Chapter 5 1779-1788 #2
In December, he asked his father for permission to call formally. In January, he asked Lady Amelia for her blessing for their union.
And in March of 1780, George Darcy married Sarah Wickham in the chapel at Pemberley—quietly, reverently, with only family and a few trusted friends in attendance.
None of the Fitzwilliams were invited. She wore no jewels, no grand silks—just a simple muslin gown with fine lace and a look in her eyes that made George’s knees nearly give out as she walked down the aisle.
And in the years to come, he would often tell their son Fitzwilliam—named thusly to honor his grandmother’s line, and partly to spite the family that refused to acknowledge her existence— that he fell in love with her when she did not smile at his apology.
Because she had known her worth—and insisted that he earn the right to see it.
∞∞∞
1786 — Longbourn
The library at Longbourn was pleasantly quiet, save for the creak of the old grandfather clock and the occasional wheeze from Mr. Philips, who sat across from Thomas Bennet, a sheaf of papers balanced precariously on his bony knee. A silver tea service sat untouched on the low table between them.
Thomas leaned back in his armchair, booted feet crossed, a glass of port dangling in his fingers. “So,” he said, lazily swirling the dark liquid, “what more do we know of my would-be usurper?”
Mr. Philips adjusted his spectacles and peered down at the top sheet. “William Collins, twenty-six years of age. Son of your late uncle Nathaniel Bennet and his wife Nancy Collins—née Collins as well, the blacksmith’s daughter.”
“Yes, yes, I remember the tale.” Thomas waved a hand. “The spare twin runs off, gets a girl in trouble, and is cornered into a wedding with pitchforks and righteous indignation.”
Philips coughed into his hand. “A succinct summary, sir. The man lives in Wroxford still, in modest lodgings. Works—if you can call it that—at the family blacksmith shop, though it seems he is functionally illiterate. His wife, Sally, is with child. From all reports, the household is… strained.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Strained?”
“She grew tired of his complaining,” Philips said, squinting at his notes, “and urged him to seek what she calls ‘his rightful inheritance.’ The child, it seems, gave her the final push.”
Thomas sighed and took a long sip of port. “So now he appears, like a jackal sniffing at the gates.”
Philips folded the papers neatly. “He has brought his own solicitor today. A Mr. Hartley of dubious repute. I expect they will argue the matter from sentiment, not law.”
There was a sharp knock on the library door.
Thomas rose reluctantly. “Showtime.”
The butler opened the door and announced, “Mr. William Collins and Mr. Hartley, sir.”
William Collins shuffled into the room with a faint air of bravado, his lanky form swallowed by an ill-fitting coat.
He was broad of shoulder but round of face, his features a poor imitation of Theo Bennet’s long-remembered handsomeness.
His boots were scuffed, and his expression soured the moment he saw Thomas.
Behind him came a portly man with greasy sideburns and an eager smile—Mr. Hartley, no doubt.
“Cousin,” William said, with no warmth whatsoever.
“Mr. Collins,” Thomas returned with equal chill. “Do be seated.”
Once they had arranged themselves, Mr. Hartley launched in. “We come today on a matter of inheritance, sir. My client—being the eldest male descendant of Timothy Bennet, the former master—feels that a claim exists—”
“There is no claim,” Thomas interrupted. “The entail is clear. I am the son of Theodore Bennet, eldest son of Timothy Bennet. The estate passes down the legitimate male line via the eldest son of an eldest son. Your father has no claim on inheritance, especially given that he abandoned the family.”
William flushed. “My father was a Bennet, same as yours. And I was the firstborn of them both!”
Philips frowned. “That does not matter, sir. When Timothy Bennet died, the estate went to his oldest son, Theodore. So, when Theodore passed last year, God rest his soul, ownership went to his oldest son.”
“So, what happens when you die? I get it then?” William asked heatedly.
Thomas offered a thin smile. “No. Should I die and not have any sons—God forbid—my younger brother, Frederick, would claim ownership of Longbourn. It would then pass down to his son upon his demise.”
William’s voice rose. “You are unmarried. Your parents are dead. You rattle around this estate with no one! I have a wife and a child on the way. Are you saying that counts for nothing? I am older than you!”
Thomas set down his port. “I am saying that legal documents matter more than your family circumstances or personal grievances.”
At William’s growl, Thomas raised his hand and calmly said, “But I am not without a sense of familial duty.”
“Familial duty?” William echoed stupidly.
Thomas nodded. “Yes, we are family, after all. Therefore, I propose this: though you have no legal claim, I shall establish a fund for your child—boy or girl. If a boy, it shall go toward his education; if a girl, toward a modest dowry.”
William sneered. “That’s it?”
“I am doing the same for my younger brother, Frederick; he is currently at Cambridge, which I am funding.”
Mr. Hartley, who had been silently reading over the entail documents provided by Mr. Philips, cleared his throat and leaned toward his client. “It is… generous, Mr. Collins. And fair. Legally, we cannot press for more.”
“But that is what you are supposed to do here! Find a way to prove that I am the rightful owner of Longbourn!”
“I am afraid there is no way to do that. The situation is quite clear.”
There was a long silence. At last, William grunted. “Fine.”
Thomas summoned the butler, and documents were brought for signing. William stared at them, clearly confused.
Mr. Philips produced a quill. “Mark your agreement here, please. An X will suffice.”
William scrawled his mark with poor grace and stomped from the room without another word. Hartley offered a quick bow and scurried after him.
When the door shut, Thomas poured another glass of port.
“Well,” he said with a dry chuckle. “That was precisely as unpleasant as I feared.”
Philips adjusted his cravat. “You have spared yourself a legal headache, but he remains the heir presumptive should you or your brother fail to produce a son.”
Thomas made a face. “Must you be so morbid?”
“Only practical, sir. It may be time to… consider your options.”
Thomas groaned. “I suppose you are about to suggest a wife.”
Mr. Philips said nothing, but the slight lift of one brow was answer enough.
Thomas slumped back in his chair and rubbed at his temples.
“Must it truly come to that? I cannot abide the thought of all the effort it would require—dressing up in stiff coats, nodding and bowing, making polite inquiries about someone’s blasted embroidery or bonnet trimming.
The noise, the simpering, the never-ending flutter of fans and fluttering eyelashes. ”
He let out a long sigh and stared morosely into his port. “All those dreadful social events where one must smile and smile and never once be left alone to finish a proper glass of brandy or read a good book. It is exhausting simply thinking of it.”
Philips chuckled softly. “You make it sound like a death sentence.”
“It might very well be,” Thomas muttered. “Death by dinner party.”
After a moment, Philips said, “Forgive me if I overstep, sir, but my son is currently courting a young woman—a Miss Gardiner. She has a younger sister, Frances, who is lively, pretty, and well-mannered. I could arrange an introduction, if you would like?”
Thomas sighed. “As long as it does not require me to dance.”
“An evening card party, perhaps?”
Thomas sipped his port. “As long as there is no poetry reading.”
Philips rose with a chuckle. “No guarantees, sir.”
Thomas watched him go and muttered, “God help me. All this fuss, and I was perfectly happy with books and brandy.”
But somewhere deep down—very deep—he knew Philips was right.
It was time.
∞∞∞
June 1788 — Hyde Park, London
It was a fine spring afternoon when Frederick Bennet, recently having reached his majority and flush with the independence of his new partnership with Gardiner & Co.
, decided—on a whim—to take a stroll through Hyde Park.
He had passed it many times on business, but never stepped foot inside.
His days were usually spent immersed in ledgers and correspondence, but today he was restless and eager to breathe air that did not smell of ink or imported spices.
He wandered along the Serpentine, watching nursemaids with their charges, fashionable ladies airing their bonnets, and elderly gentlemen sitting stiffly in the sun pretending not to doze.
As he passed a bench under a tree, he noted a young woman sitting with a book in her lap—clearly a novel, judging by the amused little smile playing about her lips.
She was dressed modestly, more like a governess or companion than a lady of fashion, though her bearing suggested intelligence.
He chuckled softly to himself, and kept walking.
Just then, a small shriek rang out a few yards ahead.
A girl—no more than sixteen—was flailing at her skirts, where an enthusiastic duck had taken an unhealthy interest. She spun in circles trying to ward it off with her parasol.
Frederick hurried forward and stepped between the two, waving his hand firmly until the duck gave a disinterested quack and waddled back toward the water. The girl’s cheeks were flushed pink, her hair coming loose from its pins, and she burst into slightly embarrassed laughter.
“My hero,” she said, breathless. “I thought the creature meant to devour me.”
Frederick gave a formal bow, lips twitching in amusement. “I daresay it mistook your hem for breadcrumbs, miss.”
She grinned, brushing at her skirts. “Thank you, truly. I should hate to have been consumed in full view of half of London.”
“I am glad I was in the right place at the right time to be of assistance,” he said before bowing and turning to leave.
“Wait—what is your name?”
He turned back in surprise. “Frederick Bennet.”
“I am Catherine,” she said, her voice suddenly shy. “I—I walk here most afternoons at this hour.”
“Do you?” he said with a slight smile. “This was my first time, but… perhaps not my last.”
She looked pleased, but just then her expression shifted. She glanced quickly over his shoulder and paled slightly. “Oh—I must go.”
Without another word, she turned and hurried away, joining an older woman who had begun walking briskly toward her from a shaded path. The woman did not even glance in Frederick’s direction.
He watched them go, frowning thoughtfully.
There had been something peculiar in the girl’s abrupt departure—perhaps she was a companion or ward under strict supervision.
But as he turned back toward the gravel path and resumed his stroll, he found he was already wondering whether Catherine would be walking there again tomorrow.