by Laura Hile
“Yours are the wrong size,” Kitty pointed out.
“She will swim in yours. She is much too thin.”
“That does not matter because she will be wearing my cloak.”
“But it’s red,” said Lydia. “Not the color one wears to avoid being noticed.”
“Then I shall have to lend her Jane’s,” said Kitty. “Jane will not mind, since Anne’s need is truly dire.”
“La,” said Lydia, “when Jane marries Mr. Bingley, she will have heaps of new clothes. And so shall we, for Mama is eager for us to meet all of his fine friends. But look there,” she added. “Someone has come to call.”
“Has Mama invited Dr. Bentley to supper?”
“Nonsense, we are not that late.”
“Perhaps he has come to call on Father,” said Kitty, “for that is his chaise. Unless it is someone else. We could be mistaken.”
And then, echoing through the winter countryside came the sound of the parish church bell slowly tolling.
Darcy concealed a groan. Its meaning was all too clear. Mr. Bennet had passed into eternity.
“Why are they ringing the bells now?” said Lydia. “There is no service.”
Kitty gave a ragged gasp. “Father!” she cried.
“Of course it isn’t Father,” said Lydia roughly. “Someone else has died, someone in Meryton. People die every day.”
“My necklace,” Kitty wailed. “Oh, my poor necklace! Father gave it me for my birthday, and now it is gone. And so is he!”
Darcy strode forward and closed the gap between himself and the girls. They were now clinging to one another.
“Mr. Collins,” cried Kitty. “Why are they ringing the bell?”
He offered an arm to each. “Shall we go inside? Your mother will be glad to have you home.”
g
Kitty and Lydia went charging up the stairs, calling for Elizabeth and Jane. Darcy lingered alone in the vestibule. There was little doubt about why the bells were tolling. For the second time he felt the weight of inheriting a property. But there was no jubilation in it, as fools like Collins assumed. He would manage the Longbourn estate with the same care he had given Pemberley. And, God willing, it would prosper.
Mrs. Hill came into the vestibule, her demeanor deferential.
“Mr. Bennet?” he said gently, before she could speak.
“Yes, sir,” said Hill. “With the Savior in heaven he is, and out of his pain.”
“I am so very sorry. You were especially fond of him, I think.”
“It is kind of you to say so, sir.”
“He was my relation, a man I should have spent more time getting to know.”
“You’ll care for his Elizabeth, sir, and his girls. Thank God you came when you did.”
And then he remembered Elizabeth’s letter. This was the wrong moment to deliver it, yet Darcy knew that if he delayed he might lose his nerve. This was a time for honesty. Elizabeth deserved to know the truth.
He called Mrs. Hill back. “If you would put this in Miss Elizabeth’s bedchamber, away from prying eyes,” he said, “I would be grateful. She—needn’t discover it right away.”
There was no hint of saucy coyness in Mrs. Hill’s eyes. “The younger girls,” she said, “mean no harm, but I understand your meaning, sir. I know just the place.”
There was more to be said. “I ought to say a few words to the family after supper,” he said. “I would like you to be present, Mrs. Hill. At some point we will go over the household accounts. I would like to have an idea of what is fair and reasonable.”
Was it his imagination, or did Mrs. Hill’s shoulders straighten? There was no mistaking the respect in her gaze. Darcy was no tyrant, nor would he evade his responsibilities. He had been running an estate for too long to toe the ground or appear indecisive.
“I would prefer not to disturb Mrs. Bennet. Although you might let her know, at a moment you think best, that I am amenable to making a reasonable allowance for the purchase of mourning garments.”
“That is most generous, sir, but perhaps I ought to warn you—”
“Have no fear, Mrs. Hill. Your former mistress will learn to moderate her demands. I will not have the household staff tyrannized by emotional outbursts.”
There was a short silence during which Hill dabbed at her eyes. “God bless you, sir,” she said quietly.
There were voices on the landing above, and Darcy heard a beloved voice say, “He is?” He looked up.
Elizabeth’s face appeared over the banister rail. “Oh, William,” she cried, and she came hurrying down the stairs.
Mrs. Hill held out the letter, but Darcy shook his head. She went off at once, and Darcy held out his arms to receive Elizabeth.
“How I wanted you!”
“I am sorry to be away so long, dearest.” He drew her close.
She settled her cheek against his shoulder. “I understand,” she said. “And Dr. Bentley has been wonderful. But oh, how I needed you.”
“I am here now,” he said. “Whatever challenges come, we will face them together.” He hesitated. “I have been through this a few times.”
She pulled away to look into his face. “Your parents.”
He dried her tears with his fingers. “And now your father,” he said. “I am sorrier for this loss than I can say.”
“Mama is wild with grief and worry,” Elizabeth confessed. “She is fearful that you will cast us out, or else turn the household upside down. For that reason she wishes us to be married at once.”
Darcy drew a long breath. Yes, he should have anticipated this. Mr. Bennet’s death complicated things in more ways than one. “Your father deserves to be mourned,” he said. “In six months’ time, if you are of the same mind, we’ll have the banns read and marry.”
“And you will remain with us?”
“Not as a resident of Longbourn House,” he said gently.
“But—”
He laid a gentle finger to her lips. “Whatever comes,” he repeated softly, “we will face it together. But we needn’t face every challenge just yet.”
He heard her give a little sigh, and she again laid her cheek on his shoulder. “What a comfortable person you are, William,” she said.
38He Knew Not How
Supper that night was simple and subdued: soup with bread and cheese. In silence Elizabeth and her sisters filed into the dining room and found their seats. A place was made beside Jane for Charles Bingley, their only guest. Dr. Bentley had kindly refused Elizabeth’s invitation, thus removing the burden of conversation. Elizabeth was too worn to think, let alone talk.
Their father’s place at the head of the table—and their mother’s at its foot—were conspicuously empty. But as the soup was being served, the door came open and William brought in their mother. With gentle courtesy, he seated her in her usual place. Elizabeth knew that she did not wish to come down. But William was not to be gainsaid, and he had quietly won her over.
“Begin as you mean to continue, Mr. Collins,” Mrs. Bennet said. “You are the master of Longbourn now and should sit at the head of the table.” She dabbed at her eyes with a black-edged handkerchief. “Of this house, my much-loved home, I am no longer mistress.”
He thanked her and slipped into a vacant chair, leaving Mr. Bennet’s seat unoccupied. Elizabeth’s heart warmed at this small act of thoughtfulness.
The soup and bread were good, the tea strong and bracing. How many hours had it been since anyone had eaten? The midday meal had been forgotten.
At last William Collins laid down his spoon and looked at each in turn. “I thought it best,” he began, “to go over with you all, together, what will transpire to honor your father. I wish there to be no confusion. I have spoken with Dr. Bentley. The funeral service will take place as soon as we can arrange it, within a day or two.”
“Mr. Collins,” protested Mrs. Bennet, “you do not mean day, but night. For we must have a night funeral, as all the leading families do.”
&
nbsp; “We shall not imitate London practices, ma’am,” said William. “We will do what is proper to honor your husband, but without needless display and extravagance.”
Elizabeth heard her mother give a sniff. “Needless extravagance, he calls it. What do you know about family honor, Mr. Collins?”
He went on as if he had not heard. “To that end, I will be engaging the services of Mr. Willard. He will arrange for furnishing the church and the house, and will handle details such as transportation for the service.”
The dining room became absolutely still. Mr. Willard was Meryton’s funeral undertaker.
“Oh, but Cousin William,” said Jane, “there is no need. For truly, we ourselves are able to—”
“No, Miss Bennet,” he said. “You, your sister, and Mrs. Hill have borne the brunt of your father’s care. I have no intention of saddling you with additional responsibilities. Tonight, Miss Bennet, you will sleep, as will Elizabeth. Our friend Mr. Fleming is no doubt sleeping now.”
He turned to Elizabeth’s younger sisters. “As for tonight, Mary, Kitty, and Lydia will share the vigil.”
“The vigil?” Lydia burst out.
“That is the custom, yes,” said William. “You may divide the hours among yourselves, or sit together if that is your preference.”
“Do you mean we are to sit beside a dea—beside Father? All the night through? But that is—that is—”
“—customary,” William finished for her. “It is also your duty.”
Elizabeth found her voice. “Pray forgive my sisters,” she said. “It has been a long while since we have experienced a death in our family.”
“Close on ten years,” Mrs. Bennet put in. “My great aunt Mary, though she can hardly be said to count, being at least eighty. Your father,” she added, “inherited Longbourn as quite a young man.”
“I still do not see why we must sit up all night while Jane and Elizabeth sleep,” said Lydia.
“Because I require that you do,” William said mildly. “Tomorrow you will sleep, and your sisters will take their turn, along with helping your mother with the correspondence.” He paused. “Are you volunteering to write letters, Miss Lydia?”
“Oh lord, no,” said Lydia. “I hate letters. Even so, I think it most unfair that—”
“Then kindly do as you are told. Miss Mary, I assign to you the task of selecting Scriptural texts, as well as a hymn, for the service.”
Mary looked gratified, but Kitty took up Lydia’s protest. “Must we sit up tomorrow night as well?”
William merely looked at her. “Of course,” he said.
“I will have to get out of it,” Elizabeth heard Kitty whisper to Lydia.
Meanwhile William was still talking. “Mrs. Hill will handle the after-funeral reception,” he said, “with the help of Jane and Elizabeth and Kitty.”
“What about me?” Lydia protested.
“I would like you to oversee tokens of remembrance for the mourners. I have seen how clever you are with ribbon. I daresay rosemary is customary.”
At this, their mother raised her head. “Ribbon and rosemary for remembrance? Is that not rather paltry, Mr. Collins? We are, after all, one of the leading families in the district. It will never do to be thought stingy.”
“As I am the one taking on the cost of the funeral,” said William, “it is I who will be thought stingy.”
Mrs. Bennet gave a mighty sigh.
“It has been my experience,” he continued, “that an opulent, showy funeral is a means of assuaging guilt, or concealing a lack of affection for the deceased. Your father was much-loved by both his family and friends. There is no occasion for unnecessary pomp and ceremony.”
“Of course we wish it to be done properly,” Mrs. Bennet fretted. “I am forced to trust your judgment, Mr. Collins.
“What about tomorrow night, Mama?” said Kitty. “For the vigil, I mean. Lydia and I needn’t sit up for a second night. Or perhaps Mr. Willard knows of someone who can.”
“What about you, Mama?” suggested Lydia. “Will you share the vigil?”
“Me?” she cried. “Sit up all night? I am prostrated by grief, as Mr. Collins knows full well. Indeed, it is a wonder that I have joined you all for supper.” She pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. Mr. Collins and Mr. Bingley did likewise.
“I shall force myself to make an appearance at the reception, as is my duty. But of more I am incapable. Mr. Bingley, will you see me upstairs to my room? Hill, fetch the hartshorn.”
g
Elizabeth caught up with William in the vestibule. He was putting on his coat and hat. “You are not going out?”
He smiled, and for a moment his face lost its pallor. “I must see Mr. Willard, who is expecting me. Dr. Bentley offered to stop by with my card.”
“But William, you are exhausted.”
“Ned is taking me in the carriage.”
“Even so, you are far too tired to be doing business now. And when I think of that elopement—”
“Thank God for small wonders,” he said, bringing an arm around her waist. “Were it taking place tonight, Wickham would have his way.” He bent to kiss her tenderly. “I will come home as soon as may be. You are not to wait up.”
“Indeed, I do not think I could, even if I wished it.”
He released her, but as he put on his hat she saw him hesitate. “I hate to ask this of you,” he said, “but—”
“Yes?”
“Would you be able to select your father’s favorite suit of clothes?”
“For Mr. Willard,” she whispered.
“I would not ask, but you will know what is exactly right.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “I am willing.” She raised her face for another kiss but it never came.
Instead she heard him say, “What the devil?” For outside there were the stamping of feet and also voices—merry voices. The cheerful rat-a-tat of the door knocker was an explosion of sound in the silent house.
Elizabeth gave William a startled look. “The officers?”
“Expecting cards and coffee, no doubt,” he said.
“Obviously they have not heard.”
The knocking sounded again. Behind them a door slammed, and Mrs. Hill came hurrying forward.
“I’ll handle this,” he told her, and with a swift movement opened the door.
There stood a cluster of uniformed men, half in shadow. Upon seeing Elizabeth their banter ceased.
“Hello, Wickham,” said William, “and gentlemen.” There was an edge to his voice.
Elizabeth came forward. “I daresay you have not heard. Indeed, how could you? For there has not been time—”
“Your father, Miss Elizabeth?” said a voice, Mr. Platt’s she thought.
“I fear so.”
The officers removed their hats, all traces of cheer gone. Elizabeth was touched.
Mr. Wickham stepped into the light. “My dear Miss Elizabeth,” he said. “I believe I speak for all my brother officers, when I offer my most sincere and heartfelt sympathy. The world has lost a splendid fellow.”
“If we can serve you in any way, Miss Elizabeth,” added Mr. Platt, “you have only to let us know.”
“Thank you, my friends,” Elizabeth said. “Good night.” She gave a look to William, and he quietly shut the door.
“Those poor fellows,” she said, as soon as he had fastened the bolt. “I believe Mr. Platt meant it when he offered their help.”
William was drawing on his gloves. “I suppose it would be bad form to ask them to mount a guard tomorrow night at Netherfield.”
He was jesting, or was he? Could she enlist the help of the officers?
“A joke, dearest,” he said. “There. I hear Ned with the carriage. Off to bed with you.”
Such a comfort, his solid form and strong arms. And he was wearing the shaggy brown coat, the one that made him look like a bear. Elizabeth shed a few tears on his shoulder and then, very reluctantly, released him to his errand.
The next morning Elizabeth and Jane went quietly to church with Mary. William slept until late in the afternoon, but evidence of his handiwork was everywhere. Mr. Willard’s people had come and gone, and a room had been draped for the vigil. Elizabeth’s father now rested in a coffin. Her mother could say what she wished, but Elizabeth knew that William had spared little expense. Her younger sisters did not like being up all night, but they were exempt from receiving the steady stream of callers.
Just now she and William were alone in the drawing room, a rare moment. “You have slept through Mr. Fleming’s departure,” Elizabeth said, pouring out a cup of coffee for him. “Unless Miss de Bourgh or her mother require his services, he will be returning to Hunsford.”
He winced. “I meant to ask for his bill, to settle with him before he left.”
“He mentioned that he would see you in Hunsford. I suppose you can arrange things then.”
“That’s another thing. My duties as rector are not arduous. Remaining for another six months might not be a bad idea.”
“So long as that?”
“I am afraid so. Bingley won’t like it any more than I do, but since the banns have not been read, we shouldn’t proceed with the weddings. I understand that his sister is pining for London.”
“That is hardly surprising,” said Elizabeth. “But we must keep Mr. Bingley here, by all means.”
William did not share her smile. Instead he lapsed into thought, frowning into his coffee.
“Is something wrong? Shall I have Mrs. Hill make a fresh pot?”
He looked up. “The coffee is excellent, thank you. It’s just that I—have an awkward question to ask. And yet of all your family,” he added, “you are the one who would know.”
“Please,” she said. “If I can be of service...”
“Has your father a money box?” he said at last. “That is to say, for incidental expenses?”
“Yes, in a drawer of his desk. Would you like to see?”
“Only if it will not give you pain.”
It would, but Elizabeth was reluctant to say so. After all, her beloved father’s bookroom, his private sanctuary, could hardly be kept as a shrine. Eventually it would become William’s office. It was not surprising that he had need of funds, most likely for the funeral arrangements. She could see that he was embarrassed to ask. “I’ll show you now, if you like,” she said.
