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Saturday started well enough for Lady Catherine. Mr. Collins waited on her immediately after Morning Prayer. She received him in the small summer breakfast parlor, although she did not offer him any breakfast.

“Were the Bennets surprised by the news?”

“I saw only Mr. Bennet. Mrs. Bennet is ill and does not leave her room. I did meet Sir Henry Martin, Baronet, who is the local magistrate. He, too, was condoling with Mr. Bennet.”

“And what of Bennet’s reaction?”

“He was grieved—shocked—he hid his face in his handkerchief and wept. I impressed both Mr. Bennet and Sir Henry with your ladyship’s true Christian virtue, gracious condescension, and high moral character in sending me to attend the Bennets in your own carriage.

I also acquainted Mr. Bennet with your ladyship’s offer to find posts as maids for the other daughters.

Such Christian charity caused Mr. Bennet to employ his handkerchief again. ”

“And the information that Elizabeth Bennet had thrown herself into the arms of Viscount __?” By now, thought Lady Catherine, she should be infected with the pox.

“A complete shock, I assure you. He wished to know the sources of your information, and I assured him that they were of the very highest calibre.”

Lady Catherine poured herself a cup of coffee as she silently congratulated herself on her success. “Good day, Mr. Collins. I feel sure you will wish to set about tending your gardens again.”

Her satisfaction was short-lived, for the afternoon post brought not one, but two express letters.

The first, from Longbourn, had been written the evening before.

Under the guise of extending his thanks, the upstart Bennet had the temerity to criticize Collins--and through Collins, herself—for spreading untimely gossip.

According to his information, Elizabeth Bennet had walked out of the club on the arm of a family friend who knew she was being held there against her will.

Worse, Bennet had the unmitigated gall to hint that his country bumpkin of a parson was a better man than hers.

She clenched her fist in blind fury and brought it down on the desk.

Then, reason took over. Although he must and would be made to pay, she decided that Bennet was harmless for the moment.

She had more important business to attend to, and he could wait his turn.

She next turned her thoughts to that idiot Collins.

Should he be called in to account for his words?

Was he telling her the truth? Should she give herself the pleasure of interrogating him until he squirmed?

She decided that there was no good in crying over spilt milk.

Collins, the pompous ass, obviously had his own rosy view of the world in which she was queen and he her devoted and godly subject.

She could save the satisfaction of dealing with him for later.

She poured herself a glass of port and turned her attention to the next letter.

The contents were shocking. It was from Mrs. Younge, and it confirmed every representation made by Bennet regarding his second daughter.

Elizabeth Bennet had simply walked out of the club on the arm of a gentleman who was not well known to them, a Mr. Hurst, after announcing at the top of her voice that she was being held there against her will.

They had made their escape during the melee following his ill-advised speech, and Hurst had escorted her around the corner and up Brook Street to Darcy’s home.

The viscount, having been cheated of his prize, had taken his money and gone elsewhere.

Mrs. Younge had little information about the club other than that it was closed, and the authorities were investigating.

There had been five children upstairs, mostly kidnapped, who had been placed in the hands of the parish.

There had also been a young woman, grievously wounded by a client, who had been rescued from the cellar.

Mrs. Younge and Wickham were in hiding in Wickham’s filthy rooms, and she was understandably reluctant to go out. They talked of fleeing the country.

Lady Catherine’s anger was violent. She crumpled the letters and threw them across the room, then thought the better of it and retrieved them.

She was disturbed by a soft knock at the door.

It was opened by her daughter Anne followed by Mrs. Jenkinson and a maid with the tea tray.

“I thought you might like your tea, Mama.”

At those words, Lady Catherine’s anger became terrible to behold.

As her daughter stood by, she hurled the heavy silver standish into the opposite wall, splattering black ink on the elaborate gilded woodwork and the silk wallpaper.

When this did nothing to assuage her fury, she overturned and shattered first one, then the other, of her pair of priceless Chinese urns, scattering their contents of garden flowers and water on the Aubusson carpet and the brocade upholstery of the sofa that sat between them.

The rotting stems emitted a stench of decay, and a corner of her mind made her think to dismiss the slattern responsible for cleaning the room.

When Lady Catherine had done with wrecking the room, she snatched the pot of hot, steeping tea from the tray held by the cowering maid and hurled its contents at Anne, who threw up her arm to protect her face.

The young woman turned white as she saw the scarlet burn on her arm and the blisters that began to form there. She bit her lip and did not cry out.

“It is no more than you deserve! Go to your room, and do not expect any dinner tonight. When you have decided to listen to reason and consent to marry your cousin Darcy, then I may relent.” She seized Anne by the lace at her throat. “Until then, my dear, I intend to make your life a living hell.”

Anne stood, pale and silent, as Lady Catherine’s attention turned to Mrs. Jenkinson.

“And as for you, you simpering, sidling widgeon. One more wrong step and you will be turned off without a reference. You are on very thin ice, and you had best wipe that smirk from your face before I do it for you.” Mrs. Jenkinson turned and fled, leaving Anne behind.

Finally, Lady Catherine’s eye fell on the maid. “And you, girl, get down on your knees and clean this mess up. Use your petticoats if you have to, I do not care.” She seized the girl by the arm and dragged her into the room, pushing her to her knees.

“You may go, Anne. In fact, you will go if you know what is good for you.”

She poured herself another glass of port and drank it off in several swallows.

For the first time ever, small tendrils of fear curled around her insides like icy fingers.

Even the port could not warm her. When she returned to refill her glass and found the decanter empty, she hurled it at the window, smashing two panes of glass.

The housekeeper did not put in an appearance, and Lady Catherine suspected it was because the slattern was giving aid and comfort to Anne. She would dismiss the woman at the first opportunity— without a reference.

Longbourn, Hertfordshire - Saturday, August 8, 18__

Elizabeth’s family at Longbourn was awake early the day after her wedding.

Mr. Bennet had received her hastily written letter the evening before, and while everyone understood the need for the early marriage, they naturally regretted their inability to share in her joy.

Mary had been inspired to suggest that they prepare a joint letter, with each family member adding a line or two, which their father would send by express.

They could then write their own personal sentiments at their leisure.

This idea met with universal approbation, and they gathered in the parlor after breakfast to create the missive.

Even Mrs. Bennet, when the paper was carried upstairs to her, was able to write MY DEAR LIZZY in a firm hand.

Once they had given their letter into their father’s keeping, Mary began to feel the need for a walk. “I do wish we could go outside,” she said privately to Jane. “It is a lovely day.”

“There is no reason why we should not go,” replied Jane.

“Bring your book if you have one, or cut flowers with me, or take a turn about the lawn. We must all stay where Tim can see us. I will send for him now. Jem is also hedging nearby. Get what you need and come back here. We will stay about an hour.”

Fifteen minutes later, Mary had fetched her book from upstairs and joined her sisters in the front hall.

Jane had a basket and cutting shears and the two younger girls had decided to play quoits.

They followed Tim outside, and he took up a post where he could see them all.

Mary retired to a shady tree near where the younger girls played their game.

Jane began to fill her basket with flowers taken from the beds in the middle of the yard.

∞∞∞

Wickham had not shaved for days. His hair was shaggy and unkempt, his fine boots were filthy, and his body exuded the sour sweat of too much strong drink.

He was in his shirtsleeves, having abandoned his coat at some undetermined moment in the past. His hands, with their dirty nails, shook as he grasped the knife.

He looked out of his hiding place as the sisters gathered on the lawn under the watchful eye of one of the young country lads.

He cursed his luck. As matters stood, the closest girl was the bookish sister—what was her name—the unattractive one with the spectacles and the flat bosom.

Mary? That was it. Well, she ought to be grateful for his attentions.