by Don Jacobson
That was a stroke of luck because the vodka was closer at hand than Mary had initially realized. As she returned from the Rochets’ shop, she ran into Darcy and Lizzy walking to Meryton. Darcy quizzed Mary about the flask she was carrying. After she had explained that she was collecting the ingredients for a drink Papa desired, she confessed that she was at a loss about where to find vodka.
“Lizzy, Mr. Darcy…Papa was most specific. He said—and I am quoting him now— ‘that swill they try to pass off as good English gin is more poison than pleasure. Get me vodka!’
“What am I to do?” she worried.
Darcy stood immobile; his eyes focused off in the middle distance with a stern look on his face. In the old days, both women would have trembled at his disdain for their pedestrian needs. But they now knew that he was only thinking.
“I have it!” he exclaimed after a few moments, “The Russian Ambassador to Britain is Count Lieven. He is bound to have the best Russian vodka. His wife, the Countess, is a patroness of Almack’s along with Aunt Eleanor’s two good friends, Lady Jersey and Lady Sefton.
“I can ride into Town and explain the situation to my Aunt. I am certain Countess Lieven can liberate some of her husband’s hoard. I could have it here tomorrow morning. Would that suit?”
Indeed it would—and did. Darcy delivered the precious bottle imprinted with the Imperial Russian double eagles directly into Mary’s hands. He also handed her a freshly picked lemon from the orangery behind Darcy House.
Under the watchful eye of her father, the Darcys, and the Bingleys, Mary blended the concoction as directed, chilling it with fresh icicles she broke from the eave above the window illuminating Papa’s chamber. Inverting a smaller tumbler inside of a larger one, Mary then shook the mixture. She carefully strained the concoction into the champagne coupe.
Accepting it, Mr. Bennet held the goblet up into the sunlight streaming through the frosted panes. He smiled as the light refracted and scattered a thousand different rainbows around the room. He lowered the crystal and solemnly looked at it. Then he raised his glass in a toast. Saluting his family standing at his bedside, he said simply, “For Kitty.” Then he sipped his drink.
As the end drew near, Thomas called for Mr. Philips to attend him; making sure that his final Will was current and up-to-date. He left a special £250 bequest to the Hills. He had previously made arrangements for Sir William and several other landowners to absorb as many of Longbourn’s staff as possible. He instructed that Kitty’s share of her mother’s dowry as well as an additional £500 be placed in a trust and invested in the three percents for her later benefit under the management of Edward Gardiner and the Bennet Family Trust. He also named Mr. Gardiner, Mr. Philips, and Mr. Darcy to be co-executors of his Will. He entrusted to Mr. Philips a well-sealed envelope addressed jointly to Edward Benton and Mary Bennet. He was ready, having made his peace with his family and his God.
In the quiet hours that fell before dawn on January 17, 1815, surrounded by his wife, his daughters and their husbands, and by the shades of those who went before him, Thomas Bennet, Master of Longbourn, slipped the surly bonds of earth…and touched the face of God.[xliv]
Longbourn Estate, Hertfordshire, January 19, 1815
The carriage clattered up to the front portico and out stepped William Collins. Although he was still entitled to wear clerical garb, he had already begun spending his inheritance. His brief stop at Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s old tailor shop in Town had resulted in the proprietor clearing several old debts by foisting off various mismatched articles of clothing upon the guileless and unsuspecting flatterer. Thus, Collins’ coat of deep blue superfine was trimmed with inexpensive brass buttons. The poorly-fit waistcoat that stretched across his potbelly was garishly striped and featured pewter buttons. Polished Hessians encased his short, plump legs, accentuating the uneven nature of his height. No mourning over the bones of Thomas Bennet for William Collins. He stood staring at his domain, jingling the keys he had obtained from a clerk at the Philips’ law offices in Meryton.
His luggage was in another cart about a half day behind him. He had hurried to Longbourn, eager to assert his authority. With a superior air, he dismissed his hired post chaise to the stables behind the house to freshen the horses. Then he planted his hands on his hips and threw back his head, inhaling the cool but damp Hertfordshire air. Mine. It is finally all MINE!
No servants greeted him. The house was remarkably quiet. Unbeknownst to him Charlotte and Maria Rose had earlier evacuated to Lucas Lodge. The Darcys had packed up their children, Annie Fitzwilliam, as well as Lydia and Mrs. Wilson, and had decamped to Darcy House in Town. Mrs. Bennet and Eddie had boarded the Bingley’s carriage for the trip to back to Thornhill.
This was part of Mary’s plan. After the reading of Thomas’ will, there was no reason for anyone to be in attendance when Collins arrived to claim Longbourn. She had hoped to leave him an empty, soulless abode. Only Mary remained to await the carters who were coming to move the Wardrobe into Town. They were delayed. And that was a complication Mary had not anticipated.
She was alone in the library. Hearing the carriage arrive, she saw Collins step out and immediately regretted giving all members of the staff their freedom. She had paid wages due them as of this morning as opposed to waiting until next Quarter Day. The pilgrimage away from the Estate was sudden and complete. She doubted if any remained to tend to the horses.
Watching Collins stand in the drive, Mary felt a quiver of fear in her belly. She had heard that Collins’ tastes tended toward younger waifs, but she doubted that being left alone with a woman of three-and-twenty would disappoint him. She felt trapped and defenseless. Her Papa was gone. Her uncles returned home. Her brothers were likewise unavailable. And Edward? He was three thousand miles away!
She needed to protect the Wardrobe lest Collins damage it. He certainly had no idea of its power. He could try to claim it as part of his rights to everything at Longbourn. Even though her father had specifically bequeathed the Wardrobe to her, she knew that in many cases, possession was the greater part of the law. How could she save it?
Collins turned back to the house and walked in. He peered into the parlor. The sofas and chairs so often filled with chattering females were totally devoid of humanity. Then he reversed course and walked into the library. He found Mary standing in the center of the room, arms wrapped around her middle, a tight look stretching her face.
“Miss Bennet.”
“Mr. Collins.”
“Where is everyone? This house is as quiet as a crypt.”
“They are gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean by ‘gone’?”
“I could not be clearer if I had written it out. They have all departed. The Darcys have returned to London. The Bingleys to Thornhill in Derbyshire. My mother and little brother will be living there, as we were sure that you would not wish them under your roof. Mrs. Collins and Maria Rose are at Lucas Lodge.”
“Not your blasted family. My employees. My servants. Where are they?”
“Oh, they have gone, too. Many received bequests that allowed them to leave service and find their own establishments. I paid off all the others two days ago as per my father’s instructions made before his death. You may check with my Uncle Philips about that.”
“Well, who will unpack my luggage when it arrives, run my house, and prepare my meals?”
“Mr. Collins, that is not my problem. However, I do know that there are many men returning from the war who are seeking employment. I am certain you will be able to find staff eventually.”
Collins’ face had been getting progressively darker and redder as the conversation continued. Sweat beaded on his brow and upper lip. He began rubbing his hands together and muttering to himself.
“Oh, my Lady Catherine will be most displeased if I do not have adequate servants to meet her needs. She will need maids to dress her…footmen to wait table…a butler to a
nnounce her visitors. No, this will not do, not at all. She told me that I needed to take my inheritance immediately or those nasty Bennets would steal my precious[xlv] property.
“You have stolen my inheritance. Those servants were mine! Mine!”
“No Mr. Collins. No man owns another, least of all another’s soul. You have no right to enslave free Englishmen who have made the choice not to be employed by you.”
To this point Mary had kept her composure, but as Collins began to lose his, she feared for her safety. He was pacing and muttering, running his hands through his greasy hair hanging in lank strands across his forehead. And he was between Mary and the door.
Suddenly he stopped his patrol of the library’s floorboards. An evil grin split his sweaty countenance. Dropping his arms to his side, he flexed his fingers. The leer he made chilled her to the bone.
“Perhaps all is not lost. Since you are here, you can heat my food, pour my bath, and warm my bed. You always wanted me. I knew that. But after Elizabeth…Elizabeth,” he tried Mrs. Darcy’s Christian name a few more times, smacking his lips and rolling the “z” on his tongue, “rejected me for NO GOOD REASON, I saw you watching me. You were silently begging me to touch you, to taste your sweetness, were you not?”
Those last words moved Mary to action. She started to edge toward the French windows across from the Wardrobe. Collins moved like a rook on a chessboard, sliding down to the far end of the room blocking the door to the back of the house. Mary crossed toward the opposite wall. Collins countered, keeping the distance between them uniform and too close.
“Trying to run, are we? Oh, that makes it more fun. I think, though, you are a little too old to escape. I would lose one occasionally, but that was a nine-year-old. They are quick and can hide in small places. You are three-and-twenty. Still plenty tender enough since you, of all the Bennet whores, is most likely yet a maiden. Well, let me solve that right now.”
He lunged across the room at her. She dodged toward the back door but was grabbed from behind and thrown against the Wardrobe. Stars danced across her vision as her head thumped back. Collins was upon her in an instant with one knee between her legs lifting her up on her toes. He clutched her throat with his left hand. His right reached down and pulled up her skirts and pushed between her clamped thighs.
Mary moaned in abject terror. Collins was no virile physical specimen, but he had enough strength to overpower her. He was going to ruin her in Papa’s library.
Her vision started to tunnel down as she weakened under his assault. His noxious breath was sucking the air out of her lungs. Oh Lord, save me. Help me now. Deliver me from this horror. Make it go away!
As Mary’s struggles became weaker, Collins released his hold on her windpipe. With a hideous grin, his left hand grabbed her breast and squeezed. The pain was awful. Mary tried to squirm away. He forced her upright and pinned her arms cruciform using his forearms.
Her lips entranced him, and he leaned in to plant a sloppy kiss upon her mouth. As she jerked her head aside to avoid his lips, he slammed both hands on the marquetry surface behind her.
The 1,000 bees buzzed, the pressure built, and the bubble popped.
Collins disappeared from the library.
The man in front of her vanished. A loud thud inside the Wardrobe behind her prefaced the doors bursting open and propelling Mary across the room. An inert form tumbled out and rolled to the bookroom’s floor.
Collins was back.
His head lolled to the side and spittle dribbled from his mouth. His eyes were open, but unfocused. Periodically his body flinched, and his hands twitched. His lower arms were braced with two strange long-handled contraptions that kept his hands flat and fingers splayed apart.
Tucked in his waistcoat was a folded note addressed to her. She cautiously approached the prostrate man and pulled the missive clear. No date. No salutation; just several instructions prepared as if by a printing house.
Remove the hand brackets and hide them. Call to the coachmen for help with Mr. Collins who has taken ill. Move him to a bedroom.
Send one coachman to Meryton and instruct him to send Mr. Jones. Have the other sit with Collins.
Ask the coachman also to send Uncle Philips to you immediately.
Write a note advising future Keepers about Collins.
Direct the carters to move the Wardrobe. Get it out of Longbourn.
Tell Uncle Philips that Mr. Collins began yelling about glass houses and carriages without horses and boxes with people inside. Then he collapsed to the floor.
Be sure that Mr. Jones, who has always been free with the drug, keeps Collins well sedated with laudanum.
Ultimately the Bennet family (Sir William as Charlotte’s father can use his social status to help) as Mr. Collins’ closest relatives must have him committed to Bedlam. As all of Collins’ relatives are women, Mr. Darcy, Uncle Edward, and Mr. Bingley may end up taking the lead. If Collins’ strange mutterings are not enough, the Brigadier may be able to supply more information about his predilections. Uncle Philips, as the Bennet family solicitor, can manage the process. Use Wilson & Hunters of Lincoln’s Inn to lock this in an unbreakable fashion.
Once Collins has been dispatched, have Charlotte and Maria Rose, his legal heir, return to Longbourn and take up residence. Mama and Eddie should come home. Have Charlotte declared sole guardian to the heir of the estate due to the incapacity and incompetence of Mr. Collins. Assign Power of Attorney to Sir William. Keep Lady Catherine away. She has no rights here.
Mary stared at the note in her hand. Then, without one shadow of pity crossing her brow, she looked down at Collins. He was a dangerous man. He would have to make his peace with God when his time came. As much as she would like, she would do nothing to hasten his departure from this mortal coil. The instructions seemed quite clear that Collins would end his days in the madhouse. But, Miss Bennet would not be one of those who mourn an earlier than planned meeting, if that was God’s will, with the deity.
Book Four
From Waterloo to the Fields of St. Peter
June 1815 to August 1819
Chapter XXXII
Darcy House, London, June 8, 1815
Mary Bennet settled her cup of cocoa back onto its saucer as she sat in the small breakfast room. The early June sunlight filtered in through the windows facing out onto the luxurious city garden that stretched behind Lizzy and Fitzwilliam’s London townhouse. Always an early-riser, Mary happily sat alone at the table waiting for the others.
She could hear the noise of the nurses as they tended the three little ones—Lizzy’s George and Maddie along with Richard’s Annie. Soon enough Mary would climb the stairs and start her day with the children. Two-year-old George was quickly turning into the terror of the nursery having discovered the power of the word “NO.” Annie was testing her legs as her first birthday approached; she was into everything. Not to be left out of the chaos was baby Madelyn who was experimenting with her new set of teeth. Nurse Gorman despaired of stopping her from gnawing on everything from the ears of her plush rabbit to the edge of the low nursery table. All in all, Darcy House was a-buzz with youthful energy.
The adults still had two weeks of deep mourning for Mr. Bennet. Mary would be happy to shift her gowns from somber black to a subdued dove grey and lavender. The men had it much better. They could still be in full mourning with black suits, waistcoats and cravats. Women were condemned to look like blackbirds with their weeds fluttering around them. Mary hoped she had her vanity under control, but as a healthy young woman, she was tired of the clothing and the restrictions. Not that she regretted the prohibition against attending balls, but, except for family events at the Gardiner’s or the Matlock’s, the lack of social interaction aggravated the void she felt at Edward’s absence.
Edward had responded in early March to her note about her father’s passing. He vowed that he would seek the earliest passage to England, but with the end of the war being confirmed in th
e United States only in late January, booking a berth toward Europe would be difficult. As it was, Edward managed to catch a Lisbon-bound vessel that sailed from Boston on April 10th. A letter of that date was the last Mary had received. She was not terribly worried, but a small knot gripped her stomach when she thought about the beginning of the Atlantic hurricane season on June 1st.
Yet, while Mary’s personal life was up-in-the-air, all of Britain was a-dither about the Beast’s February escape from his Mediterranean cage on Elba. He had already marched into France and was reassembling his Grande Armee to launch a fatal stroke at the disorganized Allies. By April, he was back on his throne in Paris. Wellington and his staff had already dashed from Vienna to Brussels.[xlvi] Richard had been elevated to Major General in both the British and Dutch Armies and was in charge of several infantry brigades formed into a new formation Wellington had adopted from the French: a division. War was brewing as Napoleon prepared to bring new pain to his old enemies.
Rumors swirled throughout the capital during these early June days. Few had any legs to reach beyond the coffee shops and drawing rooms. But, the idea that a cataclysmic confrontation was coming, destined to dwarf the Battle of Nations, found credence in the urgency with which recruiting sergeants were prowling the streets and countryside trying to reassemble regiments paid off to secure last year’s peace dividend.
Heavy steps on the stairs alerted Mary to Darcy’s descent. What was unexpected was Lizzy’s appearance by her husband’s side. Her sister had been missing from the earliest meal for the past several days, usually making her appearance later. While her excuses had been general in nature, Mary suspected that Elizabeth was increasing again. A glance at her pale countenance left Mary with little doubt that Lizzy was still wrestling with morning queasiness. The toast and tea Elizabeth selected from the sideboard added one more weight to the scale.
