His “curate” had followed Yarby after the service to the parsonage and right into the study, much to the rector’s annoyance. Any hopes Yarby had had that Mr. Collins’s now extremely pregnant wife would be a higher priority were apparently misplaced. Mr. Collins had helped Charlotte into the Lucas’s carriage with her parents and then waited until Mr. Yarby started home, following him, silently fuming.
Yarby sighed and turned to face the man, trying to keep his temper in check.
“Perhaps if you had shared your thoughts with me before you gave your sermon, we could have avoided it. I would have steered you away from such a harsh theme. I do apologize if I injured your pride, Mr. Collins. But I simply did not think such an unusual interpretation of a story of love and forgiveness could go without answer. I wish to see my—our parishioners leave church uplifted in heart and spirit, not feeling poorly about themselves!” His comments were waved away by Mr. Collins with a dismissive hand.
“You are simply too young and inexperienced to know the truth, Yarby—that most people are naturally bad with inclinations to laziness, greed, and deceit. It is only by reinforcing from the pulpit the dangers of eternal damnation that we can have a hope of keeping people on the straight and narrow path to righteousness!”
Mr. Yarby’s mouth opened, but he was unable to reply. He finally managed to say, “We have fundamentally different philosophies of human nature, clearly.”
“I accept your apology,” Mr. Collins said. “But, do not worry overly about it. You are young, as I said, and will grow in knowledge—especially with me here to guide you. Now, about the Christmas services. I propose you handle Christmas Eve, and I shall give the one on Christmas Day.”
“That will not do,” Yarby said firmly. “In fact, I know Mr. Bennet is particularly looking forward to my speaking then. He mentioned it just this week again. Therefore, I shall give the Christmas Day sermon. I am the senior rector, after all.” He knew he was treading on thin ice to say that, but he was beyond letting his fear dictate his speech.
Mr. Collins’s eyes narrowed. “Need I remind you of our agreement, Mr. Yarby? It would not do to have the scandalous behavior of your sister with your employer become public knowledge.”
Yarby’s jaw clenched. How much longer must he endure this blackmail? But was it worth fighting over? He finally nodded his agreement and saw Mr. Collins give a smile of victory.
“I am glad you see it my way. I certainly hope when I am in charge of Longbourn and—do not forget—your employer, you will be more tractable to my requests.” With a final sniff, he turned around and stomped from the room. The front door slammed moments later signaling his departure.
“Please, God—let that day be many, many years from now,” Yarby muttered under his breath, then went to join Amelia for lunch.
Chapter 20
Mary was resting in her room, trying to overcome a fierce headache—so unlike her to be ailing, she thought with annoyance. And such bad timing. With just four days until Christmas, she knew she should be consulting with Mrs. Hill on the final details of the Christmas dinner, but her head was throbbing so! From her room she could hear Lydia downstairs, yelling at her sons, Gerald and Edward, and their wailing response. The upset they brought to the house was the source, no doubt, of her pain.
Seeing how rambunctious and unruly my nephews are makes me think I might not want children after all! Of course, they are not to blame. I have seen how Lydia manages them—giving into their every demand, or stuffing them with more sweets than could possibly be good for any child, then suddenly turning around and becoming the strict mother! There is no consistency in her parenting. The boys are only slightly better around their father. Pity he went hunting with Papa and cannot take them in hand now.
The noise from downstairs abated somewhat, but after a while, Mary, realizing she would not be able to nap after all, got up and resolved to look for some of her mother’s special headache powders for relief. As she approached her mother’s bedroom, she noticed the door was closed. Odd—she was certain it had been open when she came upstairs to lie down. She softly pushed the door open, entered the room, and took a sharp intake of breath at what she saw: Lydia, rummaging through their mother’s jewelry case.
“What are you doing?” Mary asked, even as she likely knew the answer.
Lydia held up the gold bangle—the sole item in the jewelry box. “Papa sent me very little of Mama’s jewelry. I was just curious to see what was left. I suppose you and Kitty have the lot.”
Mary noted her sister did not even have the grace to look the least bit ashamed of being caught rifling through their mother’s belongings. She crossed the room, snatched the gold bangle from her sister and tucked it securely in her pocket.
“Items were sent to Jane and Lizzy as well,” she said, evenly. “It was all divided as Papa wished.” She pressed her lips together before continuing, “To be frank, Lydia, we were all worried you would sell any of Mama’s finer pieces, and none of us wished to see that happen. That was why you were given just the cameo brooch.”
Lydia turned a fierce face on her sister. “So you cheated me out of my share of the inheritance! And what if I did wish to sell them? That would be my right, would it not?” She suddenly burst into tears, turned away, and sat on the bed. “I am desperate, Mary; we are so in debt! Nearly on the rocks, to be honest.”
Mary felt both shock and a pang of sympathy. She sat next to her sister and took her hand. “What about your share of money from Mama’s inheritance? I know Papa sent it to you.”
“A paltry thirty-two pounds!”
“You will get it every year. And as for paltry, many people survive on as little,” Mary pointed out.
“Oh, don’t give me a sermon,” Lydia snapped. “The money was helpful but gone in a flash. I said we have debts. And I have two growing boys to feed!”
“But I thought Wickham was doing so well in his business ventures. You wrote that he was.”
Lydia fumbled for a handkerchief and blew her nose. “I may have…exaggerated slightly. I can’t bear being thought of as the daughter who made such a bad marriage—especially after Jane and Lizzy’s luck in marrying so well. Wickham’s business is managing to bring in a modest income, to be sure, but my husband spends far too much of his profits at the gambling tables. Plus”—she broke off with another sob—“I believe he may have a mistress! We cannot afford a nursemaid, but Wickham finds money enough for some light-skirt. Be grateful you will never have a husband, Mary. They can be fun, but sometimes…”
Lydia pointed to the pocket in which Mary had secured the bracelet. “That might gain me five or maybe even ten pounds. Which I desperately need! If I do not pay the rent again next month we will soon be out in the street! Please let me have it, Mary. No one need know.”
“I cannot,” Mary replied firmly, peeved at Lydia’s assumption she shall never marry. “Kitty and Papa both know it is the last item in Mama’s jewelry case. If it were to suddenly vanish, they might blame a servant, like Sarah, and fire her without a reference. That would be neither fair nor just.” Her expression softened. “But I promise I shall speak to Papa on your behalf.”
Lydia turned a sulky face to her sister. “You always have to do the right thing, don’t you? Well, I suppose that will have to suffice. Bear in mind when we are cast in the streets that it was all due to you!” Without another word, she flounced out of the room.
Mary continued to sit on the bed, fingering the heavy gold band in her pocket and wondering whether she had said the right thing to Lydia. Her musing was interrupted by a loud commotion from downstairs. Then Mary heard a scream, and someone calling her name. She raced from the room.
