Mrs. Bennet's Favorite Daughter Read online

  Mrs. Bennet’s

  Favorite Daughter

  Jann Rowland

  By Jann Rowland

  Published by One Good Sonnet Publishing:

  Pride and Prejudice Adaptations

  Mrs. Bennet’s Favorite Daughter

  Flight to Gretna Green

  With Love’s Light Wings

  Another Proposal

  A Matchmaking Mother

  The Challenge of Entail

  The Impulse of the Moment

  Mr. Bennet Takes Charge

  A Gift for Elizabeth

  Whispers of the Heart

  This is a work of fiction, based on the works of Jane Austen. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are products of Jane Austen’s original novel, the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

  MRS. BENNET’S FAVORITE DAUGHTER

  Copyright © 2020 Jann Rowland

  Cover Design by Jann Rowland

  Published by One Good Sonnet Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1989212239

  ISBN-13: 9781989212233

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, digital, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  To my family who have, as always, shown

  their unconditional love and encouragement.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Epilogue

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  About the Author

  Prologue

  Grimacing, Colonel Anthony Fitzwilliam flexed his left hand, willing it to return to its former strength. But the wish was futile, for the limb was damaged, its use reduced from what it had once been. Though he had cast aside the sling which had been his constant companion these past weeks, the weakness remained, the return to full strength still nothing more than a distant spot on the horizon.

  The sound of a soft chuckle reached his ears, and Fitzwilliam looked up to see his superior watching him, his expression part sympathy, part amusement. “My apologies, Fitzwilliam—I should not laugh. It is simply that I have been in your position, and I understand the frustration.”

  Fitzwilliam gave him a sour look. General Harold Berger had been Fitzwilliam’s direct superior for several years, and a better man one could not find. Though his family was German, the Bergers had lived in England for more than three generations, a respectable, though not prominent, family. General Berger had entered the army as a young man at a low rank and obtained his promotions through the auspices of hard work and military capability. He was one of the few officers of higher rank who deserved the position he held, in Fitzwilliam’s estimation. He was also one of the few generals in England who was not a direct scion of a noble family.

  “The worst of it,” said Fitzwilliam, annoyance welling up within his breast, “is that it happened on a training ground, of all places. I have been to war, I have fought on the peninsula, I have faced the best troops the tyrant has to offer and emerged without a scratch. To be injured in a training exercise is not only humiliating but the height of stupidity.”

  “Yes, you have informed me of that much,” said General Berger, his amusement never dimming. “As I recall, you have also informed me many times that the French could not shoot straight if their lives depended upon it. If that is so, you cannot attribute your survival to any skill on your part, can you?”

  Fitzwilliam flashed his superior officer a grin. “When you put it that way, I suppose you must be correct. It does not change the fact, however, that I have been reduced to the role of a spectator while the regiment continues to train around me. It does not sit well with me.”

  “Again, I am unsurprised,” said General Berger. “It is for that reason I asked to speak with you today.”

  “Oh?” asked Fitzwilliam, feeling a hint of suspicion fall over him.

  The general nodded and leaned forward. “You have no doubt heard the rumor of our deployment to Spain?”

  “Yes, I have,” replied Fitzwilliam. “Is it confirmed?”

  “All but confirmed. There is talk from the war office that Wellington intends to make a concerted effort in Spain next year, and he will need fresh men to bolster the armies already in place.”

  Fitzwilliam nodded and sat back in his chair. “Once more into the breach?”

  “Indeed.” General Berger regarded him for several moments before he said: “To be honest, my friend, your injury has hampered your regiment’s training efforts, which must now be of the utmost priority since we will see battle next year.”

  “I agree,” said Fitzwilliam, looking down at his injured arm with disgust. “Unfortunately, there is little I can do at present until this blasted arm heals.”

  “Which is the reason for our conversation.” The seriousness in the general’s voice pricked Fitzwilliam’s interest, leading him to wonder if there was not something else afoot. “The truth of the matter is, I have been considering your situation, and now that our deployment is confirmed, I cannot afford to have a colonel who cannot complete his duties. Thus, though it pains me to have to do it, I have little choice but to replace you.”

  Fitzwilliam frowned—he should have known something of this nature was imminent. There was little to be done, though Fitzwilliam had no desire to be assigned away from these men he had commanded for so long. To send them into battle without leading them himself felt like a betrayal, though Fitzwilliam knew it was not his fault.

  “Do you have anyone in mind?”

  General Berger nodded and said: “Colonel Warwick has been made available. It is my hope you will assist him in becoming accustomed to his new post before you report to your own new commission.”

  That surprised Fitzwilliam, for he had not thought he would be reassigned so quickly. “New posting?”

  “If you accept it,” said the general. He leaned forward and said: “At present, it is clear you are not fit to drill a regiment of regulars, but I believe you will serve with distinction as a commander of the militia.”

  Fitzwilliam had never been so surprised in his life. “Militia? But I have always been a member of our fighting forces—I have never even considered a life in the militia.”

  “This I understand, my friend. At present, however, there is little you can do to help us, and that will not change for several months. If you accept this posting in the militia, the enlisted men in that regiment can only benefit from the presence of an honored military veteran, and you can still feel useful. We both know a posting behind a desk would not suit you.”

  That was true, Fitzwilliam reflected—General Berger knew him well. There was something else at play here, however, and Fitzwilliam was certain he knew what it was.

  “I sense my father
’s hand in this business,” said Fitzwilliam, peering at his superior. “Did he request this transfer?”

  General Berger chuckled and shook his head. “I informed my superiors you would comprehend the situation at once. Your father is aware of the upcoming deployment and is concerned, and as you have been injured, it was a perfect time for him to intervene.”

  “I am uncertain I appreciate his interference.”

  Stiff with anger though Fitzwilliam was, General Berger did not take any notice. “The earl is your sire, Fitzwilliam—of course, he worries for you, and if he is in a position to provide assistance, I do not blame him for an instant.”

  “It does not look good to the other men.”

  “No one else knows of it.”

  “They can guess,” retorted Fitzwilliam. “It is no secret that my father is a peer.”

  “Then let them guess. It is nothing to them.”

  Fitzwilliam did not wish to agree, but the general did not allow him to protest.

  “Let us be frank, Fitzwilliam. You do not need this posting; you have told me of your estate. The men all know your situation does not require you to serve in the army—they all know you do it because of your sense of duty. You have served your country with distinction. Perhaps it is time to pull back, to allow yourself to think in a position which will not require the focus and attention that your current one does. If you do so, it may be you will decide you prefer to allow this chapter of your life to end in favor of the next.”

  The general’s words were powerful. For some time now, Fitzwilliam had found himself fatigued with the way of life he had chosen. Not that he had regretted it—the general was correct about his sense of duty. Fitzwilliam had served willingly and without hesitation. Maybe this posting would help him transition from an officer of His Majesty’s army to a gentleman farmer.

  “Tell me of the position,” said Fitzwilliam at length. “Why is it in need of a commanding officer?”

  “Because the previous officer’s father called him home when his elder brother died in a hunting accident,” replied the general.

  “And can the position not be filled from within the ranks of the militia?”

  “Of course, it can,” said General Berger, his countenance alight with amusement. “If you refuse it, the war office will assign a new militia colonel, as usual.”

  “Then it is being held for me in particular,” replied Fitzwilliam.

  General Berger shrugged. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  “And where is the regiment stationed at present?”

  “Outside a small town in Hertfordshire. The town is called Meryton. It is a market town, like many others, and the local society is filled with small estates and country gentlemen. I would not say there is anything remarkable about it, though it lies only half a day’s journey from London.”

  “The society there is likely to be medieval,” said Fitzwilliam, thinking of the woman who had once made such a statement to him. The memory brought Fitzwilliam’s thoughts to her brother, and he said: “I wonder if his estate is anywhere nearby.”

  “You have a friend there?”

  Fitzwilliam shook his head. “Bingley is not a friend of mine, though he is a good sort. Rather, he is my cousin’s friend, a man descended from a line of tradesmen, now seeking to enter the ranks of the gentry.”

  “Then I commend your cousin,” said the general. “There are many men of society who have not the slightest connection to the peerage and yet disdain men of this Mr. Bingley’s lineage.”

  Knowing General Berger was speaking from experience, Fitzwilliam nodded, saying: “Darcy is a good man, though he can be a little inflexible. Bingley’s background does not bother him in the slightest—the content of his character is much more important.”

  “Then it is possible you will have acquaintances nearby.”

  Laughing, Fitzwilliam fixed his general with a mock glare. “Desist in your attempts to persuade me, sir! Hertfordshire is a large county—it is not likely Bingley lives near this Meryton at all.”

  “Perhaps not. From what I have heard, however, it is a pleasant country. It is near Luton on the Great North Road, only a few hours north of London, so it cannot be too savage.”

  “That is true,” replied Fitzwilliam.

  “Then you will accept the posting.”

  Fitzwilliam considered it for a moment, his hesitance prompting him to speak in slow and concise words: “If I should accept and wish to return to the regulars when I am healed, will I be denied?”

  “I shall write your recommendation myself,” said General Berger with a laugh. “Should you wish to return, I should think there will be generals lining up to bring you into their commands.”

  “In that case, I shall accept,” said Fitzwilliam.

  General Berger rose and offered his hand, which Fitzwilliam did not hesitate to grasp. “Though I regret the necessity, I believe you have made the correct decision. Warwick will arrive within three days, and when he has, I should like you to acquaint him with your command. When that is complete, you can report to Meryton and take command of your new regiment. It has been my pleasure to know you, Fitzwilliam.”

  “Thank you, General,” replied Fitzwilliam. “The feeling is very much mutual.”

  After a few more moments of conversation, Fitzwilliam left the general’s office. The first order of business was to speak to his direct subordinates, exemplary men whom it would be a sadness to leave. But while Fitzwilliam regretted he was to go away, a part of him wondered how he would settle into this new regiment, in the less strict environment of the militia.

  And he wondered about the town to which he was being dispatched. Then Fitzwilliam decided he would speak to Darcy at the earliest opportunity. If Bingley was close, Fitzwilliam would appreciate the ability to visit the man, for he was a good man, what little Fitzwilliam knew of him.

  Chapter I

  Young ladies, when anticipating an introduction to another lady of whom they have heard much, will often become excited to the point of unruliness. When those young ladies are prone to such behavior in the first place, it is almost a certainty.

  Such was the situation one morning at the estate of Longbourn, home of the Bennet family near Meryton in Hertfordshire. The fact that Longbourn was considered one of the principal estates in the neighborhood was a testament to the dearth of any large estates nearby and not to its own prominence. There was one much larger, but its owner, having inherited the property some years earlier and not having any use for it as a home, had allowed it to sit empty, such that most residents nearby did not much consider it when ranking the nearby properties.

  That had all changed the previous summer, for, on a midsummer day, the second of the year’s quarter days, a young man of large fortune from the north of England had taken up the lease on the estate. That the man, a Mr. Bingley by name, had not arrived at his residence until August was a matter of much annoyance among the locals. The smallness of the neighborhood, coupled with the fact the rest of the families were established, long-term residents, meant that any addition to or change in their ranks was a matter of much interest and speculation. Thus, while they had all known the gentleman had taken the lease—the local solicitor’s wife was among the foremost gossips in the neighborhood—the curiosity of the locals was to remain unsatisfied for six weeks.

  When Mr. Bingley finally did arrive, he came alone, though his two sisters soon joined him, accompanied by the eldest sister’s husband. Upon being introduced to the man, the neighborhood universally proclaimed him amiable and handsome, a man made even more attractive by the subsequent rumor that he had to his name an income of five thousand a year. Many a young maiden’s heart swelled with hope, and most began to scheme how they could attract the young gentleman to admire their charms.

  Alas, it was Longbourn’s eldest daughter who drew the eye of the gentleman, and within a few weeks, it was widely acknowledged that he had eyes for no other. What the other ladies of the neighborhood thought of that
circumstance was unsurprising, and while no one could think ill of such a sweet creature as Miss Jane Bennet, there was envy aplenty.

  That morning, however, the young ladies’ excitement was for another reason altogether. While Mr. Bingley’s sisters, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, were by now well-known in the neighborhood—though perhaps not universally admired—it was not their arrival which was so anticipated. Word had come, through Mr. Bingley himself, that the sister of one of his close friends, a Miss Georgiana Darcy, was to join the Bingleys at Netherfield. It was also said her brother was to join them some time later, but that business had delayed him. While the coming of another wealthy young gentleman might be an occasion for further rejoicing, that event was still far enough distant, and Miss Darcy’s arrival, imminent, that it had, as yet, made little impression on the neighborhood.

  Miss Elizabeth Bennet, Longbourn’s second eldest daughter, was a bright, intelligent young woman of twenty, possessed of a pleasing form and figure, a wealth of dark, chestnut hair, a pretty face, and a pair of the finest dark eyes in the county. The Bennet sisters were all pretty girls, though the middle sister, Mary, was not so blessed as her sisters. That Jane Bennet was the undisputed beauty of the neighborhood had never bothered Elizabeth, for not only had she always had her share of admirers, but her sister was of such a sweet, modest disposition, that no one could be envious of her.

  That morning, however, Elizabeth’s two youngest sisters were foremost in her mind. Kitty and Lydia were only seventeen and fifteen years of age, and while their elder sisters were proper and demure, if lively and playful in Elizabeth’s case, the youngest still had not grown out of their childish boisterousness, a tendency to laugh too loud and long, and an unfortunate penchant to speak when they should be silent. Elizabeth, who took a significant interest in their education and in molding them into creditable young ladies, watched their current behavior with annoyance.