Beginning, Section II, Next Section

Chapter Six

Posted on 2013-09-19

"My uniform is fit for duty, Godfrey?" Richard spoke to his valet over his shoulder as he fastened his cuffs before the mirror.

"Yes, sir. And the button is repaired on the second, looser pair of breeches you requested for departure. The tighter pair is packed in your trunk."

"Excellent." Richard patted his stomach. "I shall miss the fine fare of Mother England."

"Which waistcoat, sir?" His valet held up both a paisley and gold-striped one.

"Where is the fawn-coloured one I favour?"

"I believe it should be retired, sir. It is worn, and the lining has a tear."

"I should like the comforts of home on this last day before my departure for the continent." With a smirk he added, "We shall keep the details of its condition to ourselves."

"Yes, sir." Godfrey moved to retrieve the garment. "It is unfortunate you will miss Christmas and Twelfth Night with your family next week."

"I was fortunate to have attended my cousin's wedding last week."

The valet slid the waistcoat over Richard's shoulders. "Which coat, sir? The blue or green?"

"It matters not. Choose one for me. And spare asking me my preference of a cravat knot. I cannot be bothered. That is what I have you for." He flashed a smile at his long-time valet. "Let us hasten with the haircut chore as well. I have much to attend to."

Minutes later he studied his middle-aged valet in the mirror as Godfrey cropped his hair. The only distinguishing features of the man were his nearly extinct dark hairs atop his head and his tendency to hold a dour expression.

The valet had been a footman at his family's estate in Matlock. Richard well remembered the day when he was twelve, and Godfrey had extricated him from a scrape, saving him from his father's wrath. Richard had been partial to the man ever since. With a propensity towards back trouble, Godfrey was no longer able to perform the duties of footman. When Richard's father had insisted he take a valet, he offered the servant the position. It had been an amiable arrangement for a decade now.

"That should hold you for a while, sir." He swiped stray hairs from his shoulders.

Richard eyed his short hair in the mirror, recalling the numerous times they had been through this routine in the past.

Godfrey held up his pocket watch and called from a short distance away, "Shall the stone accompany your voyage, sir?"

He pressed his lips in contemplation before answering. "Not this time, Godfrey."

The valet cocked his head in surprise. "Whatever you say, sir."

April 1814, southern coast of France

"Damn!" Richard muttered to himself. "We are trapped!" A scout had just confirmed his suspicion--the enemy was right behind them, and the coastline was just below the steep cliffs not far ahead.

"Stevens," he barked to the lieutenant who had been his long-time aide, "how long till the Frogs are on us?"

"Hard to tell, sir. A few hours, maybe."

"Hmm," Richard grunted. "Go! Get me Captains Lewis and Merriman. We've got to figure a way to save our skins." Spinning around he added, "And send five men a mile along the coastline in both directions to see what we're up against. Oh, and five to keep a close eye on those Frogs breathing down on us."

The young man stood wide-eyed as if rooted. "Stevens!" The colonel commanded louder, the gold fringe of his epaulettes swaying. "Get the captains--NOW!"

"Sir,..." The light-haired Lieutenant paused and cleared his throat. "Captain Lewis is dead, sir. In all the confusion, Captain Merriman's not among us either.

Richard closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. "Then summon any officers we've got."

"Yes, sir." Stevens nodded as he rushed off.

Why were blue coats still pursuing them? With arched fingers massaging his sweating brow, he paced in the late afternoon April sun, contemplating their precarious situation. What a humiliating routing it had been! Where were the Frenchmen getting their supplies? Had the British not cut off all their supply lines six weeks ago? What more did the Frogs want? Why was it worth the risk to send a paltry party to obliterate so few red coats when surely they knew British reinforcements would be attacking from the east? Looking up, he scanned the horizon with the ocean in the distance. If they could just buy some time, perhaps they could signal one of their blockade ships patrolling out there.

Stevens' return interrupted his thoughts. Richard vaguely recognized the two dirty sergeants before him; the additional captain was unfamiliar.

"Captain Clemson, of the 73rd, sir. Looks like I am with you now." The tall, dark-haired officer saluted with a smile.

Gesturing towards the other two, Stevens announced, "This is Sergeant Hill and Sergeant Roberts. Two of our best, sir."

The two dishevelled men saluted their superior.

"Thank you, Stevens. How many men are still with us? And find out how many guns are coming our way."

"Sir, there are thirty-six of us. Of those, ten are from the 73rd."

The colonel nodded. Stevens disappeared.

Richard turned back to the three leaders. "We need a plan, and we need it fast." He squinted up at the fading sun. "Looks like we've got two, maybe three, hours of daylight left--enough time for those blue coats to roast our rumps. Do we make a run for it, or dig in and hope for reinforcement? Captain Clemson, what is your assessment?"

Appearing somewhat uneasy with the unfamiliar colonel, the captain eyed the small group. "Well, sir, if we make a run for it, we might be able to make our way around them and rejoin Colonel Johnson or the rest of your regiment. However, it leaves us wide open to be picked off, and the men are battle-weary, thirsty, and hungry. If we can find a strategic place to dig in, we can rest and hopefully hold them off a day or two, or perhaps signal a blockade patrol ship when it passes. If we fail..."

Gazing off in the distance, the others nodded, acknowledging their plight.

"Hill? Roberts?" Richard brought them back. "Have you anything to add?"

"Well, sir." Roberts, the short, muscular sergeant stepped forward. "It will be dark soon, and there's not to be much of a moon. If we can hold off and run for it, the darkness will give us extra cover."

Hill, a tall blond added, "And sir, we are running low on powder. Don't see how we can hold them off for long without more powder and shot."

Stevens strode over accompanied by three men breathing hard. "News, sir! These men scouted north and just returned. A quarter mile up the coast is a small inlet with a deep bay. Under an outcropping of steep cliffs, the men spotted a small ship. Looks to be a blockade runner!"

Richard barked, "Are they coming or going? How many men aboard?"

One of the scouts piped up, "Couldn't much tell, sir. Appears they are waiting for something. Several were napping on deck. If they are leaving, they are probably waiting to run the blockade under cover of darkness. Jackson here counted twenty-nine men. Might be a few more."

The one called Jackson added, "I counted ten cannon as well. It's a small, two-masted schooner. She was sittin' pretty low in the water. My guess is they are waitin' to unload."

So that was it! Richard's thoughts solidified. The blue coats weren't so much pursuing soldiers, as they were pressing to meet their supply source. But they would hunt down every last red coat if they thought the ship had been discovered!

"How is the surrounding terrain?" The captain's gaze darted among the three scouts. "How many access points down to that inlet? What kind of cover options do we have?"

The third scout spoke up. "The terrain resembles this here, sir." He gestured to the flat landscape behind them sparsely sprinkled with grass. "A small pine thicket sits on the plateau not far from the cliff's edge above the ship. There is a gentle path from the plateau down to the inlet. Must be their primary access. Twenty yards this side of it, there appears to be a shorter way down. Men could make their way down, but it is too steep and rocky to transport supplies."

The leaders exchanged hopeful glances, considering the freedom the sea could offer.

The first scout spoke again. "You might get some men down a slope on the far side of the inlet as well. They'd be sitting ducks on that beach though."

The colonel pinched the stubble on his chin and exhaled, formulating a plan. A moment later he dismissed the scouts, snatched a stick, knelt, and scratched in the dirt. The three new leaders huddled around for a closer view. "Now if we..."

For the next half hour the four devised an escape.

"Excuse me, sir." Stevens interrupted. "Blue coats are getting closer. Looks to be about a hundred of them."

Richard rose. "Stevens, find me eight men who can sing--loud. Who can bellow out that damn French anthem we heard day and night at Bayonne. Have the rest of the men take some sustenance and ready themselves to move out."

Where was that letter from Lizzy? Charlotte had received it only the day before. Rummaging in her chamber, she noticed something on the floor under the bed. There it was. As she knelt to retrieve it, she lifted the bed skirt to see what else might be lurking there. The trunk with her mementos caught her attention. She started to rise, but stopped and instead, slid the box out from underneath the bed.

She drew out her rag doll which her mother had so lovingly pieced together. Charlotte had received it for her birthday the year she had been five or six. Turning it over and studying it, she looked at it for the first time as something other than just her beloved doll and was suddenly struck with a pang of remorse. She had wondered if perhaps this time next year she would be making one for her own daughter, but alas, it was not to be.

Putting the doll aside with a sigh, she noticed a piece of paper sticking out from a journal. She opened the book and found an opera program. As she read the entry, it all came back to her.

February 9th, 1809

Mother and I are in London with Aunt Heath and Lady Matlock for our annual shopping excursion. We visited a new milliner, and I got the loveliest new bonnet!

Tonight at the opera, the singing was magnificent. I only wish I could listen again and again.

Between acts, Richard and I remained in the Fitzwilliams' box while the others went for refreshment. The joy of the evening instantly faded when he told me that with his new promotion to Major, he was to be reassigned to General Picton, and that there were rumours they would be leaving for the continent in a fortnight. He hadn't even apprised his family of the news but told me not to expect him at the ball in June. This general is known for being a cruel and foul-mouthed taskmaster. My heart sank.

I reached into my reticule and drew out the rubbing stone. He laughed when he saw it as he well remembered the day he had given it to me.

When I was a child and my family had been on holiday in Matlock at my aunt's, one afternoon the ladies congregated at the Fitzwilliam's home for tea. We children were out of doors playing Robin Hood, and I fell and sprained my wrist. I cried for the longest time until Richard ran into the house and brought me the stone and said, "Rub the stone and be brave as a soldier should be."

After our first ball together, I retrieved it from my treasure box and have carried it ever since as a fond reminder of Richard. I tried not to cry tonight when I repeated those same words and returned it to him. I only want him to return safely.

As Richard led the bedraggled remains of the regiment north to the inlet, he glanced up, noting the lowering sun. Had they made the right decision? If all went well, they would be sailing to freedom by dark. But if the Frogs got to them... they would be slaughtered...

Mentally reviewing their plan of attack, he absently felt for the rubbing stone which had long been stored in his inlaid box. In spite of its absence, Charlotte's words be brave as a brave soldier should be echoed though his head. Smiling, his confidence rose with every step.

As they approached their destination, a scout pointed to the grove of trees on the far side of the inlet. The colonel, motioning high in the air, brought the men to a stop. Sergeant Hill led the regiment to the cover of the pines.

The four leaders and two scouts crept close enough to observe the schooner below. Crouching below a rock outcropping, Richard raised the spyglass to observe the forthcoming battleground. All was as the scouts had reported--a moored schooner with a beach stretching to one side, and a steep incline lined with jagged boulders on the other. After the others peered through the lens, they nodded to confirm their plan and joined the ragtag remains of the regiment in the grove.

Dividing among the four assigned leaders, the men's movements were agitated, the air thick with tension and anticipation. Surprise would be their biggest advantage, along with the fact that the blockade runners were expecting soldiers--just not British ones.

Richard gave a reassuring nod to the eight soldiers with Hill, then moved towards the rocky slope with his men. With the plan now set into motion, there was no turning back. Hill and his men began a rousing rendition of "La Marseillaise" from a good distance away, attempting to mimic the coming Frenchies. Richard and his small band picked their way down the craggy slope, guns in hand with bayonets fixed, cloaking themselves behind the rocks. Concealed, Captain Clemson's soldiers were providing cover from the plateau above and watching their backs for the approaching French Army.

The napping blockaders were roused by their country's anthem. Several rushed up the main path expecting to greet their comrades, only to be met by the captain's red coats and an explosion of gunfire.

While the other sailors below scrambled for their weapons, Richard's men picked them off from behind the boulders. Meanwhile Roberts' crew made their way down the slope on the far side of the inlet and hastened across the exposed beach. When the ship's cannon exploded towards them, two red coats dropped.

At the same time, the former singers led by Hill stormed down the main path. Gunfire rang from the plateau above, dropping several more confused blockaders. The colonel's soldiers rushed the ship from the opposite starboard side to engage in hand-to-hand combat. Knowing the cannon blast would bring the approaching blue coat army at full speed, they fought with a new sense of urgency.

Sergeant Hill was now on board the ship as well. Swords clashed; bayonets thrust. Sergeant Roberts' band, now across the inlet, began fighting port side on the ground. Above, Captain Clemson and his men ran down the path, yelling to alert of the approaching French company.

With bodies strewn about, Richard commanded, "Get aboard and cut the ship loose!" The outnumbered blockaders retreated for cover, awaiting the reinforcements.

As soon as the captain's men were aboard, the ship slowly drifted away from the shore. The pursuing Frenchmen could be seen in the near distance on the plateau above.

"Get this thing moving, or we'll be eating their bullets!" The weary, blood-spattered soldiers bustled about. "Hill, have the artillery men man the guns! Roberts, you said you and your brother could sail this thing. Instruct the men!"

The brothers began shouting orders to direct the ship out of the inlet as shots filled the air. One soldier grabbed his arm as a bullet ripped through it. Another slumped to the deck with a direct hit.

Above the deafening noise, the colonel barked, "Stevens, attend the wounded! Hill, loose those guns. Give those Frogs something to remember us by!"

"Cannon ready!" Hill roared above the commotion. "Fire!"

As the cannon blasted towards the shore, the ship eased through the mouth of the inlet, the two brothers calling out orders all the while. An exuberant cheer went up from the smudged faces of the ship's men as the stream of blue coats retreated up the path.

Richard's lips stretched into a sly smile. They were not home free yet, but it was damn sure looking better. "Hit 'em again, Hill!"

"Ready! Fire!"

This time the explosion of the canon was very different. Richard screamed in agony as a searing pain blasted his chest and shoulder. Staggering backwards, a flailing rigging pulley clobbered his head, slamming him to the deck. Everything went black.

Chapter Seven

Posted on 2013-09-23

"Mmm..." the colonel moaned, his face pinching in pain. My head is pounding! He stirred. My arm... burning! Instinctively he reached for the scorched shoulder.

"Sir?" A gentle male voice spoke over him.

"Mmm?"

"Colonel, lie still. I will summon the doctor."

Working to open his eyes, he glimpsed a young man striding away. A door clicked shut.

My head! My arm! He shifted again, eager to ease the discomfort. What happened? Where am I?

Forcing his eyes open again, he took in his surroundings: confined cabin, gentle swaying, creaking sounds. A ship. He was on a ship.

He stiffened as panic overtook him. They had captured the blockade-running ship and were about to clear the inlet. Did they make it? His thoughts raced for facts to answer the important question. The cannon...it had burst... His arm... The blue coats had retreated up the bank to the plateau. They must have succeeded... But what then?

His searing arm and hammering headache made it hard to concentrate. He grimaced again in response to the pain.

The door opened, and brisk footsteps crossed the wooden floor. A figure stood over him, another behind.

"Colonel?"

He focused his attention on the voice and a generous head of wavy red hair.

"Colonel. It is Dr. Scott."

"My head... My arm..."

"You've had quite a time of it, sir. After the gun exploded, you were struck with a pulley which knocked you out." When Richard resumed his restless movements, the man reached for a bottle on the bedside table. "Take this. It will help you sleep and relieve the misery."

Richard concentrated on figure again. I know this man. Knitting his brow and searching his memory, he studied the features and brown eyes of the handsome face whose age mimicked his own. He was one of the regiment's field surgeons who happened also to be a doctor. Richard tilted his chin up and swallowed the foul tasting liquid. "Dr. Scott," he croaked with a faint smile as he eased back on the pillow. "Where are we? What happened?"

The physician relaxed, seeming relieved at his recognition. "You are on a blockade patrol ship. We found your ship drifting about twilight yesterday. We nearly let loose our ships' guns, thinking you were runners. Your crew returned to England for reassignment. You and the other wounded below are awaiting transport to the London Army hospital."

Movement behind the doctor drew Richard's attention. "Stevens, is that you?" He stirred in the sheets seeking to relieve the pain, though it proved futile.

"It is I, sir. It is indeed a relief to see you awake. With your being asleep these past two days, we were not sure you would make it."

Two days! The leader sighed, overcome with drowsiness from the draught.

The older man spoke again. "Get some rest, Colonel."

He closed his eyes. Sleep engulfed him.

Richard squinted into the bright sunlight streaming into the cramped quarters. Gentle snoring came from the chair nearby. The throbbing in my head has abated... but my arm... burning! He swallowed hard, running his tongue over his dry, cracked lips. Clearing his throat, he looked in the direction of wheezing sound. "Water..., please."

The aide woke with a start. His chair scraped the wooden floor as he scrambled to the bedside. "You asked a drink, sir? I do not believe you would want the water." He chuckled under his breath. "Navy rum is the best I can offer." He handed him a mug.

Richard nodded and readied himself to take a sip, wincing at the additional sting induced by the movement. Swallowing the liquid, he settled back with a sigh and an appreciative nod.

Aware of the shoulder again, he touched his left arm to test its condition. He felt layers of bandages over his bare chest, shoulder, and arm. The gentle probing of his fingers elicited a grimace. "How bad is it?" His voice cracked.

"A nasty burn and some shrapnel, sir, but the doctor thinks you will recover fine--as long as infection does not set in. He said the scarring from that burn will require some tending to heal properly and allow for full function of your arm."

Richard turned his head aside to ponder his altered condition.

"I will get the doctor to change the bandages now that you are awake. May I bring you anything else, sir?"

Turning back, he shook his head, then shifted, seeking to quell the pain. "Stevens, there is something. Have a dose of that draught handy soon as the doc is finished."

"Yes, sir." The Lieutenant disappeared.

This just might terminate my career... Need to find some young thing with a handsome dowry and retire to the country like a real gentleman. An amused smile touched his mouth in spite of the torment. Finding a wife may require more strategy than I've had need for in the field. Those Ton mamas could out manoeuvre Napoleon himself. Agitated, he stirred. By golly, I will not retire myself to Matlock like some licked dog! Couldn't live with the shame of it in front of Father. If only I could have--

"Colonel, feeling better this morning?" The doctor's presence filled the small space.

Richard swallowed, his voice low. "Not much. How long will this shoulder be so damn near unbearable?"

The doctor chuckled and cocked his head, his brows raised. "You can't expect to be fodder for a cannon and stroll through Hyde Park in a sennight." He moved closer. "Let me have a look at that arm."

Drawing back the bedclothes, the doctor paused and met his eyes. "I will not lie to you, Colonel. This may hurt like hell. Can you sit up?"

Richard gathered his resolve and took a deep breath. Pushing himself up, searing pain radiated through his chest and arm. "Damn, that hurts!"

"I am going to remove the bandages, and we shall see how she looks. Ready?" Turning aside to the aide and rolling up his sleeves, he added, "Give him the draught, Lieutenant. We want him back into the arms of Morpheus as soon as the fresh bandage is on."

Taking the small glass, the colonel threw back his head, grimacing in distaste as the liquid disappeared.

The eyes of the doctor met his to confirm their mutual goal, then the gentle unwrapping began. Richard tensed, wincing and grunting throughout the process. His muffled moans filled the cramped cabin as the last layer was peeled from the flaking, oozing skin.

When at last the bandages were stripped, he released a deep breath. Sweat dotted his brow.

The doctor eyed him. "Are you still with us, sir?"

"A bit dizzy... besides feeling like my arm has been skinned."

"That was the worst of it. Let me see how it is healing." The surgeon drew closer and studied the area for several minutes. "No signs of infection. Let us hope it stays that way. Stevens, bring me the poultice."

With the fresh poultice and bandages applied, Richard slipped into welcomed unconsciousness.

"Colonel." The doctor's gentle nudge roused him. "Sir."

He blinked, attempting to bring the blurred form into focus. "Mmm?"

"The transport is nearly here. We need to move you and the other wounded to the ship for the trip home."

He closed his eyes, dreading what promised to be excruciating. "What is the plan?" he mumbled, still groggy.

"A stretcher and meal have been ordered. With a full belly, we will give you a double dose of draught and settle you on the other ship. When you wake, hopefully we will be docking in Chelsea."

A few awkward moments passed. "What became of the runner ship we captured, Doctor?" He gritted his teeth with the blistering sensation in his arm.

"I hear it was quite a find. Supplies apparently worth a king's ransom. I imagine the admirals in Portsmouth will soon be sampling its brandy."

A thin smile curled Richard's lips. "At least the Frogs were denied its pleasures."

"They were indeed, sir."

"What of my men?"

"I understand you lost two in the skirmish on shore, one shot on board, six wounded, and..."

"And what?"

"The gun crew died instantly when the canon exploded."

Richard released a pained grunt before the doctor had finished the sentence.

"I am sorry, sir."

"Yes. They were fine men."

They sat in contemplative silence for several moments before their attention was drawn to Stevens, bearing a tray at the door.

"Your meal, sir." The aide placed the tray on a nearby table. "Will you be needing some help?"

"My arm may be on fire, but I believe I can find my mouth with the other." He attempted to sit up. "This is damn humiliating... Give me a hand."

Richard grunted, adjusting to a sitting position with his aide's assistance. Once settled, the tray of steaming stew was placed on his lap. "What of you, Doctor? What finds you aboard a blockade patrol ship? Were there not enough wounded on the continent to keep you busy?" He smirked before slurping the liquid.

"Well, Colonel, a bit of good fortune has come my way. My great aunt died a few months ago and apparently left me with enough to retire a gentleman. I have had my fill of amputated limbs and gangrene." He shook his head. "I am ready to settle down. Being from Scotland, I thought I would spend a few weeks touring the sights of London. Then, as soon as I have my inheritance in hand, I shall look for a comfortable place by the sea and a sweet woman to tend." A sly smile crept to his lips. "I believe tending a wife is preferable to tending men with holes in their sides, eh?"

Richard laughed at the insinuation and picked up a stale biscuit. "So why are you on this ship, floating in the Atlantic instead of sipping wine with a woman by the sea?"

"When I left the field, I was on board a ship bound for London. Passing through the blockade patrol, I heard this ship's captain was ill. Since I have neither family nor firm plans, I volunteered to look after him."

"Does the captain remain ill?"

"No, he is much improved. I am to leave on the transport with you and your wounded. What of you, Colonel? Do you have family to look after you? I would not put much stock in Chelsea's hospital. Disease there is as likely to claim a man as his wound."

Richard examined his biscuit for maggots. "My family has a home in Derbyshire and a house in Town. Might I stomach a short carriage ride from the river to the townhouse?"

The doctor leaned back in his chair. "It may not be beneficial, but it is certainly no worse than the hospital. I am certain your family's care would be superior to that of the overflowing wards."

Richard scraped the last of the stew with the dry biscuit and settled back with a grimace. "I must admit, I am not fond of the idea of being fussed over by my mother, but I suppose it is preferable to the hospital."

"Colonel, are you aware that you will need a fair amount of time to recover, in addition to exercising that arm to keep the scarring from immobilizing it?"

"Hmm..." He recalled his aide saying as much. He stroked the generous stubble on his chin then darted his eyes to the man. "Doctor, you mentioned plans to tour London for several weeks, did you not? Would you care to be my guest and physician? I believe you would find the accommodations sufficient, and a carriage would be at your disposal."

"Well, Colonel, that is a most generous offer. Will you let me consider the matter? I will give you an answer before we reach Chelsea."

Five days later Dr. Matthew Scott eyed the colonel as their hired hackney jolted to a stop in front of Matlock House in London. The colonel's groans and grimaces relayed his relief that the trip from Chelsea to Brook Street had concluded.

Exiting the carriage, Matthew raised pleasant eyebrows at the impressive stone façade before him. This could prove to be a delightful holiday indeed, he mused as he mounted the steps. At the butler's greeting, he requested Mrs. Cooper as the colonel had instructed, at the same time noting an emanation of stale smoke wafting from inside.

Moments later, a plump, grey-haired matron greeted him. "How may I help you, sir?" A large mole beside her mouth rose as a welcoming smile lit her face. "I am Mrs. Cooper, the housekeeper. You are here on behalf of our colonel?"

"Yes, good morning. I am Mr. Scott, Colonel Fitzwilliam's surgeon. I have him here with me in the coach." Glancing over his shoulder, he motioned towards the hackney.

"Oh goodness me! In the coach? Here? Now?" The lace on her mob cap bobbed with her flutter. "Is he not on the continent?"

"Mrs. Cooper, he sustained a serious chest and shoulder burn from a cannon misfire."

The woman's hands flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock.

"He has come here to recover, feeling it preferable to an army hospital. I will need assistance getting him inside and settled into bed."

The woman calmed and nodded. "I see. We shall be glad to accommodate him if he can overlook the odour. Three weeks ago a fire upstairs left a few of the rooms uninhabitable. The earl and countess have returned to their country home, but neither of the brothers' rooms were affected, so he will have a clean place to rest. Can he walk?"

"Yes, but I fear the numerous stairs inside will be more than he can tolerate. Might your staff unhinge a door and fetch six men to carry him?"

"Certainly, sir, but it shall take several minutes to complete the task. Will you come in while I assemble the men?" She stood aside with a sweeping gesture.

"No, thank you. I shall wait in the coach with the colonel. When all is prepared, summon us, but keep the men inside. The colonel insists on climbing these stairs unaided. He was adamant that he was not to be seen carried to his own front door."

"Yes, sir. I shall return as quickly as I can." She smiled with a curtsey.

Fifteen minutes later, a resolute Mrs. Cooper appeared in the doorway. The colonel uttered various grunts and expletives as the doctor helped him exit the coach. "Take a good look, Colonel. This will be your last venture out of doors for quite some time."

The patient chuckled under his breath as his senses swept the familiar surroundings. In the freshness of spring, coaches rattled past, a nearby hawker's bell rung incessantly, and smartly dressed gentlemen strode beside the stylish townhouses.

As the men lumbered up the stairs, the patient leaned heavily on the doctor.

Mrs. Cooper's smile reflected her maternal affection for the master. "Come in! Come in! 'Tis good to have you home, sir. We shall care for you as best we can."

He returned a weak smile, shuffled into the marble-floored entry, and wrinkled his nose at the whiff of smoke.

"The door is just over here." She led them to an armless settee moved to the foot of the stairs.

Six assorted footmen, gardeners, and grooms stood hushed and wide-eyed. The colonel eased himself onto the door, wincing, grunting, and at last expelling a deep breath as his body relaxed, relieved to be in the horizontal position.

Matthew eyed the men. "Gently now. His left shoulder has a serious injury. Slow and easy."

Gingerly they made their way up the numerous stairs and slid the patient onto his bed.

While Matthew administered a dose of draught, the attentive housekeeper raised the windows and adjusted the curtains, then turned and asked, "What may we do for him now, Doctor?"

"I believe that with all of the day's jostling, he needs rest. Once we have him settled, we will discuss his future care."

"The repairs were to start next week. And Lady Matlock desired the dining and drawing rooms be redecorated. But I am sure the work can wait. Will you be staying with us, sir?"

"Yes. For some time--until he is on his feet and out of danger."

"I shall have the viscount's room next door readied for you."

"Shall he not wish for his own room should he return?"

"I don't expect so." She smiled. "He is married these last three years and rarely comes to Town. Might we provide you some refreshment? Perhaps a hot meal?"

"That would be most appreciated."

"Sir." She smiled in a sheepish and teasing manner. "If you don't mind my saying, perhaps water for a nice hot bath? --after the colonel is settled, of course."

Matthew threw back his head with a hearty laugh. He held out his arms and surveyed his appearance. "I suppose that would be in order as well. Six weeks in the field has not afforded me that luxury. Thank you."

"'Tis no trouble, sir. We are glad to have you both. I shall fetch your meal... and hot water."

He turned back to his patient and eyed his posh surroundings. Well Matthew, smoke or not, you are embarking on your new life amidst style indeed!

During their first few weeks in London, Richard was kept heavily sedated. After being pressed by the doctor, the patient dictated a short letter to his mother, purposely minimizing the extent of his injury in hopes she would remain in Matlock. With continual doses of draught, Richard was vaguely aware of his arm extended overhead and the smell of linseed oil and turpentine whenever he woke for bandage changes, to eat, or to relieve himself.

While Richard slept, the doctor filed his patient's injured status with the Adjutant's Office, wrote inquiries regarding his inheritance, and consulted his Guide to London to plan his sightseeing tour. Having long dreamed of that home by the sea, he spent some time with a gazetteer, considering likely spots along the coast.

When Richard's pain no longer demanded continual relief, multiple times a day his friend assisted him in circling the arm in every direction, coercing the healing skin not to tighten and inhibit his movement.

Once Richard was out of danger, the doctor began jaunts to see the sights of London: London Bridge, St. James Park, The Tower of London, and countless exhibits of art and artefacts. Deciding one day to sample British justice, he attended a court case, and so impressed was he with the process, that he attended a session nearly every week thereafter.

Returning from one such outing, the butler took his hat and announced, "A delivery has arrived for you this afternoon, sir. Where would you like it?"

"Excellent!" Matthew rubbed his palms together. "The library, I believe."

Several minutes later, he unlatched the case and raised the lid. He lifted the object, sitting like a jewel among the red velvet interior, and his hand caressed the smooth wood of its delicate curve. His violin. His most prized possession, it was his last connection with his home and past.

He had grown up in Scotland, the second son of a gentleman. Though not particularly wealthy or titled, the family could afford a carriage and a university education for their sons. Matthew and his brother had never shared brotherly affection, he the more studious, his brother more prone to excess. Their mother had died giving birth to a sister who perished two days later. The loss was devastating to the ten year old boy.

His admiration of a local doctor and his love of science encouraged his studies at the University in Edinburgh. His inability to save his father when his leg was crushed in a carriage accident ignited his study of surgery. Matthew took a commission with the army when his brother, having inherited the estate, took his own life after losing everything at the gaming tables.

A great-aunt who lived nearby had always doted on him and been like a mother. Her death marked the last of his known relatives. It was her promised inheritance that had brought him to his present state of good fortune.

He plucked the violin strings, recalling the happy evenings spent in her company. She had called it his Siren as its music was so moving.

After readying the instrument, he drew the bow across the strings. Vibrant sound filled the space. Closing his eyes, his hands took over and waves of melody filled the room. Lost in the moment, he startled at the skimming of his patient's slippers against the polished floor.

"What is this, Mr. Scott? You have not indicated an inclination towards music."

"I suppose I failed to mention it." He stroked the instrument, feeling sheepish. "It has been at my great-aunt's--it arrived but awhile ago. It is good to see you up and about, Colonel."

Though still in some pain, the patient's chest and arm were healing. The long evenings called for distractions that allowed the men to become good friends--sharing army stories and recollections of battles. They also played endless rounds of cards, chess, and backgammon, and lapsed into a less formal means of address using Fitzwilliam and Scott.

Over a game of chess one night in May the colonel took Matthew's knight with a pawn. "You seem a bit distracted this evening, Scott."

Matthew sat back and swiped his palm down his face. "I have heard from Scotland regarding my inheritance, and the news is not particularly pleasant. The gentleman my aunt originally named as executor will be unable to perform his duties due to poor health. He was the founder of an orphanage to which my aunt also left a considerable sum. I was named as a secondary executor, but there seems to be some bureaucratic red tape involved in having the man declared incapacitated, though he is happy to relinquish the job. Once it is worked out, I will be required in Scotland to execute the will, which could take some time."

"What will you do in the meantime?"

"Although there is more of London I should like to see, I also received several replies to my inquiries about seaside homes on the northern coast. I thought I might take a scouting trip next week. I anticipate being gone nearly a month."

"I have no plans at present. As you know, with the exile of Bonaparte, my regiment has recently been reassigned to fight Madison in America. In my condition, they have no use for me, and I expect I shall remain here for the foreseeable future. You are welcome to come and go as you like."

Matthew had become concerned about Fitzwilliam and was somewhat hesitant to leave him. Although his wound had closed, he seemed withdrawn and had lost his usual jovial, jesting nature. The doctor had continually encouraged him to receive visitors, partake of the Season's invitations, resume riding and other activities, but the colonel seemed disinterested. However, Matthew was aware that a degree of melancholy was common for those with a severe injury.

"You are sure you will not join me for a tour of the coast?" The doctor drew on his gloves and took his hat from the butler.

"No. You go ahead. I might have a tour of London myself now that you have given it such glowing reports." The men descended the front steps.

"Excellent idea. In any case, promise me you will strictly maintain the exercise regimen. The skin is still healing and can become tight in a matter of days."

"I will. Enjoy yourself." Fitzwilliam clapped him on the back as Matthew ducked into the carriage.

Riding away, the doctor's nagging thoughts of the colonel's mental condition returned. He hoped his friend would come around.

Chapter Eight

Posted on 2013-09-26

The townhouse was quiet in Scott's absence. A fortnight later, Richard still felt uninspired to venture out or receive visitors, and he certainly had no interest in balls and parties with the Ton.

He poured himself a drink from the decanter in the library and smiled, recalling the high spirits of his men and their feeling of triumph as they had made their unlikely escape some two months ago. Crossing to the large window, he swirled the ruby-coloured liquid in his glass and took a sip. Staring blankly into the twilight, his restless emotions converted to thoughts: War was ugly... Blood. Suffering. Persistent fear. Half-rotten food. And grime so thick it became a part of a man. But somehow the sense of purpose, bravery, and camaraderie had made it honourable and worthwhile. He tugged at his cravat and took another sip of port. How satisfying it had been leading those men! It had made him feel like a man--like he was doing something, worth something. But that was now all in the past.

He expelled a deep breath and moved towards the large desk. After a swig, he landed the glass and perched on the corner of the polished mahogany. Circling his left arm, he groaned, his face pinched with pain as the movement pulled at the scarred skin near his armpit. In an instant he had been reduced to a near invalid. No longer able to lead anyone, he had no purpose; he merely existed.

He tipped the glass back and emptied it. After refilling it, he dropped into the desk's chair. What was he to do now? He unbuttoned his waistcoat and propped his hessians on the desk, swirling the port again. The army had no use for him, and he was unsure if they ever would. He had no wife, no money, no property. He took a sip, weighing his situation. He could return to Matlock. He rolled his eyes and grunted. His father would surely remind him what a failure he was. Another mouthful disappeared.

This uncertainty and suffering were the very reasons Charlotte had vowed never to marry a soldier. It was a good thing she was not saddled with him--yet he was partly to blame for her marrying that fool. He shook his head. He should have cut her loose sooner for her own good.

For the next hour, he nursed his drink and then another before retiring for the night. The next several evenings passed in a similar fashion.

A week later, he passed out on the settee.

"Mr. Godfrey." Mrs. Cooper stopped the valet in the hallway below stairs. "Might I have a word?"

"Certainly."

She drew him to the side. "I am sure Master Richard's condition has not escaped your notice. I am quite concerned. I have been expecting the good doctor to return, but it has already been more than a month. Do you have any news?"

"The colonel mentioned a letter. Apparently Mr. Scott has had several unfortunate delays. He was abed for a week with an illness, and some unfavourable weather has hampered his travel. If all goes well, he is expected to return in a week or so."

"I saw the Darcy's housekeeper in town yesterday, and she said that in two days Mr. Darcy was expected for an overnight stay. He generally never misses an opportunity to see his cousin. But with such a short visit, what shall we do if he does not call? I am sure our Colonel would listen to Mr. Darcy."

"Perhaps I should send a note to Mr. Fletcher, his valet. He and I have become well acquainted over the years."

Darcy stepped into the familiar Brook Street library as the butler announced his presence.

"Darcy, old man! What brings you here at this late hour?" Richard clapped his cousin on the back. "Sit down." He gestured to a pair of tapestry upholstered chairs before the mantle.

One glance at Richard told Darcy something was very wrong. His cousin was well into his cups. "My apologies for the late call. I had business with my solicitor and wanted to see how you were getting on."

"I am well satisfied with my arm's condition, thanks to my excellent doctor. I expect him back within the week. Will you join us for dinner to make his acquaintance?"

"Unfortunately, I return to Derbyshire in the morning."

"Cigar?" Richard held the burl wood cigar box open towards him before taking one for himself.

Darcy studied his cousin, wondering how to broach the subject of his uncharacteristic behaviour and slovenly appearance.

"So how do you regard your wedded state now that you are an old married man?" Richard poured two glasses of port before settling into the chair beside his cousin.

Darcy expelled a cloud of smoke. "I highly recommend it. It is amazing what the presence of a good woman can do for a man." He eyed his cousin and swirled his port. "You ought to consider it. You are not growing any younger."

"Ah! Well!" Richard puffed on his cigar in between words. "I have no objection at all." He waved his cigar in the air leaving a trail of smoke. "Show me a woman the calibre of your lovely wife with a thirty-thousand-pound dowry, and I shall be at the altar directly."

The two men chuckled.

Darcy turned more serious. "You will not find a wife while holed up in this house drinking yourself into a stupor. The Season has several weeks yet; you should consider showing yourself around Town. I assume you have no lack of invitations. Your charm and happy manners should afford you the pick of the Ton."

Richard's mien darkened. "I care nothing for those gilded, pretentious women to be merely an ornament about my neck. It would strangle me. A simple country girl with good sense and a handsome dowry shall suit me fine."

Darcy leaned forward in his chair to confront the eyes of his cousin. "That does not appear to be your only concern. You have consumed an excess of alcohol. By the looks of you, this has been a habit for some time."

Richard sat back expelling a breath.

"Is it the injury?"

Richard took a deep drag on his cigar, then expelled the smoke with his words. "That and-- Damn it, Darcy." He palmed the chair's arm. "I am thirty-one years old, and what do I have to show for it?"

Darcy put his hand on his cousin's shoulder. "Get a hold of yourself. Do you recall last summer when I was crying in my tea over Elizabeth? You roughed me up a bit to bring me to my senses. I took a hard look at myself, made some changes, and a few months later Elizabeth herself arrived at Pemberley."

The clock on the mantle chimed the hour.

"I have an early morning." Darcy rose. "Will you join us for an extended stay at Pemberley? Georgiana speaks often of you."

Richard stood and shrugged his shoulders. "I shall consider it." Bidding his cousin a good evening, he flicked the butt of his cigar into the fireless grate.

Alone again, Richard resumed his post at the window. Get a hold of himself? Get a hold of himself for what? Darcy had Elizabeth, Georgiana, and Pemberley. And when he tired of Pemberley, he could come to his home in London or travel anywhere he liked. Richard looked at his glass, then swallowed a mouthful of the soothing liquid. Darcy had been free to have any woman of his choosing--rich or poor. And he had no father frowning on his every turn. Mulling over the thoughts for a time longer, he drained his glass... and then the decanter.

"Mr. Scott! It is so good to have you back, sir." Matthew sensed both concern and relief in Mrs. Cooper's voice as she pulled him in from the July twilight.

"Is there trouble, Mrs. Cooper?" The butler took his hat.

"Sir," her voice was low as her eyes darted back and forth to ensure their privacy, "it is the colonel!"

"Is he ill?"

She shook her head, but her wide-eyes warned him that something had changed in his absence.

"Scott!" They heard the booming voice as the colonel rounded the corner. "You're back. Join me in the library for a drink, and tell me all about your venture."

Fitzwilliam's dishevelled appearance and the dark circles under his eyes did not escape Matthew's attention. He glanced back at the housekeeper before turning to his friend. "Yes, well... it is good to be back." The two entered the library.

"Sit down." Richard indicated the chair that Darcy had vacated four nights before. "May I pour you a glass?" He held up the crystal decanter. "Fine stuff."

"N--no. No, thank you." Clearly something had changed in his six-weeks absence.

"Would you like some refreshment? Tea perhaps?"

"Yes, tea would be fine." Matthew spoke over his shoulder.

Richard rang for the tea and dropped beside him with his glass. "Did you locate anything suitable?"

"After all the delays, I toured several homes but found nothing I plan to pursue."

"Perhaps south of Plymouth in Fowey or Exmouth you may find something more to your liking. I have a distant cousin there. I hear it is popular for sea-bathers."

"I may make inqui--". He broke off his words, shaking his head in scolding. "Fitzwilliam, we have been friends for some time now, and I am your physician as well. I cannot dismiss the evidence before me as if nothing has changed in my absence. Clearly you are troubled for you to--"

"Damn it! Not you as well. Darcy already raked me over the coals. Can a man not have a few drinks with his thoughts and be left in peace?"

"Certainly he can." Matthew reminded himself to remain calm. "But perhaps it would be wise to consider if his thoughts were merely accompanied by pleasant drink, or if the pleasant drinks were merely accompanied by the thoughts. In the past I have known you as the former; today, it appears, and I am told, it is the latter. I have not known you to be a man of excessive libation--until now."

"Why should it matter to you how I spend my days? You have your violin, your inheritance, and are on your way to the seaside for a new life. What do I have?" He raised his hands and shrugged his shoulder. "A scarred arm, a meagre army pension, and the expectation that I marry well." He spoke the latter with sarcasm, slapping his palms on his thighs.

Fitzwilliam was feeling sorry for himself. Half the men in England would give their arm to have the life the colonel enjoyed. What he needed was a change of heart, but in his semi-intoxicated state, now did not seem to be the time for a rational conversation. Matthew rose and spoke calmly. "I shall refresh myself upstairs. Please have the tea tray sent to my room." With a thin smile and nod, he took his leave. Struck with a thought as he passed through the door, he halted, then spun around and targeted his eyes into Fitzwilliam's. "Sometimes I pray." He shut the door.

"Damn!" Richard kicked a small footstool, sending it clattering across the floor. He raked his hand though his hair and noticed a fresh port spill on his sleeve. More expletives escaped with a grunt. Parking his glass, he dabbed the spot with his handkerchief, then walked to the window, fuming. How dare they! What problem is it of theirs?

The problem is you, he heard from the inner recesses of his mind.

His shoulders slumped as he let out a deep breath. The problem is me? he asked, testing the validity of the statement. Is the problem me? He braced a hand against the window frame and stared out, contemplating the idea.

The next morning, Richard studied the ceiling in silence as Godfrey removed the night's traces of whiskers. The admonishments of Darcy and Scott had left him unsettled in both mind and body.

In his foul state, he had no intention of breakfasting with the doctor in their usual fashion. Thinking a brisk walk might bring some clarity to his inner turmoil, he sought the kitchen for nourishment before quietly slipping out the door.

The out of doors arrested his senses with a gentle summer breeze, the buzz of activity, and the cacophony of sounds. He had only been out on a handful of occasions since his arrival more than three months prior.

All right Darcy, I am getting out. Does that please you?

Having nowhere in particular to go, he headed for a nearby park, tipping his hat with a feigned smile to various passers-by. Everyone appears purposeful. Do any feel as adrift as I? "Get a hold of yourself." Darcy's words echoed in his mind. How do I get a hold of myself? Do I have the strength, the will to get a hold of myself?

His thoughts were then silent as he approached the park. Carriages rattled by, and couples passed in pleasant conversation, leaving him keenly aware of his own solitude.

He circled the pond, taking in the serenity of the expansive grounds. Sitting on a bench, he watched in amusement as two children attempted to fly a kite in the sparse breeze. At last the elder boy had it airborne in the overcast sky, the smaller girl running behind with shrieks of pleasure at their success. An image flashed in his mind--a long forgotten memory of another young boy flying a kite across a Derbyshire field and a certain brown-haired girl running behind.

A rush of emotion overcame him as he recalled the occasion. That was the first incident that had bound him to Charlotte. After that, he had always sought her out during those long-ago days of his childhood playing and riding at her aunt's. They became the best of friends. Without thinking, he reached for the stone.

His pocket was as barren as his heart.

Dropping his chin, his focus turned inward, and he heard Darcy's words again. "Get a hold of yourself... I took a hard look at myself, made some changes...." And then the words of Scott came to mind, "Consider if the thoughts were merely accompanied by pleasant drink, or if the pleasant drinks were merely accompanied by the thoughts.... Sometimes I pray."

The last three words pierced his soul like a knife thrust in his chest and pressed a gasping breath from his lungs. Something akin to a dam broke inside. Tears sprang to his eyes. Oh, Lord, I cannot do it! I have nothing. I feel hopeless. I know not how to get a hold of myself. I am an utter failure. All the wrong that I have done... God, forgive me... There is nothing left of me but a broken man filled with sorrow.

The truth of his confession reverberated throughout his being. Eventually his mind filled with recollections of nearly forgotten childhood lessons from Grandmother Fitzwilliam--a loving God who gave His Son to redeem mankind. I need redemption. I cannot save myself. I need You--take me. If You can do something with me, I am Yours. He released a pent-up breath, blinked back the tears, and scanned his surroundings, expecting an audience to have witnessed such an unlikely event. Yet everything was as it had been. The only change had happened inside of him.

Unsure what else to do, he rose and resumed his stroll. The knot inside began to loosen. A smile curled his lips, and he nearly chuckled out loud. I gave my life to God today. His burden felt a bit lighter; a ray of hope kindled within.

Rounding the corner to his family's home, the sun broke through the parted clouds, illuminating the way before him.

As he entered the house, he was struck with an unexpected inclination that propelled him to a cabinet in the library. Retrieving a large wooden box, he placed it on a nearby table. He took two steps back and stared at the object for a moment, afraid of the contents within. Before proceeding, he raised his left arm to perform the circular exercises. He winced at the pain caused by the stretch as he had neglected the prescribed motion for over a week.

With it stretched, he stepped back to the box, unlatched it, and threw back the lid. There it was. His cello which he had not seen in more than ten years. His father had insisted he take lessons that he might accompany his brother, who played the violin. Andrew was an excellent musician and took great pleasure in it. For Richard, it was a symbol of discord with his father. He had been coerced to learn, not for his own enjoyment, but to enhance Andrew. When the family had guests, the brothers were called upon to perform. Richard hated the niggling over his attire and the expectation that he make a good impression. He felt like a horse on display whose teeth were being inspected to judge its worth. Naturally he perceived that his brother was always deemed the more valued.

He lifted the instrument and smoothed its graceful curve with his hand. Sitting, he plucked the strings one by one to tune it, then glided the bow across the strings. As the familiar, resonant sound filled the room, he stopped, unsure he wanted to continue. His father was not there. He was not bound to play. He could stop whenever he pleased.

He drew the bow again, this time playing a familiar melody, and found it satisfying. He went back to the cabinet, brought out a stack of music, and chose a simple piece. Soothing sounds flowed again.

An hour later, Mrs. Cooper appeared at the door. "Sir! I had to see for myself. I had forgotten you played."

Leaning the cello against his shoulder, he flexed his sore fingers. "Yes, it has been many years."

"Will you and Mr. Scott be attending the opera this evening and dining out?"

He had forgotten about the opera. The Season would be over soon. "I believe so. Thank you."

His conscience prodded him to apologize to his friend. He returned the instrument to its place in the cabinet, ascended the stairs, and tapped on the physician's door.

"Come in."

Richard hesitated before turning the knob, uneasy with the forthcoming encounter.

"Fitzwilliam!" The physician's greeting was warm.

"Scott." Richard nodded, remaining solemn. He dropped his gaze to gather his courage before addressing his friend. "I must apologize for my behaviour last night. I want you to know I have taken your three word admonition to heart."

A slow smile stretched across the doctor's face. "Ah, so you have sought the Master?"

"I have." His mien remained sombre.

Approaching him, Scott placed his hand on his shoulder. "Giving my life to God was the best decision I ever made. My life has not been the same since. I am truly pleased for you."

Richard returned a weak smile.

"But I have a confession, Fitzwilliam. Last night I said sometimes I pray. The truth is, I seek the Master every day, a standing appointment of sorts." The doctor clapped him on the back. "Now, shall we go downstairs? I'd like to have a look at that cello you had humming a bit ago."

Chapter Nine

Posted on 2013-09-30

Over the next week, Richard made a point to avoid the library and the crystal decanter. Instead, he spent the mornings out of doors, the afternoons with his cello, and his evenings in the company of Scott. And though he lacked eloquence, he talked to God when he thought about it.

One morning he had already finished his breakfast and had the newspaper open when Scott walked in. The doctor served his plate from the sideboard and took a seat.

Richard looked up from his paper. "What keeps you sequestered in your room every morning till precisely ten o'clock?"

Scott spread his napkin across his lap and lifted his fork. "I consider the hour from nine until ten my most profitable of the day." He took a bite of his eggs.

"The most profitable? Oh, pray do enlighten me of this grand secret of yours," Richard replied with a facetious smile.

"Nourish the body, nourish the soul. I spend the hour from nine to ten o'clock before the fire seeking Him and reading what He has to say to me. It brings surprising wisdom and clarity to my life. It was during one such hour months ago that I made the fateful decision to tour London and in another, to nurse the captain aboard the blockade patrol ship. During yet another, I decided to join you here in London. Each careful decision has guided me here to this place at this time."

Richard raised his eyebrows and nodded. "A novel idea."

"The post has arrived, sir." The footman approacehed Richard and extended a silver tray bearing the correspondence, then moved to Scott.

Richard shuffled his letters. Recognizing his mother's hand on one, he broke its seal, anticipating trivial news from Matlock or perhaps details on her renovation plans. He swallowed a swig of coffee and smiled at the pleasantries relayed in the first sentences but nearly choked at the reality of the next words. His father had been forced to sell Caesar to cover his brother's gaming debts. Andrew, how could you be so foolish! He looked up, envisioning his father's prize horse at auction. But his shock was soon replaced with a smirk. Ah, finally. How the mighty have fallen. Viscount Royston is not the perfect son after all, is he, Father?

He settled back for more news of Andrew's woes. So it is rumoured that Lady Royston has taken her affections elsewhere, after just three years of marriage. Hmm...My high society sister-in-law may be handsome and accomplished, the pick of the Ton Father had said, but I would not have had her even had she come with a dowry of a hundred thousand pounds! He read on. No, Mother, I have not heard the gossip here in Town. I have hardly been out...

With a sigh, he unfolded the second letter, looking to the signature to clarify its author. Colonel Johnston. What has Wickham done now... Oh, so the scoundrel tried to get transferred to a regiment in a larger town? No surprise there. He read on about the rake who had married Mrs. Darcy's sister. What? Held for questioning under suspicion of robbing a countess? Ho-ho! If he is guilty of that, it could mean the end. He smiled, picturing Wickham dangling from a gallows. Coming back to himself, he took another sip of coffee as the clock struck the hour. Darcy should be informed, but he had several appointments on behalf of his mother for her redecorating projects. He refolded his letters and rose, leaving Scott in deep concentration over his own correspondence. "Excuse me, I have business to attend."

Sometime during the night, Richard awoke with a start. With sweat dotting his brow, his breathing came hard. He settled back onto the pillow, relieved that it was only a dream. Relaxing, he took several deep breaths to clear away the images. He and another vaguely familiar soldier had been the sole witnesses at a gallows. Tattered and dirty, both were hungry. Ravenously hungry. Draped in a hood, the condemned's hands dripped with blood. Just before the shrouded figure's head was threaded into the noose, the hood fell away. It was Wickham. Richard gasped as the man's piercing eyes locked on him. He could feel accusation and judgement directed at him. There was blood on his hands as well. He was guilty, though he knew not the specific charge. As he and the other uniformed soldier fled to escape, he brushed his hands against his white breeches to remove the evidence of his guilt, but his hands still dripped with blood. When he tripped and fell, he awoke.

The next morning, memories of the night's dream left him uneasy. With the previous day's revelations about Wickham and his brother swimming in his head, he proceeded to the library. Absently he pulled the crystal stopper from the decanter. Looking up, he caught sight of the pair of chairs before the fire and froze as he recalled the recent admonitions from Darcy and Scott. He palmed the stopper back into place and strode to the wooden case, resting in the corner. Lifting the instrument, he caressed the curve of the wood with his hand. The letter informing Darcy of Wickham could wait.

An hour later, he pulled the bow across the strings one last time before resting the cello and, looking up, discovered Scott propped against the door frame. A slow, patronizing clap echoed through the room as the doctor smiled and nodded, conveying his approval. "You are becoming quite accomplished on that cello."

Richard swiped his brow. "With the hours I have spent at it this last week, I should be."

The doctor took the chair opposite him and propped his forearms on his knees. "I have a proposition." He met Richard's eyes. "I have heard again from Scotland. The delay is cleared, and I may begin the execution of my aunt's will. Why not join me?"

"Well, I--"

"As your doctor and friend, I think a change of scene and fresh Scottish air would do you well. Fishing is outstanding this time of year, and I would be happy to point you to the best spots in New Galloway."

"I do have a weakness for fishing which has not been indulged for some time."

"Excellent. We shall leave by the week's end."

That night, just before dawn, the dream repeated itself. But this time when the hood fell away, it was his brother facing the noose. He felt the same piercing of eyes, the same assurance of guilt, and saw the same bloody hands.

He rose from the bed as if to escape the dream's proximity. He dropped into the chair before the fireless grate and stared blankly. He could not seem to avoid reflecting on the apparition and seeking its meaning.

The unsettling dreams had followed the letters from his mother and Colonel Johnson, bringing to light the transgressions of Wickham and his brother. Yes, they were guilty. There was blood on their hands. But his hands were bloody with misdeeds of his own. He sobered at the realization. Seeing the faults of others was easy. In the future, he would take care not to gloat so quickly over the failures of others.

Though the repairs from the fire were completed while the men were away, Richard's mother had adjured him to oversee the redecorating of the dining and drawing rooms. So after two glorious months in Scotland fishing to his heart's content, Richard left Scott and returned to London as the leaves began their shift in colour. A shift had also begun in his own life. Sharing a room with Scott at the only inn in New Galloway, the colonel could not help but observe his friend's daily standing appointment before the fire and acknowledge its value.

Matthew's time in Scotland had been beneficial as well. He had enjoyed angling with Fitzwilliam when time had allowed, but he had also been influenced by what he had seen at the orphanage to which his aunt had left a considerable sum. Without family himself, there was a deep sense of satisfaction, knowing that he had played a small part in the care of unfortunate children.

With his aunt's estate settled, Matthew rejoined Fitzwilliam in mid-October, bearing a bank draft attesting to his inheritance. Soon he would have a home by the sea and be on his way to a new life...or so he thought.

A few weeks after Michaelmas, Anne came down with a wretched sore throat. She was abed for several days before Charlotte was permitted in her company.

Submitting herself to her friend's remedies, Anne slowly improved, but the illness had taken its toll. Her gowns, now loose, hung on her thin frame, and she was too weak for outings in the phaeton. Charlotte continued her weekly visits to Rosings to practise the pianoforte and call on her frail friend. When Charlotte began feeling continuously queasy and this time felt sure she was with child, Anne was the first to hear the news. The friendship was precious to them both.

But everything changed when a flu epidemic ravaged Hunsford. Tired herself and busy morning to night attending the ill, Charlotte had no time for calling on her recuperating friend.

One morning in early November, Lady Catherine motioned away the maid as her daughter sat before her dressing table. "Anne, I have decided you are going to London."

"London?" Anne turned around on the tufted stool.

"With your weak constitution, it would be imprudent to have you remain here in the midst of all this rampant illness unless we should lock you away from even the servants, which I refuse to do. Although the air of London is rather foul, the town is a bearable travelling distance for you. I have already written to your cousin Fitzwilliam. He is in Town, you know, recovering from..." she waved her hand in the air, "some sort of wound. His arm, if I recall."

"What about Aunt and Uncle Matlock?"

"It is too far. Besides there is no reason why your cousin shan't make you an offer of marriage. I suspect this injury may put an end to his career, so he would be prudent to settle down. He is well of marriageable age, and your dowry should suit him nicely. Since Darcy married...that woman, I have decided that my other nephew will do for you, and I believe I could well tolerate him as a son-in-law."

"But, Mother--"

"No! The matter is settled. You shall leave with Mrs. Jenkinson in the next few days when you can best bear the journey. Then you shall remain in London until the illness has passed."

"What of you? Shall you come as well?"

"Absolutely not. I am needed here. Since I dismissed the steward, my presence is necessary. I take my duty to this estate seriously, and I will not leave its management to chance over some trifling illness. See to it that your maid has your things readied." She closed the door behind her, leaving no room for a reply.

Richard folded the newspaper and laid it beside him on the settee. "So, Scott, when do you plan to retire to the seaside?"

Scott cast a cautious glance over his book on sea turtles. "Are you suggesting I have overstayed my welcome?"

"Absolutely not. Stay as long as you like."

The doctor toyed with the corner of his book. "Truth be told, I have spent untold hours before the fireplace in that room upstairs contemplating the same question. Was I mistaken? Is a home by the sea the wrong course of action? The whole process has been fraught with delays. On my return trip from Scotland, I made some inquiries and nearly purchased a home not far from the Lake District. But something about it did not sit well with me. I would have been making a choice merely for the sake of settling the issue. My conscience would not allow me to proceed. Besides," he flashed a smile, "I would miss the arrival of your cousin. When is she expected from the country?"

"Sometime in the next day or so."

"Perhaps she will enhance the company of two bachelors, eh?" Matthew raised his eyebrows.

"Well..." Richard tried to recall Anne enlivening any gathering.

"She is disagreeable?"

"No--not exactly."

"Well, what is it? She is your cousin."

"She is.... She..."

"Perhaps we should begin with something simple. Do her features favour yours?"

"Not at all. Her hair is dark, like ebony. And she is rather...shy..." He gazed into the distance, struggling for words.

"You mean to tell me that you have visited your cousin nearly every Easter, and all you can say is that she has raven locks and is reserved?"

"I suppose." Anne had a way of fading into the furniture whenever her mother was present, which had been most of the time. What was his abiding memory of her? "She is very kind... Oh--and she is ill. Sickly. Always has been. But mostly she is just..., well," he shrugged his shoulders, "Anne."

Matthew shook his head. "From what you have told me about your aunt, surely she saw to it that her only daughter was well-accomplished. Does she draw? Play the pianoforte or sing?"

"Not that I am aware of."

"Ah." He nodded his head. "So she is dull and unsightly, and you are too polite to say so."

"I believe she enjoys poetry." At least he could recall one distinguishing aspect of her.

"That is certainly in contrast to you," his friend teased.

Two days later, Matthew gathered his hat and gloves, intending to visit the bookseller. As he exited the house into the bleak November chill, a tiny hunched woman, wrapped in a blue cloak, and her middle-aged companion tentatively ascended the home's first two steps. Seeing that they appeared unsteady, he rushed down as he addressed the elder, "May I assist you, madam?"

The hood rose, and two very large, sapphire-blue eyes of a much younger woman than he expected met his inquiry. He was startled at his own misjudgement.

"Yes, thank you. I am feeling rather weak." A warm smile lit her pale face.

"Forgive me, ladies. I am Mr. Scott, physician to Colonel Fitzwilliam." He bowed his head.

"I am Miss de Bourgh, Fitzwilliam's cousin. This is my companion, Mrs. Jenkinson."

He nodded to each in turn. "May I?" He offered his arm. There was something about her eyes--they reflected a sort of gentle, warm smoothness.

As he guided her ascent, he concentrated on her small hand upon his sleeve. Was her arm trembling? Perhaps she had contracted the flu in Kent and was not merely sickly as Richard stated.

Once inside, Richard greeted the visitors. "Cousin! Mrs. Jenkinson. We were unsure when to expect you. I trust you have met my physician and friend, Mr. Scott?" He bent to kiss his cousin's cheek.

"Yes, he was kind enough to assist me up the stairs. I am feeling rather fatigued after our trip."

"May I offer you ladies some refreshment in the drawing room? Perhaps some sustenance will revive you."

Anne stiffened. "Oh--no!" she stammered. "Perhaps you could have a tray sent to my room, and then I might rest a bit."

"As you wish. You ladies will join us for dinner then?"

"We shall. But only for dinner, thank you. As you are aware, I retire immediately following the evening meal."

With her cloak removed, Matthew appraised the object of his miscalculation. Indeed she was thin, almost frail, yet she looked to be close to him in age. Ebony hair, yes, but the style was austere--unbecoming. Her gown was unattractive as well. Although of the finest quality, its dull green was more suited to her middle-aged companion. She was not particularly handsome, yet her countenance spoke of deep character. And her eyes were enchanting despite her clearly being unwell.

Later that afternoon, the doctor returned from the booksellers with several parcels and found Richard practising in the library.

"Just the man I want to see." Scott laid his books on a table and unwrapped some music. "How would you like to perform a duet with me? It would give your cousin something interesting to listen to and would provide a purpose for our practise."

Richard scratched his head, recalling the scrutiny had he felt when his father had expected a performance. "I might be up for that so long as I am not required to don my finest, and the audience is not allowed to inspect my teeth."

The doctor handed Richard the music and chuckled in spite of missing the comment's underlying meaning.

Half an hour later, Anne appeared at the door, followed by Mrs. Jenkinson. "That was lovely, gentlemen," she said, her voice barely audible.

"Come in, Cousin." Richard held out his arm to bid them entry. "Join us until dinner is announced."

Passing the small table, Anne picked up the two books there before settling herself next to her companion on the settee.

"The colonel tells me you enjoy poetry, Miss de Bourgh. I do as well. I was just at the bookseller's this morning to purchase those." He pointed with his bow. "Are you fond of Wordsworth and Coleridge?"

"Yes, both of them." She shyly focused on the books, turning them over in her hands.

"I daresay the sparse selection of poetry you found in our family library prompted those purchases today, eh, Scott?" Richard teased.

The doctor laughed. "It seems you Fitzwilliams are more interested in ancient history and Latin than in poetry or marine life."

Anne's head rose abruptly at the mention of the last subject, capturing Matthew's attention.

"Are you fond of marine life as well, Miss de Bourgh?"

"Oh, yes!" Though her voice was timid, her blue eyes sparkled.

"Are you much familiar with the sea?"

"We often went to the seaside on holiday when I was a child, as my parents hoped it would improve my health. My father loved the sea and shared his particular interest in its creatures with me."

"I heartily agree with your father. I have found no place that is so beautiful or endlessly fascinating."

Dinner was announced, and the four enjoyed happy company. At its conclusion, Anne retired with Mrs. Jenkinson, and the men removed themselves to the library for their usual port, cigars, and chess.

The next morning Mrs. Jenkinson had just seated Anne in the breakfast room when the gentlemen entered, discussing the condition of the colonel's arm.

"Yes, the spot here." Fitzwilliam nodded to Scott as he touched his shoulder near his armpit and rotated his arm.

"Does it still pain you, Cousin?" Anne's gaze followed them into the room.

"Thanks to Scott, it is not so much painful, but it is tight. It must be stretched daily to maintain its mobility."

Stepping from the sideboard, Anne's companion set a plate before the frail woman.

"Are you feeling refreshed this morning, Miss de Bourgh?" Matthew wondered how anyone could be sustained on so meagre a portion.

"Actually I am still quite fatigued. I believe I shall lie down after our meal."

"Mr. Scott and I were considering a trip to the British Museum this afternoon. Would you ladies care to join us?" Richard put a roll from the sideboard onto his plate.

"Thank you, but I fear I am not up to it." Her face appeared tired under the weak smile.

Richard dropped into a chair before his steaming plate. "Perhaps you will join us again another time. I hear they have an outstanding display of Greek and Egyptian sculpture which I have not seen. Even the Rosetta Stone is there. You may recall having read about it in the newspaper several years ago."

Matthew swallowed his coffee. "Yes, and there is a collection of exotic objects from Captain Cook's 'round the world voyages."

Mrs. Jenkinson sliced her ham. "With your love of the sea, Mr. Scott, what brings you to London rather than aboard a naval vessel?"

"I have recently retired and plan to take a home by the sea. As fond as I am of the water, my distaste for cramped spaces has discouraged my desire to take lodging on it."

Richard looked to Anne. "How is Hunsford faring through the flu epidemic?"

"Quite poorly, I am afraid. It seems especially rampant."

Matthew's keen observation did not miss her alarming signals. She picked at her sparse meal, her cheeks were pale, and her hand held a slight tremor. When she rested her utensils and laid aside her napkin he offered, "Should you like to peruse Wordsworth while you rest?"

"I would, thank you."

After retrieving the book from the drawing room, he found the frail woman lingering on the third step, leaning heavily on the matron.

"May I help you, Miss de Bourgh?"

Catching an anxious glance from Mrs. Jenkinson, he bounded up the three steps, not waiting for the young woman's reply. Supporting her small frame between the two of them, they reached her room at last. Though breathless, she seemed reluctant to admit him.

After seeing her seated, he paused in the middle of the room. "I am aware that I may appear as little more than a stranger to you, but I am a physician and am quite concerned about your condition. Might you allow an examination to determine a course to aid in your recovery?"

Matthew saw apprehension in her expression. "I suppose... perhaps after your museum visit."

He smiled. "Until then, madam. Enjoy your rest."

Posted on 2013-10-03

As the sun set beyond Hyde Park, the carriage rattled along the city's cobblestones, returning Scott and Fitzwilliam to the townhouse.

"Splendid exhibit, wouldn't you say, Scott? It is funny how, as a resident, one misses the attractions so alluring to tourists."

"I am glad you were able to join me. It is unfortunate your cousin was not feeling up to the venture."

The two rode several minutes in silence while Matthew contemplated Miss de Bourgh. At last he spoke. "Fitzwilliam, has your cousin always been in such poor health?"

"Now that you mention it, she does seem particularly weak."

"So she is not normally this delicate?"

"Correct. Granted, I have not seen her in over a year, but when I last saw her, she could manage the stairs with ease and was more generous with her speech."

"She has consented to an examination. Have you any objection?"

"No. I would be obliged for your assistance."

The men rode the rest of the way in silence, Matthew mulling over the symptoms he had observed from Miss de Bourgh.

Once home, Matthew knocked on the patient's door. Her companion answered and indicated her charge was sleeping. Though the matron joined the men for dinner, Miss de Bourgh took a tray and asked not to be disturbed. Becoming more concerned over her condition, Matthew determined to see her in the morning.

Shortly before breakfast the following morning, Anne's maid found Richard behind the generous desk in the library. "Miss de Bourgh has requested your presence in her chamber, sir."

"She has asked to see me? In her chamber? You are sure it is not the doctor?"

"Yes, sir. She asked for her cousin."

Alarmed, Richard jolted back his chair, took the stairs two at a time, and was met by Mrs. Jenkinson's concerned expression.

"Richard." He heard Anne's mellow voice as she beckoned with a frail outstretched hand and a smile. As he took her hand, she drew him to sit in the bedside chair and dismissed her companion with a nod. Once alone, Anne began, "As you know, I have never been in good health. But with my recent illness at Michaelmas--Richard, I fear I may not be long for this earth."

He looked into her tired but peaceful eyes and started to protest, but she laid a calming hand on his arm.

"I am ready. I am at peace, but I worry about my mother. Will you look after her? I know she is difficult, but she loves you--you and Darcy."

"Of course I will." He placed his other hand over her small one then started to rise.

"There is one more thing."

He sank back into the seat.

"I have written a will--it is there on the desk. Will you help arrange for witnesses and a solicitor to ensure the legalities?"

"Well, uh, certainly, Anne."

She gently squeezed his arm. "I have left Rosings and everything to you. When my mother is gone, should you feel it in your best interest to sell the estate, I would understand."

Her expression assured him that she sympathized with his tortured attachment to Charlotte.

"I--I am touched by your kindness and generosity and know not what to say." He dropped his gaze, embarrassed at her awareness of the burden he carried.

"Find peace and happiness, Richard--a wife and family--knowing that your future is secure. And do not grieve for me. I am ready for a place free from infirmity."

He could see her weariness beneath her drawn smile. After squeezing her hand, he rose. "I will leave you now."

She gave a slight nod and closed her eyes.

He strode from the room and rapped on the doctor's door.

The knock startled Matthew from deep thought as he sat before the fire. His eyes read Richard's troubled expression. "What is it? What's wrong?" He snapped shut the thick book on his lap.

"It is Anne." Fitzwilliam stood with a dumbfounded expression. "She thinks she is--"

Matthew sprang from the chair. "What?"

"She thinks she is dying."

He proceeded past Fitzwilliam, jerked open the door and made for Anne's room. He would have forced his way in had Mrs. Jenkinson denied him.

He approached the bed where she appeared to be sleeping and touched her hand. "Miss de Bourgh, it is Dr. Scott."

Her eyes fluttered open and met his gaze with a weary smile.

"You are not well. Will you allow me to examine you? It shall require only your minimal cooperation."

Her nod was barely discernible before she closed her eyes.

He looked to her companion. "Tell me all you know about her condition."

In hushed tones, Mrs. Jenkinson explained how Miss de Bourgh had been of weak constitution since childhood and how she had suffered a difficult time recovering from a sore throat over a month ago. Herbal remedies from the rector's wife had provided temporary improvement, but her mistress had become steadily worse since the flu ravaged Hunsford.

"Has she any lumps or masses? Or complained of specific pain?"

"No. None other than the sore throat, but then she is gentle-natured and rarely complains."

After an exam, he could discern no obvious cause of her malady. A sore throat was hardly cause for death.

He stood back and pondered for a few moments. "You said she seemed to improve with some herbal remedies. Where are they?"

"Miss de Bourgh finished what the rector's wife had given her."

"So she stopped taking it?"

"Well, yes."

"How long ago?"

"Perhaps a fortnight."

"But prior to that she was improving?"

"Slowly, but yes."

"What was she taking?"

"I believe Mrs. Collins calls it echi--echinacea."

Matthew scratched his chin. "I am unfamiliar with it. Do you think it is possible her decline is a result of her discontinuing the substance?"

"I suppose it could, sir."

"I shall look into it. Thank you."

That afternoon, Matthew set about his task. After visiting several apothecaries, he finally found one who knew of the flowering plant which was commonly used by American Indians. The shop owner's wife, an American, had knowledge of its healing properties. Matthew acquired some of the remedy, and Anne took her first dose that night.

The next morning Anne appeared unchanged and Matthew feared for her life. If she did not improve by the next morning, they would have to send for the girl's mother. But by that evening, his patient reported feeling better. The next morning, she was able to sit up. Taking three doses a day, by the fifth day, Anne was able to join Richard and Matthews downstairs for brief periods of time. Slowly over the next two weeks, her colour and strength returned, though she remained frail.

One morning, towards the end of November, Matthew entered the drawing room and stopped short. "Miss de Bourgh! Mrs. Jenkinson. Pardon my interruption. I believe I left my Picture of London guide in here." He retrieved the book from a side table.

Anne folded the book on her lap. "Did you have a particular attraction in mind, Mr. Scott?"

"I thought perhaps Westminster Abbey." He moved towards the ladies.

"It is lovely there. I went once as a young girl."

"Perhaps you ladies would like to accompany me, that is, if you are feeling up to it."

"I would like that very much, if it is not too cold outside."

"Excellent." He then squinted in the direction of her book. "Have you discovered a rare gem in the Fitzwilliam family library?"

She hesitated. "It is a journal. Just a small collection of poems I have penned, that is all."

There was more to this little woman than met the eye. "As you know, I am fond of poetry myself. May I?" He held out his hand.

"It is nothing, really."

"Please? My poetic ear longs to be soothed with words penned by a gentle heart."

Her blue eyes twinkled as she extended the book to him. "How can I resist such a kind sentiment?"

As he read, he was deeply touched by the profound insights expressed. A smile beamed as he finished the third short poem and met her gaze. "You have quite a talent here, Miss de Bourgh. I see several of your poems follow a spiritual theme. Is that important to you?"

"Yes. Very much. I have been changed by it."

"I believe we have much in common." He handed her the book. "It has changed me as well."

Their eyes united for a moment before she shyly cast hers down. His pulse quickened. Something had passed between them in that moment. Yes. There was more to her than met the eye.

"Checkmate." Fitzwilliam sat back. "That is the second game in a row. Where is your mind this afternoon?"

Matthew expelled a deep breath and shook his head. "It is your cousin. The physician in me seeks to solve her puzzle. It makes no sense. She should not have become so ill from a simple sore throat. And what about her seclusion after meals? Last night I thought our conversation rather stimulating. Yet we had hardly rested our forks when she grew anxious to retire. She did not appear particularly fatigued to me."

Fitzwilliam shrugged. "It has always been her habit to retire at the conclusion of a meal. On occasion it appears somewhat abrupt, although I have given it little thought."

Matthew's eyes narrowed, his mind enveloped in thought.

"Would you care to join me for a ride in the park?" Fitzwilliam slid his chair back from the chess board.

"No. Thank you. I don't believe my concentration will improve out of doors."

Fitzwilliam took his leave while Matthew stared, tracing his lips with his index finger. He reviewed every detail of her illness and searched his mind for possible explanations. The colonel's boots sounded on the stairs, and the entrance door slammed. He stared into the fire and recalled an occasion around an army campfire when a private had abruptly excused himself, drawing taunts from his comrades.

That was it! He clapped his hands on his head. How could he have been so blind? That she was a modest woman and his experience was with immodest men made no difference. It was the same malady.

He strode in search of Fitzwilliam's cousin with hopeful anticipation and found her in the drawing room, reading beside her companion.

"Miss de Bourgh, as your physician, might I have a word?" He tried to restrain his giddy optimism.

"Of course, Doctor." She smiled to the matron who moved to a chair a distance away and resumed her embroidering.

How could he approach so delicate a matter with a woman? And a high bred one at that. The sound of the ticking clock filled the silence. Clearing his throat, he perched on the settee's edge beside her and addressed her gently. "Miss de Bourgh," he nearly whispered, hoping her companion could not hear, "as a doctor, I am trained to observe my patients. And though you have not revealed details, I have noticed a certain behaviour that indicates a particular malady for which there is relief. Would you allow me the liberty of assisting you?"

Anne shifted, dropped her gaze, and blushed a deep red.

"Please do not be ashamed. I know that speaking of this is uncomfortable. I am aware you had no intention of discussing it with a gentleman, but I am a physician, and my only desire is to improve your health. Miss de Bourgh, after observing you this past month, I am fairly certain I know what has kept you ill these many years."

Her eyes met his with a pained, yet hopeful expression.

"Should I be correct, with a simple treatment, I would expect a full recovery. Have you ever disclosed the detailed nature of your chronic illness to a physician?"

She twisted her handkerchief as tears welled. Dabbing her eyes, she shook her head. "I have seen a doctor on a few occasions over the years, but my mother would not allow me to fully explain my... situation." Her lip quivered as she whispered, "It is ever so humiliating."

"I am sure it is." He dropped his gaze and paused before continuing. "Let me be sure I have observed correctly. Should any refreshment be served, you avoid food and take only a few sips of your beverage. And you excuse yourself immediately upon the conclusion of meals as eating always causes you to...uh...require immediate privacy. Is that correct?"

She nodded and closed her eyes, holding back her emotion.

"Miss de Bourgh, I believe you have a condition that is very common among soldiers. I have seen it many times. Although not so common among those of high birth such as yourself, I believe you have a severe case of parasites."

"Parasites?" She raised her teary gaze to his.

"Yes, impurities in the water cause the unfortunate problem from which you suffer. Your body is robbed of sustenance, and thus you are continually fatigued and weak. A simple sore throat can be overwhelming as your body has no strength to fight it. May I ask, are you particularly fond of water?"

"As a child, I was not fond of ale and often drank water. But you believe you can help me?"

"Yes. I am not fully certain that I have judged your condition correctly, but with the remedy being simple, there would be no harm in trying."

"What is the remedy?"

"A tea brewed from the wormwood plant. If I am correct, once you start on the tea, your... uh, problem should quickly cease. However, most people feel especially fatigued and ill during the first several days of treatment."

"I have been burdened with this nearly as long as I can recall. You cannot imagine how it pains me to be unable able to go anywhere or to join guests for music and games after dinner. It has been such an ugly secret!" Tears rolled down her cheeks. "I had resigned myself that I should never marry, or," she choked with emotion, "have children."

"If my diagnosis is correct, you shall be able to do all those things and many more--soon."

With stray drops still falling, she looked at him with a crooked but radiant smile and whispered, "Thank you."

"My pleasure. I shall procure the wormwood tomorrow, and you may begin the treatment right away. Might I suggest you prepare your maid? I expect you shall be feeling especially poorly for the next few days."

Ten days later, Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson joined the men for the first time after dinner. Although still weak, both she and the doctor were thrilled with her progress. To celebrate, the men played a few of the duets they had been practising. Their audience was most appreciative.

Later, while Anne and Scott debated a theological question and Mrs. Jenkinson embroidered, Richard began contemplating the upcoming holiday. Christmas was but a few weeks away, and his parents would be coming. His mother was most anxious to see her redecorated rooms and satisfy her curiosity over the repaired upstairs chambers. Richard dreaded the occasion. Though he would be happy to see his mother, the visit meant confinement with his father and the man's disapprobation.

But as it turned out, his mother caught a severe cold, and a particularly heavy snow caused them to decide against the journey, much to the dismay of Lady Matlock. Instead, the London party passed Christmas in a quiet but pleasant manner.

One morning just before the new year, the foursome breakfasted as was their habit. The doctor was deep in thought while Richard sipped his coffee and perused the newspaper. Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson were engrossed in quiet conversation.

"Fitzwilliam?" Scott shifted in his chair.

Richard lowered the newspaper and met his friend's eyes.

"Miss de Bourgh and I have arranged a sort of challenge."

"What sort of challenge?" Richard folded the paper.

"Until Twelfth Night, we have settled on a number of verses to memorize with a test at breakfast each morning. He who can accurately quote the most will be deemed the winner. Should you like to join us?"

"Well, uh..."

"The post has arrived, sir." Richard welcomed the footman's interruption. He removed his letters from the extended tray, darted his eyes to Scott's with a faint smile and mumbled, "I shall give it some consideration," before turning his attention back to his letters.

Without offence, Scott picked up the discarded newspaper.

Shuffling though his correspondence, Richard recognized Darcy's hand. He broke the seal, anticipating the usual news of his cousin's estate and Georgiana. Reading the first line, he could almost see Darcy's grin while penning the note. Elizabeth was with child.

Richard's next thought was of Charlotte and how she would take the news. He closed his eyes and winced for her. She had been married twice as long as Mrs. Darcy and had desired children when her friend had been little more than a child herself.

While he contemplated the news, the doctor lowered his paper and looked in Anne's direction. "Any news from Rosings, Miss de Bourgh?"

She sipped her prescribed tea. "Nothing much. Only that my mother has a slight cough, the flu has not abated, and the rector is thrilled with the chancel's new stained glass window. Oh, and my mother implores me to remain here until the illness passes." Their gaze met with a shared smile.

Hearing news of Mr. Collins, Richard raised his eyes, hoping for information regarding the rector's wife. Receiving none, he refolded his letters, chided himself for his lingering attachment to a married woman, and sought his cello.

After bidding her husband good night, Charlotte eased herself into bed, exhausted from having spent the day calling on the numerous ill parishioners. Before blowing out the candle, she read her brother's letter one more time and sighed. John had been home for a visit and learned that their father, having been swindled, had lost a substantial sum. Her family was now living in reduced circumstances, making Charlotte all the more thankful for her own secure situation. Placing a contented hand over the movement she felt inside her womb, she smiled. A grandchild was sure to bring some cheer to her parents. In a few months she would hold this little one, a dream she had nurtured for many years.

She picked up the letter from Lizzy. Her dearest friend was also with child. It was unfortunate they lived such a great distance apart. What a joy it would have been to share motherhood together. She was glad she had shared the happy news with Anne. Surely her friend would return in time for the birth. She thought of the loaned Fitzwilliam family cradle down the hall, taking pride of place in the spare room that would eventually become the nursery. A twinge of regret stabbed at her heart when she realized that Richard could have lain in it just a year before Anne.

Added to their now nightly poetry recitations, for the next twelve days, Richard was forced to listen to Anne and Scott go back and forth day after day at breakfast: "...And we know that all things work together for good...," "Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when the desire comes, it is a tree of life," and on and on. It wasn't that he objected, he just found the poetry all rather useless and dull, and their repetitive game occasionally annoying.

At last the morning came that would end their challenge with Mrs. Jenkinson as the judge. Richard read the paper as they rattled off verse after verse. It was Anne's turn. She began, "Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways--in all your ways--"

Richard lowered his paper and picked up, "In all your ways acknowledge Him and He shall direct your paths." He resumed his reading as if nothing unusual had happened. The other three gaped at him. Feeling their stares, he lowered the paper. "What?"

"What was that, Fitzwilliam?" The doctor raised his eyebrows. "We thought you were not participating in our challenge."

"I am not. But I am told I have a keen ear and a gift for memorizing. In the army, I was taught to listen carefully--the first time." He smirked while the others laughed.

As January melted into February, Matthew revisited the nagging questions of his life's direction as he sat before the fire in his room.

Why had he received no replies regarding his recent inquiries to seaside homes? More than nine months had passed since his withdrawal from the army. Had he missed something? He re-examined his every decision and motive but could find no obvious fault. He would just have to exercise a little of that trust and stop leaning on his own understanding.