Page 19 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

As he read the bequest, Mr. Philips smiled. “Mr. Bennet has written a note in the margin: Haddon dug that acre whenever he could escape his duties to the home farm. And now it is his. He grows the best vegetables in the parish—who am I to deny a man his destiny!”

The room chuckled, but Mr. Collins’s countenance was flushed with anger. He abruptly stood. “How can Bennet give away land? And the annuities, they belong to the estate!”

Mama and I looked at the man with horror—to declaim so rudely in front of the gentlemen of the neighbourhood. I was embarrassed for him, and for his being our cousin.

“Mr. Collins, you were invited here as a guest. This is not the place to dispute the will. If you so wish, take the matter up with the court. For the edification of those present, while searching the titles, I discovered that the land was purchased by Mr. Bennet’s grandfather and is not part of the entailed estate. Indeed, several tenant farms, including the home farm, as shown on the survey, are also not part of the entail.”

There was a murmur in the room. Mr. Goulding spoke up. “I recall my father saying that a Bennet had bought the old Hathaway estate. What of Hathaway House—does that belong to Bennet as well?”

I looked at Mama, who was staring, puzzled at Mr. Goulding; her eyes flicked to Mr. Philips. It was clear she had no knowledge of this.

“Yes, Bennet, in his own right, owned Hathaway House, which has been rented out mainly to officers and their families from the militia.” Uncle Philips turned to my mother. “When this was discovered, I asked Bennet to tell you, Fanny, that not all of the tenant lands came under the entail. But he was worried that, had his wealth been known, then Jane and Elizabeth would be pursued for their fortunes. With his arthritis, he felt unable to protect them as they deserved.”

Mrs. Bennet nodded, but she clutched her handkerchief to her eyes. All this time, the dear man had been planning for his dying and leaving his wife and daughters well looked after.

Mr. Philips continued. “Further, I will remind Mr. Collins that no personal property is entailed. Mr. Bennet had no debts. Apart from the annuities and bequests, all his property and possessions pass to Mrs. Bennet. Let me be clear—his books, chattels, livestock, investments, and all monies in the accounts.”

Mr. Collins continued to stand and bluster, and was only forced to sit and remain silent when Mr. Darcy, who had come just that morning from London, stood and glared at him. Mr. Collins was all astonishment.

“M—Mr. Darcy, of Pemberley?” the man stuttered. “What a singular coincidence. B—but how is it that you are here, at Longbourn? Surely, you have no acquaintance with my cousins, the Bennets?”

“Sit, Mr. Collins, for you speak too much, and of so little consequence that none wish to hear your drivel. Why I am here is my own business, but I have known Mr. Bennet for some years, we have enjoyed a lively correspondence. But that is of no concern to you, sir. Be seated, close your mouth, and pay proper respect to a good man and his lady.”

The reading continued. Indeed, all of Papa’s possessions passed to Mama. But there were some requests that Mr. Bennet had made to her: Sir William had a keen eye for oxen, and Papa had wished that, in the event that the beasts were to be sold, Sir William be given first option to purchase at a fair price; Mr. Goulding had long admired a painting which hung in the library—if he so desired, he would be permitted to take possession of it when Mama and I vacated the house; and to Mr. Darcy, Papa gave the option to purchase his books, particularly the first editions.

Naturally, Collins could not restrain himself, and puffed himself up to some semblance of importance. “Indeed, I shall dispute the will. The painting—it is affixed to the wall. Certainly it falls under the entail.”

Mr. Philips sighed. “To avoid doubt, Mr. Bennet sold the painting to Mr. Goulding some time ago, as was his legal right. That contract cannot be undone—certainly not by his death nor any subsequent event. Enough, sir. Unless you have further to say, we are done.”

“But I have come to claim the estate. Perhaps, Mr. Philips, as attorney, you should inform my cousins that they must leave as soon as may be, and allow me to assume my occupancy.”

“You would throw a newly bereaved lady out of her home of over twenty years! Have you no shame, Collins!” Mr. Darcy loomed over the man, who flinched at such ire directed toward him. “I shall have you run off, you shameless miscreant, and inform Lady Catherine of your despicable behaviour!”

“If you please, Mr. Darcy.” Mr. Philips stepped forward, interposing himself between Collins and the gentleman. “It appears that Mr. Collins has not read the detail of the entail. It clearly states that a period of one year and one day must elapse before the tenancy of the estate passes to the heir. Until that time, Mrs. Bennet remains mistress, and all leasehold rents and proceeds of the home farm are hers. Should a son be born to her, then such child will inherit. Now, good day to you, Mr. Collins. James, please see the clergyman to the door.”

* * *

Mrs. Hill and I served the gentlemen tea, coffee, and spirits to their liking. It was a respectful affair, for Mr. Bennet had been well-liked, and his passing would be keenly felt in the neighbourhood. They held particular contempt for Mr. Collins, and he would find it difficult to assimilate into their company, particularly as he had not been born a gentleman’s son and had little idea of how gentle folk comported themselves.

He was also to be disappointed in his inheritance, it having been revealed that the Longbourn estate—the part that was entailed—consisted not of two thousand acres, but of just six hundred, containing three leasehold farms of one hundred and fifty acres each, with one hundred acres of woodland near the River Ver—the trees too young to harvest, the mature trees having already been cut by the Crown to build ships of the line. Mr. Collins’s rents from the estate would secure him some five hundred pounds a year. The remainder, derived from the old Hathaway estate, would be fifteen hundred—Mama would gladly have given it all away to secure a little more time with Mr. Bennet, her dear, dear husband.

I found the drawing room increasingly oppressive, and sought relief from the conversation and condolences of the gentlemen. I excused myself, took my pelisse and bonnet from the shelf, and stepped out into the clear, fresh air, intent on walking through the oak forests adjoining the Longbourn woods, which I had now discovered were a part of Papa’s legacy that could not be disposed of by the entail.

“Miss Bennet, pardon the intrusion, but I would like a word, if I may. Perhaps I could accompany you, for I, too, am in desperate need of fresh air.” Mr. Darcy stepped up beside me and offered his arm.

I hesitated just a moment before accepting. The day was bright, the air fragrant with the scent of new leaves, and I could not, in all honesty, deny his company. I had read his letters to Papa, and had penned the replies. I knew his mind perhaps as well as any who was not a member of his family. We set off into the oak woods, the hush of the forest a balm after so many heavy, sorrowful days.

For a time, we walked in silence, the only sound our footsteps crackling over last year’s fallen leaves. At length, Mr. Darcy spoke, his voice a little agitated.

“Miss Bennet, you have been corresponding, I believe, with my daughter, Georgiana?”

“Yes, Mr. Darcy,” I replied, unable to keep the smile from my voice at the recollection of Georgiana’s gentle, earnest letters. “We have exchanged many letters since Christmas. She writes with great affection of you and of her brother. She is a most devoted daughter.”

His expression softened, though concern furrowed his brow. “I am glad you think so. It is partly on her account that I wished to speak with you—if you will forgive the intrusion. You see, I have observed of late… a change in her. My previous letter spoke of her improper behaviour—there is none of that. To the contrary, she has grown reserved, almost secretive. Even with me.”

“I am sorry to hear it, sir. Georgiana is a sensitive girl. Perhaps—” I paused, unsure how to finish.

He pressed on, almost as if he had not heard me. “Her companion, Mrs. Younge, has reported that they walk in Hyde Park for hours each day. Formerly, half an hour sufficed for Georgiana. Now she is often absent for two hours or more. I would think nothing of it, but she returns subdued and silent. Her conversation with me is brief, and she avoids speaking of her walks. More so, she avoids my son, Fitzwilliam, when before she was his closest companion.”