Chapter 24
Lady Catherine de Bourgh, seated on her well-padded blue chair in her favorite parlor, stared out over the rolling fields to the north of her glorious Rosings. The December sun was at its zenith and a small luncheon would be served in thirty minutes; after the meal, her servants would begin decorating the great house for the Christmas season. Rosings was always the very epitome of elegance, but at Christmas, the great manse rivaled Carlton House, the abode of the Prince Regent, itself. No money or effort was spared in putting up the holly and other appropriate decorations. It was a pity, really, that there were so few worthy individuals in this region of Kent; she liked showing off her manor.
She did not even have the pleasure of visiting with her local clergyman because the former rector, Mr. Collins, had stupidly fallen off a horse and died, all while visiting his cousin’s family in Hertfordshire. If she had ever ridden a horse, she would have done it perfectly and never fallen off! For now, a local curate was giving sermons on Holy Days, but Lady Catherine had no intention of giving the man the living at Hunsford. He was far too proud a man, young Mr. Smythe, and not nearly respectful enough of her position of authority. The man had actually dared to preach a sermon without first showing it to Lady Catherine for approval!
“Your mail, Lady Catherine,” her butler said, holding out a silver tray upon which reposed a few sealed letters.
She nodded to him in dismissal and looked at the top letter, which was, she observed, from her sister by marriage, Lady Matlock. She would look at that one later; no doubt Rachel Fitzwilliam was writing to gossip about the latest marital triumph in the extended family.
The second letter was from her nephew Darcy, which provoked a huff of exasperation. She had invited Darcy to Rosings for Christmas and as usual been turned down. When was the young man going to offer for her daughter? It was high time for Darcy to settle down with Anne – the girl was not growing younger – and it was time for the two great estates of Rosings and Pemberley to unite in marriage!
The third letter was written in an unfamiliar, masculine hand, which was most bewildering. It could not be a tradesman; all sordid details involving bills were handled by her steward.
Curiously, she slit the wax seal with her paper knife and spread it open.
December 13th, 1811
Meryton, Hertfordshire
To the Magnificent Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Mistress of Rosings in Kent,
I do ask your pardon, my lady, for having the temerity to write to you in this bold manner. My name is Mr. George Wickham, and I am a lieutenant in his Royal Majesty’s militia.
I do not presume that you would remember a mere commoner like myself; I am the son of Mr. Ezra Wickham, who served as Pemberley’s steward under the noble direction of Mr. George Darcy, who was my godfather.
For the benefit of the British Empire, I am serving in the militia, and my regiment is currently established in the small town of Meryton in Hertfordshire. In the last days, I have discovered something of grave concern to all those who care for the future of Pemberley.
There is a small estate named Longbourn near Meryton, home to Mr. Bennet and his five unmarried daughters. I have heard through reliable sources that Mr. Bennet’s previous heir was a man named Mr. Collins, who had the honor of serving you as rector at Hunsford.
Tragically, Mr. Collins is dead, supposedly after a fall from a horse owned by the second of the spinsters, a young woman named Elizabeth Bennet.
It is with the greatest reluctance that I suggest that Mr. Collins’s death might not have been an accident; with his death, the entail on Longbourn has ended, which is obviously to the benefit of the Bennet daughters.
With even greater reluctance I must tell you that I believe Miss Elizabeth is setting her cap on your nephew, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, who is currently residing at the nearby estate of Netherfield with his friend, Mr. Bingley.
Mr. Darcy and I were close companions in our youth though naturally his position in life is far higher than my own, and thus we have spent little time together in the last ten years. Even so I admit to being quite surprised at his recent behavior as he was raised to know right from wrong.
I know of your nephew’s intelligence, but I do not believe he has ever encountered a woman like Elizabeth Bennet. She is a lovely young woman with a most beguiling manner, and I fear that, as steady as Mr. Darcy is, he may be drawn in by her arts and allurements.
Again, I apologize for my forwardness in writing you so boldly, but this situation is of great concern to me.
Sincerely,
Lieutenant George Wickham
Lady Catherine sat in shock for a full two minutes after finishing this distressing missive, and then read it again.
Then she cursed under her breath in a most unladylike way. Collins murdered and Darcy under the spell of his murderess! It could not be!
A quick glance at the date at the top of the letter provoked more oaths. The letter had taken a full four days to travel from Meryton to Rosings, which was an outrage. She would have to move quickly. She rose determinedly to her feet and surged out the door, “Mr. Notley, come here immediately!”
/
George Wickham swore aloud as he shot a doubtful look at the sky. It was a full three hours after noon, and he had to be back to Meryton in less than ninety minutes to attend a tedious military exercise on the village green.
This was the fourth day he had skulked in the woods of Longbourn waiting for Miss Elizabeth Bennet. He had talked to both men and women about the girl, surreptitiously of course, and all agreed that the second Miss Bennet was an inveterate walker. Even in the chill of December, she often walked alone through the dreary paths surrounding the Longbourn estate. Everyone said that this was common behavior for the lady.
But four days had passed by and Wickham had seen neither hide nor hair of the woman he intended to claim as his wife. Miss Bennet’s wedding was only a few days away; perhaps her younger sister was busy with the final preparations?
In any case, he had only perhaps one more day to wait before he needed to flee Meryton. The vultures were gathering, spurred on no doubt, by the whispers of Fitzwilliam Darcy. How else to explain the many requests that he settle his bills and debts of honor? He had only been in Hertfordshire for a few short weeks, and in the past, his silver tongue and winsome features had won him several months of leniency before the collectors came calling.
He groaned softly to himself and looked down the path towards Longbourn for the hundredth time, only to stiffen with excitement. A bonnet had come in sight, a bonnet worn by a young lady who was, yes, Miss Elizabeth Bennet! At last! Apparently, it was true that good things do come to those who wait.
George Wickham pushed off the tree against which he had been resting and strode through the woods to the path where his innocent bride awaited.
“Miss Elizabeth!”’ he cried out cheerfully.
/
Elizabeth had fled Longbourn that afternoon in haste, greatly in need of time alone. Mrs. Bennet was a whirling dervish of excitement over Jane’s upcoming wedding and kept both her servants and daughters hopping with frequent, often contradictory, instructions. Mr. Bennet, too, was a source of agitation. Elizabeth had longed for months to relinquish the heavy duties associated with running Longbourn, but now that her father was willing to take his position again as master of the estate, his second daughter found herself unsettled. Yes, it was wonderful that her father was sober and somewhat diligent, but she had grown used to carrying out tasks based on her own wisdom. It was odd and somewhat painful to no longer be the one making decisions.
Last, but not least, Elizabeth was profoundly disturbed about her own feelings regarding Mr. Darcy. Their first interaction, when he had insulted Kitty at the assembly in Meryton, had provoked her outrage and her ire. Then she had rescued him after his fall, he had apologized, and in subsequent weeks they had spent significant time together. Her anger had shifted to sympathy and then friendship and then fondness and now ...
Now, she confessed reluctantly to herself, she believed herself to be quite in love with the man. That was a remarkably stupid development given that he was master to a great estate and nephew to an earl, and she was but Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Hertfordshire, without a significant dowry, accomplishments, or connections. No, it was quite impossible that Mr. Darcy was attracted to her in the least, and thus her foolish heart had betrayed her.
She looked around in some astonishment, realizing that she had walked farther than intended. She knew Jane did not mind her leaving the manse for a much needed reprieve, but she really ought to be getting back.
At that moment, a flash of red caught her eye and she turned curiously to see Lieutenant George Wickham striding toward her from the direction of the wooded area a short way off the path.
Elizabeth stopped immediately, her eyes wide with surprise and alarm, “Mr. Wickham?”
/
“Are you excited, Bingley?” Darcy inquired, spurring his horse onward down a path in the vague direction of Longbourn.
“I am counting the hours, old friend, and I am not jesting. Only a few short days remain before Miss Bennet and I will be standing before God and man in the chapel in Meryton.”
“I am very happy for you, Bingley. The more I spend time with Miss Bennet, the more I believe she is your perfect match.”
Maxwell, who had been gamboling along ahead of the horses, suddenly barked and turned his pointed nose toward the south, toward Longbourn lands.
“What is it, Max?” Darcy asked affectionately. “Do you smell a bird or three?”
The spaniel looked at his masters imploringly and then took off suddenly, barking viciously. A moment later, both men heard the sound of a feminine scream.