A few weeks later…..
Mr. Bennet leaned back in a most ungentlemanly fashion in the driver's seat of his carriage, not particularly concerned with the actual handling of the reigns to the carriage. The horses took up a plodding pace, instinctively knowing when to follow the bend in the road. It was the eldest Bennet girl's birthday, and this was his fatherly deed to her, for the year. She had wanted a ride around Longbourn and Netherfield, and he had obliged.
The entire family was to go, but Mrs. Bennet had stayed behind to entertain her sister, Mrs. Phillips, Mary retired to her piano, and the two youngest had used the excuse of the carriage excursion to ride with them part way, and then walk the remainder into Meryton-no doubt to expose themselves as silly, twittering young girls to the officers. His Lizzie walked a ways behind the carriage, too stubborn to change her ways. When there was a chance to walk, she did so. He chuckled to himself, catching his Lizzie's eye as he leaned his head backwards for a brief moment.
"Papa, be careful."
Mr. Bennet turned his head into the low, worried tones of the eldest female Bennet, Jane. Ever dutiful, serene Jane. He remembered when Lizzie had been born-Jane had been nearly three years old, and a little lady, much to Mrs. Bennet's delight and expectation. It was not to be with their second daughter-his Lizzie had been recalcitrant from the womb. Mr. Bennet had been convinced that she was to be born a boy, being that Mrs. Bennet's confinements between this pregnancy and her first were as different as night and day. A smile touched his lips, he received something better than a boy-his Lizzie.
Lizzie may as well had been born a boy. From the moment she could walk and talk, she was forever exploring, always pushing the boundaries. While Jane had been content to stay in her nursery and play with her dolls, as their mother had so ordered, Lizzie always had to sneak out of the room and visit her Papa, or go to the kitchens to slip a sweet or two from the cook.
Once they were older, Jane did her best to mind the younger girls, while Lizzie did her best to get them all into some mischief. Or so Mrs. Bennet so shrieked, in another fit of vapors. Her Jane, his Lizzie. Her Jane sat and did her embroidery without a token complaint, while his Lizzie escaped outside to explore the countryside.
Her Jane had never defied her, except for one instance, an instance in which Mrs. Bennet was not even aware. When she was fifteen, a young man had had pressed his suit towards Jane. Mrs. Bennet had been thrilled, that a young gentleman of such means had been interested in her Jane. From the moment this young man had expressed a preference for her Jane, Mrs. Bennet had pressed Jane to do her best to secure him. Mr. Bennet had largely stayed out of it, until Jane had come to him one evening before going to bed.
Their conversation had been brief, and he had taken care of the matter. Mrs. Bennet did not know, and would not know. She had expressed her regrets to the gentleman when he had announced he was leaving the area, and Mr. Bennet had hoped that would be the end of it. It had not been-as they all had the distinct pleasure of reacquainting themselves with Mrs. Bennet's nerves. However, in that moment, she was his Jane.
He turned to Jane, with a small smile, and a tease on the tip of his tongue.
And then it all went black.
Jane's birthday celebrations had been going well up until now. It was her twenty-second birthday, another year by which she had to listen to her Mama's worries about her marriageability. Every year, her mama became more and more vocal. Thankfully, Aunt Phillips was here to listen to Mama, while she, Lizzie, Lydia, and Kitty went for her birthday ride. Of course, Lydia and Kitty had begged Papa to be allowed to walk to Meryton.
Sitting next to her papa, feeling the cool air gently wafting by, Jane frowned. She was worried that Lydia and Kitty were becoming entirely too forward, especially for their age. They were not yet out, although she knew that they would soon wheedle Papa into allowing that as well-they and Mama. Jane resolved to speak to Papa about that-perhaps later today. He generally was in a better mood on such a day of celebrations, and he may listen to her. For today.
She didn't want Lydia and Kitty to get hurt. Or commit to a union for which they were not ready. They were so young, Lydia especially. She was only a year or so younger than when Jane had been pressured by Mama to encourage a young man that had paid her suit. While Jane had been initially flattered by such attention, she had quickly felt overwhelmed. By him, by Mama-especially Mama-who had already begun to plan their wedding at the table, while they ate their meal, the morning after he had shown her a preference.
Jane did not want to disappoint her mama, but she had no other option. So she went to Papa, and explained the situation as best as she could-how she felt. He'd patted her on the hand, and told her that he would take care of the matter. Papa hadn't spoken of it to her afterwards, nor had she seen him speak to her would be suitor, but some time later the man had left. Mama had been inconsolable, and Jane did her best to comfort her, while inwardly comforted.
She smiled, turning to her Papa, who was not watching the road.
"Papa, be careful."
Her Papa turned to her, every line in his face highlighted not just by the sun's rays, but by his small smile-and then she could not see anything.
Aunt Phillips had immediately left their home to go to Meryton to retrieve Lydia and Kitty. Elizabeth thought, rather uncharitably, that she had left because Mama had already started wailing about her nerves and how they would all starve in the hedgerows, because Mr. Bennet was dead. Elizabeth watched, her face impassive and desperately trying to hold in her tears as Mr. Hill laid her Papa out on his bed, for the apothecary. Papa was….not himself. Although he spent the majority of the day shut away in his library, he was not a sound sleeper, and even the slightest noise would awaken him. To see him like this, so still and quiet, it was unsettling and wrong.
Elizabeth knew that Mama would be of no help in these next few, critical hours, as she fluttered and clucked around the doctor. Elizabeth hurried over to Mary, who had been fluttering uselessly at the edge of the room.
"Mary," she murmured quietly, "go see to Mama, please. Take her to her room, and help her get ready for bed. I shall have Kitty bring in some tea once she gets in from Meryton. Perhaps you could read to Mama, from her favorite novel, until then."
Mary nodded mutely, and in a moment of strength, neatly and efficiently dragged an unwilling, hysterical Mrs. Bennet from the room.
Elizabeth watched the doctor do his work, mutely, wanting to ask, wanting to help. She couldn't do anything. The apothecary thrust her from the room.
"Go fetch Mrs. Hill, I have need of her. Tell her to bring hot water and rags."
Elizabeth hurried to do so, grateful to be of some use. Mrs. Hill was in Jane's room, tending to her. Entering the room, Elizabeth felt tears prick her eyes once again. Jane, mercifully, was not conscious, but her face was swollen and purple. Elizabeth swallowed thickly, willing her mind to stop conjuring up the images of her sister being thrown face first into the ground, the carriage following shortly afterwards.
"Mrs. Hill, the apothecary needs you. Have Mr. Hill fetch you some hot water and rags to bring to Papa."
The older woman nodded, seemingly nonplussed by the seriousness of the situation.
"Miss Bennet's ankle has been wrapped, miss. All she needs now is a cool bath an' some laudanum for the pain when she wakes up. You'll stay with her then?", Mrs. Hill asked brusquely, and then continued on at Elizabeth's hesitant nod. "Don't move her too much, we don' want to upset that ankle until Mr. Jones can look at it." Elizabeth nodded again, and so the older woman left her to her own devices.
Elizabeth nervously moved towards the bed, and laid a hesitant touch on Jane's shoulder, feeling how hot her skin was. The touch burned her fingers, so she quickly withdrew her hand, and moved to the small bowl of cool water on the bed side table. Lifting the soft rag, she gently dipped it into the cool water, wrung it out, and draped it over Jane's swollen face. Pausing for a reaction, any reaction, she calmed somewhat as Jane's features remained serene. She did not want to cause Jane any more pain. And began to drag the cloth over her face and neck.
When Mr. Jones had been brought in to assess Jane and Mr. Bennet, he had quickly determined that Jane's only ailment was a broken ankle and, perhaps, a concussion, and that after the bruising and swelling went down, she would be good as new. Elizabeth supposed that this was because Jane had been awake when they had finally brought her and Papa in from the road. Awake, but in so much pain. Elizabeth wished she could take back some of the annoyance she had experienced earlier in the day.
Mama had spent the day alternatively upset and clucking over the fact that Jane was now twenty-two years old and unmarried, and then fretting over the fact that her second eldest child was not like the first. Not as demure and proper as her elder sister. Which had led to her announcing that she would take a short walk after breakfast. Of course, Mama had latched onto that, as evidence of her stubbornness and folly (oh, that she should have been a boy!). Her dear sister had tried to ease Mama's nerves by suggesting a carriage ride, but the damage had been done.
After gently washing and dressing her sister's battered body, Elizabeth laid a cool hand upon Jane's head, and prayed fervently that all would be well.
The day began as it always did. William Collins woke as though a hot poker had been thrust at his feet, agonizingly white-hot, as he hurriedly splashed cold water on his face, and dressed. His own excellent mother, Mary Delaney Collins, a pious woman of excellent faith and charitable works, had been dead and buried for nearly ten years. To that end, his own honorable father, James Thomas Collins, in all his senior wisdom had shifted all the work, normally endowed by their great Creator, to the lady of the house, to himself-his father's only child and heir. For whom else could know better his own father's wants and needs, but his own son? And although his father could be rather difficult and somewhat ornery at times, William Collins contented himself in the knowledge that his good deeds, his utmost attention to his duty would be rewarded to him in heaven.
With these thoughts, William Collins hurried to make a small morning meal of boiled eggs, oats, and tea. Tea was made and poured; the table was set. It would have to do. Mr. Collins, his excellent father, took his seat at the head of the table, and breakfast was eaten in their normal, perfunctory way. There was work to be done. Thankfully, this morning William Collins did not have to prepare a second pot of tea to his father's liking. The previous morning, it had apparently been steeped for far too long, his own fault, he dared to admit. The bitter tea had caused his father to be attacked by a fit of what must have been apoplexy, which had sent his father into a confused humor-throwing the pot and the cup to the ground.
As a good son does, William Collins had immediately jumped up-after getting over his own shock of course-and immediately placated his dear, suffering father with apologies, assuring him he would, to the best of his knowledge get down to the bottom of this situation. Obviously the blame laid with the disreputable shop that had sold him the tea in the first place.
Although William Collins had told his father that the tea had perhaps been steeped for too long a time, thereby casting the blame upon himself in its entirety, he was quite certain that the shop had been cheating him. Of course, it was his Christian duty to set things to rights, and then show the fruits of his labors to his father-but only then.
Only afterwards, when the deed was finished.
William Collins shuddered in remembrance of an incident that had taken place with the maid that his good father had employed in the last few years of his dear mother's life. His father was good in that way, thinking of his dear wife's dwindling strength, failing health-by, unfortunately, hiring a harlot of a woman to clean their good, Christian home. He had been around thirteen years of age at the time, when he had found the harlot maid in an embrace, with a man to whom she was not engaged to, let alone joined in holy matrimony with, in their family garden.
To this day, he did not have any idea as to the man's identity-he wished he had, so he could warn the local parish, as he did with the new maid. He had not been able to find his father, after the incident occurred, so he had ran his news to the parsonage, which was separated from his own home by a mere lane. Of course, the rector had been very gratified to hear his news, and had sent him home, after some tarts and a cup of tea-to this awaiting father.
He thought that his news would serve to make his father proud, but it seemed to only anger him as he began to question William. His father had asked him rather pointed questions, such as whether or not he had seen the face of the gentleman or the face of the woman, for that matter. William had been forced to admit that he had not actually seen the faces of either the maid or her lover-but he was certain that it was their maid, because he recognized her outer garments, as belonging to that of their maid. He had opened his mouth to tell his father of his visit to the parsonage, when his father slapped him to the ground, immediately delivering worthy instruction about what one should do when one sees something like that-namely to confirm all parties before warning other, decent Christian folk.
Of course, it had to do with his dear father's ailments. He was soon to lose his beloved wife, and was overwhelmed with the prospects of raising William Collins, his heir, on his own. He forgave his father, as God had commanded all Christians to do, and resolved to obey his father in all things-hence taking morning walk to pick up the post, and to speak to the shopkeeper about his abominable tea. He would demand that the shopkeeper throw out the obviously defective product, under his own supervision, receive his payment for the product back in full, and then present the evidence to his father.
While he was there in town, he should also search about for other shops, for he and his father to now purchase from. He was certain that he nor his father would ever again patronize this particular shop. With this in mind, William Collins whistled a jaunty tune, keeping in with the lightness of his steps. All would soon be well.
In all other ways, his walk went extremely well. William Collins enjoyed such brisk walks. Exercise was rather good for one's health, and it gave one an opportunity to gaze upon the wonder of God's beauty and majesty. What He had created. He hoped the estate that he was to inherit upon the death of his dear Cousin Bennet, as well as that of his own dear father, that the new Mistress of Longbourn would endeavor to pay such attention to her health, as he was wont to. His cousin Bennet's inferior seed was long overdue for supplanting. As his father had always said-his dear Mother had only ever given him one son, one heir, but that it was more beneficial to have only a single heir, as opposed to a houseful of females-for which, as the head of the household, one is bound by the rules of society to provide a dowry for each female child, for when she is to become of marriageable age.
Cousin Bennet had five daughters-he remembered his father becoming agitated each time their dear cousin had written with news of an impending birth. His beloved mother often had to calm his father down, each time such a letter came from their cousin. Of course, he did not fault his dear cousin's efforts in siring a son. Were he in the same position, God Almighty forbid, he imagined he would do the same. Yet, he also agreed with his excellent father-it was rather a lot of money, money that could be spent elsewhere-enhancing the estate, for example.
But there would be time for that, in the future, William Collins thought as he reached the end of his walk. By next Easter, he would be a fully ordained parson, and would take his orders. Frowning under the now bright, shining sun, William Collins' eyes squinted as he searched out the shop he was looking for. He had a man to speak to.
