Disclaimer: I am not Jane Austen, and make no claim to owning her world or characters. I just play there sometimes.
Aaand the 2nd entry for this posting. In the book this will most likely be the start of chapter 3.
Chapter 10
For Catherine Bennet most of the events surrounding the discovery of her parents' deaths and the days following would forever be shrouded by shock, fatigue, and a sense of growing desperation. Moments would return but the whole was lost in the mists; and the memories, like sunlight reflecting from a stream, caused her mind's eye to flinch and narrow.
Being shaken to wakefulness by a kind and worried face hovering over her. Mrs. Hill, needing to know if the Bennets had made plans to overnight at the Philips. Sleepiness, after too many hours of pain from her woman's cycle, had made her tongue sharp and she'd had to apologize once her mind had risen with her body.
Helping to prepare a spiced tea to sustain the searchers in the bitter cold. It might be years before the scent of cloves did not bring with it a heartbeat of fear.
Mr. Humbolt standing before her, his weary brow drawn with sorrow, hands wringing his cap helplessly as he spoke to her of her parent's end.
The faces of the servants and tenants turned to her in expectation, and the belated knowledge that she was the only Bennet in residence capable of dealing with the situation. Somehow she had gathered her wits sufficiently to give orders which, judging by their expressions, were not too henwitted. And then, as soon as a soul was available, sending for her Uncle Philip.
Taking a wash cloth to Lydia, half frozen and covered face to hem in their mother's blood, her gaze almost fixed, so that the Mr. Burnside could examine her on his arrival; while in the background footsteps rushed heated water and stones to Mary's room.
The short discussion with Mrs. Hill to block off a room of the house in which to place the bodies, screening the windows with fabric, but otherwise allowing the season's unnatural cold to preserve them for burial.
Her parent's return. Their cleaning and preparation. Kitty had once heard her friend Maria speak in hushed solemnity of this final service to Grandmother Lucas with a kind of awe and quiet joy. For Kitty the experience was very different. While she had performed her duty with white-lipped determination there had been only horror, the worst of which was not the injuries the bodies had sustained but the sheer nothingness where once had been personality. Her parents no longer inhabited their mortal shells and their lively faces' reduction to mere bone and flesh struck her with more chill than the weather's slicing wind ever could. Task completed, she had stepped away and vomited into a nearby bin.
Her Aunt Philips' arrival, hysteria, and subsequent retrieval blended into one nightmarish whole. Only her Uncle Philips apology and explanation stood out with any clarity. Her aunt had apparently intercepted the first message and, in her grief and her rush to her beloved niece's side, had forgotten to inform her husband of the tragedy. His first awareness of events had been Kitty's second note. Sorely tempted though she was to beg her uncle to take over the complex business at hand, she knew from immediate experience that all her uncle's energies would be required to deal with her aunt. And so, promising dutifully to give heed to Mrs. Greentree's wisdom as a parson's wife, she waved her uncle and still wailing aunt into their waiting vehicle.
The interruption of breakfast by Mr. Bromley, prompting a panicked reconnaissance into her father's forbidden study.
Though the general funeral favors could wait, the more personalized items required selection and Kitty had been forced again to breech her parents' privacy, scavenging their possessions for appropriate remembrances and sending into Meryton for black ribbon and silk cloth.
Mrs. Hill's tart admonishment upon Kitty's second night of vigil in the freezing parlor that "they aren't going to get any livelier, girl, and they'll not thank you for joining them in their graves."
But, even with all the grim necessities of that time, April 11th of that year would always be marked as a day of wonder, for that was the day she came to believe in angels. Though she'd known better than show her contempt for the idea, the notion that any heavenly powers had much interest in the trials of poor suffering mortals had always struck her as childish fantasy; and the idea of a personal angel assigned to one Catherine Bennet was complete nonsense. If her own mother could see her only as her sisters' shadow, why would a more distant being take any notice of her at all?
The arrival of Darcy early that morning and his subsequent routing of the Hertfordshire merchants was astonishing but not miraculous. If her uncle could not immediately travel it only made sense that he would send another in his place; though how Mr. Darcy came to fill that role she could only speculate. No, the defining moment of that day did not come until much later.
Kitty and Mrs. Greentree were in the smaller parlor, assembling sprigs of rosemary bound in black ribbon to be used as general favors, while Mr. Croftford reviewed the funeral plans with them. Mr. Darcy, currently between interviews and apparently deprived of occupation by his own efficiency, entered the room carrying a book she recognized from her father's library. His arrival halted the conversation but when he motioned them to continue and settled into a comfortable chair to read, it soon resumed.
He paid them no heed at first. Gradually, however, the book began to lower. After a time, and with the idle air of one fighting complete boredom, he asked if he might see the list of plans. This he was given. After its review he asked in a similar tone for the billing list. This Mr. Croftford attempted to defer, saying the list was not yet complete. Mr. Darcy replied that a partial list would do as well as a full and Mr. Croftford was obliged to comply. This second list was examined without change in expression. Thus the question, entering into a natural pause in the discussion, came as lightning from a clear sky.
"Mr. Croftford, is there any particular reason you would care to mention why I should not have you taken out and shot?" Mr. Darcy's voice was calm, level, and lethal. Mr. Croftford began to sputter. A rapid flow of words followed, slowly winding down in the face of Mr. Darcy steady gaze. That gaze transferred to the women. "Mrs. Greentree, you aided with this list?"
Kitty hurriedly intervened. "My Aunt Philips handled the majority of the arrangements. I've largely confirmed her choices. Mr. Darcy, there are not many families of status in the area, and Mr. Croftford is obliged to handle funerals through all our levels of society. I'm sure if something is lacking, it is only through ignorance of more modern traditions. We are not London sophisticates here, you know."
Mr. Darcy's looked at her, his countenance unchanged, and Kitty's heart quailed.
"I think I see," he said at last. "Ladies, my sincerest apologies for my assumptions. Now, Mr. Croftford, if you would adjourn with me to Mr. Bennet's study?"
Kitty and Mrs. Greentree exchanged wide-eyed glances as a terrified Mr. Croftford followed in Mr. Darcy's wake.
"He– He couldn't really have Mr. Croftford shot," Kitty gulped. "Could he?"
Mrs. Greentree did not answer. Within a few minutes the parson's wife had found an excuse to flee. Kitty could not blame her. She would have like to flee Mr. Darcy as well, and waited with dread for the men to return. The tying of ribbons to rosemary proved a poor distraction.
Mr. Croftford did not return to the parlor upon his emergence however, instead moving swiftly out the door to safety and Mr. Darcy's countenance as he handed her a new set of papers was not the condemnation she feared. Instead he seemed to bear a world-weary sorrow, speaking to her with gentle courtesy.
"Mr. Croftford has seen fit to draw up new plans for your parents' memorializing, ones more in line with their station in the community and your family's resources."
"Oh." Kitty took the papers, setting them beside the rosemary to read when the favors were complete. Mr. Darcy took up his book and chair once more, and all fell to silence. Despite her sillier habits of thought, Kitty was not actually an imbecile, and Mr. Darcy's three final words had provided the necessary clue; but she could hardly believe it. "Mr. Croftford is highly respected in the community," she ventured quietly.
Mr. Darcy looked up, sighed, and put down his book to face her.
"Miss Catherine, it is my sincere hope and intention that you never again be placed in the situation you've been in for the last few days. But should such occur, I would have you remember three things. The first is that the majority of tradesmen are simply men, no better or worse than their neighbors; and when they come to you with their bills recall that they deserve just recompense for the services they supply. A few, like Mr. Bromley—and I agree with your assessment there, odious is the only proper description—may become overly ambitious in their recompense, but most seek only what is due."
He waited for her understanding. Kitty frowned but reluctantly assented, and he continued. "The second is that, however harsh and cruel their actions may seem in the moment, they too have families they must support and their loyalty rightly belongs to them."
This caused Kitty to nod, remembering a comment her father once made when Lizzy asked why he'd denied their mother a desired London shopping trip when he certainly allowed her free reign at establishments closer to home. The concept of a duty to sponsor the local merchants through their patronage had been odd at first, but made sense when he explained how vulnerable many were to misfortune compared to their own circumstances. Kitty had gone out and bought a new (and sad to say, atrocious) bonnet immediately afterwards in a show of solidarity.
"The third," here Mr. Darcy's visage darkened, "is that there are villains in the world. These you must be on watch for, because it is at precisely such times when they know you are the most vulnerable they will act. Not always from malice or greed, but certainly from indifference to the suffering they inflict.
"Your Mr. Croftford may well be respected by the community, but he is no saint. He recently got himself into dire financial straits. Your parents' deaths, grievous to you, seemed a godsend to him. He told himself that you had family to look after you, and could well afford to supply his wants. He encouraged your aunt to every excess, and your aunt, knowing little of the contemporary traditions of the gentry, sought to send your parents to their maker with every due respect. This would be evils enough, but he then proceeded to overcharge your bill to fantastical degree. There would have been little left for you and your sister's support."
Kitty paled. "He really…" Mr. Darcy nodded solemnly. "Oh," she said in a small voice.
Leaning forward, he took her hand. "Miss Catherine, whatever thoughts you now entertain, I hope that guilt is not among them. I understand that neither you nor your aunt had previously been obliged to deal with such matters and had no experience to guide you; and I am all too aware that most women are not taught much of how to handle more than household accounts. Do not blame yourself for the choices of another."
She swallowed and nodded. After taking a moment be sure of her acceptance, Mr. Darcy released her hand and returned to his text. Kitty turned back to her own task, mind whirling.
Mr. Bromley's greed, Mr. Croftford's treachery, her mother's remembered complaints, her aunt's wails, the kind but pitying looks of Mrs. Greentree and others, all danced in her head, spinning in a mad frenzy until one single point became clear.
Kitty burst into tears.
She was vaguely aware of Mr. Darcy looking up with a horrified expression, glancing around as if for rescue. When none appeared he abandoned the book and moved to sit beside her on the sofa. She felt herself taken into his arms, her hair petted, and the traditional, useless words of comfort expressed. She had no breath to speak and tell him it was not grief that prompted her weeping. She had been too pressed about by her sudden duties for that emotion to yet have much claim upon her. No, the cause of her outburst was not pain, but unadulterated relief and wonder.
She didn't have to hold the burden alone anymore. And the Lord in his infinite mercy had seen fit to send her an angel. That her particular guardian walked on mortal feet of clay instead of soaring on wings was only fitting. Not even her later discovery that angels could be grumpy, ridiculous, overbearing, and occasionally infuriating would ever change her opinion. There were indeed devils in the world. But there were also angels.
While it's purely coincidental, it seems appropriate somehow that the topic of angels came in time for this posting. At any rate, with the holiday bustle closing in on top of everything else, I don't know when my next post will be. If you don't hear from me next week then look for me after all the festivities die down. Merry Christmas and best wishes for the New Year to all of you.