Louisa, Charlotte, and Elizabeth were walking with Anne. As she had always been attuned to the emotions of others, Elizabeth wondered why she detected a certain level of sadnessin Anne. “Anne, is everything well? I may be mistaken, but I think you are a little sad.”
“Your perspicacity is startling, Lizzy. I am feeling a little melancholy. The rector, Mr Martin, who has been the parson here for over forty years, will retire at the end of the first week of May. He is the man who christened me and presided over my late papa’s funeral, among so much more. I suppose I will miss him more than I had suspected I would. He and his late wife had five children so he has many grandchildren. He will live with his eldest daughter, her husband, and their five children.” Anne paused. “I know he will be happy and never want for anything, as I am awarding him a substantial pension, but I will still miss him.”
“Of course you will,” Louisa commented. “It is only natural to do so, as you have known him the whole of your life.”
Anne gave a tremulous smile as they reached the church where her Ian was waiting to guide her to the de Bourgh pew.
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The day after they farewelled their guests, Anne and Ian Ashby began to consider candidates to take over the Hunsford parish when Mr Martin retired in a fortnight. There were four candidates the Bishop of Kent recommended and one who applied because he had heard about the vacant, or soon to be vacant, living.
At Anne’s request, Mr Martin sat with her and Ian when they interviewed the men. Three of the four the bishop sent were good candidates, and lastly, they interviewed the one who had applied on his own, one William Collins, the curate at St Mary’s Church in Westerham. All three had to fight not to laugh outloud when the man came before them bowing and scraping like he was before the King.
When he began to speak, even before a question was asked, he displayed subservience, more like sycophancy, to those he considered above him. His speech was laced with a pomposity which manifested in his belief that being a clergyman made him higher than most.
“Mr Collins, stop,” Ashby commanded. “We thank you for your time today, but you are not the man we are looking for to be the spiritual guide for the Hunsford parish.”
“How can that be, Sir? I would serve your needs and obey your every command, and more than that, I would report back what the parishioners…” Collins stopped when the older man, who had not spoken yet, raised his hand. How dare the man interrupt him?
“Mr Collins, unless you want to force me to report what you are saying to the ecclesiastical court, cease speaking. You are speaking of offences which could see you defrocked,” Martin stated.
“As my husband said, you are not what we want for this parish. We need a man who will serve his parishioners, not us. Goodbye, Mr Collins,” Anne said.
Seeing the rather rotund man was about to protest, Ashby stood, drawing himself to his full height. He was not the tallest of men, but taller than the clergyman before them, and he had taken the measure of the man who he judged to be a coward. “My wife dismissed you. I suggest you leave with your dignity intact unless you would prefer that I have some of my footmen throw you from our estate.”
Without bowing, so he would punish the people who refused to award him the living he deserved, Collins withdrew with no good cheer.
“That is a man who should not be a clergyman. At least, he is only a curate. I know the vicar at St Mary’s. I need to speak to him to see if he is aware of what kind of man he has in his employ,” Martin stated. “Without trying to offend, I believe that man is exactly the kind of man your mother would have appointed to the living if she was still as she was.”
“How can I be upset by the truth? It matters not, because I think we have three good candidates from which to chuse,” Anne reminded the men.
“Anne, you have the right of it. Let us invite each of them to deliver the sermon for the next three Sundays, and then we will make a choice. Are you willing to remain for a few more days than you planned, Mr Martin?” Ashby requested.
“Indeed, I am. That is a good plan,” Martin agreed.
Chapter 23
March 1811
George Wickham had been suffering under the unjust rules imposed on him for far too long. He had to find a way out of the Gordian knot with which the prig and his family had bound him.
As if God Himself had answered his prayer, he spied an advert in the paper. He read it a few times to ensure that he had not misread it. Wickham was afraid that his desire to be free of his restrictions was making him see things which were not there. Just to be sure, he went to Karen in her office and asked her to read the words he had read and tell him what it said.
“George, are you well?” Mrs Wickham enquired. “It says exactly what you think it does. What is it to you, anyhow? You need to go to work, do you not?”
“I do, but I need to think. If you are willing to help, this will be the way to stop Darcy and his family from persecuting me. You will help me, will you not?” Wickham implored.
“You know I can deny you nothing. Just as long as we do not get hanged like my brother, Clay, was,” Mrs Wickham returned.
“No hanging, but there will be the possibility of gaining enough money for us to leave the squalor of London and make for the New World, where we will be able to begin a new life without the prig like a millstone about my neck,” Wickham offered as enticement.
“Go now, I will wait to hear what you have planned when you come home from work,” Mrs Wickham said. She kissed her husband and watched him go.
Soon Wickham was on the nag that he had been riding since he had lived with Karen. He had had to marry her to keep living with her rent-free. Had he refused, she would have thrown him from her house. Unfortunately, she had known a solicitor who had drawn up a settlement which had left the house as Karen’s property even after the wedding.
He was sure that by the time he got home this evening, he would have thought about and arrived at an infallible plan.
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