Rosings Park preview #3

Rosings Park preview #3, by Jack Caldwell

Greetings, everyone. Jack Caldwell here.

I’m back with Chapter 2 of ROSINGS PARK: A Story of Jane Austen’s Fighting Men. I hope you enjoyed the previous preview chapters. Post one may be found HERE and post two HERE.

Last time, we had a glimpse of how things are with the Darcys up at Pemberley. Today you get to see how life has changed at Rosings Park.

And how it hasn’t changed.

Here is Chapter 2.

Kent

The journey from Pemberley to Rosings was uneventful, and Lady Catherine was not particularly overbearing. So it was that Richard and Anne were in good spirits as they stopped at the dower house. Once Lady Catherine was comfortably established within, the carriage continued to the main house. For not the first time, Richard was happy the distance between the two abodes was one that Anne’s formidable mother found uncomfortable to walk.

As Richard handed down Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson, they were met on the imposing front steps by Mrs. Parks, the longtime housekeeper, and Troop Sergeant-Major Gregory, a relatively new addition to the household. Mrs. Parks made her curtsy, saying that the butler had taken to his bed again.

Richard shook his head. The butler, Wilkinson, had been at Rosings for as long as Mrs. Parks and Mr. Caruthers. He was loyal, but his health had taken a turn for the worse. The Fitzwilliams would never turn him out, so they elevated Sergeant Gregory, Sir Richard’s former aide from the army, from personal servant to majordomo of the household, giving Gregory most of the butler’s responsibilities. The change had not caused too much trouble with the staff because the sergeant and Mrs. Parks got along.

It was yet another example of the changes at Rosings. First were Anne’s elevation and Lady Catherine’s overthrow, then the new mistress’s marriage to Sir Richard, and now, both the butler and steward—all of this in little more than a year. Change was inevitable in life, but so much in so little time made people nervous, especially at Rosings Park.

There was another change as well, and it made its presence known as soon as Anne walked through the front door.

“Romeo! Wherefore art thou, Romeo?” cried Anne.

There was a scampering of nails on polished wood floors as a blur of gray hurtled towards them. In the next instant, Anne’s arms were full of wiggling legs, wagging tail, and licking tongue.

“I see your lover has missed you,” remarked Richard.

Anne knelt down and held the Italian greyhound’s head in her hands while making cooing noises. “And how is my sweetie? Did you miss Momma?” Romeo’s response was to lick her face.

“I know he did not miss me,” said Richard sarcastically. As though on cue, the dog saw him and let out a low growl. “There, you see? Your dog hates me!”

“No, he does not. It is just because you are mean to him.”

“Mean to him? Just because I want time alone with my wife?”

“I asked you not to speak so in public.”

Richard rolled his eyes. “You know exactly what I am saying.”

Anne grumbled. “Perhaps if you had a dog of your own, you would not be so jealous.”

“Jealous! You are being ridiculous.” Richard truly did not resent the dog’s presence. Romeo had comforted Anne in the aftermath of her miscarriage. Richard and Mrs. Jenkinson were also pleased that whatever there was about cats that made Anne ill did not apply to dogs. Richard’s main problem with Romeo was that he was the first dog Richard had ever met that did not take to him, and it rankled.

He reached down to help his wife to her feet. “Come, Lady Fitzwilliam, let us retire to our rooms and clean off the dirt of the road. And bring your nasty beast as well.”

Anne smirked. “Yes, I suppose you can come as well, Sir Richard.”

~~~

A few days later, Anne had just stopped her little phaeton before the Hunsford parsonage when Mrs. Collins came out the door, her arms filled with baskets. Pausing only to greet her friend and patroness, Charlotte placed her burden in the carriage and climbed in.

When asked why there was no servant about to assist her, Charlotte replied, “Oh, it is no bother. I am young and healthy still and certainly need no assistance to hop into your delightful phaeton.”

Anne sighed, suspecting the true reason no maid helped Charlotte was that the Collins family had lost another servant. The resignation rate of servants was notable; six months was the average stay, although one man-of-all-work lasted but a week. As Charlotte had managed to retain the housekeeper, the cause of the desertions had to be placed at the feet of the master of the household. Mr. Collins’s penchant for contradictory orders and pompous pronouncements was more than the average servant could bear. At least Mr. Collins left their cook to her own devices.

As Anne drove into the village, she again pitied her long-suffering friend. She had suspected the Collins’s marriage was one of expediency. Surely, there was some affection on Mr. Collins’s part, given his flowery statements that the pair was made for each other and his pleasure in his children. Charlotte was kind enough, and she did nothing to diminish her husband before others in spite of Mr. Collins’s often mortifying behavior. The fact that Charlotte was a mother several times over spoke to the fact that her husband was no stranger to her bed.

Anne shivered. That sort of thinking was unpleasant indeed!

She reminded herself to be generous. During the crisis the prior year when Anne was at war with her mother over Richard, Mr. Collins had surprised everyone. He had defied his former patroness and thrown in his lot with Anne, risking his family’s serenity if not their security. Such loyalty and courage had to be respected and admired.

It was well to remember, too, that Mr. Collins was devoted to his flock. What a shame that his intellect was not equal to either his piety or his intentions! The man was a fool—a well-meaning, good-family-man sort of fool, but a fool nevertheless.

The phaeton stopped at the new home of Mr. Joseph Clarke, a promising farmer to whom Richard had granted a larger tenancy. He had proven himself despite the abysmal weather Rosings had suffered that season. The production on Mr. Clarke’s lease had held its own, and he had been vocal in supporting Richard and his plans for modernization. Mr. Clarke was now on the tenants’ council, and there were those envious of the rapid rise of “Fitzwilliam’s Favorite,” regardless of the young man’s ability, industry, and shrewdness.

The elevation of Mr. Clarke was shared with his wife, and it was now as the lady of one of the first houses of Hunsford that Peggy Clarke welcomed the patroness of the village and the vicar’s wife. Their time in the Clarkes’ house was short, for there were calls to make and shopping to be done.

The air was cool for October, and the bundled party made its way into the center of town. Lady Fitzwilliam received the welcome due her station from passersby, and she took pains to share a word with everyone they met. At one time, it would have been Lady Catherine walking the village and spreading her wisdom, but for some reason, she had stopped doing so years ago.

Anne knew her mother’s present haughtiness and disdain for the common folk of the village served her ill, and she was determined not to make the same mistake. It was hard overcoming her native reserve—in this Anne was much like her cousin Darcy—but she kept in mind the excellent example of her husband and accorded herself much success.

The butcher shop was their first stop. The owner was overly generous in his welcome, to Anne’s way of thinking. Unlike her mother, Anne did not enjoy fawning behavior from others.

She withstood his compliments for a short time before asking, “Did you receive Mrs. Parks’s order, sir?”

“Oh yes, my lady! See, here is the joint your housekeeper wanted. The flesh is red and the fat white, just as Lady Catherine always desired!”

Anne blinked. “You are very kind. You do understand this order is for the great house at Rosings and not the dower house, I hope.”

“Indeed, indeed! Lady Catherine made that very clear when she was here.”

Mother was in the village? Why? She had not done that for years! “Is that so?”

“Yes, madam. It was like old times, her stopping by. Such an important lady! She was kind enough to correct a misapprehension. Somehow, I thought you wanted a guinea fowl for Sunday, but she informed me that a goose was what was intended. I am thankful she caught the mistake.”

A lifetime of hiding her feelings when it came to her mother served her well, and it was with no great effort that Anne kept her countenance rather than giving free rein to her outraged spirits.

“A happy chance, to be sure. Should we expect delivery today?” Assured the meat would reach Rosings by the afternoon, Anne nodded. “By the way, we shall have a guinea fowl Sunday next—the largest you can acquire. Thank you, sir. Good day.” A tightness about the mouth was the only indication of Anne’s annoyance.

As they left the shop, Anne struggled to remain calm. How dare she? her mind raged. By what right does Mother change my menu? I am mistress of the house, yet she countermanded my orders. A goose, indeed! Richard particularly wanted guinea fowl. It is his favorite, but because Mother prefers goose, it must be that all other birds are not worthy for my table! Oh, how angry she makes me!

Since Anne’s marriage, her mother had been a source of continual vexation. Lady Catherine had talents and a certain genius in running other people’s lives, Anne had to admit. However, she was now mistress of Rosings and patroness of Hunsford—not her mother. The old woman simply would not retire quietly to the dower house.

Anne could not denounce her mother publicly, no matter how richly she deserved it. It was simply not done. Speaking to Lady Catherine did no good, and arguing made things worse. There seemed to be no solution but to bear her mother’s behavior as best she could.

A touch to her arm brought Anne back to the present, and Charlotte gave her an affectionate and sympathetic look. It was clear she understood what had happened, comprehended her friend’s discontent, and pitied her. Anne was relieved that no one else seemed aware of her unhappiness. It would have been mortifying should the level of animosity that existed between mother and daughter become common knowledge.

“G’day, miss.”

Anne’s head jerked up at the low voice to see a large person right before her. The greeting gave her enough time to stop and not walk right into him. She recognized the young man in an instant and placed a hand to her breast.

“Oh, Cork, you quite startled me!”

“Cork,” scolded Charlotte, “you should not stand blocking the way like that. For shame!”

Cork Johnson was a large young man in his mid-twenties, his six-foot frame holding almost fifteen stone. His arms were like two small trees. He wore workman’s clothes: trousers smeared with horse manure, a satchel at his side, and a soft, narrow-brimmed hat upon his enormous head. But for all his power and presence, his round, unlined, open face was blank. A child’s face graced a giant’s body.

“Sorry, Miss de Bourgh.” His head dipped.

“Cork,” said Charlotte kindly, “she is Lady Fitzwilliam now.”

He looked up. “Oh, yes. Married the colonel—Cork remembers.” The man smiled. “Colonel’s a nice man.”

Anne smiled uneasily at Cork. All of Hunsford knew of the harmless idiot son of the seamstress Mrs. Johnson. The pair lived in a remote cottage on Rosings. No one knew of Mr. Johnson’s whereabouts or whether he was even alive.

“Good morning, Cork,” Anne said, receiving a wide grin from the fellow.

The young man had some other name Anne could not recall—it was listed in the baptismal records of the church, she supposed—but he went by the nickname Cork. No one knew whether the fellow was aware it was short for “cork-brained,” but if he did, he did not seem to mind.

“Morning to you, Lady Fitzwilliam.” He let out a low laugh.

“Yes.” Anne was ashamed that she was unsettled by the giant’s presence, but she truly desired to leave. “Pray, excuse us.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He doffed his hat good-naturedly.

Cork was large enough to work as a farmhand, but his mind was suited only for the most menial of jobs. So, when he was not cleaning out the stables at the post station, he wandered about town or tossed stones at trees. Cork liked to practice his aim, and he was as much a fixture of Hunsford as the tall oak tree in the village common.

The ladies continued down the street, Charlotte leaning over to whisper, “Oh, I wish he would bathe.”

Anne agreed but was thankful for the interruption. She had lost her anger at Lady Catherine for a while.

~~~

True to his word, Darcy had sent a list of candidates for steward. Richard read over it carefully and unhappily. Several men were apprentices from properties owned by Lord Matlock or Darcy.

Richard had little desire for another steward whose total loyalty might be suspect. Mr. Caruthers had been an excellent steward, to be sure—hardworking, intelligent, and dutiful—but he remained his father’s man.

Both Mr. Caruthers and Mrs. Parks had been under the employ of Lord Matlock for fifteen years, an unusual arrangement designed to protect Rosings from Lady Catherine’s capricious management. Upon their marriage and Anne’s ascension to the ownership of Rosings, the estate shouldered the burden of paying Mr. Caruthers’s and Mrs. Parks’s salaries. Even so, Richard could never escape the feeling that Mr. Caruthers constantly measured his new master’s abilities against the earl’s.

Ever self-reliant, Richard wanted to prove himself capable as a gentleman farmer. He felt he could not do that if he hired someone whose fidelity might belong to Pemberley rather than Rosings. It was one thing to ask Darcy for a list of names, quite another to hire a Pemberley man. Sir Richard eliminated from Darcy’s list anyone who had worked for the earl or his cousin. That left four names, but after interviewing two, Sir Richard was dissatisfied. The men knew their business—there was no doubt about that—and Fitz expected that the others on the list did as well. Indeed, they all were much like Mr. Caruthers, which was the problem.

The otherwise excellent Caruthers had an infuriating habit of getting his own way. Oh, certainly, he listened attentively to Richard’s wishes and plans; no steward could be more courteous. Then, Caruthers would ask for clarification, which would lead to a discussion that would end in critiquing Richard’s ideas. Mr. Caruthers was at all times polite and almost fatherly, not quite condescending. Before much time had passed, Richard would inevitably bow to the steward’s superior ideas. That Mr. Caruthers was almost always right did not help matters. Rosings was Richard’s, and he wanted to run it.

Richard turned his mind to another issue. There had been a case of vandalism on the estate. Broken fence railings allowed sheep to escape while the Fitzwilliams were at Pemberley. It was a minor problem—the sheep were recovered and the fence repaired—but it was troubling that, according to Mr. Caruthers, the damage was intentional.

There was a knock on the door. “Sorry to disturb you, Sir Richard,” said Wilkerson, his voice quivering, “but Mr. Collins is here to see you.”

Richard stifled a groan.

“Want me to deal with him, Colonel?” asked Sergeant Gregory.

Richard turned to his longtime aide. Troop Sergeant-Major Gregory was a forty-year-old veteran of the Light Dragoons who had served with Fitzwilliam in Italy, Spain, and Belgium during the wars against Napoleon. After Waterloo, he had mustered out along with many of the survivors of that last charge. Fitzwilliam, having spent all of his adult life in the military, wanted an adjutant, so he took on his old comrade. It was a balancing act. Officially, Sergeant Gregory ran the servants and employees of Rosings on behalf of the old butler, but in actuality, he worked in concert with Mrs. Parks, who answered to Lady Fitzwilliam. It was fortunate that the sergeant and the housekeeper were of one mind in most matters.

The best way to describe the stocky former soldier was that he was neither fat nor plump but wide—broad of shoulders with large hands and a rather flat face. In a red coat, he was a fearsome sight. In a black coat, he was incongruous.

Richard sighed. He was tempted by Gregory’s offer. There were many pleasures attached to Richard’s present situation: a loving wife, a loyal staff, and a comfortable house. Unfortunately, there was also a price. Chief among them was the fawning attentions of the Reverend Mr. William Collins. Rare indeed was the day when the vicar did not present himself at Rosings, requesting an audience with him or his wife. Richard sometimes wondered whether Mr. Collins could go to the privy without receiving his employers’ opinion on the matter. The man was a nuisance. Yet, Richard was indebted to him for his loyalty to Anne. He could suffer the attentions of a devoted fool.

Richard scowled. “No, no, I shall see him. Show him in.”

Moments later, his sanctuary was invaded by a tall, heavyset man of thirty years who had perfected the art of walking quickly while offering a bow. Only his familiarity with Richard’s study prevented the man from meeting with misfortune. Standing before the desk, hat in one hand and several papers in the other, the oaf nearly genuflected.

“Sir Richard, I thank you most sincerely for giving me, your humble servant, a few moments of your valuable time! Indeed, I would not trouble you for the world, but as my office calls on me to offer moral guidance to the people of Hunsford, I must keep the wishes and advice of my exalted benefactors in mind lest I fail in my primary duty. A few words of wisdom from you would be of infinite use to more than myself, I am sure.”

Richard sighed, dropped his chin into his left hand, and held out his right. “I suppose you wish me to review Sunday’s sermon?”

“Your condescension knows no bounds!” Four sheets of paper, closely written, were Richard’s reward.

“Pray, be seated,” Richard offered, knowing they would be discussing the sermon for at least a half an hour. Straightening, he began perusing the manuscript. “I thought you usually consulted Lady Fitzwilliam with these matters.”

“Ah, that is the customary practice, my good sir, as Lady Fitzwilliam has taken over that office from Lady Catherine de Bourgh. But your most excellent lady demurred, her time taken up with my Charlotte. May I say again how fortunate it is for my wife that Lady Fitzwilliam has condescended even to acknowledge her, much less befriend her.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Richard absently, his attention focused over a passage. Two paragraphs in and Mr. Collins was already repeating himself. He frowned. “There seems to be a little repetition here, sir.”

Mr. Collins blanched. “Oh? Forgive me, sir! Lady Catherine always directed that points of particular importance be repeated to emphasize their consequence. Do you disagree?”

Richard looked up. “That is good advice. I have used it on the training grounds many a time. However, we are talking about a church congregation in Hunsford, not raw recruits at Horse Guards.” He offered a small grin to lessen any offense. “I believe we may forgo repetition, eh?”

“As you wish, sir! Oh, Lady Fitzwilliam was right. She said a gentleman’s opinion is what I should seek!”

Richard was taken aback. “She said that?”

“Indeed, she did, sir,” Mr. Collins replied with a smile on his broad, flushed face. “I know with your excellent guidance my sermons will sing to heaven! How fortunate for the people of Hunsford!”

There goes my Thursdays, was Richard’s wry thought. “Yes, how fortunate.”

Annie was behind this, eh? Well struck, my dear. I believe I shall reward you with an early evening and late morning for this!

Lady Catherine interfering. What’s new about that? What do you think of Richard’s ideas in running an estate? Anne’s dog? Cork? Mr. Collins? Pray, give me your comments and questions!

Stop on by next Monday for Chapter 3. See you then!

Until next time, this has been the Cajun Cheesehead Chronicles.

It takes a real man to write historical romance, so let me tell you a story…