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After lunch the rough piles were sorted alphabetically, and Elizabeth began making a list in triplicate. One copy was to be taken to Hatchard’s when her uncle returned to London with his family. It was hoped that the owner of the bookshop would take all the volumes listed on consignment—after all, it was an enviable collection of philosophy and natural science. Lizzy had made the second copy of the list for her own records on behalf of the estate, while the third copy was to be sent to Mr Collins in Kent for his records and also to allow him to withdraw any volume from sale that he might wish to keep. Lizzy had hardly thought this likely, but she had agreed it was wise when her Uncle Gardiner had suggested it.

Completing this third copy of the list, Lizzy sanded, folded and sealed it before getting up to leave it on the salver for Sarah to take to the receiving office. As she left the study, Elizabeth met Mary coming from the kitchens, dressed in a grey pelisse.

“I have sorted the books Father intended for you onto a shelf in the library, Mary. Do you wish me to leave them there or shall I have Mr Hill take them up to your bedchamber?”

“Thank you, I shall just take a few up to my room at a time to read. I have only the one shelf there,” replied Mary before noticing the letter in her sister’s hand. “I am taking some soup to the rectory. Mr Delaney is ill. Would you like me to drop that letter at the receiving office?”

“Yes, please,” said Lizzy, surrendering the letter. “I hope it is nothing serious?”

“I am not sure, but he is unable to write this Sunday’s sermon, and between the christenings this morning and writing his own sermon, I thought Mr Elliot would appreciate not having to do the cooking himself. Their housekeeper has gone to St Albans for her daughter’s lying-in.”

“Surely he must have ten years of past sermons carefully squirrelled away to draw upon?” said Lizzy, well aware of the careful Mr Elliot’s habits.

“Yes, but it is important to make each service relevant to the situation of the parishioners every week,” said Mary, and with that she was off.

Mr Elliot had accepted the soup thankfully at the rectory door but was unable to invite Mary inside because of the housekeeper’s absence. The clergyman was glad to find the soup still warm. His efforts to light the fire had been unavailing. He had added some logs to the coals in the hearth and used the bellows as he had seen the servant do so many times, but that just did not seem to work.

After quickly disposing of a bowl of the soup, Mr Elliot dished out a small portion for the rector, but had little hope that he would take it. Mr Delaney had collapsed after the exertion of Mr Bennet’s funeral and had not been able to rise from his bed since. Nor would he take anything more than water. When the advice of Meryton’s apothecary had been sought, Mr Jones gave the curate his quiet opinion that the rector was not too much longer for this world, having had a pretty good innings.

This dread pronouncement, while not entirely surprising, had caused Mr Elliot all sorts of anxiety. The curate had a genuine affection for the old rector who had treated him like a son. Moreover, he knew that the fifty pounds the rector paid him each year to preach his sermons was excessively generous. The living itself brought in less than three hundred pounds per annum. With no money to purchase his own living, Mr Elliot had known he would have to find another curacy once Mr Delaney passed. After years of living comfortably as the rector’s curate and unofficial general factotum, he was not looking forward to returning to the impecunious life he had led after graduating from university. In those days he had barely kept a roof over his head and, to his shame, had been unable to send anything to his mother. It had seemed for a while there that the old man might go on forever.

The news he had received from Miss Mary Bennet—that Mr Collins did not intend to immediately occupy Longbourn—was welcome. He could only hope that the clergyman’s decision would not be revised should Mr Delaney follow the squire so soon into the hereafter. Provided Mr Collins stuck to his original plan, he might hope to remain at Longbourn as curate for as long as a year. However, after talking to Mr Collins prior to Mr Bennet’s funeral, he could not think him a generous man. In all likelihood the income from his curacy would be cut to twenty-five or thirty pounds per year. It was not an income that would allow him to send anything home to his mother. He would have to supplement his income somehow. Tuition was the only likely prospect, but pupils were scarce in Hertfordshire.

Taking another spoon from the drawer, Mr Elliot added it to the tray he had prepared, with fresh water, a glass and a napkin. Mr Delaney opened his eyes when Mr Elliot entered his bedchamber but seemed too weak to rise. After a token attempt to feed him some soup, which the old man refused; the curate offered the rector water instead, which he sipped. Sinking back onto his pillow, Mr Delaney raised his hand to point at the prie-dieu in the corner.

“You wish me to pray?” asked the younger man.

Mouthing the word “no”, the rector looked at the prie-dieu again.

Mr Elliot was puzzled. After walking over to the prie-dieu and suggesting several things in its vicinity, he received a signal of encouragement when he touched the drawer. Knowing the tasselled key was kept in a vase at the rector’s bedside, he retrieved it, checking again for the old man’s approval.

Never having opened the drawer before, he had a little difficulty, for the key turned in an unfamiliar way. Finally, the lock clicked and he was able to slide the drawer out. It contained a small box and a letter, addressed, strangely, to the Marquess of Wolver in Berkeley Square. Picking both of these up, Mr Elliot presented them to the rector.

The old man first touched the box and pushed it towards the curate.

“You do not want this one?” asked Mr Elliot, moving to return it to the drawer.

Mr Delaney signalled in the negative and pointed at the curate.

“You wish me to open it?”

After the rector indicated it to be so, Mr Elliot opened the box to reveal an expensive-looking diamond ring. The setting alone indicated it to be the work of a master craftsman. He had no idea of the diamond’s value, but he had never seen such a large and clear stone.

The rector pointed again at Mr Elliot, and the curate finally guessed the old man’s intentions.

“You wish me to have it?” he asked.

Again, the rector nodded in affirmation.

Looking again at the ring, Mr Elliot saw it was far too small for him to wear—it was in fact a woman’s ring. When the curate tried to pull the ring from the box, the velvet pad that the ring had been lying on came loose. Underneath he saw a sheet of folded paper. Setting the box on the bedside commode table, Mr Elliot sat down on the edge of the wing chair and withdrew the sheet. Before unfolding it, he checked Mr Delaney’s reaction. The old man was watching him eagerly; clearly wanted him to proceed.

Dear Martin,

I wrote this down when I was in a calm frame of mind because it is very difficult for me to speak of it even now. I once loved a woman with every atom of my being and thought she returned my love. I had every expectation this woman would marry me. I courted her, she encouraged my suit, and eventually I proposed and was accepted. Not two weeks before we were due to be wed, she sent me a note telling me of her change of heart. I discovered I had been supplanted in her affections by a notorious rake. A month later she married this man, who was twenty years older than I, but roughly equal in station.

I was so disaffected by this episode that I gave up my birthright to my brother and entered the Church. Thirty years after my ordination, I was finally able to forgive this lady, although I should have pitied her because she had a very hard life with her husband. I hope my ensuing years of service for the Church have taught me humility and charity. Had I been more humble, I believe I would not have been so devastated by her choice and the subsequent rumours that plagued me.

This is the ring I gave her on the day she agreed to marry me. It has been in my family for generations but is rightfully mine. Take it and may all the love I had for that lady anoint you and the lady of your choice.