Page 4 of Unwillingly Mrs. Darcy
Elizabeth
2nd May 1812
Longbourn, Hertfordshire
T he household at Longbourn was in disarray. Mr Collins, eager to establish his dominion as heir apparent, had installed himself as administrator of the estate. But his abilities, never particularly suited to the practical management of such affairs, proved wholly inadequate. Matters that ought to have run smoothly—labourers’ wages, the maintenance of the stables, the procurement of feed—descended swiftly into chaos under his heavy-handed yet inept governance. Servants found themselves confounded by contradictory orders, and tenants grew restless as routine concerns were either mismanaged or entirely ignored.
Though wracked with worry for her father’s health, Elizabeth Bennet had little choice but to step into the breach. Each day brought a new crisis—a neglected account book in need of review, repairs promised by Mr Collins but forgotten, disputes amongst staff that needed smoothing over.
In truth, her vigour for the task was fuelled less by any desire to salvage Mr Collins’s reputation—such a feat was far beyond mortal means—and more by her determination to protect the Bennet family name during a time when it seemed more precarious than ever. Though the entailment had always hung over Longbourn, the reality of Mr Collins’s accession cast a new and foreboding shadow over her home.
If only Papa could recover.
The thought carried Elizabeth through her busiest hours, a fragile hope in the midst of calamity.
Mr Bennet remained gravely unwell, confined to his chamber and under the near-constant supervision of the village surgeon.
For some time, it had been entirely unclear what had caused his accident. It hadn’t been until he’d awoken, unable to speak and paralyzed on the left side of his body that the true culprit had become clear.
Apoplexy.
It was a dire diagnosis, made all the more difficult to comprehend as her father had always been strong and healthy. And now? Now he could not feed himself properly, nor dress himself. Indeed, most days he lay in his darkened chamber, unable even to converse for the illness had robbed him of his voice.
For her father to recover even a semblance of his former self, the prognosis was grim and unremitting. Speech was laborious, movement restricted, and each passing day revealed only the barest signs of improvement. The fire in Mr Bennet’s sharp wit—a defining trait of his character—was now but a faint glimmer, the cruellest injury yet to Elizabeth’s aching heart.
Jane had returned home from London shortly after their father’s accident, bringing with her a quiet melancholy that did not escape Elizabeth’s notice. Jane said little of her time there beyond polite generalities. Still, the sadness that clung to her upon arrival betrayed a heavier burden than simple worry over their father.
Elizabeth knew Jane had harboured hopes of seeing Mr Bingley, even venturing once to call upon Caroline—though no visit had been paid in return, at least not to Elizabeth’s knowledge. Certainly, her sister still pined for Mr Bingley, and she had to wonder why he had left her as he had. Would it help her sister to know the reasons?
Thus far, Elizabeth had chosen not to divulge Mr Darcy’s interference in the match. There was too much to worry about already, and Jane did not deserve to bear yet another grief amidst the upheaval at Longbourn. Nonetheless, a pang of guilt struck Elizabeth each time her sister turned those soft, wistful eyes towards her with unspoken questions that Elizabeth could not answer.
It was late in the afternoon when Elizabeth returned from an exhausting round of estate errands and found Jane sitting in the parlour with their mother. Mrs Bennet, typically effusive even in crisis, was, for once, subdued. Occupying herself with an embroidery while Jane gazed in silence out of the window. The air was heavy, the quiet so unlike the bustling, chaotic noise which had typified Longbourn of late. Elizabeth’s entrance seemed to break the spell.
“There you are, Lizzy,” Mrs Bennet exclaimed, although she scarcely looked up from her work. “What news from the orchard? I do hope Mr Collins has finally resolved that matter with old Timothy.”
Elizabeth’s mouth tightened. The matter in question—a straight forward complaint regarding an uprooted tree— had been exacerbated into an unnecessary argument when Mr Collins insisted on exercising his perceived authority, ultimately neglecting the actual problem entirely.
“The matter is settled,” Elizabeth said coolly. “Although I confess, Mama, it required no small degree of diplomacy to achieve.”
Mrs Bennet sighed dramatically and turned to Jane. “See what a burden your poor sister has taken upon herself, Jane! All because Mr Collins cannot organise his own boots, let alone an estate!”
“Mama, please,” Jane murmured gently, her expression one of weary resignation. “It will all be well in time.”
Elizabeth glanced sharply at her sister. “What makes you so confident?” she asked, dropping into a chair and loosening her shawl.
Jane gave her a faint smile. “Because it must be, Lizzy. We have no choice but to believe that.”
Their mother sniffed and returned her focus to her sewing. “Well, in any case, I do not see why it must be Lizzy sorting all this out. Mr Collins ought to make a better effort. He so badly desires to take your father’s place even temporarily, why not start acting like a landowner now?”
Elizabeth rose, unable to remain seated. She paced to the window, the familiar frustration bubbling just beneath her calm exterior. She said nothing, unwilling to ignite one of her mother’s familiar tirades about injustice and entitlement, but her silence spoke volumes.
“Mr Collins is doing what he thinks best,” Jane said softly after a moment, standing and joining Elizabeth by the window. She placed a comforting hand on her sister’s arm. “He simply lacks direction.”
“Direction!” Elizabeth exclaimed, turning to look at her. “Even now, you would defend him?”
“I defend no one,” Jane replied, her composure unshaken. “I simply acknowledge that anger will not serve us, especially now.”
“Oh Jane, you are too kind for your own good,” their mother said. “Hang that dreadful man, and that wife of his who already sees this as her home.”
“That is not kind. Charlotte did not choose this,” Elizabeth countered, but her mother merely rose and walked out, shaking her head as she mumbled about the Collinses getting their hands on Longbourn.
“Lizzy, I do not blame you for feeling as you do, nor does Mama,” Jane said. “You have taken on more than you ought. But for what it is worth, I see how much you are doing—for all of us. I am grateful.”
Elizabeth softened under her sister’s gaze. Jane had always possessed an uncanny ability to steady her.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
They stood for a moment longer, gazing out over the lawn, watching as the lengthening shadows heralded evening’s approach.
“Lizzy,” Jane said at length, her voice hesitant. “Do you think Papa will ever—”
Elizabeth shook her head sharply, cutting off the question.
“Do not think on it now,” she said firmly, although she knew her plea was as much for herself as it was for Jane.
They parted soon after, Jane retreating to her room and Elizabeth returning to her father’s study to leaf through a pile of neglected letters awaiting attention. She sat at his desk, the faint scent of ink and old parchment bringing memories of happier days, when her father had presided over this very desk with his customary sardonic wit and a glass of brandy in hand.
Elizabeth allowed herself a rare indulgence, she rested her elbows on the desk and lowered her face into her hands. For the first time since the accident, the enormity of it all threatened to overwhelm her. Longbourn, her family’s sanctuary, felt so fragile now. And Jane’s quiet heartbreak, her mother’s anxieties, her own burdens—it all rested too heavily on her.
With a deep, shuddering breath, Elizabeth composed herself at least. She could not—would not—give in to despair. There was too much still to be done.
But one thought echoed persistently in her mind, one that she could no longer dismiss. Longbourn—its people, and its legacy—deserved better than Mr Collins’ mismanagement.
Elizabeth resolved that when the dust settled, she would ensure that the estate’s future was safeguarded. But for now, she could only press on and hope for the best.