An Obstinate Headstrong Girl. Abigail Bok

      Copyright © 2014 by H. Abigail Bok

      All rights reserved.

      No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher and author/editor.

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

      “Fern Song,” by Hildegarde Flanner, from The Hearkening Eye (Ahsahta Press, 1979). Used by permission.

      “The Next Story,” “Rolling Naked in the Morning Dew,” and “Berry Renaissance,” section 5, “Gospel and the Circle of Redemption,” by Pattiann Rogers, from Song of the World Becoming, New and Collected Poems (Milkweed Editions, 2001). Used by permission.

      “The common living dirt” from Stone, Paper, Knife by Marge Piercy, copyright © 1983 by Middlemarsh, Inc. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC. All rights reserved.

      Special thanks to Virginia Sanchez.

      Additional copies may be ordered from the publisher for educational, business, promotional or premium use. For information, contact ALIVE Book Publishing at: alivebookpublishing.com, or call (925) 837-7303.

      Book Design by Eli Sedaghatinia

      ISBN 13: 978-1-63132-005-7

      ISBN 10: 163132005X

      E-Book

      ISBN 13: 978-1-63132-014-9

      ISBN 10: 1631320149

      Library of Congress Control Number: 2014941069

      Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

      First Edition

      Published in the United States of America by ALIVE Book Publishing and ALIVE Publishing Group, imprints of Advanced Publishing LLC 3200 A Danville Blvd., Suite 204, Alamo, California 94507 alivebookpublishing.com

      PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

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       A Deprecatory Note from the Author

      I do not pretend to understand how I came to find myself in America, or in the twentieth century. Nothing of the kind has occurred to me before, nor to any other person in the whole of my acquaintance. At one moment I was in our dear cottage at Chawton, opening a closet to search for my pelisse, and at the next I found myself deposited in an alien realm of bewildering speed and noise.

      Fortunately, I soon encountered a kindly person—Miss H. Abigail Bok, the author of “A Dictionary of Jane Austen’s Life and Works”—who professed sympathy for my bewilderment and undertook to be my guide and protector in this foreign circumstance. She encouraged me to continue in my writing, assuring me that even in this future world my efforts would find an appreciative readership. She it was who arranged on my behalf the publication of the work before you.

      It is my hope that one day I will return to Chawton and my beloved sister, Cassandra. In the meantime, I am determined not to repine, but to continue deriving pleasure from observation of the peculiarities of character that are to be discovered in any neighborhood.

       Chapter One

      COLUMBUS, OHIO

      JANUARY 1999

      It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young man in possession of a wife must be in want of a fortune. However little known the feelings or wishes of a neighborhood might be, on the man’s first entering it, this truth is so well fixed in his mind that any assets he finds he considers as his rightful property.

      Every family must have some connection on whom they rest their hopes of betterment. An uncle, a distant cousin, a son bright with promise—to the ordinary run of family members this individual figures, by common if tacit consent, as the savior who will one day offer the rest a miraculous escape from the tedium and humiliations of their everyday lives. That the paragon might have other aspirations rarely occurs to the dreamers; and that he might not have it in his power to rescue all is a possibility never to be contemplated, for to do so would be to invite the death of hope.

      For the Bennet family, this repository of idle dreams was Aunt Evelyn.

      “Mr. B, great news! Your sister has provided for us at last!”

      “Indeed, my dear? Why do you think so?”

      “A fat envelope has arrived from Lambtown, California, from an attorney’s office. What else can it mean? What a great thing it’ll be for Lydon!”

      Mr. Bennet halted his progress toward his sanctum, the office he had carved out of a corner of the garage. He could think of several things such a missive might portend, and none of them as pleasing as his sister deciding to turn over her fortune to the family of a brother she hadn’t laid eyes on in twenty years. All he said, however, was, “Why Lydon in particular? I hadn’t understood that Evelyn had a particular affection for our youngest son.”

      “Well, maybe not; but Lydon’s need is the greatest, of course, for here he is married, and at such a young age, with a wife to support and no doubt children of his own before long.”

      Mr. Bennet blanched at this prospect and his frown deepened. “You’d better hand it over, then.” He took the envelope and, deaf to his wife’s protestations, retired with it to the garage.

      He was there a long time, and when he rejoined the family circle, just as dinner was ready, he could be seen to be troubled.

      As was the common way in the Bennet household, the table this evening was not graced by the attendance of the entire family; they were too many, and their pursuits too various, for togetherness to be either likely or desirable in such a small and shabby room. Young Lydon and his even younger wife, Jenny, were missing, doubtless enjoying the easy hospitality of some of Jenny’s friends from the air force base. Mary was present in body but her mind was elsewhere occupied; from the studiousness of her expression, some recondite theological justification must have been puzzling her, though she knew better than to offer it to the table for debate. Kitty, always a little deflated when Lydon was not present, was indulging her allergies in a good sniff. John was at work, leaving Lizzy to ensure that dinner got on the table despite the state of her mother’s nerves, overset by the miseries of suspense.

      Once they were assembled, her curiosity could no longer be suppressed. “You take pleasure in teasing me!” Mrs. Bennet cried. “You have no sympathy for my nerves. What did it say? I’ve been waiting for hours!”

      “What did what say, Mama?” asked Kitty, enlivened by the prospect of distraction.

      “The letter, my sweet! A letter from a lawyer’s office in Lambtown!”

      “Oh, a lawyer. What is there in that to get excited about?”

      “What is there to get excited about? Don’t you remember? It was your aunt Evelyn who inherited everything from your second cousin, old Adolphus Bennet. She must be as rich as Croesus, and never a penny of it has she shared. I don’t count her inviting Lizzy to visit in the summers; that’s nothing. But you can count on it, she’s