Page 1 of Lizzie’s Spirit

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a gentlewoman about to lose her home will suffer such tremblings, flutterings, and pains in her head, and such beatings at heart, that she will surrender to her nerves and get no rest by night or day in contemplation of being thrown into the hedgerows.

Mrs. Bennet, an unfortunate lady finding herself in this perilous position, was astonished at her fortitude.

She had neither succumbed to hysterics nor was frightened by her presence in the austere Court of Chancery, convened in the large market town of St. Albans.

Remarkably, her courage had risen with every attempt by circumstances to intimidate her.

“Dearest, take my hand.” She turned to her daughter, and together they ascended to the public gallery and took their place in the front row.

“Where is Mr. Phillips?” whispered Miss Bennet, looking worriedly around the dark, oak-panelled room, which was now rather empty.

Their legal case of concern was the last listed for the day.

Mr. Phillips, a brother by marriage of Mrs. Bennet, was also their attorney; he was to represent them and their estate in the matter now before the court.

Too late! The bailiff called for all to rise, and the judge took his seat, his august presence looming over the scuffed floor and polished galleries.

As they sat, Mrs. Bennet felt her resolve slipping.

Her hand, which had clasped Miss Bennet’s to lend comfort to her daughter, now sought reassurance that all would be well.

“I am eager to conclude today’s business; the hour hastens, and my dinner beckons.

To whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?

” The judge’s voice, petulant and rasping, boomed out from the high bench at which he sat.

He peered quizzically at the few gentlemen standing on the floor of the court before him.

Several men hurriedly sat at the tables, leaving only one gentleman standing.

He immediately drew the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, and noble mien; those attending pronounced him a fine figure of a man, though perhaps too proud of his station and above the company of the clerks, attorneys, and advocates seated nearby; but as a Doctor of Laws admitted to practice in Chancery , he had a right to be proud.

“Barrister Darcy, my lord—to represent the plaintiff, Mr. Collins.” He bowed towards the bench and gestured towards a tall, heavy-looking man of about five and twenty, dressed in clerical garb, who was standing on the opposite side of the floor from the public gallery.

The man bowed low towards the judge and appeared about to speak before being tersely interrupted by his attorney and adjured to remain silent.

“Darcy? From Derbyshire?” The judge squinted nearsightedly towards the speaker. “I attended Cambridge with a fine fellow of that name. Let me recall. Yes, indeed, Mr. George Darcy of Pemberley—you have the likeness of him.”

“I am his son,” acknowledged the gentleman.

“Likewise, I attended that venerable institution and was admitted to Trinity Hall, as did you. My honourable father, of whom I’m the second son, when he heard of my attendance at your court, requested that I pass on his regards and an invitation to dine at Darcy House whenever you next remove to town. ”

A smothered cough from the gallery broke his train of thought.

Darcy looked across and saw a young lady in the front row holding a hand across her mouth in a poor attempt at preventing a smirk.

Her eyes caught his; she recognised his dissembling.

Darcy had not spoken to his father for over a year.

He forced himself not to smile; Lord Finch was known for being receptive to such flattery.

A little more of the same, the case decided, and he could escape this backwater.

“Quite so, my lord.” He resumed, “There is a table reserved in the private parlour of the White Hart, where an excellent beef ragout and a rich, dark porter are served.

As this is a case of fact , the matter should be finished in some twenty minutes, and the court can retire to its well-deserved repast.

“But let me continue, if I may.” Darcy paused and looked around the well of the court.

“I do not see Mr. Phillips, who is to represent the estate and trust. Perforce, he’s delayed a little longer.

With your indulgence, may I summarise the depositions in this case, which are overly long and difficult for your clerk to understand?

” The judge, who clearly had not read the documents, agreed.

“This matter concerns the Longbourn estate, which lies two miles west of Meryton, a small market town some seven miles north of where this court is now in session. Mr. Bennet, a gentleman, is the current holder of the estate as life tenant under the terms of a strict settlement that dictates the estate descend intact from one generation to the next through heirs male. The Bennets have held possession of Longbourn for over one hundred and fifty years. Mr. Bennet has five daughters, none of whom have reached their majority—there is no son. The heir presumptive is my client, Mr. Collins, a cousin of some remove to Mr. Bennet.”

“Is there a likelihood of male progeny?” The judge was apparently listening to Mr. Darcy’s dissertation.

“Perhaps, my lord. Mrs. Bennet is some ten years younger than her husband, who is”—he referred to his notes—“six and forty. Thus, she is still of an age to conceive.”

Darcy glanced at the young lady in the front gallery; she was nodding in agreement with this statement.

She and the lady next to her were both elegantly dressed, not in the style of London but in muslin walking dresses, one with a spencer of pale green sarcenet, the other a Spanish vest of blue sarcenet; the quality of these garments placed them squarely amongst the country gentry.

The older lady, who he surmised to be about thirty, perhaps a little over, was very handsome and surely a great beauty, say, a decade before.

Her companion was exceptionally pretty; her hair—curls of which framed her face below her straw bonnet—was a rich chestnut in contrast to the older lady’s fair locks. He turned back to the judge.

“Unfortunately, it’s unlikely Mr. Bennet will sire an heir.” The older lady, her hands trembling, pulled a handkerchief from a sleeve and dabbed her eyes; the younger woman stared angrily at Darcy; her eyes flashed. He continued,

“The gentleman suffered an apoplexy this year past, some nine months ago. He remains unable to speak and is paralysed on his left side. He was examined by a prominent physician from Hatfield who declares in his deposition Mr. Bennet is unlikely to recover. No other opinion has been proffered.”

He paused, the courtroom quiet apart from the scratchings of a clerk’s pen as he recorded the proceedings.

“Dum spiro, spero!”

Darcy spun in astonishment towards the gallery.

The Latin phrase, taken from Cicero’s letters, had been uttered sotto voce, but he was concerned the judge may have heard.

To speak without permission in a Chancery court was akin to blasphemy.

The young lady pursed her lips and said coldly, though quietly for his ears only, “ While I breathe, I hope! Or is Latin no longer taught to barristers? Mr. Bennet is not yet dead, sir.”

Darcy caught her eye and leant down to retrieve a sheet of paper, which he had deliberately let fall.

As he bent, he murmured equally coldly, “Your Latin is tolerable, but not handsome enough to provoke me, and I’m in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who demean this court.

You had better save your breath to cool your porridge; there’s no place for your impertinence here. ”

The judge was becoming restless, and Darcy hastened to present the complaint.

“The issue, my lord, is that the rents for the estate, which are paid quarterly, were significantly reduced by Mr. Bennet’s inattention.

Timber has been cut down and sold to make up the shortfall, thus damaging the estate at the expense of future beneficiaries, in particular, Mr. Collins, the heir presumptive. ”

“Such lies!” exclaimed Miss Bennet, who abruptly stood, clenching her fists.

“Ma'am, remain seated!” Lord Finch spoke disdainfully from his high bench. “I will not tolerate disorderly women disrupting these court proceedings. Mr. Darcy, please restrain the woman. Her outburst is unseemly—I will not have such disruption in my court!”

“Oh, Lizzie,” cried Mrs. Bennet, who pulled desperately at her daughter, trying to seat her once again on the gallery bench. Darcy swung around to them.

“Your pardon, my lord, I believe the lady has a direct interest in this case, but I will caution… Miss Bennet?”—she sullenly acknowledged him—“and your sister, perchance?”

“My mother, sir, Mrs. Bennet, wife to Mr. Bennet of Longbourn. I am her second daughter, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

“A moment of the court’s time, my lord; some facts are missing from the depositions.

” Darcy waited until Lord Finch acknowledged his request. He stepped closer to the women and spoke in a low voice so their communication would be private.

“Ma'am,” he said, addressing Mrs. Bennet, “I implore you to restrain your daughter.

Lord Finch is a misogynist, prejudiced, and mistrustful of women.

“But this may be to your advantage: he would enjoy making you beholden to him for his generosity in the settlement. You cannot win this case because the law is against you, but you may win a reprieve while awaiting Mr. Bennet’s recovery.

” Darcy paused; he could see his words discomforted the lady, but rather than descending to tearful despair, she sighed and acknowledged his position.

He knew the law: she, as a woman, could only obey it.