Vol 1, Chapter 1 #2
“Please Papa, what did the investigators discover about this family?” Elizabeth requested, her eyes alight with the expectation of scandal, or, at the least, some unexpected occurrence as was the case for many hoping to escape the scrutiny of Town when they leased close to London.
Where Jane was the image of her late mother, blond and tall with cerulean blue eyes, Elizabeth was like her mother in both looks and character.
She had wavy chestnut curls, was shorter of stature, and had bright green eyes that missed little.
Bennet felt that knowledge was power, so, unlike so many of the day, he did not hide uncomfortable facts from his children, male or female.
He summed up the report for his expectant family, “Charles Bingley is five and twenty.
His father made his fortune in trade, and the younger Bingley inherited when his father and mother were killed in an accident some three years ago.
“According to the investigators, he is an affable and ebullient man, but a feckless one with little resolve of his own. Please be aware of that, girls,” Bennet looked at his three daughters.
The youngest, Esther, a name traditionally used by all Bennets, was sixteen and would turn seventeen next month, at which time she would be out in local society.
The assembly at the end of October would be her first official event in Meryton society.
“Yes, Papa,” all three chorused.
“You are all good girls. To continue, he has a good friend, Fitzwilliam Darcy, who advises him.
In fact, however, it is more that he seems to lead his younger friend into decisions as if he were the parent and Bingley his child.
The friend is the nephew of Lord Reginald Fitzwilliam, the Earl of Matlock, and, from what it says here, he can be rather rude and arrogant.
Mr. Darcy owns an extremely large estate, Pemberley in Derbyshire.
There was something that happened with his sister, who is not yet sixteen, this past summer; but they could not determine what it was.
“Bingley has two sisters. The older is Mrs. Louisa Hurst, married to a gentleman, Harold, from the second circles.
He is the heir to a small estate in Yorkshire, the same county from which the Bingleys hail.
It is reported that he is extremely indolent, only exerting himself for sport.
The rest of the time he sponges off his brother-in-law and eats, drinks, and sleeps the days away.
“The youngest, Miss Caroline Bingley, is two and twenty and according to this report, is reputed to be an avid social climber. She has set her cap at Mr. Darcy, but he is not at all interested in her. She over dresses and is reportedly quite vulgar, always going on about her dowry of twenty thousand and trying what she may to hide the fact that she is but a tradesman’s daughter.
Unfortunately, the older sister follows the younger’s lead, and the brother does not have enough force of character to check her.
“She is the type of person behind our reason for hiding our true wealth and connections. She is only interested in that which will advance her in society, and is extremely pretentious,” Bennet related to his three daughters and youngest son.
“Be aware of her, my children,” Priscilla Bennet cautioned her brood. She too had remained silent while they had listened to what the investigation had turned up. “She will not be a true friend and thus you must look for ulterior motives if she tries to befriend any of you.”
Bennet gave a cryptic smile, “I left the best for last. Mr. Darcy’s aunt is none other than Lady Catherine de Bourgh, the patroness of that half-witted cousin of ours who is still, after all these years, writes to remonstrate with me about how I dared remarry and steal his inheritance by siring sons. ”
“Thomas,” his wife scolded her husband, “why do you not consign the drivel that the man writes to the fire?”
“I know not why you insist on my destroying that which amuses me, wife. I married you, is that not hardship enough?” Bennet exercised his sardonic wit and gave his wife a teasing wink.
“I love to laugh at the depths of his ridiculousness,” Bennet explained.
“You know we have men watching him at all times in case he tries to harm one of our sons in an attempt to reclaim his rightful inheritance.”
“Those are facts of which I am well aware, Thomas. I just wish you would have him served with papers which would kill this illusion once and for all,” Priscilla averred.
“Yes, dear. I can see I have tolerated his idiocy enough, so I will write to Sir Randolph in the morning.” In fact, Bennet too had decided to act in the near future based on the darker-toned drivel and the advice of Collins ridiculous patroness for the parson to seek legal redress.
His wife’s concern had but moved up the timetable.
~~~~~~~/~~~~~~~
At the estate of Longfield Meadows in Yorkshire, the seventh Duke of Bedford sat at his desk with a letter in his hand, a letter written by the fourth Duke about one hundred and fifty years ago—one that he and every Duke since the fourth had hope they would never have to open.
Lord Sedgwick Rhys-Davies VII had been happily married to his duchess, Lady Rosamund, called Rose, for close to forty years.
The one big regret he had was that he and his wife had never been able to birth a live child.
If it were not for the letter in his hand, the Dukedom of Bedford and the Rhys-Davies line would die with him and everything revert to the crown.
He knew he did not have unlimited time, as the doctor had warned him not to exert himself overmuch due to his weak heart.
He rang for his butler and asked the man to request that his wife join him.
He stood slowly and joined Rose on the settee.
“Rose, I cannot put this off any longer. I must open this letter; we both know that I cannot allow the line and the name to die with me.” His wife nodded, acknowledging the truth of his words.
The Duke broke the seal very carefully, not wanting to damage the extremely old missive.
The two read the three-page letter written by the fourth Duke.
They read it twice to ensure that they did not misunderstand the words on the pages.
“What motivated such cruelty of a father with regards to his own family?” Lady Rose asked as she cried softly for the pain their long-dead family members must have endured.
“From what my great grandfather says, it was avarice and misplaced pride. A great wrong was done, and it will be up to us, more accurately to you, to correct it if I pass before I have a chance to do so.” Seeing his wife was about to protest, the Duke, close to seventy, rested a finger on her lips.
“We all die, my love; it is just that we know that my death will be sooner rather than later. I believe, or hope, that I will have a year. I have much to do and will be busy with our holdings, especially Dennington Lines, until close to Easter. If it were not for the restrictions that I have from my doctor and you to enforce them,” the Duke kissed his wife’s cheek lovingly as she tried to hold back her tears, “I would have been able to complete everything in less than half of the time.
“When I am done with all that I must do, I will have Sir Randolph contact the next Duke and apprise him of what happened to cause the schism in our family. I have to thank goodness for the third Duke’s pride which prevented him from disowning Tom Bennet, as he then became known.
That would have caused this line to die in truth,” the Duke soothed his wife.
“You will send our courier to Sir Randolph with the proof and the trunk of letters the third Duke preserved?” the Duchess asked.
“Yes, my dearest, everything will be on its way come the morrow,” the Duke confirmed.
~~~~~~~/~~~~~~~