Page 53 of Five Gentlemen at Netherfield (Pride and Prejudice Variations)
Mr. Collins goggled. All the outdoor servants were gone, and only three were within the house? Was the cook in residence? If not, who would prepare his meals? It was intolerable that he would go hungry, though if worse came to worse, he could eat at the Pig in the Poke pub in Meryton.
“Netherfield Hall?” Lady Catherine demanded. “Where is that?”
“It is some three miles from here, Lady Catherine,” Collins said. “It was owned by a Mr. Bingley, who is a friend of your nephew, Mr. Darcy, and…”
He trailed off at the furious expression on the lady’s face, but she said nothing for a moment, and then finally said, “Well, you need to show me the entire house. I daresay your cousins have allowed the house to go to rack and ruin, and you will need my advice on what must be fixed as quickly as possible. Not that there is probably a great deal of money, but what there is must be used in the proper way. You will be master of the estate, and it behooves you to show the world that you are deserving of their respect. Not, of course, that you are in my class of society, but in this backwards part of England, you are now one of the more important men of the area, and you need my instruction on what to do.”
Mr. Collins stared at the lady for a moment, aware of a sudden, unaccustomed, bewildering surge of irritation.
He venerated Lady Catherine de Bourgh, of course he did, but he was now master of Longbourn, and she was merely a guest. He did not truly need her advice any more.
He was Mr. Collins of Longbourn, not Mr. Collins of the parsonage of Hunsford. He…
“Well, Mr. Collins, what are you waiting for?” the lady demanded, her eyes flashing fire.
Long habit made him bow, and he said, “My apologies. My mind was wandering. Shall we start on the main floor?”
“Of course we shall, because that is where you will be entertaining guests, and…”
She incessantly blathered on as the pair made their way from one room to another, and Mr. Collins listened with half an ear, though both of his eyes continued to drift from one glorious possession to the next.
It occurred to him to be happy that Lady Catherine would soon return to Kent and leave him alone as master and lord of his own home.
***
En Route to Pemberley
Monday, 18 th May, 1812
Elizabeth swayed with the carriage, nudging gently into her husband where he sat beside her, his hand wrapped protectively around her own.
With her other hand, she stroked over and over again the black bombazine of her dress, watching the way the dull matte fabric absorbed the light.
It was still rather unreal to think that she was in mourning, that her father truly was gone at last. She kept finding herself turning as if to speak to him about some new book.
She kept waking from dreams in which he asked with slurred words for her to come read to him. He could not really be gone forever.
Not forever, she reminded herself, holding fast to that gleam of hope.
It was not forever. Even now, he was in Heaven with the Savior, in blissful joy and a body that worked perfectly.
He had laid aside all sin and pain and illness, every tear and sorrow.
One day, his family would join him there in the same state of perfection.
Though not, God willing, for many years yet.
Kitty and Lydia were still so young , with so much life ahead of them, while the elder three looked forward to enjoying their husbands and building their families.
Jane and Charles had been left behind at Netherfield to do just that, but Mary and Richard sat in the carriage facing Darcy and Elizabeth.
Where Elizabeth and her husband sat hand in hand, Mary’s arm was looped through Richard’s, and she leaned against him wearily, face pale and sad and washed out by her own black gown.
Elizabeth leaned closer to her own beloved husband, who wriggled his hand free of hers, leaving her bereft, but only for a moment, as he wrapped that same arm securely and comfortingly around her shoulders.
Elizabeth settled with a small contented sigh, watching the landscape speed past outside.
The Darcys had taken the rear-facing seat, and she could see the edges of the low-hanging dust cloud rising from their wheels, turning the grass tawny along the verges where it settled.
An overcast sky hid the sun, preventing a warm day from becoming too hot.
Even now, with aching heart and grieving soul, Elizabeth found it within herself to look with relish on the pastures and copses and meadows of wildflowers that they passed.
The smells of good warm earth, freshly tilled and planted, mingled with the more delicate scents of the flowers, making an aroma as old as time and new each year that Elizabeth had never ceased to enjoy.
So much had changed since the previous May, and even the old familiar scent of late spring could not soothe the turmoil in her heart.
Joy at being married to her beloved Fitzwilliam warred with grief at her father’s passing and the loss of Longbourn.
It was unsettling how rapidly their lives were changing, though her marriage was a great gift.
She looked at her husband, grateful that he had unhesitatingly extended an invitation to not only the Fitzwilliams, but also Mrs. Bennet, her two unmarried daughters, and their governess to come stay for a few months at Pemberley.
Sweet-natured, patient Jane and genial, easy-going Charles Bingley would be best able, of anyone in the family, to handle seeing William Collins inhabiting the rooms of Longbourn.
Better for the rest of the family to come to the peaceful expanse of Pemberley to grieve awhile.
“Are you well, my dear?” Darcy asked softly, and she said, “I am. Everything is turbulent right now, but I am incredibly grateful for you, and our marriage, and Pemberley, and that my family will be safe and secure as we navigate this new season in life.”
“You know it is my honor to host your family for as long as needed,” Darcy declared.
“I am grateful as well,” Mary chimed in. “Pemberley is so beautiful, and if Richard and I had been forced to hastily find a place to rent, or something of the sort, well, this season of mourning would have been a good deal more difficult.”
Elizabeth watched as Richard planted a loving kiss on Mary’s capped head, and she wiggled a trifle closer still to her husband.
Elizabeth’s courtship with Darcy had been a peculiar one, and their early marriage even more so, interrupted as it was by Mr. Bennet’s sudden death.
But for all that she did grieve her father, she was convinced that the entrance of Fitzwilliam Darcy into her life had been one of the greatest gifts she could ever imagine.
In the midst of a time when her husband might reasonably expect to be the sole focus of her attention, he had been required to share her with a multitude of distressed female relations, not to mention that three new bridegrooms had been forced to deal with Mr. Collins and Lady Catherine and a variety of legal matters.
What kind of man would step up so confidently, so diligently, so boldly, to care for his new bride in such circumstances?
Her husband, of course. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley.
“I love you, my darling,” she whispered, softly enough that her sister and husband could not hear her over the sound of horses' clopping feet and the rolling of the wheels, but then it was meant only for her beloved.
“I love you too, my sweet Elizabeth.”