Elizabeth Bennet's Impertinent Letter

by J P Christy

  “Me, sir,” Mrs. Jenkinson stepped forward.

  “Excellent, excellent. Behind that curtain is a small space I use for a cloakroom, and it is where I put the trunk delivered for you this morning, madam. Now, beyond this room is the narthex, where the registry book is. Beyond that is the nave, where, of course, I will be waiting at the altar to conduct the ceremony.”

  Shelton handed Knowles several coins. “Once the words are said and the registry is signed, you can count on me to make another contribution to your ministry.”

  “Wonderful, wonderful, Mr. Shelton! I will await the happy couple at the altar.” Humming to himself, the parson headed for the nave.

  “I will stand outside to make certain your preparations aren’t interrupted,” Shelton said. “This may be the most interesting story that I must never reveal.” He kissed Nora’s cheek and, when Anne tapped her cheek with her finger, he grinned and kissed her, too.

  During breakfast, the ladies had worn their cloaks (Anne’s was blue; Mrs. Jenkinson’s was mustard yellow), explaining truthfully that the public house was cold. In discarding these garments now, the ladies revealed dresses that were sufficiently similar as to look identical to the undiscerning eye. Stepping into the cloakroom, Anne opened the trunk and switched her blue-trimmed bonnet for a beige-trimmed one that was the twin of Mrs. Jenkinson’s. Then Mrs. Jenkinson took a dense veil of ivory lace from the trunk and arranged it over Anne’s bonnet, covering her face. “This will work, I promise!” she whispered.

  In her turn, Anne arranged an identical veil on Mrs. Jenkinson’s bonnet but draped it so that it did not cover the lady’s face. “A kiss for luck,” Anne said, raising her veil. After their brief kiss, Anne entered the nave and sat in the first row of the pews.

  ≈≈≈

  Mrs. Jenkinson was waiting in the narthex when the Grady brothers—with Wickham between them—followed Fitzwilliam in. After they released him, he wobbled drunkenly, so Fitzwilliam put a steadying arm on his shoulders. Seeing Mrs. Jenkinson, Wickham said, “Here I am at your service, madam.”

  “I hope so,” she said crisply.

  Fitzwilliam placed his hands on Wickham’s shoulders and turned him to look at the church registry. Wickham scoffed, “I know how things are done in a wedding.” However, he did not notice Mrs. Jenkinson stepping back to the vestibule.

  “Very well.” Fitzwilliam steered him into the nave.

  “Look, my bride is already waiting at the altar. Goodness, you are eager, Miss Devogue!” Wickham said, taking his place next to a heavily veiled Anne.

  The ceremony was as brief as Knowles could legally make it, yet for Anne, it seemed like an age before the parson said, “I now pronounce you man and wife.”

  While Shelton stood at Wickham’s side, blocking his view of Anne hurrying out of the nave, Fitzwilliam distracted his nemesis with congratulations. “You are married! I cannot wait to tell Darcy!”

  In the vestibule, Mrs. Jenkinson, held aside the cloakroom curtain so Anne could secret herself there. Then Mrs. Jenkinson waited in the narthex, a satisfied smile on her unveiled face. A few moments later, Shelton led Wickham to the registry, followed by the Grady brothers and Fitzwilliam.

  Wickham, still feeling the effects of the fortified wine, accepted the pen Mrs. Jenkinson offered; weaving slightly, he signed the registry first and then the marriage contract which Shelton had laid upon the registry book. While Fitzwilliam was signing as a witness, Wickham glanced around. Meeting the eyes of the woman whom he thought was his wife, he leered. “What? Is there to be no consummation of this sacred joining?”

  “We’ve three leagues to travel yet to get you to your ship,” Fitzwilliam said.

  “Not even a quarter-hour to spare so I might show my bride my devotion?”

  “A quarter of an hour?” Mrs. Jenkinson repeated.

  Wickham shrugged, “That’s plenty of time to—”

  “Only a man would think so,” Mrs. Jenkinson said. She walked back into the church, oblivious to the surprised look Wickham shared with Fitzwilliam.

  “That doesn’t bode well for a happy future! What do you think, Colonel?” Wickham burped.

  “I think I may have learned something useful.”

  “Have you got my four hundred pounds?”

  “You will get your money, Wickham, after I see you aboard the ship.” Fitzwilliam led the way out of the church, followed by Wickham who was flanked by the Grady brothers.

  Standing on the church steps, Shelton watched as the four men climbed into the coach hired to deliver them to the port in Newhaven. Only after the coach had disappeared around the corner did he re-enter the church. “You can sign the registry now.”

  Emerging from the cloakroom, Anne signed as the bride, Knowles signed as the parson, and Shelton and Mrs. Jenkinson signed as witnesses. After giving the parson a few more coins, Shelton left to find a hackney.

  Arm in arm, Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson—the bride and the counterfeit bride—wandered back into the nave and sat in the last pew. They watched, amused, as Parson Knowles took what he thought was a surreptitious drink from his flask. “Do you suppose that’s why he mumbles so expertly?” Anne asked.

  “It was certainly to our advantage that Wickham enjoyed so much wine at breakfast.” Mrs. Jenkinson patted Anne’s hand. “Well, now you are a married lady.”

  “To as reprehensible a specimen of masculinity as ever was!”

  “So, are congratulations in order or not?”

  “That is something one says to the groom, as you well know.”

  Mrs. Jenkinson looked around. “No groom in sight; then I wish you happy.”

  “Here we are—two brides, no grooms. Perhaps we should marry each other.”

  She pressed her shoulder against Anne’s. “Would that we could, dear friend.”

  Moments later, Darcy, who had been standing out of sight in the back of a small balcony, came to sit beside Anne. She asked, “Did you have a good view in the cheap seats?”

  “In truth, I was waiting for something to go amiss. Luckily, Wickham was too drunk to notice that while he breakfasted with two ladies, only one was at his wedding.”

  “And, happily, it is not the custom for the groom to kiss the bride,” Mrs. Jenkinson said.

  “Will you make a new tradition and kiss Elizabeth at your wedding?” Anne asked.

  “Perhaps, I will.”

  Shelton called. “I have a cab. Are you ready to leave?”

  “Amen and hallelujah!” Anne said, pulling the heavy veil from her bonnet. “Dear Mr. Shelton, I wish to post a letter to Rosings before we return to your home.”

  ≈≈≈

  After Wickham boarded the ship with his old pistol, his new clothes, and his money, Fitzwilliam watched until the vessel sailed out of the harbor. Then he returned to the Shelton home, farewelled all, collected his horse, and rode to London.

  42

  “Your daughter is legally married.”

  August 21, 1811

  When Mr. Christopher Fitzwilliam arrived at Trelawney Hall on Wednesday afternoon, he was dressed in his finest day clothes and looked every inch the civilian gentleman. The only remarkable element of his appearance was the sheathed sabre that he leaned casually against one shoulder. Quince asked in disapproving tones (or so Fitzwilliam thought) if he might take the weapon.

  “Thank you, no. It is a gift for her ladyship.” When the butler regarded him from under raised brows, Fitzwilliam added, “I assure you the lady is in no danger from me, but I do not object to your remaining with us until she dismisses you.” Quince gave a single nod before leading him to the small parlor.

  When the men entered, Lady Penelope offered a curtsy and a welcoming smile. “Good day.” She noted Quince was standing closer to Fitzwilliam than was customary; then she saw the sabre.

  “My lady,” Fitzwilliam said, giving a short bow. With both hands, he offered her the sabre. “A gift. As I have recently resigned my commission, I no longer have need of this.”

>   Lady Penelope’s smile of welcome blossomed into a smile of purest joy. “How wonderful, sir! Would you mind terribly if I let Quince oversee the care of this gift while we converse?” Grinning, Fitzwilliam turned to the butler and offered him the sabre.

  “Shall I put it with the other weapons my lady has received this week?” Quince asked, an innocent look on his face.

  “Yes, if you would, please.”

  Your butler has a sense of humor. Fitzwilliam grinned at Lady Penelope.

  “Shall I arrange for tea, madam?”

  “Please bring us port, Quince, one of the bottles I received recently. We are celebrating.”

  “Very good, madam.” Upon exiting, the butler pulled the door partially closed, smiling to himself as he saw the colonel and Lady Penelope meet in the center of the room.

  Fitzwilliam took her hands. “Please assure me he was joking about your receiving other weapons.”

  “Yes. So, about your sabre?” she said with a delightful laugh.

  “A famous Greek king did something similar when he returned to his lady after many years away. She, too, was named—”

  “Penelope! When Odysseus returned from the Trojan War, he bore an oar on his shoulder!”

  “Ah, the benefits of a classical education.” Fitzwilliam then spoke to the heart of the matter. “Will you marry me?”

  “I will hap—”

  Before Lady Penelope could finish, he added in a rush, “Allow me to tell you why I think you should—why I hope you will say ‘yes.’ I love you, and my sabre is my pledge that we will never be separated by war. Also, a few days ago, my cousin Anne gave me her estate in Kent, a place called ‘Rosings.’ So, I now have a home for you and Renata.”

  “As I was about to say before I was so rudely interrupted,” she said, her eyes sparkling with humor, “is that I will happily marry you, darling Christopher.” She leaned close so he could kiss her, which he did.

  Had anyone asked Fitzwilliam what he recalled of the afternoon, he would have said it was a blur, but a very pleasant blur. He would not have mentioned his vivid memory of his fiancée’s face, radiant in the summer light streaming in the window. He would not have mentioned his pleasure at the sound of her lovely laugh when he told her about the connections between Collins, Nicolls, and Sillcon. Nor would he have mentioned the softness of her lips when they kissed. These were private moments he did not wish to share.

  ≈≈≈

  That same afternoon when Anne, Mrs. Jenkinson, and Darcy returned to Purvis Lodge, having tarried in Brighton until Monday, an express letter from Lady Catherine awaited them. “It is addressed to both of us, Cousin,” Anne said.

  “Ladies first.” Not eager to read his aunt’s vitriol, Darcy offered her the letter.

  Within a minute of breaking the wax seal on the paper, Anne said in worried tones, “Mama will come here next Tuesday.”

  “Mrs. Jenkinson, would you ask your brother to come to Purvis Lodge no later than Monday? As for Fitz, I suspect he is still in town, so I will write him there. It is to our advantage to have the witnesses to your marriage present when Lady Catherine challenges you.”

  “What if Christopher isn’t at Fitzwilliam House?”

  “Regardless of where our cousin is, Anne, I will invite Lord and Lady Fitzwilliam to join us so we may have reinforcements. Do not worry; the difficult part—getting you married—is done. I fully expect we can finish this nonsense with little effort.”

  “Mr. Darcy is right,” Mrs. Jenkinson said. “Go, please, and arrange for tea and a bite to eat while he and I write our letters.”

  ≈≈≈

  During dinner with his parents, Fitzwilliam asked his father, “Did Mother tell you I proposed to Lady Penelope today?”

  “She did not,” his lordship replied, frowning at his wife.

  Lady Fitzwilliam gave a graceful shrug. “This is Christopher’s news, not mine.”

  “She accepted, and we wish to marry in mid-November. A small wedding, as the lady is a widow and I, well, I do not have the patience for much fuss.” Son and father looked a question at Lady Fitzwilliam, reluctant to say more until they knew her preferences.

  She took her time in replying. “That sounds very sensible, Christopher, although from Lady Penelope, I would expect no less. If you wish, you may peruse the Kesteven jewels and select something as an engagement gift for her.”

  “Thank you, Mother, but I already gave her a gift.” I didn’t intend to talk about this with them; this is private.

  Lady Fitzwilliam regarded him from under raised eyebrows and waited. Her husband grumbled, “Oh, tell her whatever it is and be done with it, sir!”

  Fitzwilliam gave a small sigh. “I gave Lady Penelope my sabre so she would be assured I was done with the army and war.”

  His mother gave him an approving smile. “Symbolically, your sabre is a far better gift than any jewel. Still, every lady can find a place in her wardrobe for, say, a strand of matched pearls.”

  Fitzwilliam smiled. “I am certain she would like that.”

  ≈≈≈

  August 27, 1811

  On the following Tuesday in Hertfordshire, the grey sky hinted a chance of rain. At Purvis Lodge, Thorpe opened the double doors to the large drawing room and stepped aside, allowing a bejeweled Lady Catherine to enter. Using an ornate ivory-headed walking stick for effect, she moved ponderously into the room. Three gentlemen in dark suits trailed her at a respectful distance: a cautious-looking man in his forties, a robust young man in his twenties, and a frail man who was very, very old. Mr. Collins in his parson’s attire was the end of this parade.

  Chin held high, Lady Catherine glanced disapprovingly at her surroundings as she walked, but she came to an abrupt halt when she realized twelve people were watching her. Five ladies and seven gentlemen sat on small sofas and chairs arranged a semicircular row. Obviously, the company had been present for awhile, as arranged among the seats were several small tables so that each person could easily reach a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits.

  Under Lady Catherine’s stare, the gentlemen rose almost as one to make polite bows in her direction. She crossed to the bergère, which was placed facing the chairs and sofas, and ran her hand across its high back. Giving her brother, a disdainful look, she said, “You have provided me with this shepherdess chair? Was it your thought to humble me, Wesley?”

  Lord Fitzwilliam, who stood in the first position of the row, said, “Your love of thrones is well known, and this was the most throne-like chair we could find on short notice.” To the men accompanying her, he said, “Help yourselves to seats, gentleman.”

  As her entourage looked around to see what chairs were available, Lady Catherine declared, “They will stand.” Then she settled herself onto the bergère.

  “May I sit, your ladyship?” asked the oldest gentleman. “I have a bad knee.”

  After Lady Catherine gave a dismissive wave, the middle-aged man in her party gesticulated at the youngest man to find a seat for the elderly gentleman. Thorpe quickly moved a ladder-back chair with arms near to her ladyship. The elderly gentleman nodded his thanks as he slowly lowered himself to sit.

  “Are you comfortable, Catherine?” Lord Fitzwilliam asked. Without waiting for a reply, he sat, and the other gentlemen followed his lead.

  At the opposite end of the row, Fitzwilliam sat beside Georgiana, and Mrs. Jenkinson (a fiercely protective look on her face), sat between Georgiana and Anne. Mr. Shelton was on Anne’s other side; she whispered to him, “That elderly man is Dr. Reagan. He has not provided me with medical care since I was a young child. Mama felt London doctors had more prestige.”

  “And the others?” Shelton whispered.

  “The parson is Mr. Collins, Elizabeth’s cousin. The other two are likely solicitors.”

  Although Lady Catherine could not hear Anne, she could see her speaking to the man next to her. Is this the husband? He dresses no better than my solicitors! He is most certainly a fortune hunter! With a d
isapproving sniff, she said, “Anne, stop whispering. It is rude. If you have something to say, speak up.”

  From having spent her recent days in the company of kind friends, Anne felt brave. “Shall we have introductions? I know Dr. Reagan from my childhood—”

  “This is not a social call! You already know Dr. Reagan and Mr. Collins.” With an impatient gesture at the other two men, Lady Catherine said, “These are my solicitors.”

  Darcy started to rise. “Allow me to present—”

  “No! Look at the twelve of you! Why, to make a tableau of the Last Supper, we need only a thirteenth. You are all Judases! You are betraying not only my troubled daughter but the De Bourgh family and the noble estate of Rosings.”

  Rolling his eyes, Darcy sat, and Fitzwilliam exchanged amused glances with his mother. Anne, feeling gloriously impertinent, asked, “Do you think to cast yourself as a martyred savior, Mama? Mr. Collins, is that not blasphemy?”

  Collins blanched. Oh dear heaven, is my patroness’s daughter expecting me to denounce her mother as a blasphemer? “I should not be here,” he muttered, not realizing he spoke aloud.

  “None of us should,” the middle-aged solicitor muttered.

  “We are here to support Anne against your ridiculous, self-serving accusations, Catherine,” Lord Fitzwilliam said. “Your daughter is ready to claim her inheritance.”

  Pointing at her brother, Lady Catherine acknowledged him with a shallow nod, but said only, “Wesley.” She then pointed at her sister-in-law, who sat beside him. “Amanda.” Moving her pointing finger to the distinguished-looking middle-aged man who was next in the row, she said frostily, “I do not know you.”