Elizabeth Bennet's Impertinent Letter

by J P Christy

  “I am sorry for your loss,” Elizabeth said.

  “It was three years into my marriage when my husband, Benjamin, was thrown from a horse. He hit his head, and after that accident, he was prone to fits. In desperation, we went to Bath. While the treatments there did not seem to help much, neither did they do him any harm. And he enjoyed the place, although for the most part, he merely rested. Thus, I explored Bath on my own,” Mrs. Jenkinson said, smiling at the recollection.

  This was the first time Elizabeth had seen an expression of sincere happiness on the lady’s face. There is such warmth in her mien! What must it cost her to keep this hidden from Lady Catherine, Mr. Collins, and people of their ilk?

  Anne said, “I was scarcely twenty, and it was my second trip to Bath. Mama took me there for my health. I have never been what one might describe as robust, but,” she dropped her voice to a theatrical whisper, “I am not so feeble as the stories would have me. On the day I met Nora, Mama had taken to her bed, lamenting that no one of interest was in town. So, I, accompanied by a maid and a footman, sneaked away and went exploring.”

  “We met at the small shop that serves Sally Lunn buns. As we were two ladies alone and tables were scarce, we shared one, flouting propriety by introducing ourselves,” Mrs. Jenkinson said.

  “That day is one of my happiest memories. Until I met Nora, I had little opportunity to speak with ladies my own age without Mama hovering and inserting herself in the conversation.”

  “Anne and I were in company often that summer. It was a difficult time for me, so our talks and casual rambles around the town and the nearby areas lightened my spirits immeasurably.”

  “Nora and her husband left Bath before Mama and I did,” Anne said, “But Nora and I began a correspondence.”

  “Shortly thereafter, my husband passed. Anne’s letters during the months which followed meant more to me than I can say.” Mrs. Jenkinson squeezed her friend’s hand.

  “For me, Nora’s letters were the voice of sanity. In Kent, there are few families Mama considers worthy of her attention, so we have little company. At times I have felt like a doll in a glass case—taken out to be admired on special occasions, but then returned to what I did not even realize was loneliness.”

  “It breaks my heart that you lived in such a manner. I, at least, have had a kind husband, and I still have a loving mother and a wonderful brother who has an equally wonderful family.” To Elizabeth, Mrs. Jenkinson said, “Peter, my brother, is a solicitor in Brighton. He guided the investment of the jointure I received upon Benjamin’s death. Nonetheless, I decided I was young enough and healthy enough to still be useful in this world.”

  “We’re back to the topic of usefulness, are we?” Elizabeth teased.

  “Your words to Lady Catherine yesterday delighted me.”

  “And me!” Anne said.

  “Have you met Nora’s family?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Not yet, but I hope to.”

  Mrs. Jenkinson said, “When we became correspondents, I shared Anne’s letters with my family, and soon they felt she was their friend, too. Thus, nearly a year after Benjamin’s death, when Anne wrote that she would be visiting Bath, Peter sent me there so we could renew our friendship. I was feeling such uncertainty for my future.”

  So, probably not a love match; still, Nora appreciated her husband, Elizabeth thought.

  “By the end of that visit, Mama agreed to engage Nora as my companion. It was the luckiest day of my life! Nora is so clever; Mama does not realize she is being managed.”

  Blushing, Mrs. Jenkinson said a quiet, “Shush, dear girl.”

  “It is true! I am happier. All the servants are happier, except Mr. Spicer. Our butler, Elizabeth, is not an honest man. When he is around, little things—trinkets, jewelry, and the like—disappear. Unfortunately, he has convinced Mama that she cannot run Rosings without him.”

  Mrs. Jenkinson said, “We do our best to avoid Mr. Spicer, while still showing as much friendliness as we can counterfeit.” With her thumb, she caught the chain around her neck from which hung a delicate gold locket. “Anne gave me this on my first anniversary at Rosings. It is my favorite above all things, and I dare not take it off for fear Mr. Spicer will spirit it away.”

  Seeing Elizabeth’s shocked look, Anne said, “I propose that for the remainder of our outing, we make no mention of your annoying cousin or Mama’s wicked butler.” As she guided the phaeton along a shady road, the ladies enjoyed a comfortable silence with occasional remarks about the spring foliage.

  In the congenial company of Anne and Nora, Elizabeth felt her irritation at Collins slip away. “Today will be one of my favorite memories of my visit to Kent—even if your invitation was inspired by pity following the bitter sermon made by a person whose name I shall not mention.”

  “Pity you?” Mrs. Jenkinson asked in surprise.

  “Certainly not!” Anne exclaimed. “I was not aware he was speaking of you. I confess, however, I have a selfish reason for seeking out your company. The way you have handled Mama’s rudeness has made me eager for more conversation. You manage to be gracious and witty while still being truthful.”

  “Gracious and witty,” Elizabeth repeated, surprised. “Do you not mean ‘impertinent’?”

  “Perhaps,” Mrs. Jenkinson said, “but there is such a charm in your expression that Lady Catherine is never quite certain whether she has been complimented or set down.”

  “It’s true. I told Nora if you offered lessons in your particular style of repartee, I would happily pay you to teach me.”

  “Now you are teasing me,” Elizabeth said, laughing.

  “I am not! When I remember myself as a child, I recall a little girl who was braver than I am now. Why should that be? And yet I know the answer very well. After Papa died, Mama changed.”

  “In what way did she change?” Elizabeth asked.

  “My father was a cheerful gentleman who loved country life; he passed when I was but fourteen. I did not realize it was Papa’s even-tempered manner that kept Mama’s ambitions in check. But after he was gone, she redecorated the house with ostentatious furnishings, and she separated herself from those in the neighborhood whom she had once accepted as friends. Now, she treats everyone as if they were beneath her in consequence, and what had been my comfortable home is now exclusively her showplace.”

  Mrs. Jenkinson prompted, “But it was not just the externals that changed.”

  Anne nodded. “I soon learned that Mama perceived my preferences as superfluous at best and, at worst, an interference with her grand plans. My mother fancies herself the Queen of Kent, yet even that is not enough to please her. A distant relation once hinted Mama was jealous of her younger sister’s marriage to Darcy’s father.”

  “It is her ambition that you wed Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth asked.

  “When Papa was alive, there was casual mention within the family of the possibility of our union—or, rather, of uniting the estates of Pemberley and Rosings. But within a year of my father’s passing, Mama began to tell all and sundry that the dearest wish of Darcy’s late mother was for he and I to marry. Mama insisted we had a peculiar sort of engagement which had existed from the time I was born. I suspect her grand plan was to connect herself to the Darcy fortune and to rule over Rosings while I, as my cousin’s wife, resided at Pemberley.”

  “That sounds so Gothic,” Elizabeth blurted. Clapping her hand over her mouth, she murmured between her fingers, “Oh, Miss De Bourgh, please excuse me!”

  “Please, call me ‘Anne’—and indeed it does sound Gothic!”

  “You have not told me these details before,” Mrs. Jenkinson said gently. “I pray it does not upset you to do so.”

  Anne gave a sad-sounding laugh. “I have just told you a very long story as to why I want lessons in impertinence. I want to regain the braver voice I had before Papa died.”

  “Well, until next Saturday when Maria and I leave for London, I will do my best to encourage your impertinen
ce.”

  This time, Anne’s laugh bespoke of her delight. “We will need food for this important endeavor. A picnic to go with our practice, which, if you agree, will begin tomorrow.”

  With a happy sigh, Elizabeth said, “I had feared that to avoid Mr. Collins, I would need to take more walks. Now I will have your good company and fine food!”

  ≈≈≈

  It was six o’clock on Sunday when Fitzwilliam, dressed in civilian clothes, presented himself at Darcy House for dinner. “I do not know whether my cousins are keeping country hours, Ashton, so am I late or early?”

  Georgiana, who had heard Fitzwilliam’s knock, hurried downstairs to embrace him. “You are never too early for me.” Slipping her arm through his, she walked him to the drawing room.

  “How are you, dearest? Any regrets about not joining your brother and me at Rosings?” This was a running joke between them, for spending time in Lady Catherine’s fierce company seemed to reduce his sixteen-year-old cousin to a trembling child.

  “Had I known of the company that was visiting there, I would have screwed my courage to the sticking place and come, too.”

  “Have you and Mrs. Annesley been reading ‘Macbeth’?”

  “I read the play in school two years ago, but those words about courage have been in my thoughts of late. By the bye, Brother said he would join us shortly.”

  “Does he seem changed?” Fitzwilliam asked, his light tone masking a serious interest.

  “Well, he’s scarcely been back a day, and he did not join me for church this morning. Still, he seemed himself at nuncheon. But he .… Why? Did something out of the ordinary happen at Rosings?”

  Watching her expression, he said cautiously, “On the evening before we left, our conversation at dinner was somewhat unusual.”

  In the drawing room, the cousins settled themselves on the sofa. “Brother seems a bit tired, so I assumed he was thinking about estate matters. But he did say something … unexpected.”

  “What was that?”

  Before she could reply, the butler entered with a tray bearing a cup of tea, a decanter of brandy, and two glasses. He gave Georgiana the tea, but before he could fill a glass with brandy, Fitzwilliam asked, “Do you have port, Ashton?”

  “Yes, sir, a fine vintage. Would you prefer that to brandy?”

  “I would.” Ashton set the tray on a table near the fireplace before exiting to fetch the port. When he was gone, Fitzwilliam asked, “What did Darcy say that was unexpected?”

  “He said he fears that I may think too highly of him.”

  Ah, Miss Elizabeth, your wish for Darcy to examine his behavior seems to be coming true. To Georgiana, he said, “That is odd.”

  At that moment, Darcy entered. “What is odd? Hello, Fitz. Where is your glass of brandy?”

  “Ashton is bringing me port; it feels too early for brandy.”

  “Does it?” Darcy asked, pouring a glass for himself.

  “Port brings back pleasant memories of my time in Spain.”

  “Pleasant memories of being at war?” Georgiana asked.

  “In situations fraught with danger, one tends to make friendships that have an intensity beyond what might be expected, given the brevity of the acquaintance.”

  “Your brothers in arms,” Darcy said. Fitzwilliam nodded, not mentioning that he was, in fact, thinking of an English widow now residing in London.

  Ashton returned with a glass of port, which he served to Fitzwilliam. Watching the butler, Georgiana announced, “Someday when you gentlemen are having your port and your brandy, I, too, will have a beverage stronger than tea.”

  “Someday,” Darcy said in a voice implying such a time was very far in the future.

  “Today, I wish for you to tell me about your visit to Rosings,” Georgiana said.

  Darcy looked at Fitzwilliam. “What has your conversation covered so far?”

  “In truth, I arrived but a few minutes ago.”

  “Christopher said your last dinner conversation was unusual.”

  “Ah, yes. You know our aunt has wanted me to marry Anne.”

  Georgiana nodded. “The peculiar engagement.”

  “At dinner, Anne and I told her most firmly there was no engagement between us, peculiar or otherwise.”

  “In fact,” Fitzwilliam interjected, “your brother said he would return to London and attend dinner parties and balls and the like so that he might find a suitable bride.”

  Georgiana looked at Darcy with wide eyes. “How wonderful! You have committed yourself to finding me a sister. Someone who enjoys music, please. And if she plays the harp or pianoforte, that would be particularly nice.”

  Darcy looked at her in surprise. He knew what qualities he wanted his wife to have for his sister’s sake, but only now did he realize Georgiana might have her own thoughts on the topic.

  “What about you, Darcy? What qualities do you seek?”

  “Really, Fitz, I do not think—” Darcy began.

  “But you must think about it!” Georgiana exclaimed. “How else will you recognize her?”

  “Certainly, I have given the matter some consideration,” Darcy huffed. “My future wife must be a gentlewoman, of course. A lady who is intelligent. If she does not enjoy reading, we will have little to say to each other. And .…” The others were silent as he ruminated. Finally, he said, “She must have a caring heart; if she does not adore you as a true sister, I cannot adore her.”

  “Clever? Witty? Pretty?” Fitzwilliam suggested.

  “It is possible for a lady … a person … to be too clever, too witty,” he said slowly. Would Elizabeth have been able to play me for a fool if she had not been so clever?

  “My mother is clever,” Fitzwilliam said, “and I believe my parents’ marriage is the better for it. Indeed, when Father drinks more wine than he ought, he has been known to say that his marriage was the making of him.”

  “As for pretty,” Darcy said, ignoring his cousin, “who would not prefer to have an attractive spouse? Yet, character matters more than appearance or wealth.” The character to confront, to defend, and to embrace a principle; Elizabeth has this quality.

  “And you will want an heir for Pemberley,” Fitzwilliam said.

  “Of course. And she must be a lady from a good family.”

  “One hears the phrase ‘from a good family,’ and one assumes we have a shared understanding of what this means,” Georgiana said thoughtfully. “Yet when I consider my time at school—my days spent with girls from good families—many of my memories are more bitter than sweet. Shy girls such as myself were often subjected to a sly cruelty from the more popular girls who seemed intent on proving their influence and competing for acolytes. Some girls even sought to avoid being singled out for criticism by becoming the followers of rather unpleasant leaders.”

  “That behavior was commonplace enough in my school, but I did not realize girls would also be so competitive,” Darcy said.

  Fitzwilliam shook his head. “Darcy, the young ladies of the ton have been competing for you for years. Did you think this competitiveness flamed in their bosom only after their come-out?”

  I am so unprepared to be what Georgiana needs now and after she is introduced to society, Darcy thought miserably.

  Sighing, Georgiana echoed his thoughts. “I feel so unprepared for my come-out. Having a sister to be my confidante and to guide me in dealing with the other young ladies on the marriage market may be all that keeps me from running off to join a convent.” Giving Darcy a stern look, she said, “Brother, you must find a wife who has the wit and spirit to help me stand up for myself.”

  Before Darcy could reply, Ashton announced dinner. As Georgiana glided out of the room without waiting for either gentleman to offer his arm, she said over her shoulder, “At dinner, I would like to know more about Miss Elizabeth Bennet. You mentioned her in your letters.”

  At Darcy’s glare, Fitzwilliam shrugged. “I did not mention the lady. Blame your correspondence, not min
e.”

  7

  “Do you know a Mr. George Wickham?”

  April 29, 1811

  It was nearly noon on Monday when Elizabeth, watching from the parlor window at the parsonage, saw Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson drive up. Turning to her hostess, who was replacing the buttons on a day dress, she said, “Oh, Charlotte, while I enjoyed being with the ladies yesterday, I feel I am slighting you.”

  “Lizzy, you and I have time together in the mornings; I do not begrudge you these jaunts. Indeed, given Mr. Collins’s mercurial temperament, I think it is for the best. Maria will keep me company and learn what is required to run a small household.” She walked her friend to the door and waved at the ladies.

  As Elizabeth climbed into the phaeton, Mrs. Jenkinson said, “We have brought a delicious picnic, but we will have to fend for ourselves, of course. No tables, chairs, or servants. We must show Anne how independent ladies get on in these circumstances.”

  Grinning, Anne urged the horse along the lane. “Indeed, I am a princess in a tower, protected from the rough and rustic life of common people.”

  Your life is hardly a fairy tale; I do not envy you your place here, Elizabeth thought. Aloud she said, “I suspect you get along quite well with the common people of Kent.”

  “I am comfortable enough, but my trips to Bath have made me eager to travel more. So far, I have visited only London, Bath, and Pemberley in Derbyshire. What will you do in London?”

  “My aunt and uncle have a home in Cheapside. My uncle, Mr. Gardiner, is my mother’s youngest brother. He is in trade and lives near his warehouses,” Elizabeth said, watching for signs of disdain. Happily, neither lady looked shocked or censorious.

  “What is his trade?” Mrs. Jenkinson asked.

  “He imports fabrics and exotic items from faraway places. He is quite successful.”

  “Do you see the Gardiners often?” Anne asked.

  “Not as often as I would like. They have four children, all under the age of nine. At Christmastime, the family comes to Longbourn—that is the name of my family’s estate.”