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“The third month, he came at me with a birch rod. He caught me unaware and without warning in the parlour and simply laid to without a word, and without allowing me to defend myself. He beat me with all the frustrations of his failed and miserably unsuccessful life, going all the way back to his drunkard father and working his way up to my unambiguous refusal—which you overruled—and thence to my merciless belittling. He beat my backside. He beat my legs. He beat me everywhere he could think to strike that was not visible. He left scars on my back… and my legs… and my breasts… which are still there. You should try a birch rod on a bare nipple. It might teach you something.”

If she wished to shame and humble me, she had certainly managed that and more. I felt pain radiating along my arm that felt like it might kill me. The physician said that was one of the signs of the end coming—something to do with my heart. It would be a supreme irony if she killed me on the side of the road in Kent with nothing but her tongue.

She was not quite finished. “I have scars, Bennet. Permanent scars. It took me ten days to get out of bed with help from a servant, and two weeks before I could walk from my chamber to the parlour. It took three weeks before I could use the necessary on my own, and at that point, he gave me an ultimatum of one more week before he would take what was his by law and custom.”

She paused momentarily, staring at her feet.

“A week later, I lay in bed when he came to me, but I was not to be owned by him, or you, or anybody. I decided I was my own person, and I would die before I submitted. Both of you could well be Mr Wickham’s brothers. You all think about women the same way. I continued to dissuade him with the ridicule that was his due, but that was only a temporary solution, as his fists became the next weapon of choice. I lost a tooth and spent another three weeks in bed.”

I felt the pain in my arm increasing and thought I might well be done for, but Elizabeth was not yet finished. She had stopped looking at me and seemed to be staring inside more than anything.

The next part came out as a whisper.

“The next time he came at me with his birch rod in the parlour a month later, he again insisted that my education was incomplete, and made several disparaging remarks about how I was raised, since I did not even know the bare essentials of wifely duty and obedience. I replied that his education was far from adequate as well.”

I feared hearing the rest. “And?”

Still looking deep inside some memory, she answered without any inflexion whatsoever, as if she were already dead.

“And I gave him the education he missed at his father’s knee. The first lesson was the relative efficacy of fire irons versus birch rods. Birch rods burn very prettily with a light greyish-bluish smoke. Fire irons do not! They do seem however, to be effective in modifying behaviour, and they can leave their own marks if you leave them in the fire long enough before use.”

The very idea that she was capable of such violence, or felt it either required or justified, filled me with horror, while my daughter just looked at the ground and finished her tale.

“I did not kill him, though it was a near thing. I did not break any bones, and the brand I left on his backside is only big enough to remind him of his folly, but I carried my point.”

She paused again. “After that, I carried a knife on my person at all times, even in bed, and told him the next time he laid a hand on me, I would at the very least finish any hopes he had for relations with any woman, and more likely end any hopes for relations with his next meal. Since that time, I never spoke another word to him until he took his fever. I am assured the fever had nothing to do with his educational experience, so perhaps it is just an act of some god’s vengeance.”

At that point, I was gasping like a fish, feeling like I was likely to collapse, but I had to ask, “Six months without a single word?”

She gave me that hard, stony look again. “Do not worry. There were entirely too many words in the parsonage, but none of them came from me.”

Had anybody chanced upon us at that point, they would have found me white as a sheet and near to collapse, but I could not bring myself to repent my actions. By Elizabeth’s own words, it was obvious she caused her own problems by simply refusing to do her duty as a wife. She could have made herself available to him once a week, or once a fortnight even, and ignored him the rest of the time, but she had to have her way. She was a very selfish and stubborn girl.

On reflection, I felt horrified by what befell her, but her tale of woe did not change the material fact that my entire family was at risk because she would not do her duty. We could apportion the blame all we wanted, but in the end, she must be brought to the point. Too much depended on it.

I gave her a moment to move out of her memories, and as gently as I could, tried to carry my point.

“I am sorry for your trials, Mrs Collins. I truly am, but the fact remains that we need an heir. I will not see Meryton and the estate of the Bennet family for three hundred years destroyed.”

She gave another grim chuckle, almost a caricature of her former happy laugh.

“You should have thought of that when Jane was born female, or at the very least, Lydia; but I see you prefer to make others pay for your indolence. Tell me, how do you propose I produce this mythical son without a functioning husband? I presume that, with five daughters, you have some basic idea of the mechanics involved, though how you managed to perform the act with that horrid woman five times is beyond me.”

So, she was unhappy with her mother and filled with anger, bitterness, and spite! Nothing new there. I was unhappy with her mother myself. She could have easily solved the problem a year ago by pointing Mr Collins to Mary, who would have accepted him without qualms, and most certainly would have done her duty rather than practically murdering her lawful husband rather than do her duty. However, I was not prepared to let Elizabeth destroy us just for the privilege of wallowing in her misery. Of course, since she never actually consummated the marriage, and she had the silliest mother in England, she might not even understand how it was done.

“I understand the process completely. Do you?”

She sighed in exasperation.

“I do. I took it upon myself to learn… not that you or your heinous wife took the trouble to educate me. She was never the only woman I knew and I loathe ignorance. I swore when I left that I would not produce an heir, so I took pains to understand what was involved in detail. I see nothing in my new situation to change that. With Mr Collins incapacitated, it seems beside the point anyway.”

I wondered where and when she got so dense when she was formerly the cleverest woman I knew.

“Not necessarily.”

I watched her intently to see if the obvious answer would occur to her on her own, but she was apparently unable, or unwilling, or perhaps just too naïve or honourable to think of it. If she hated me before, she would doubly hate me later, but it had to be done.

“Your son need not be Mr Collins’ natural son. All you need do is deliver any son before ten months after Mr Collins’ death, and it will be legally his. This you can do.”