Woman of Influence (Pemberley Chronicles) Read online

  Table of Contents

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  Dedication

  An Introduction…

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Part Two

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Part Three

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Part Four

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Part Five

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  An Epilogue…

  Postscript

  Appendix

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  The Pemberley Chronicles

  The Women of Pemberley

  Netherfield Park Revisited

  The Ladies of Longbourn

  Mr Darcy's Daughter

  My Cousin Caroline

  Postscript from Pemberley

  Recollections of Rosings

  The Legacy of Pemberley

  Copyright © 2010 by Rebecca Ann Collins

  Cover and internal design © 2010 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover photo © Mary Evans Picture Library/Alamy

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems— except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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  Originally printed and bound in Australia by Print Plus, Sydney, NSW, 2004. Reprinted October 2006.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the publisher.

  Dedicated to all my friends, with love

  An Introduction…

  Becky Tate needs no introduction to readers of the Pemberley novels.

  It may, nevertheless, be necessary to explain that this "woman of influence" is not Rebecca Ann Collins, author of the Pemberley Chronicles series.

  Lest my readers misconstrue the situation, because I have used her name as my nom de plume, I should point out that the central character of this novel is the original Becky Collins, daughter of Charlotte Lucas and Reverend William Collins (from the annals of Pride and Prejudice), wife of the publisher Anthony Tate, and a woman of considerable standing in her community.

  Her efforts at writing, however, never amounted to much more than scribbling—personal impressions that were, happily for her, regularly printed in her husband's journals and released to a captive audience.

  Becky's story is interesting because, like a significant number of Victorian women, she sought to emancipate herself from a tedious and impecunious life by marrying a man of wealth and influence, not because she loved him, but for the advantages and opportunities the marriage offered. The realisation that, in attempting to escape the stifling environment of Victorian domesticity, she had foregone something far more precious than affluence and power, comes upon her gradually. While she admits her mistake and strives valiantly to make something of her marriage, its disintegration is hastened by the loss of a beloved daughter and the apparent indifference of her husband to her grief.

  The disapproval of her more fortunate friends serves only to exacerbate her plight, isolating her further. Marriage had clearly brought Becky influence but little contentment and less happiness.

  Many women, similarly placed, resorted to clandestine liaisons and extramarital affairs, taking lovers when and where they could, often scandalising their families and compounding their misery. Becky Tate does not.

  When, at the beginning of this book, we meet her again, she is a mature woman, who has survived the failure of her early ambitions, suffered loss and humiliation, and, having taken stock of her life, is ready to reclaim her future. The warmth of her relationship with her sister Catherine and the sincerity of her desire to help those less fortunate than herself redeem her from accusations of shallowness and prove more rewarding than the trappings of wealth and influence. It is a situation in which many modern women find themselves.

  Therein lies my fascination with her.

  I hope my readers will agree and enjoy Becky's story.

  RAC 2004 www.rebeccaanncollins.com

  For the benefit of those readers who wish to be reminded of the characters in the Pemberley Chronicles series and their relationships to one another, an aide-memoire is provided in the appendix.

  Prologue

  Becky Collins was back at Hunsford, not at the parsonage, where she had spent much of her childhood, endeavouring to fulfill the expectations of her zealous father, Reverend Collins, and avoid the censure of his indomitable patron, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, but at Edgewater—the property in the county of Kent, where she now lived.

  She was, of course, no longer Miss Collins; having been married before she was twenty years of age to Mr Anthony Tate, a publisher of some power and influence in the community, she had been considered to be a woman of some rank and substance.

  Thanks to the generosity of her husband, who, having separated from his wife, had elected to live out the rest of his days in America, where he had recently died, she was now a reasonably wealthy woman. Having sold their house in London, Becky had acquired Edgewater, an investment that had the universal approval of most if not all of her friends and relations.

  Standing at the window of what was to be her private study and work room, Becky looked out across the grounds of her new home and smiled as her eyes took in the lovely aspect across the lake from which the property took its name. There was a singular sense of satisfaction in knowing that everything in this place would be as she had planned it; she no longer took directions from nor waited upon the approval of anyone. Neither was she obliged to submit her accounts to her husband's clerk for payment.

  Becky Tate was at last her own woman and she enjoyed that above anything.

  For the very first time in her life, Becky had chosen where she was going to spend her time, just as she was now free to decide how that time was to be spent. It was for her an especially thrilling sensation, the likes of which she had not known in many years. Looking at the work she had begun at Edgewater, she could not resist a frisson of excitement as she contemplated the future that lay before her, a future to be determined entirely by her own wishes and limited only by her resources.

  Becky was glad to have left Derbyshire. Her son Walter and his family now occupied the Tate residence at Matlock. She had been at Edgewater throughout the Winter, save for a visit to Pemberley at Christmas.

  It was February and Winter had not as yet released its hold upon the countryside, though here in
Kent it was decidedly warmer than it had been in Derbyshire. While many trees were still bare, but for the merest hint of tender green buds upon their boughs, the ground beneath them was broken by impatient clumps of bulbs pushing up out of the soil—snowdrops and crocuses, amidst drifts of scilla and bright wood anemones that covered the ground under the poplars in the spinney.

  Becky loved the haphazard nature of the gardens at Edgewater, where large trees and evergreen shrubs, untamed by the fashionable art of topiary, held sway, while under them and along the edge of the lake, myriad wildflowers bloomed freely, unrestrained by the discipline of a formal garden.

  Quite unlike the tidy beds at Hunsford parsonage, which her father had tended, or the hedged formality of Rosings Park in the era of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, the grounds at Edgewater appealed to her more spontaneous nature with their lack of orderliness and regulation.

  As a young girl, Becky had hated Rosings Park with its innumerable rules and its regiment of retainers all trained to do Her Ladyship's bidding, without question. There had been so many gardeners and minions, she had been afraid to pick a bloom without permission, lest it should disturb the grand pattern of the most celebrated rose garden in the south of England!

  Here, it was very different; she could do exactly as she pleased. On an impulse, she decided to go out into the garden and gather some flowers for her study. Collecting a basket and secateurs from a cupboard under the stairs, Becky went out through the side door onto a wide terrace, down the steps, and out toward the lake. There, the flowers were in abundance, stretching as far as she could see, across the water and into the meadows beyond. Clusters of blue scilla in the spinney caught her eye; they were a favourite with her.

  She was about to take the path around the lake when her maid, Nelly, appeared, running towards her.

  "Please, ma'am, Mr Jonathan Bingley is here to see you," she said.

  "Jonathan Bingley? Are you sure, Nelly? Mr Bingley is in Hertfordshire at Netherfield. I know he is, because my sister Catherine and Mr Burnett have travelled there to visit Mr and Mrs Bingley only a few days ago."

  But Nelly was adamant.

  "Indeed, ma'am, it is Mr Bingley. He said he has come directly from Netherfield to see you, and he says it's a matter of great urgency, ma'am."

  Puzzled and incredulous, Becky handed her basket to Nelly and hurried indoors to find Jonathan Bingley standing by the fire in the sitting room. She knew the very moment she set eyes on him, he was the bearer of bad news. Jonathan was wearing full formal black and his handsome face was unusually grave.

  As she entered the room, he came towards her at once. Becky did not know what to think, but as her mind raced and her heart thumped in her chest, he took her hand. Becky's hand trembled as he held it; she knew something had happened, but she was afraid to ask the inevitable question.

  When he spoke, his voice was low and gentle. "Becky, I am truly sorry to be the bearer of such sad news, but last night your mama, Mrs Collins, was taken ill suddenly and though the doctor was called to her immediately, she took a turn for the worse and passed away just before dawn. Anna has gone with Catherine to Longbourn, and I have come as soon as I could, to take you back to Hertfordshire."

  He was gentle and concerned as he broke the news, and as she wept, he held her awhile. When she was calmer and seated herself upon the sofa by the fire, Jonathan offered to get her a glass of sherry or something stronger and when she refused, he went to find the maid and order some tea. All this he did as though it was quite the most ordinary thing to do.

  Mrs Charlotte Collins was dead.

  She had been ill, intermittently, since a bad bout of influenza in the early Autumn, but had seemed to recover her health. However, a damp, cold Winter had proved too much for her weakened body; pneumonia had set in. Her eldest daughter, Catherine, and her husband, Frank Burnett, had arrived in Hertfordshire only just in time to attend to her before her condition worsened.

  As Nelly arrived with the tea, Becky's tears returned. The news had hit her like a thunderbolt. She had never been especially close to her mother, unlike Catherine, but she'd had great affection and respect for her. Her sense of shock was all the greater because the invitation from the Bingleys to Catherine and Mr Burnett to visit Netherfield had been extended to her, too. They had at first made plans to travel together to Hertfordshire and visit their mother at Longbourn, but Becky had changed her mind, deciding to return to Edgewater and supervise some of the work being done around the house and grounds. She was keen to get it done right.

  She had written to her mother making her excuses and promising to visit her in the Spring. Now that promise would never be kept.

  Jonathan Bingley had helped himself to a glass of sherry and waited to one side of the fireplace, while Nelly handed her mistress a cup of tea.

  Becky dabbed at her eyes and apologized. "I am sorry, Jonathan, you must think me weak and silly, but I had not expected this. Had I known Mama was ill, I should never have postponed my visit. I feel so guilty…"

  Her voice broke and, setting down his glass, Jonathan went to sit beside her on the sofa, attempting to reassure her, offering her his large pocket handkerchief, which she accepted with gratitude.

  "My dear Becky, there is no need for you to feel any guilt whatsoever; you could not have known, no one knew Mrs Collins was seriously ill. Her companion, Harriet, assured us that when she went to bed after the doctor had seen her, she was comfortable, cheerful even, looking forward to the dinner party she had planned for Catherine and Frank. None of us could have predicted it. You must not blame yourself."

  But she would not be consoled. "But I do; Jonathan, can you not see that had I thought more of Mama and less of the need to supervise the renovations to this house, I would have been there, with her? It was thoughtless of me, and I feel quite wretched!" she confessed as her tears fell again.

  Jonathan could only hope that she would presently recover her composure and, despite her grief, would be ready to undertake their journey. He had a hired vehicle waiting to take them to the railway station.

  They set off an hour later travelling by train to London, where they broke journey, staying overnight at the Bingleys' town house in Grosvenor Street.

  Jonathan Bingley, considerate at all times, mindful of Becky's need for rest and privacy, had, during the journey, left her and Nelly together in their private compartment. Upon reaching their destination, he had instructed the housekeeper to attend to all her requirements, while he went out to his club, returning only after Becky had retired to her room for the night. He had indicated to her that they would be leaving on the following day for Netherfield, having ascertained first that Becky would be fit to make an early start.

  Becky was acutely aware of the kindness and generosity of her host. Since they were children, their mothers being lifelong friends, Becky and her sisters had been close companions of the Bingleys, knowing Jonathan and his sisters well. With Cassy and William Darcy, they had played together as children at Pemberley and Ashford Park, where they had always been welcome visitors, especially after the death of Reverend Collins, when their mother had moved to open a school for girls at Mansfield.

  On the long journey by train to London, Becky had remembered those days. There was some irony, she thought, in the fact that it was Jonathan Bingley who had arrived at Edgewater with news of her mother's death and had tried to comfort her. She recalled how he, as a young boy, had accompanied his parents to her father's funeral, and when, after the service was over, she had disappeared into the garden, it was Jonathan who had been sent by his mother Jane to look for her. He had found her red-eyed and tearful, behind the garden shed, among the beehives, and been sufficiently concerned to try to console her.

  On that occasion too, he had offered her his pristine white pocket handkerchief, having assumed that she was grieving for her father. When she had confessed that she was not—indeed she was weeping because she was confused, unable, unlike her sisters Catherine and Amelia-Jane, to w
eep as they had done at the news, his response had surprised her.

  "I am sorry," she had cried. "I wanted to feel sad, but all I could think of was how wonderful it was that we would have to leave Hunsford and Rosings Park, now Papa was dead. Jonathan, I feel wicked and terrible!"

  She had expected him to look shocked, even to reproach her for such a callous thought, but he had done nothing of the sort. As she had haltingly explained how she longed to leave the stifling atmosphere of Hunsford parsonage and escape the constant scrutiny of the meddlesome Lady Catherine de Bourgh, he had looked neither surprised nor censorious.