by Leenie Brown
“I think you flatter,” Mrs. Bennet repeated. “But not in a bad way, of course,” she added. “You would never do that.”
Collins had learned that while his mother-in-law was not the most astute of women, she had a heart that cared deeply for all her family, even him. She had welcomed him as a son most heartily just moments after she had left her husband’s study on the day he had been fortunate enough to have secured Kitty’s hand. She, even now, proudly presented him to one and all as her son.
“And a sly one he was. Loving my Kitty but not letting on a word. Not a single word,” she would say. This would often be followed by a list of things he had accomplished since arriving at Longbourn – books he had read, tenants he had visited, improvements that were planned. She even proudly proclaimed his vegetables to be some of the best to have graced her table.
It had taken her some time to come to accept that a gentleman and master of an estate would wish to soil his hands with such a hobby as planting vegetables. However, he had assured her it was beneficial to knowing how best to keep crops producing and that knowledge would help the estate.
And it had been helpful in his education of how things grew and what needed to be done for best yields. The estate’s income had increased – not substantially, but enough for him to be able to provide a very special gift for his wife on this her nineteenth birthday.
“Do not touch that!” Mrs. Bennet cried with alarm as a small hand reached toward the rosebush they had just been admiring. She crouched down. “It will poke you, Thomas. You mustn’t touch your papa’s roses. We shall find other flowers for you to pick for your mama.” She scooped up her grandson and moved toward the lilac bush, declaring how much better picking some of those flowers would be as there were so many and not a thorn upon the bush.
Kitty wound her arm around her husband’s and lay her head on his upper arm just below his shoulder. It was their favorite way to stroll through the garden. “What shall Mama do when there are two to claim her attention?” she asked.
“I suppose one day we shall discover that,” Collins replied.
“Yes, one day in late December or early in the new year,” Kitty said, causing her husband to stop mid-stride.
“You mean?”
Kitty nodded. “I do. I have felt the quickening.”
“Oh, my love!” he cried, pulling her into his embrace and kissing her while paying no heed to the others who were in the garden with them. “Children are a heritage of the Lord,” he said as he released her.
“And happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them,” she replied with smile.
“You have been reading the Psalms again?”
“Oh, indeed, I have. They are very good. I only wish I had known that the scriptures contained such poetry when I was younger. I should have eagerly devoured them then as I do now.”
“Are they as good as a novel?” he teased.
She bit her lip. “I cannot truthfully say I enjoy them more than a novel.”
He pulled her close to him. “That is perfectly acceptable.”
“They are far better than sermons — unless you are reading them to me.” She sighed. “I do like listening to you, even when my mind will no longer take heed of the meaning of the words.”
“I am blessed,” he murmured. Blessed seemed too small a word for how his fortune had been changed, but he could think of no better word, so he left his statement at that. That in and of itself was a blessing. His words no longer ran away with him as often as they used to, but then, he had never felt the security of belonging anywhere before he had come to Longbourn and married Kitty.
“It is time for cake and tea,” Lydia informed them. “Make haste, for no one can eat until you get there, Kitty, since it is your birthday.”
Lydia had changed and only for the better as far as Collins was concerned. He had worried that she might cause him much consternation with her love of gentlemen and flirting, but one short season in town had cured her of that. Unfortunately, it had come in the form of a disappointment in love. For that, he felt sorry. However, all was not lost. There was a young gentleman who had written to him just last week, requesting to be allowed to visit.
Bingley and Darcy had assured him that the gentleman in question was of good moral fabric and well set both with land and funds. So, Collins had only yesterday sent off the invitation for the young gentleman to visit. From what he had been able to gather from his wife as well as Jane, at whose house Lydia had stayed while in town in February, the admiration of Lydia for this gentleman was not small. Therefore, Collins was hopeful that there would soon be one final Bennet sister happily matched.
He held the chair for his wife as she took a seat at the table which had been laid out in the garden.
At another smaller table, four nursemaids sat with their young charges. One maid for each of the four babies. Bingley’s daughter had found her footing early and was dancing at the end of her leading stings, while Darcy’s daughter, as well as Mary’s son, sat on their nurses’ knees. Thomas Collins was still clutching a bouquet of lilac and tasting them now and again as his nursemaid rose and carried him to the table to present his mama with the well-slobbered gift. Then, he and his nurse returned to their table and waited — impatiently — to be allowed to eat cake.
Collins stood at the head of the table, his wife sat on his right, his mother-in-law sat one chair down on his left as an empty place had been left in honour of the man who had given life to the lady celebrating her birth.
Mr. Bennet had seen his four eldest daughters married and beginning their families before he had slipped from this world to the next one night the previous spring.
Collins looked at that chair and silently lifted his glass in salute as the others followed suit. Then after a sip of his wine, he cleared his throat and began the small speech he had prepared, albeit with a small adjustment having just heard Kitty’s news.
“We gather today to celebrate the lady who is not just at my right hand but is my right hand, my completion, the helpmeet of God’s provision. She is a loving daughter and sister, as well as an excellent wife and a mother who is a blessing to her children.” He paused and smiled. “I say children instead of child, for, in December, Thomas will be joined by a sibling.”
There was a great deal of cheering and congratulations that followed the statement. Mrs. Bennet found it necessary to consume a quantity of her wine to accept such excellent news.
When everyone had settled into silence again — save for the children, who still waited for their cake — Collins began again. “I would like to ask you to lift your glasses in honour of this lovely lady, but first I must tell you why we are gathered here in this corner of the garden near the back of the house.” He drew a breath. “It is on this spot that we shall, in time, be sitting inside a conservatory.”
Kitty gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
“My wife loves many things, and one of those is flowers. The Lord has prospered us, and I have commissioned the building of a conservatory, so she can grow flowers even when the garden has gone dormant. She and her family – each of you – have brought such joy to me and given me a life I never would have expected to have. I had a father, but I had no family until I arrived here at Longbourn. The growth which takes place in this conservatory – each new life – shall be a reminder to me of you all, but most particularly of my wife.”
He raised his glass. “To my wife, Kitty Collins.”
“To Kitty,” the other repeated.
“And,” Darcy said, rising, “to her husband, the Master of Longbourn.”
“Here! Here!” cried Bingley, followed by a rousing reply from everyone gathered…
“To the Master of Longbourn.”
Through Every Storm Excerpt
If you enjoy stories featuring unlikely heroes, you might enjoy Through Every Storm. In the eight years after the close of Pride and Prejudice, Wickham has, surprisingly, grown to love his wife and family dearly. However, a marital s
torm has arisen which will put his love to the test. Below is the first chapter in Wickham’s fight for those he holds dear.
Chapter 1
George Wickham slammed the glass down on the table. He had not meant to slam it down, but the table had somehow risen closer to his hand. He looked around the room, straining to find the barkeep. There appeared to be twice as many people here now as there had been mere minutes ago. Why could they not stay still instead of dancing in circles? He dropped his head into his hands.
“Come on, old boy, time to get you home.” Colonel Nathaniel Denny hoisted his friend up to a semi-standing position and placed an arm around the drunken man to steady him. This was not the first time he had come to cart Wickham home. No, at one time, this had been a regular routine. Out of how many scrapes had Denny steered this reckless rogue?
“I dunno wanna go hum,” slurred Wickham. “I wanna go to the greeve.”
“It is not your time to go to the grave, Wickham. Perhaps tomorrow, but for tonight you are going home.” Denny dragged him out the door into the night. A cold, early spring rain was beginning to fall. Denny helped Wickham mount his horse before pulling the hat from his friend’s head. Perhaps a cold shower would help sober him up. Wickham uttered a curse and grabbed at one of the hats floating in front of him. The jerking action nearly sent him sprawling on the ground.
After manoeuvring his horse close to Wickham’s, Denny helped right his friend once again. “Hold onto the saddle, old man. I will steer you home.” Wickham grabbed the saddle and slumped forward. Confident that his friend would stay seated, Denny nudged his horse to walk. With one hand on his own reigns and one on Wickham’s, he began the slow journey to Wickham’s rented house.
Wickham shivered as the rain ran down his face and under the collar of his coat. The coldness of the rain and the night air brought back to him the pain he had been attempting to forget. “She’s gone.” He lifted his head long enough to spit out the words before slumping forward once again. The effort to stay upright was still too great.
“Yes, she is gone.” Denny knew what few others knew. Wickham, though once a cad and a rake, had learned to love his wife—a wife who was forced upon him due to an ill-thought out plan for revenge. Theirs had been a hard life of scraping by, first on the meager earnings of an enlisted man and then, the poor profits from his shop.
In one respect, she had been good for him. His love for her had finally overcome his love of gambling and had helped him gain a desire to become a respectable gentleman. It was too bad that she had not returned his affection.
“You still have Thomas and Louisa. You must think of them now.”
Wickham groaned. How was he to care for his children on his own? Thomas he could mold into the man he never was, but Louisa — what did he know of helping a girl grow into womanhood? His experiences with women were the sort that he hoped his daughter would avoid. Kitty would help him. She was the only one of his wife’s sisters who still spoke to him. The few bridges that he had not burned in his misguided youth, his wife had done a masterful job of destroying.
Denny pulled Wickham from his horse and helped him into the house. He poured some cold black coffee into a mug and shoved it at his friend. Wickham grimaced at the taste of the stale coffee.
“You could go after her.” Denny took a seat across from Wickham.
“And do what? Get myself killed?” Wickham scoffed.
“That is what you are trying to do now. At least if death comes at the end of a dueling pistol instead of the bottom of a bottle, it would be an honourable death.”
“Honourable.” Wickham huffed. “When have I ever been honourable?” He took another gulp of his coffee and placed the cup on the table.
Denny pushed the mug toward him and raised a brow in challenge. Wickham sighed and took possession of the drink again.
“In the past five years,” said Denny, “you have proven yourself to be honourable on many occasions.”
“Those were not honourable actions, but restitution. There is a difference.”
“Only an honourable man would make payment for his past transgressions. You, ten years ago, would have scoffed at any man who tried to right his own or another person’s wrongs–in fact, you did. How many times did I hear you curse the name of Darcy?”
Wickham stared at the dark liquid in his cup. “I should have listened to him–to him, his father and my own. Instead, I blamed them for all my misfortunes. Stupid man.” Wickham gulped the last of his coffee. “Stupid, stupid man.”
Denny slapped the table. “You are that man no longer. Pull yourself together, and get on with life.” Denny had never had much patience for wallowing. It was what made him a good leader. He could be empathetic with his men, but he did not abide a sustained time of self-pity. He stood with his arms crossed, glowering down at Wickham.”Go to bed. We will plan your attack on life in the morning.”
Wickham laughed. “I am not in the militia anymore, my friend.”
“No. But you are in a battle nonetheless. Now, go to bed.”
Wickham stood shakily and gave a limp and misaimed salute. Bed sounded like a welcome prospect. With any luck, perhaps he would wake from this nightmare in the morning.
~*~*~
Morning came, bright and clear — far too bright for Wickham. Denny threw open the curtains in Wickham’s room and called loudly to his friend. “Get up. The day awaits.”
Wickham groaned and rolled away from the light. “Have a care, Denny. My head feels like it has been trampled by a horse. Keep your voice down and the curtains drawn.”
“I will do nothing of the sort. You shall feel the full extent of what you have done to yourself. Perhaps you will remember it the next time you wish to drown your sorrows.” He yanked the pillow from under Wickham’s head, causing his friend to curse as his head bounced off the mattress. “Dress and be down in ten. Do not test me.” Denny threw a set of clothes at him and left the room, deliberately slamming the door.
Grumbling and sputtering, Wickham rushed to dress. He knew from experience that Denny made no idle threats.
“Why must I arise so early and is such haste?” Wickham demanded when he appeared below stairs.
“Sit and eat.” Denny motioned to the plate of food on the table. “We need to travel.”
Wickham took his seat at the table. “Travel? Where? And what of my children?”
“Your children are with my wife, where they will remain until I see that you are indeed ready to be their father again.” He stared at Wickham through narrowed eyes until Wickham took up his utensils and began eating. ” We’re going to Derbyshire.”
Wickham nearly choked on the bit of egg he had just popped into his mouth. “Why would I go to Derbyshire?”
“They are expecting us.”
“How can they be expecting us?” Wickham had had no communication with Fitzwilliam Darcy in years, save to send bits of money in repayment of the money he had demanded of Darcy, money which had been an inducement to marry. He was quite certain that Pemberley was one place where he was not welcome.
“I sent an express three days ago — when your drinking began. You will not sit here and allow your wife to run off with some young buck. And I will have my officer back at least long enough to send him to a less friendly location.”
Wickham shook his head violently against the idea. “I am not welcome there.”
“Have you not been paying back the money that was put up for your wedding and commission? Kitty has told me of how her sister and brother have both been impressed, not only by your apparent change, but also by the duration. Five years is a long time.”
Wickham shook his head again. “No. I cannot.”
“You will if I have to clap you in irons and order my men to carry you the distance. It would be a most beneficial training exercise.” Denny grinned menacingly at his friend.
Wickham paled. Again, he knew this was no idle threat. He was going to Derbyshire. He might as well go under his own power. “Wh
y must I go there?”
“Lydia is there. My officer has already been taken into custody by the local magistrate and is awaiting the escort I have sent to transport him back here. Your wife has been remanded into the custody of her sister until such time as you claim her.” Denny eyed his friend carefully, trying to judge the reception of such news.
Wickham stared at the wall beyond Denny’s head; his expression was stony, only his eyes flinched. “What if I do not wish to see her? What if I wish to wash my hands of her?”
“You do not wish that. If you did, you would not have been attempting to drink yourself into an early grave.”
“She will not listen to me. She has made her choice, and I am not it.” Wickham rose and paced the room.
“According to Kitty, she has never listened. The only time she has ever shown any amount of change is when she has experienced the results. You must make her feel the consequences of her decisions. She has left debts at an inn. Tell her that she must pay them from her own monies or suffer the consequences. Perhaps a few days of hard labour or a short stint in debtor’s prison would be effective.”
“Send my wife to prison?” Wickham dropped into a chair, his face white, his knees failing him.
“It would not be my first choice, but if necessary, yes.” Denny leaned forward and looked his friend in the eye. “George, it has to stop. This storm has been building for years. Lydia has been coddled all of her life — first by her parents and then you. When was the last time you did not give her what she begged for?” He leaned back and drummed his fingers on the table. “I would venture that you have never denied her a thing. You must completely cut her off except for a small allowance. You must teach her what others have not. If she cannot love you as you love her, at least she can respect you.”
