 1812

  the village of Hunsford

  Mrs. Jenkinson stood primly, wearing a worried expression. She shifted from one foot to the other, preferring to stand guard over her two small cases rather than occupy a bench. It was a relief it was not a market day, and no one was in the lane that she knew well enough to have to explain anything. It would be over four hours until the post coach would pass through, carrying her away from the village and anyone who ought to know the truth.

  It was a surprise, then, when Mrs. Charlotte Collins and Miss Elizabeth Bennet emerged from a cottage where the vicar’s wife was paying a sickroom call. Mrs. Jenkinson was clearly alarmed to encounter them, but the dithering woman realised her opportunity.

  “Oh, Mrs. Collins! Miss Bennet! This is a terrible day…terrible!”

  “Mrs. Jenkinson! Why are you here?” asked Elizabeth.

  Charlotte noted the luggage and reached the likeliest conclusion. “Have you been let go?”

  “She is dead, Mrs. Collins! Miss Anne died in the night, and Lady Catherine has put me out.” Mrs. Jenkinson burst into tears. Distressed, Elizabeth and Charlotte gathered around her with words of sympathy. When Mrs. Jenkinson could collect herself, she murmured, “And I know the truth, Mrs. Collins. I have the proof of why she died, and I do not know what to do. Lady Catherine would not want to admit the truth or have it known, but Miss Anne would.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” Elizabeth asked with a touch of exasperation.

  “Miss Anne kept a journal. I was able to conceal the most recent two volumes, or the truth would be hidden and probably destroyed. Her ladyship would never let it out if she knew.”

  “What is your situation, Mrs. Jenkinson?” asked Charlotte. “What is your destination?” She was inclined to behave charitably towards Mrs. Jenkinson, to say nothing of how piqued her curiosity had become. She met Elizabeth’s eye, silently requesting her friend’s patience. Elizabeth nodded. Her interest was also raised.

  “Her ladyship has put me out,” Mrs. Jenkinson whined, “with a ticket to London and the wages she owed. She will not give me a recommendation…all because I awoke her rather than allow her maid to do so. And her daughter lying dead!” Mrs Jenkinson sniffed but did not allow herself to be overcome.

  Knowing her husband to be at Rosings, Charlotte met Elizabeth’s eye again, now with a look of instant decision. “Lizzy, help me with Mrs. Jenkinson’s cases, and we shall return to the vicarage. She will wait with us, and we shall determine what is to be done.”

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Collins! What would your husband say?” Mrs. Jenkinson was a simple woman, but even a person more possessed by foolishness than she would have observed that no one and nothing came before William Collins’s devotion to his patroness.

  “He will not know of it. It is half past ten, and he is at Rosings. Under the circumstances, he will no doubt stay longer than his usual hour.”

  Mrs. Jenkinson nodded. “Oh, of course…such a steady man.”

  Elizabeth and Charlotte each took a case and followed Mrs. Jenkinson the quarter-mile to the vicarage.

  Charlotte called for the tea service as she entered her house, and the three women settled into Mr. Collins’s book room, which afforded them the best view of the road. They sat quietly until after the hot water was brought. As soon as the servant withdrew and Charlotte set about making and pouring the tea, Mrs. Jenkinson turned to the smaller of her two cases and drew forth two black-bound books. She sat with them upon her lap, tapping them idly and ignoring her tea.

  Elizabeth leaned forward. “Mrs. Jenkinson, are you unwell?”

  “Who could be well on a day such as this?” She looked at Elizabeth and then at Charlotte and seemed to come to a decision. She held the two books towards Charlotte. “Take these, Mrs. Collins.”

  Charlotte reached for them just as Mrs. Jenkinson leaned back, withdrawing the books to her bosom. “They contain Miss Anne’s heartfelt dreams, thoughts, and desires, or so she said.” Mrs. Jenkinson drew herself up straight and proud. “I, of course, have not read them—not one word—though Miss Anne did often tell me what she had written or asked me to remind her of something she wanted to write lest she forget.” Mrs. Jenkinson realised she had withheld the books and proffered them again, this time towards Elizabeth. “You should read them too, Miss Bennet. You might not have known it, but she thought highly of you.”

  As Elizabeth reached for them, Mrs. Jenkinson absently pulled the books back to her lap, folding her hands over them. “It would be safer if you both knew the contents. Yes, you should both read them.”

  Hiding a smile, Elizabeth said, “Indeed, Mrs. Jenkinson, I understand you felt more for Miss de Bourgh than mere companionship, and if it gives you comfort that Mrs. Collins and I read her words, then we shall certainly do so.”

  “She was a remarkable young lady in spite of her mother,” Mrs. Jenkinson whispered and then looked rather shocked to have admitted such a thing.

  Charlotte leaned forward, placing a hand on Mrs. Jenkinson’s atop the books. “We shall keep them in my sitting room. My husband never enters it without my permission if that is a concern.”

  Mrs. Jenkinson emitted a small bleating sound that, combined with a faint smile, seemed to indicate happiness. “Thank you for your kindness, Mrs. Collins and Miss Bennet. You have been unfailingly civil to me, gracious and thoughtful.” She at last lifted the books from her lap and allowed them to be taken.

  After sipping her tea, Mrs. Jenkinson added, “Miss Anne is in good hands now. I fear what she has written may be shocking, but you are women of sense and may understand her better than I. Thank you for relieving me of this burden.”

  Charlotte cleared her throat. “Mrs. Jenkinson, you said Lady Catherine will not give you a reference, but I could do so, should you need it. I am only her vicar’s wife, but a recommendation from me may be of some service to you.

  “Regarding these journals, it may be necessary to consult you about specifics contained in them. I am going to give you my egg money, and I wish you to stay at The Bell in Bromley for a fortnight before you proceed to London. I would like to know I could reach you or send the curricle for you if your presence is required to answer some question arising from Miss de Bourgh’s writings.”

  Mrs. Jenkinson’s eyes grew wide. “I could never impose upon you, Mrs. Collins. I could afford a week or at least five days. The Bell is a respectable inn, and I can pay my own way with my wages.”

  “My father has given me a generous amount for my visit here, Mrs. Jenkinson,” said Elizabeth, “and I have spent hardly a farthing. Charlotte and I shall see you to a fortnight at The Bell. My intuition begs the three of us remain in close connection.”

  Mrs. Jenkinson sighed. “Oh, my, such generosity. I hardly know what to say. I would like to stay near to hear of the funeral and know she is safe in the ground. Whatever her ladyship might feel towards me, Miss Anne was most kind. The least I can do is to place these words of truth into your protection.”

  Two hours later, with Mr. Collins not yet returned from Rosings and Mrs. Jenkinson increasingly afraid that he would, Charlotte bid the footman to load Mrs. Jenkinson’s cases into the curricle and to meet the three ladies at the post junction whilst they journeyed there on foot. When the coach to Bromley appeared, Charlotte negotiated a reduced fare, insisting Mrs. Jenkinson retain the difference, and bid her to write upon her arrival using the name Mrs. Jenkins, which none doubted would be sufficient to put Mr. Collins off th
e scent.

  “But how will you know a Mrs. Jenkins at The Bell?” fretted Mrs Jenkinson as her cases were loaded onto the coach.

  “Never mind that,” Charlotte whispered conspiratorially. “My husband is not the type to question my actions—he is not suspicious—and he is often at Rosings when the post arrives.”

  Which must make wifely dissemblance extremely easy…yes, Charlotte manages my cousin very well indeed, Elizabeth mused.

  After the coach departed, Charlotte and Elizabeth hastily returned to the vicarage and Charlotte’s sitting room. They called for a fresh tea service and firmly shut the door.

  Mr. Collins still sat, forgotten but patient, in the small sitting room at Rosings Park.

  Once settled with blackcurrant scones and tea, Elizabeth and Charlotte began reading Anne de Bourgh’s journals, at first randomly and aloud to each other. Elizabeth had the older volume from July through December of the previous year, and Charlotte read snippets from the volume begun in January 1812, but she was concerned by what she read for Elizabeth’s maidenly sensibilities.

  It was instantly apparent to Charlotte that Anne was with child at the time of her death, and some manner of complication had caused her decline. Elizabeth found the passage that explained Anne’s motivation for getting herself into an interesting condition, and the reasoning was confusing to both of them as Elizabeth recited the words. “The material question is how to remove myself from my mother’s sphere,” Elizabeth read. “She would hound me to the ends of the earth, I am convinced, unless I am somehow able to make myself a pariah to her…to do something so beyond the boundaries of civil society that disowning me would be preferable to keeping me near.

  “I am amazed to learn the immensity of the wealth I have inherited. Papa was indeed a generous man, but my life would be far better were he still walking amongst us. I would rather have him for another lucid hour than to own all of his riches. Other than the estate itself, where Mama is to remain until her death unless I marry, his capital is all mine along with the de Bourgh jewels, which Mama has yet to relinquish. That is neither here nor there, for where would I wear them?

  “But if I can make myself abhorrent to her, I am now easily able to purchase my own establishment and be independent. And how best to do it? Short of committing a crime—for I would not go to prison to obtain freedom—causing a scandal is the only choice. Even allowing myself to be compromised will not suffice since a marriage could be managed and the affair hidden under a cloak of propriety. No, the only option is to get myself with child: the child of a man thoroughly odious, wholly without merit, and having no standing in the world. I know only one such man, and although he lurks about this neighbourhood to find access to my fair young cousin, she is not the only heiress herein, and his ambition can surely be bought by my much greater and more immediately accessible fortune. If he seeks to insult Darcy, perhaps the ruin of his assumed betrothed might serve as well, if not better, than destroying the sister.

  “Only through negotiation shall I learn the cost of begetting a child and what I must pay for secrecy.”

  Elizabeth’s voice had dropped to a whisper as she finished. Unshed tears stung her eyes. “Oh, Charlotte…she has paid with her life.”

  The two friends stared at each other in exhausted and wondering silence.

  Meanwhile, at Rosings

  Shortly after his arrival, Mr. Collins heard a to-do at the entrance of Rosings Park and stood, facing the hall doors. Thus, he saw the local doctor pass the sitting room at a rapid pace with servants fluttering around him taking his hat, gloves, and coat.

  After some moments, as the noise diminished to herald the return of hushed silence, Mr. Collins sat down. He surmised Miss de Bourgh must be much more ill than usual for the doctor to be called, and if his assumption was correct, the reason Lady Catherine had kept him waiting was in deference to the needs of her daughter. He was not a man to be rankled by the inconsideration of his patroness, but he did begin to wonder if he should depart. He sat wondering for a very long time.

  No little time later, the doctor passed the sitting room door in much the same rush as he had arrived. This time, Lady Catherine’s imperious voice followed the man, chasing him from the house.

  “You will tell no one of your suspicions, you thundering lack-wit. With child! I have never heard of such a thing. If news of your supposition reaches me through any other persons, I shall know you have most grievously breeched my trust. Do I make myself understood?”

  The doctor pulled up short and rounded on the mistress of Rosings Park. “The front doors are open, madam, and your voice is raised, not mine!”

  Lady Catherine and the doctor looked into the open doors of the small sitting room to see Mr. Collins standing there with wide eyes and his fingers clasping his lips lest he emit some untoward sound. Mr. Collins bowed to them.

  “Oh!” Lady Catherine screeched and, before a footman could do it for her, slammed the sitting room doors with great vigour.

  The doctor could no longer withhold his laughter and hastily quitted the house.

  Silence returned to its rightful place, and Mr. Collins sat, more profoundly confused than ever before—which was a vast deal. Was one of the maids of fallen morals? Mr. Collins fretted and shook his head. Lady Catherine would blame him, most assuredly, for not keeping a sufficiently watchful eye upon his flock. And of course she would be justified, for the low as well as the high-born deserved his spiritual guidance. But how could he be chided for sparing all possible attention for his noble patroness?

  It was another three quarters of an hour before the sitting room doors opened and Lady Catherine swept in wearing an ill-fitting black gown. With an elaborate attempt at dignified grief—and a persuadable audience upon which to practice—she sat next to Mr. Collins on the settee and drew him down next to her, although not too close. She tugged a lace black-edged handkerchief from her wrist with a loud sniffle.

  “I hope you have surmised this to be a day of great tragedy, William,” she said, feigning more sadness than she felt. She reckoned the use of her vicar’s Christian name was warranted to impress upon him the gravity of the situation.

  “Indeed I have, your ladyship, and I desire you to know my sympathies flow to you as the Thames flows to the Channel. If I may be so bold to ask, what is the nature of the tragedy?”

  After a sufficiently dramatic pause, Lady Catherine announced, “Anne…my dear Anne, died in her sleep last night. We found her this morning.”

  In his shock, Mr. Collins slid onto one knee on the floor in front of her, taking her hands and instead finding he was enclosing the soggy handkerchief in his stumpy fingers. He felt tears sting his eyes. “I am bereft. England has been deprived…”

  “Yes, yes…of its finest jewel,” Lady Catherine huffed. “Sit up, sir.”

  Absently using her handkerchief to wipe his eyes, Mr. Collins hoisted his ample buttocks onto the settee. “If it pleases your ladyship, would you permit me to arrange for a little service for your honourable and noble self, and the ladies Miss de Bourgh counted as friends… my wife, Mrs. Jenkinson? I would gladly do so, as ladies must not attend the funeral.”

  Lady Catherine dropped all pretences and returned to her usual officious manner as she stripped her handkerchief from Mr. Collins’s hand and pulled a dryer specimen from her pocket. She had forgotten how exhausting it was to appear grief stricken. “Nonsense. I have written an express to the Archbishop of Canterbury. You are not even a year in your office; thus, if there is to be a gathering for the ladies, he will preside. Do try not to fawn upon the man over much whilst he is at Rosings, Mr. Collins. It would vex me greatly. And it will do you no good in any case as your life-long career will not be in the church, not once you become a landed gentleman.”

  Mr. Collins stared at his benefactress. He gradually determined that she must suffer an unusual form of grief to spea
k of another death yet to come, perhaps many years away, with such nonchalance. Most grieving mothers with whom his position necessitated he condole bore their trials much differently. Lady Catherine seemed at times—for this was not the first instance of its mention—that she rather hoped his cousin Mr. Thomas Bennet of Longbourn would die soon, so Mr. Collins would inherit the modest estate.

  Lady Catherine continued, “But we will, of course, invite the neighbourhood to visit Rosings after the funeral. I have written to all my family to attend. It is a shame my nephews have only just gone away. Better they had stayed…” Her voice drifted off.

  Lady Catherine stood a moment before idly wandering to the window. A goshawk had flown from the trees, drawing her attention as she silently mused. If Darcy is the father, I shall kill him… The hawk startled a trio of pigeons, and as Lady Catherine watched excitedly, the bird of prey grasped the slowest and settled momentarily onto the ground. “I should have been an accomplished falconer, had I ever sought to learn…”

  A movement in the outer hall caught Mr. Collins’s eye, and he stared as the doctor, so violently ushered from the house not an hour earlier, scuttled past the sitting room with Mrs. Spiggotson, the midwife, trailing behind. She was regarding her surroundings with unguarded astonishment. The doctor met the eyes of the vicar and placed a finger to his lips, begging for discretion.

  “Excuse me, Lady Catherine, but…” Mr. Collins began, for he would never be a party to any deception of his patroness.

  “Would that I had been born a goshawk,” Lady Catherine muttered aloud. “The females are near to double the size of the males.”

  Her tone sent a nervous shiver down Mr. Collins’s spine, and he forgot the doctor and midwife. “I am certain your ladyship would have been the strongest, bravest bird in all the land.”