Elizabeth Bennet's Impertinent Letter

by J P Christy

  In a voice so low it was a growl, Lady Catherine vowed, “I will not be the Fitzwilliam who lost Rosings to the De Bourgh cousins! I shall return to my estate!”

  ≈≈≈

  July 27, 1811

  On Saturday afternoon, after Johnny drove Longbourn’s carriage to Netherfield to collect Elizabeth and Jane he delivered all of Bennet daughters to Purvis Lodge. Over tea, Anne told the story of her rescue as a comedy, while still praising Fitzwilliam’s cleverness. She became teary-eyed when she spoke of Mrs. Peake and the gold locket, which was now around Mrs. Jenkinson’s neck.

  Kitty was astounded by Anne’s story. “So, although Rosings and the townhouse in London are yours, you have no money and no resources until you can claim your inheritance? And you must hide from your own mother! How terrible!”

  “With the love of my cousins and friends, I feel rich,” Anne said. Mary nodded approvingly.

  Jane said, “Will you think me foolish when I admit I had not believed a parent could behave with such calculated wickedness toward her child? You and Nora may rely on my dear husband and myself to shelter you should the need arise!”

  “I look forward to meeting Mr. Bingley, so I may thank him for sending a carriage to bring my dear friend to me. Nora and I are strangers to all but Lizzy and Georgiana, yet the kindnesses you and your family have shown us humble me.”

  A highlight of the visit was Lydia’s dramatic retelling of the failed capture of Wickham, an account to which Mrs. Jenkinson paid particular attention. “This is my second opportunity to hear of the scoundrel who has preyed upon my friends,” she said. “I wish I knew how he looked.”

  From her sketchbook, Kitty offered her the portrait of Wick-ham that Ainsworth had returned. “I made this likeness.”

  “If Mary played the pianoforte, did you plan to make a sketch to show your ladylike accomplishments, too?” Lydia teased.

  Ignoring her sister, Kitty also gave Georgiana a drawing. “Remember the flowers we could not name growing near Longbourn? I made this so you could compare the blossoms to those in your book of plants.”

  “Thank you! You have such a good eye,” Georgiana said.

  Anne looked over Mrs. Jenkinson’s shoulder at Wickham’s portrait. “Although I have not seen George in some years, his smile has not changed.”

  “It is a good likeness,” Georgiana said, and the Bennet sisters nodded in agreement.

  “But no one knows where he is?” Mrs. Jenkinson asked.

  “If I were Wickham, I would lose myself in, say, Italy or the wilds of Canada,” Lydia said.

  “He would need money to reach either place,” Mary said.

  “Which he may have if he got a good price for Sir William’s stallion and has not gambled it away,” Elizabeth said.

  “Might I keep this portrait for awhile?” Mrs. Jenkinson asked. “I wish to show it to my brother in Brighton.” Kitty nodded.

  “Oh, Brighton,” Lydia said with a sigh. “I should have been there this summer with the militia, but it was not meant to be.”

  “Would any militia men help Wickham?” Mary wondered.

  Eager to move the conversation to another topic, Georgiana asked, “Mary, did you know Anne plays pianoforte?” And for the rest of the afternoon, the ladies’ conversation was focused upon on music and other cheerful matters. For Anne, this happy time was a world away from what she had endured in London and, to a lesser extent, in Bath and Rosings. She had never before been in such pleasant, welcoming company with ladies whose ages were close to her own.

  For Mrs. Jenkinson, this was the day in which her scheme for saving Anne from Lady Dragon was born. Through quiet chats with Georgiana and each Bennet sister, she collected details about Wickham, which she reported to her brother in a letter that also contained Kitty’s sketch.

  40

  “This hidden door has gone unused for too long.”

  While the Bennet daughters were spending the afternoon at Purvis Lodge, Mr. Bennet sat in the parlor at Longbourn reading a book. When Mrs. Bennet entered, she regarded her husband with curiosity. “Have you abandoned your study, sir?”

  “I enjoy a change of scenery when the house is quiet.”

  Seating herself at the small writing desk in a corner of the room, Mrs. Bennet began to make a list. “What offends me most, Husband, is that Lizzy does not come home to plan her wedding. I am forced to note my ideas so as not to forget them. This should be the grandest social event in the history of Hertfordshire. Yet, our daughter is indifferent to the details. I have half a mind to wash my hands of the whole affair!”

  “Perhaps Lizzy and Mr. Darcy wish you would do just that.”

  “How can you joke so? I am her mother!”

  “Yet, you have made no secret of your disdain for Lizzy. Admit it—you have been angry with her for years, and your anger only grew after she refused Mr. Collins.”

  “Oh, hang Mr. Collins! What has he to do with anything?”

  “You were singing a different tune before Lizzy accepted Mr. Darcy. You were pushing Lizzy to marry the colonel, I am told.”

  “Why shouldn’t the colonel marry her, as it was he who compromised her? Well, it is all forgiven and forgotten now.”

  “Forgiven and forgotten? Such optimism, Mrs. Bennet! Have you forgotten the many years of bitterness and disappointment in our family—starting, I suppose, with my father, who entailed Longbourn away after we married?”

  “I remember well your father’s letter to us—his prediction that any daughters I bore would be as foolish as me! Thus, he would only allow a son to inherit this place. And I recall the girl your father preferred to have for his daughter-in-law. What a skinny, serious creature she was.” Mrs. Bennet found no pleasure at being reminded of her late father-in-law’s dislike of her. “You blame me, I think, for not giving you a son.”

  “I do not, Mrs. Bennet. The sex of one’s children is the province of the Lord. But I think you blame me for not ensuring a secure future for you and the girls.”

  “Well, you cannot claim that was in the Lord’s hands.”

  “It was my responsibility. Had I said ‘no’ to even half of your requests for bonnets and trims and draperies—had I put that money into an investment instead, would it have been enough to make you happy? Good lord, how many draperies have you bought in your search for just the right color for this parlor—”

  “Were I to weigh the cost of a bit of fabric against the cost of the books you have collected for your study—your study—rather than for items to be enjoyed by our family, on which of those two things has more money been spent?” Mrs. Bennet challenged.

  “Those books are for our daughters’ education.”

  “Recall, sir, that it was I who taught our daughters their letters and their sums. You shared your academic gifts with the eldest, but you did nothing to encourage our youngest girls. Instead, you tease them, insisting they are the silliest girls in all England. Our girls do not have the education to be governesses nor the talent to be a … a concert pianist or some other self-sufficient creature. Our girls are rather ordinary, so, yes, I encourage them to be lively and likable to attract a husband. Is that not why you chose me?”

  Mr. Bennet did not deny it. “I have sometimes wondered how my life would have been different if my mother had not died of typhus when I was scarcely more than a child. After that, my father’s home was like a mausoleum.” He looked at his wife over the top of his book, recalling their courtship in the summer of 1786. “When we met, you were so full of life, you seemed exotic.”

  “I was what my mother taught me to be,” Mrs. Bennet said in less sentimental tones.

  “It was quite an achievement I thought when you accepted my proposal. As I recall, there was a soldier in regimentals trying to catch your eye.”

  “There was a time when I liked a red coat very well—I still do in my heart.”

  “Did the soldier propose? I never asked you that.”

  “He offered for me shortly before you did,
but my mother and her husband forbade the match. He died in the Northwest Indian War some two years after you and I married.”

  Until this moment, Mr. Bennet had assumed that any sacrifices occurring in their union were on his side. He suddenly realized he was afraid to ask whether his wife had been in love with him on their wedding day—or whether she loved him now.

  With a sigh, Mrs. Bennet continued, “I did as my parents wished. So why do not my children do as I wish? They upset my nerves with their contrariness. When I was carrying Elizabeth, I was so certain she would be born a son. When one’s first child is a girl, one naturally hopes—expects even—that the second will be a boy. She has disappointed me since the moment of her birth.”

  “As I said, the sex of one’s children is the province of the Lord; it is unkind of you to blame Lizzy for that. What matters now is what you are willing to do to make peace with her.”

  “What I am willing to do? I am willing to forgive her. It is her place to make peace with me! That is in the Bible somewhere.”

  “If this is how you feel, madam, I suggest you resign yourself to having little to do with her wedding.”

  The thought of being excluded from what might be the grandest event in the history of Hertfordshire sent a wave of panic through Mrs. Bennet. “You must insist Lizzy consult with me!”

  “No, madam. You must find a way to inspire her to want to consult with you.”

  “How?”

  “Do not insist upon putting your wishes above her own. Our Lizzy has been doing an adult’s work for several years now: helping me with the estate, being a model for her younger sisters, and caring for me after my collapse.”

  “Those things were her duty. That, too, is in the Bible.”

  “If you treat Lizzy as if she were a willful child, she will not appreciate it. If you insist on comparing her unfavorably to Lydia

  and Jane, she will believe you do not care for her. Hence, she will likely keep her distance from you.”

  “She should to respect and obey me!” Mrs. Bennet wailed.

  “You and I have not been the worst possible parents, but we have been too distracted by our own selfish desires. We have not always been worthy of our children’s respect.”

  “I do not know what you mean, sir.”

  “If you do not realize how your constant criticisms sound to Lizzy’s ears—or Mary’s or Kitty’s—then you do not deserve to be part of their future. And if I do not trouble myself to become better acquainted with my daughters, then I do not deserve to be part of their future either.” Standing slowly, he added, “I believe this has been enough change of scenery for one day. I shall go to my study now.”

  ≈≈≈

  When Darcy entered the library at Purvis Lodge, he found Fitzwilliam savoring a glass of port as he read a newspaper. “I have been looking for you. Are you drinking port?”

  “I am.”

  “Are you also bathing in it?”

  “What?”

  “Thorpe informs me that we have but one bottle remaining, Fitz. Either you are consuming it excessively, or Georgiana is drinking on the sly. Dear lord, I shudder to imagine dealing with a problem of that nature!”

  Fitzwilliam chuckled. “I am the culprit—my apologies. I sent three bottles to a friend in London. A gift.”

  “Three bottles? That sounds a bit excessive.”

  “For a special friend; all will be revealed in time. How are Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson?” he asked, eager to change the subject.

  “The change in Anne’s appearance since yesterday is nothing short of miraculous.”

  “Agreed, and until Aunt Catherine makes her next move, we cannot be certain of our next move. Still, we should discuss what might be necessary to keep Anne safe from her mother and to keep Mrs. Jenkinson safe from retribution—for surely our aunt will guess the lady’s involvement.”

  “And there is the matter of Anne claiming her inheritance, a battle certain to attract the attention of London’s gossips. Kindly assure me you haven’t given away our brandy, too. I will need its fortifying effects in the coming days.”

  “I have not touched the brandy,” Fitzwilliam promised, and he returned to his newspaper.

  ≈≈≈

  At the same moment, Lady Penelope was reclining in the window seat in her bedroom in Trelawney Hall, reading a newspaper. Only yesterday, it was decided that she and the twins would not be returning to Cornwall as planned because of unexpected problems with the room chosen to be the new nursery. Thus, the Trelawney siblings would remain in London through most of August, overseeing the work. Although Lady Penelope missed the cheerful company of Renata, she was enjoying the London newspapers, which gave her the news of the world.

  At the sound of someone clearing his throat, Lady Penelope looked up to see Quince in the corridor. The parcel that the butler held with both hands was obviously heavy for its comparatively small size. “This just arrived for you, Madam. Shall I open it?”

  Lady Penelope gestured at the table beside her. “Yes, open it here, please.” With a silver-handled folding knife and a sure hand, Quince soon revealed the parcel’s contents to be three bottles of port and a folded note bearing the wax seal of Fitzwilliam. With a smile, her ladyship asked, “Would you place the bottles on top of the bookcase?”

  After the butler had arranged the bottles to his satisfaction, he gathered up the box and wrapping. “Will that be all, madam?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Lady Penelope waited until she was alone before she opened the paper.

  Fitzwilliam had written, “Compañeros, my love. I will come to you as soon as I am able.”

  ≈≈≈

  July 28, 1811

  On Sunday, the residents of Purvis Lodge, except Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson, went to church. It was understood by all, including the Bennet daughters, that the presence of those ladies must never be mentioned, for if Lady Lucas or Mrs. Bennet were to hear, such news would likely reach Mr. Collins soon after. “He is Mama’s creature!” Anne warned.

  Following the service and the second reading of the banns, Elizabeth and Darcy enjoyed a horseback ride. At his instigation, the Hobarts had created three riding costumes for Elizabeth after she admitted she had grown very fond of Molly. Apparently, the feeling was mutual, for the little mare now trotted on brief occasions, earning her rider’s fulsome praise.

  Upon reaching Oakham Mount, Darcy dismounted and assisted Elizabeth from her saddle. She did not need the help, but they both enjoyed these moments of intimacy. Securing their horses in a small stand of trees, they walked hand in hand. “Fitz sends his regrets that he will not be attending your birthday dinner tonight. However, given the secrecy surrounding Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson, he feels at least one of us should remain with them. Of course, the ladies send you their warmest wishes.”

  “I understand.”

  “The third reading of the banns is but a week from today.”

  Giving his arm a gentle tug, Elizabeth stopped walking. When his eyes met hers, she said, “I know you are worried about Anne and Nora. As our wedding preparations have been sporadic at best, shall we delay setting a date until we know with more certainty when Anne’s situation will be resolved?”

  Darcy gave her a pained look. “I am equal parts relieved and disappointed to hear your sage suggestion.” Bringing their clasped hands to his lips, he bestowed light kisses on them. “In truth, I feel responsible for what Anne endured from her mother.”

  “None of that, if you please, Will! All responsibility lies with Lady Catherine.”

  “Rest assured, Elizabeth, I will do whatever I must to assist Anne so I can commit myself fully to you.”

  “Do you have your notebook? Might we put that in writing?”

  With his free hand, Darcy made a show of rummaging in his pocket, but instead of producing his notebook, he brought forth a small box, similar to the one that had held the sapphire ring he gave her at the ball. “Let this seal my pledge to you.”

  Reluctant to release hi
m, Elizabeth nonetheless pulled her hand away and opened the box. On a bed of pale blue velvet was a square-cut sapphire pendant framed by small diamonds. “Oh, my!” she gasped, picking it up by its gold chain.

  Darcy tucked the empty box into his pocket. “May I assist?”

  She gave him the necklace. “Shall I turn my back to you?”

  “I would much prefer you didn’t.” He stepped near so he could fasten the pendant around her neck as he faced her. When the deed was done, he kissed her brow. “Happy birthday.”

  “Happy every day.” Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him.

  ≈≈≈

  Although birthdays were rarely noted with more than a cake for dessert, when a milestone occurred —such as reaching one’s majority—the event merited more. The Netherfield dinner was attended by all the Bennets, as well as Darcy, Georgiana, and Ainsworth. Keeping the conversation light, Jane made mention of recent blessings: her marriage to “dear Charles,” Mr. Bennet’s recovery, Georgiana’s fine efforts as a hostess, the courtship of Mary and Ainsworth, and the engagement of Elizabeth and Darcy.

  Mrs. Bennet was uncharacteristically reserved. Perhaps she found comfort in the fact that, barring some catastrophe, she would have at least two and perhaps three daughters married by year’s end. Or perhaps her discussion with her husband caused her to consider how she might yet be allowed to have a say in the wedding that might be the grandest event in Hertfordshire’s social history. Still, despite her subdued demeanor, Mrs. Bennet hinted her disappointment—echoed by Lydia—when the Darcys presented Elizabeth with a set of leather-bound books of the works of Walter Scott. (Neither Darcy nor Elizabeth spoke of the sapphire pendant hidden by the high neck of Elizabeth’s dress.)

  It had been four weeks almost to the day that the Bennets’ second daughter had found refuge at Netherfield. Since then, her exchanges with her parents had been few and brief. Indeed, the longer Elizabeth was away from Longbourn, the less inclined she was to make excuses for the behaviors of her family members.