Pride and Premeditation (Jane Austen Murder Mystery #1)(2)
Collins should have been embarrassed by his fumble, but he didn’t appear to be. In fact, he didn’t even turn to acknowledge the young woman who corrected him. “Mr. Davis, Mrs. Davis, who cares. I should think that Mr. Davis would be so indebted to us for securing his release from prison that he’d be willing to pay us a small fortune.”
“Don’t count on it. The nature of marriage is mysterious, and besides, Mr. Davis may not have the funds.” Mr. Bennet sighed.
“Papa, James Davis is the younger nephew of a baronet,” Lizzie interjected. “By marriage, but . . . perhaps he will be grateful to the firm for keeping his relative’s name out of the mud.”
Lizzie let the suggestion dangle, enjoying the way that Collins’s eyes bulged with shock. “How do you know that?”
“Mrs. Davis told me herself. Did she not mention that when you called?” Lizzie let her stare dig into Collins, hoping for some veil of regret or shame, but finding none, she turned back to her father and said, “It’s quite marvelous, the things one hears when visiting Miss Lucas.”
“Visiting Miss Lucas” was the code phrase that Lizzie and her father used when Lizzie helped out around the office. Longbourn & Sons, though well established and of good reputation, was not a flourishing business. Between Mr. Bennet’s preference for studying the law rather than practicing it and his bumbling junior partner, the firm struggled, even with Lizzie’s assistance behind the scenes.
“Very good,” Mr. Bennet said. “Step into my office, if you please, Elizabeth.”
Lizzie was all too glad to sweep past an irritated Collins and into her father’s office. It was frightfully messy and her favorite room in all the world. It always smelled of ink and paper and rich pipe tobacco, which her mother strictly forbade her father from enjoying at home. The surface of the great oak desk was covered in books, papers, and a good number of half-empty inkpots. Although the mess itched at Lizzie’s inclination for order, she loved everything that this room represented—knowledge, hard work, quick thinking, the pursuit of justice. The cases that unfolded in this room were far more fascinating to her than any drama that occurred in the drawing room.
“Papa,” she began once they were seated, “Mr. Collins has been lying again.”
“Of course he has. Do you think that I’d believe for an instant Collins would call upon Mrs. Davis? He doesn’t have an enterprising bone in his body.”
Lizzie smiled. Good, this was going to be easier than she’d thought.
“However, you mustn’t goad him in front of the others, Elizabeth. He will be their superior one day, and it does no good to make him look a fool.”
The smile slipped from Lizzie’s face. This argument again. “Mr. Davis was going to hang, and Mr. Collins would’ve done nothing to stop it. I only told him because you were out, and the hearing is set for tomorrow.”
“Is that the only reason?” her father asked.
Lizzie cast her gaze at a smear of ink on the wood of the desk. Her father was likely out of blotting sand again. She had better stop by the stationer on her way home. “No. I heard him say nothing was to be done as I came in—with my evidence—and I couldn’t help it. Disagreeing with Mr. Collins is entirely too enjoyable.”
“It is one thing to be right,” Mr. Bennet said, “but it is quite another to always be proclaiming it.”
“Anyone with half a brain could see that Mrs. Davis and Mr. Alston set poor Mr. Davis up, likely with the intent to marry once he was out of the way.”
“And we know you have far more than half a brain.”
“If that’s the case, then you should hire me instead of some stranger.”
Lizzie had intended to surprise her father, but he looked as if he had been expecting this change in topic. “Ah, you’ve been speaking to Charlotte?”
“I read the job advertisement myself,” Lizzie said. “As your unofficial accountant and assistant, I must advise you that hiring another person is not in the firm’s best financial interests right now.”
He picked up a stack of contracts that Lizzie herself had proofed and set upon his desk for final approval and signatures. “If Collins is to become a barrister and spend all his time in court, that will leave us short a solicitor. Better to bring someone on now, before we’re shorthanded.”
Lizzie ground her teeth so as not to say what she was really thinking: Collins was utterly useless. He was lazy and created more work than he shouldered. Lizzie and her father were constantly tidying up his messes. In her view, his failings as a solicitor—where he was merely expected to attend to legal matters outside of court—did not foretell success as a barrister, where he would be expected to represent clients in a court of law.
For whatever reason, her father refused to see the truth. It was as if he expected that attending an Inn of Court to become a barrister would transform Collins into a different man. Perhaps it was because Mr. Collins was the sole heir to the Bennet family business and much-diminished fortune. Perhaps it was simply because Collins was his cousin’s son. Either way, when Collins had arrived on their doorstep with a benefactress and passable letters of recommendation, Lizzie’s father took him in like the son he didn’t have.
“But if you must hire someone now, why not me?” Lizzie pressed. “I already do much of the work, and I could act as an unpaid apprentice until we’re turning a profit again and—”