Beginning, Previous Section, Section III, Next Section

Chapter Eleven

Posted on 2013-10-06

A sennight after St. Valentine's Day, Richard and his three house guests had just finished breakfast when a footman entered with an express for Anne. She examined the handwriting as she broke the seal. "It is from Mrs. Collins. I have not heard from her in some time. I wonder why she would be sending an express."

The mention of Charlotte's name drew Richard's gaze up from his coffee cup. As Anne read, her eyes widened and mouth fell open. His mind raced, anxious for the news. "What is it?"

All eyes turned to Anne.

She slowly lowered the post and spoke into the hush. "Mr. Collins is dead. My mother has been in an accident, and there are estate issues that need to be addressed. Charlotte knows not what to do and begs that I return to Rosings at once."

Richard heard little more than that Mr. Collins was dead. He winced at the stabbing pain he felt for Charlotte. Though Collins was a fool, he had provided her with stability.

"Richard, will you come with me? I--I would not know what to do. I never expected to be in this position. You and Darcy--"

"Of course I will help you." He laid a calming hand on her arm. "But we should leave at once." He turned to the doctor. "Would you care to accompany us to Kent, Scott? Your company and medical expertise would be much appreciated. My aunt is, shall we say, somewhat difficult. That there are unaddressed issues is alarming. She and her steward have always been fastidious in matters regarding the estate's care."

Anne's eyes beseeched the good doctor as well.

Scott glanced at Anne and then back to Richard. How could he refuse one who had been so kind to him? "If you think I might be of assistance, I shall gladly put myself at your disposal."

"Shall I send an express to Darcy?" Anne's shaking fingers attempted to refold the letter.

Richard traced his brow in contemplation. "Let us appraise the situation first. With our arriving by nightfall, an express can be sent tomorrow should his presence be deemed necessary. Pemberley is a fair distance, and Mrs. Darcy is nearing confinement. Knowing Darcy, he will not leave her unless he must."

Sitting low in the sky, the February sun cast its last waning rays on the imposing manor's plethora of windows as the carriage jolted to a stop. Richard abandoned the coach and took the generous steps two at a time, not waiting for a footman's assistance. Something was clearly amiss--more than merely a few days of neglect. In all his seasons visiting Rosings, never had so much as a blade of grass been out of place under the watchful eye of his aunt and her steward. Brushing past the butler into the spacious entrance hall, he discarded his hat as Charlotte swept down the stairs. Her tensed brow confirmed his fears.

Nearing him she began, "Rich--Colonel--"

Suddenly she slumped forward. Reaching out to steady her, he found both hands were required; in fact, her whole frame was limp against him. Had she fainted? For a moment he considered catching her up in his arms, but with his injury, he thought better of it. Damn arm, I can't even properly assist her. Instead, he gently eased her to the floor as the others appeared in the entrance hall.

Scott rushed in and knelt beside her to assess her condition.

"Parker!" Richard turned to the familiar butler taking Mrs. Jenkinson's travelling bag at the door. "What the deuce is going on?"

The elderly butler's expression was grave. "Illness, sir. The rector passed last week, the housekeeper is ill, and her ladyship is also unwell."

"Is my mother ill, Parker?" Anne removed her bonnet.

"She was in a carriage accident, madam. It was thought that a few days' rest was all she required, but Mrs. Collins has informed me of a worsening cough."

Scott looked up from Charlotte. "Is this woman ill?"

"Not that I am aware, sir. However, her tireless tending to her husband and the others stricken with the flu has undoubtedly depleted her strength."

Richard rose from the marble floor. "Are you certain she is not ailing as well? Any woman would be after what she has endured."

"When she called this morning to look in on the mistress, she had the appearance of health. Perhaps her tonics have sustained her. Apparently most of those who took them have satisfactorily recovered. However, both her ladyship and Reverend Collins refused what they called countrified remedies." He shook his head.

Lifting Charlotte, Scott broke in, "Let us remove this woman from the draught, then we shall see to her ladyship."

"She can rest upstairs." Anne turned to the butler. "Are any of the bedrooms readied?"

"Yes, Miss Anne. Mrs. Collins asked us to ready your room and Mrs. Jenkinson's. She suggested airing another should the colonel accompany you. I took the liberty of preparing his usual green room."

Anne moved to the stairs. "Excellent. We shall put Mrs. Collins in there. Please send someone to light the fire. And send Polly as well to attend her when she awakens. Mrs. Jenkinson, would you fetch my mother's smelling salts."

Ascending the stairs, she turned to Richard. "I hope you do not mind the arrangement. Putting Charlotte near my mother's chamber will make it easier for us to look after them."

Although he was surprised by his cousin's initiative, the thought of Charlotte lying on the bed he had always slept in left him unable to form an immediate reply.

Reaching the top of the stairs, a raspy, demanding voice met their ears. "Anne? Nephew? Is that you I hear?"

The cousins exchanged glances.

Anne motioned the men on and stepped into her mother's room. "Yes, Mother," was all they heard before she shut the door, and Richard and Scott proceeded down the hall.

Scott laid Charlotte atop the bed's familiar emerald counterpane. Richard took in her pale figure but noticed her black dress bulging at her breasts and stomach. He startled. Was she with child?

"Are you acquainted with this woman? She appears to be neither a relative nor a servant." Scott's darting eyes told Richard her condition had not escaped his notice either.

"Yes." His words floated on a sigh. "Mrs. Collins is, or was, the wife of the parish rector."

"The gentleman who passed last week?"

"The same."

"It appears she has had a difficult time lately." Scott rubbed his brows with arched fingers. "However, with no fever, I do not believe she is seriously ill. I daresay a week of rest is her best remedy." He moved to exit the room. "Shall we see to the other patient?"

Richard hesitated. He could not walk away from her just yet. "Ah, I shall wait for the maid. Mrs. Collins may be alarmed should she wake in an unfamiliar room."

Scott eyed him with suspicion. "Very well then. I shall be in with your aunt."

As soon as the doctor was out of sight, Richard stepped closer to the bed. He had not seen her in nearly two years. Despite her condition, he was struck with how beautiful she looked--like a sleeping beauty lying on his bed. Without thinking, he brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers, flinching when her eyes opened and fixed on his.

A relieved smile touched her lips. "Richar-"

Feminine footsteps focused their attention on the door, and he clasped his hand behind his back as Polly entered.

Richard cleared his throat. "Ah, it appears Mrs. Collins swooned. The doctor believes several days of rest are needed." He moved towards the door, his eyes lingering on Charlotte a moment longer. "Please see to it that she gets whatever she needs to be comfortable. We shall be in Lady Catherine's room."

Matthew met Miss de Bourgh coming from her mother's chamber.

"There you are. My mother has agreed to receive you. I believe Fitzwilliam has apprised you of her..." She dipped her head as if embarrassed to go on.

"Yes. There is no need to apologize." He drew her gaze up with a reassuring grin.

She returned a sheepish smile under dark lashes before opening the door. "Mother, may I introduce Mr. Scott, Fitzwilliam's physician?"

Matthew bowed, but the matron interrupted the introduction. "Where is my nephew? I am sure I heard his voice downstai--" She choked out the last word before lapsing into a fit of coughing muffled in her handkerchief. He moved closer to the gaudily draped bed.

When the coughing abated, the woman pointed a trembling finger to the table beside her. "Hand me that drink there, Anne."

"Mother, are you ill?" She passed her mother the glass. "We received news of an accident, but your cough--"

Just then Fitzwilliam appeared in the doorway, and she quickly swallowed her mouthful of liquid. "There you are, Nephew. Come and properly greet your aunt."

"Aunt Catherine!" Fitzwilliam feigned a cheerful voice and kissed her wrinkled cheek.

"Why was I not told of your arrival? To what do I owe this unwelcome surprise? I gave strict instructions for Anne to remain in Town until this flu had passed."

"We received word of an accident and came to oversee your care."

"It is nothing." She waved her handkerchief in the air dismissing their concern. "Merely a sprained ankle and some bruising. I shall be up and about in a matter of days."

Matthew's trained eye told him otherwise. Fitzwilliam was right. He could see this woman was going to be a handful. She was nothing like her gentle daughter.

"There was mention of some problems with the estate, Aunt."

"Tenant farmers." Her tone revealed her disgust. "Always applying for something or other. The more they are given, the more they require."

Richard ran his finger along the bed curtain's gold fringe. "Has your steward taken ill?"

"My steward?" She flicked her handkerchief again. "Heavens no. I dismissed him months--" The rasping coughing commenced again as the three visitors exchanged glances. When she could speak again, the matron went on, "I'd had enough of Murray's shenanigans. I'm sure he was a thief, always wanting me to invest in this or that, always requiring money--seed here, an extra gardener there, stonework, and the like." She fluttered the handkerchief with each demand. "And the projects! He must have spent his days dreaming up projects for the estate. New houses for the tenants, drainage ditches, new bridges. I never heard the end of it."

Matthew interjected with authority. "Perhaps we should refresh ourselves after our journey and allow you to rest, Lady Catherine. We can resume our conversation in the morning." She was working herself into a froth and needed to calm.

"If you insist. Anne, send for my maid or Mrs. Collins to sit with me."

"Yes, Mother." Anne curled a weak smile and squeezed her mother's hand before withdrawing with the gentlemen.

"Lady Catherine." Matthew turned back to her. "One more thing, if you would indulge me. As I am a doctor and you have been injured, would you ease my conscience by kindly allowing me to examine you?--for my own peace of mind, of course."

The lady eyed him for a moment. "Well, strictly for your own peace of mind. I come from the finest stock. I am sure you shall find..."

Matthew saw the cousins exchange amused glances as they passed through the door, leaving him alone with the patient.

Anne had turned towards the stairs when she heard her companion. "Miss de Bourgh, Mrs. Collins is awake, should you like to see her."

"I would, thank you."

Anne covered the short distance down the hall and entered the chamber. "Charlotte, you are awake. Are you feeling better?" She perched on the edge of the bed.

"Yes, for now." Charlotte pressed a weak smile. "Thank you for coming in such haste. I did not know what else to do. With Lady Catherine's accident, and now with my leaving, the tenants--"

"With your leaving? Whatever do you mean?"

Charlotte sighed. "Oh, Anne, the last few weeks have been so dreadful. With the loss of--" she swallowed hard before continuing, "Mr. Collins, and all the others ill, and then today..."

"What? What happened today?"

"I had been tending the ill all day. I came this evening to look in on Lady Catherine and the housekeeper. Although Mrs. Foster is much better, Lady Catherine expects she will be up and about in a few days, but I fear for her. I believe she is in danger of pneumonia. Before I could caution her, she pointed out that with Mr. Collins gone, she must appoint a new rector. She will offer the position to the curate as soon as she is out of bed and told me I must pack my things and depart within a fortnight. There are still so many taken with the flu. They come to the parsonage seeking my herbs day and night. What will they do? How can I be ready--"

"Charlotte, calm yourself," she interrupted, patting her hand. "Fitzwilliam is here. Surely he will help my mother see reason. He will help us work something out, I am sure."

She relaxed with a sigh. "I am sorry to have put you all to such trouble with my fainting as I did. I had just received the edict from Lady Catherine, and my mind was aflutter when I met Colonel Fitzwilliam in the entry. Seeing him and knowing you had returned, I was overcome. Suddenly I felt weak, and then everything went black."

Even with her rounded figure, Anne thought she looked thin and pale. "For a woman in a family way, you look a bit drawn. Have you been ill?"

"N--No." She dropped her gaze.

"When have you last eaten?"

Charlotte's brows creased in thought. "Not since early this morning."

Anne smiled while nodding. "No wonder you swooned." But something in Charlotte's expression told her perhaps that was not all. "Is there something else?"

Her friend's gaze remained downcast.

"Charlotte?" Anne tried to draw her focus to no avail. "There is something else, isn't there. What is it? You can tell me. I am your friend."

A lone tear slid down her cheek.

"Charlotte, what is it?"

With a hand on her swollen womb, her face took on a faraway look and another tear escaped. "She was so tiny but so perfect. She could have fit into the palm of my hand." She wiped the tear as her voice quivered with her whisper, "I had waited so long; I wanted her so badly."

Anne could not believe it. Charlotte had lost the child. Her heart ached as she sat beside her friend and took her hand. "I am so sorry for your loss."

"And then Mr. Collins..." she sniffed, "I know he was peculiar, but he was kind enough and provided me a home and security. What will I do?"

Anne returned a sympathetic expression. With Charlotte's husband gone, she was left with nothing. "Well, for now, we shall get you something to eat and then a good night's rest. We can talk about it tomorrow, in a fresh day." She gave her hand a final pat and rose. "Are you feeling well enough to join us for dinner, or shall I have a tray sent up?"

"I believe I can join you and would welcome the company. Thank you."

Anne turned to leave but then turned back around. "Charlotte, you must take care of yourself. Mr. Scott is here with us. He is the one I wrote to you about, the one who is responsible for the remarkable improvement in my health. Will you allow him to examine you? I have every confidence in him." She could not help but smile broadly at the thought of him.

"I suppose--if you think it prudent."

"I do. I shall ask him to look in on you when he has finished examining my mother."

An hour later as Scott entered the drawing room, Richard turned from Anne and her companion and rose. "Welcome to Rosings, Doctor." He raised his hands and dropped them onto his thighs as his words dripped with sarcasm. "Clearly there is more going on here than meets the eye. A hornet's nest of sorts."

"Yes, and it is my opinion that your aunt is not so well as she would have us think." He took a seat opposite the cousins. "Her accident appears to have left her with no more than a sprain and bruising. However, she has a fever, and her lungs are not clear. At her age, with that cough, she is in grave danger of pneumonia."

Richard saw Scott's eyes shift to Anne, judging her reaction to the news. She appeared unmoved. Richard thumped a frustrated thumb on the chair's arm. "She admitted there has been no steward--for months, and I can well believe it. The grounds have not been kept with her usual fastidiousness. Tomorrow I shall make inquiries with the staff and tenants to assess the situation and determine whether we require Darcy's assistance. She will need a new steward immediately." He shifted before continuing, "Anne, before leaving for London, were you aware of any mismanagement or lack of care about the estate?"

"Though my mother mentioned dismissing the steward, I was unaware of anything unusual. But with my poor health, any inattention to the grounds would have escaped my notice."

Matthew brushed an invisible speck from his sleeve. "May I be of any assistance? Unfortunately, I know nothing of estate management, but surely there are other matters in which I might be useful."

"Mrs. Collins may need your further care. And my aunt will as well, if she will accept it. You witnessed how domineering and difficult she can be."

Scott smiled confidently. "Allow me to handle her ladyship. Part of being a good doctor is knowing how to delicately handle, uh, shall we say, opinionated patients."

"Mrs. Collins!" The men rose as Charlotte appeared at the door. "It is good to see that you are feeling better." Richard held out his hand in a welcoming gesture, trying to appear nonchalant in front of the others. "Please accept our sincere condolences on the loss of your husband." Richard's eyes held hers for an extended second before he bent a reverent bow.

Just then Parker announced dinner, and the party seated themselves at one end of the long, mahogany table in the lavish dining room.

Richard spread a white linen napkin across his lap. "Mrs. Collins, perhaps you can enlighten us. How long has Rosings has been without a steward?"

"Since early summer, I believe, sir. I do not mean to spread gossip, but I believe Lady Catherine and Mr. Murray had been at odds with one another for some time. She seemed to resist his suggestions for management. The tenants were particularly concerned about a bridge on the south side of the estate, and he repeatedly urged her to repair it. One day, when he approached her yet again, she became angry and dismissed him."

"Has she sought a replacement?" Richard sliced his beef.

"I do not know, sir."

Anne rested her knife. "Charlotte, do you know how my mother's carriage accident came about?"

"Several days ago, she insisted she be driven to the Harrison's tenant farm about a dispute, I believe. It required crossing that bridge on the south side. Her driver explained it was not safe. She insisted it was and demanded that he drive on. He did as ordered, and one side of the bridge collapsed under the weight of her heavy carriage."

The group looked wide-eyed at each other in disbelief.

Richard leaned forward. "So the very bridge she refused to repair was the one that fell under her?"

Anne's napkin flew to her mouth.

"Yes." Charlotte lowered her head and released a sigh. "She was fortunate indeed to have only minor injuries. The driver has a broken arm, and one of the horses had to be put down. I do not believe the carriage has been recovered."

They all sat stunned as Charlotte sipped her wine. "I do not mean to alarm you, but I am concerned that Lady Catherine could now be in danger of pneumonia."

"I believe you are correct, Mrs. Collins." The doctor wiped his mouth. "I examined her earlier this evening and saw clear signs of it myself. I find that puzzling as it appears to be unrelated to her carriage accident. I would not expect these symptoms to have developed with her only having been abed for a few days."

"She has had a cough for some time, Mr. Scott. She would not take the remedies I offered and was fortunate not to have contracted the flu that took my--," she hesitated, "that has so afflicted Hunsford."

Anne reached for Charlotte's hand and gave it a sympathetic squeeze.

Richard broke the silence. "Well, we have been quite enlightened. Thank you, Mrs. Collins, for your honesty, your care to Lady Catherine, and to the parish. It is unfortunate that my aunt did not summon us earlier that we might have been of more assistance."

"Charlotte, will you join us in the drawing room after dinner? Perhaps we can persuade Mr. Scott to play his violin." Anne raised her brows in question to him.

"Yes, 'tis so soothing," Mrs. Jenkinson added.

"I would be happy to play this evening. I believe it would do us all some good. Please say you will join us, Mrs. Collins."

"Well, perhaps for a bit." Charlotte smiled at Anne, affirming the improvement in her friend's health.

Anne returned a reassuring smile. "And then we insist you rest comfortably here for the night."

"Yes, thank you. Thank you all for coming."

Chapter Twelve

Posted on 2013-10-10

Richard lay awake just before dawn in an unfamiliar chamber. The image of Charlotte lying in his bed just down the hall teased his thoughts. And the news revealed since their arrival tangled in his mind, thwarting his return to slumber. With a grunt, he threw back the bedclothes and prepared for the day. As he strode to the stables in the early morning mist, his breath billowed out in white puffs.

"Colonel!" A young groom greeted him. "It is good to have you back, sir. We have certainly missed the oversight of you and your cousin this past year. Shall I saddle your usual mount?"

"Yes, thank you, Septimus," Richard mumbled.

Minutes later he guided the horse out of the stable yard and across the field. He pushed him as hard as he dared, hoping the rhythmic pounding of hoof beats would somehow set into order his fragmented thoughts. The biting air, stinging his face and burning his lungs, awakened his senses while the exertion released his body's tension. After riding a good hour, he was exhausted but refreshed at last.

Slowing the horse and dismounting at the familiar bend in a stream, he absently picked up a handful of stones. Still breathing hard, he cast them one at a time and watched them disappear into the flowing water. His mind went back to their arrival the afternoon before. The first sign that something was amiss had been a rusted main gate falling off its hinges. Then, the usually well-manicured shrubs were wanting for a trim, and blades of grass poked through the gravel drive.

Once in the house, more grave news had met him. His insides had jumped at the sight of Charlotte, though her countenance had reflected distress. And then the discovery that she was with child. Where would she go now? Home to Hertfordshire? Though it would be nearly unbearable for her, at least she would have the joy of a child. She had felt her age a burden before she married. Now she was two years older... and would be in mourning for another. Finding a man willing to take on a widow with a small child might prove difficult. Why couldn't she have been his? He had loved her for so long... Damn money and propriety! He hurled another pebble, and it plopped into the water.

What of Aunt Catherine? What a fool she had been to neglect that bridge! Her own greed had driven her to her bed... along with her stubborn refusal of herbal treatments. What if she were to die? How would he and Darcy look after Anne, Georgiana, and the estate? He cared nothing for Rosings--so large, opulent, and overdone. But there was his cousin's welfare to consider and that of the families who had farmed the land for decades. He tossed another pebble.

Mrs. Darcy was nearing confinement. Darcy would be unable to stay long. Whether his aunt returned to health or not, she had no steward... and the tenants were no doubt suffering, assuming the condition of Rosings was an indication of her attention to them. There was much to do on the estate. He raked his hand through his hair and released a heavy cloud of breath. His eyes drew upward as a new thought invaded: Lord, is this what You have for me? To stay here and untangle this mess? Darcy had taught him most of what he needed to know about estate management, and surely he would continue to guide him. What else did he have to put his hand to? With Napoleon in exile and the conflict in America concluded, though the medical board in London had declared him fit for service, he did not expect to be summoned for duty any time soon. Going home to his father in Matlock was an option. He dismissed the thought with a shudder.

Without realizing it, he heard a familiar refrain echo through his mind. Trust in the Lord with all your heart...

God, I know I said if You could do something with me, I was Yours--but can I trust You, now, in this?

He tossed the remaining stones into the water and returned to his mount. The abstract confusion he had felt when he arrived had been replaced with a tenuous sense of peace. Galloping away, he hoped that sense of peace could be sustained.

Richard spent the next few hours calling upon tenants and evaluating the estate grounds. When he returned to the stables, he went inside in search of a groom.

"Colonel..." Septimus stepped out from a dim stall as he strode by, "I trust you enjoyed your morning ride?"

"I did, thank you."

"Sir, if I may, there are some serious issues that need attention. Might I have a bit of your time when you have a moment?"

"Certainly. I see that--" Richard did a double-take, noticing a black stallion stamping in a stall. "What is this, Septimus? What is my aunt doing with a stallion?"

"Well, sir." The young man removed his hat, scratched his head, then resettled the cap. "I don't rightly know. He is one of those issues I wanted to speak with you about. A man appeared one day a few months ago with it tied behind his carriage. Apparently her ladyship took the beast in lieu of a debt payment. But we have no use for such a creature here. Pity it is too. Fine specimen he is. Itchin' to be rode. His name's Prometheus. I hear that means fire stealer. Trying to keep him in ship-shape--well, with Ruston and Smith gone, he's just more than we have time to accommodate here."

"Bring him out so that we may be properly introduced."

The groom led the stallion out of the stall and patted his sleek coat. "A real beauty, sir."

Richard approached the fine animal and rubbed his muzzle. When the horse relaxed, he scratched his ears and stroked his neck. "Perhaps later I will see just how much fire he can steal."

Returning to the house, Richard found the others lingering in Anne's favourite yellow parlour, relishing a spirited discussion, their breakfast long finished. He piled his plate with eggs, ham, and rolls from the sideboard before taking the vacant seat.

Scott turned from Anne to face him. "You rose early this morning. Godfrey said you were out for a ride just after sunrise."

"Yes. I awoke at dawn and needed fresh air. Fortunately, my morning has been productive. I have ridden over the estate's western side and spoken with several tenants. There is sufficient evidence of widespread neglect. Enough to warrant an express to Darcy."

Anne swallowed her tea. "With Elizabeth nearing confinement, do you suppose he will come? Were she to require him, it would be more than four days before he could be summoned and then make the return trip to Pemberley."

"Let us hope. Though he has instructed me well, my fledgling attempts would be no match for his experience. The neglect I have seen is alarming." He shovelled eggs into his mouth and glanced around the table. "How is Mrs. Collins this morning? And what of Lady Catherine?"

Mrs. Jenkinson smoothed the starched white tablecloth. "I saw Mrs. Collins leave for the parsonage earlier."

"When I examined your aunt this morning, she appeared unchanged, although her lungs may be more congested. Perhaps I should look in on her now." Scott laid aside his napkin and rose.

An hour later Richard pressed his signet ring into the hot wax of an express to Darcy and returned to the stables. He spent the afternoon becoming acquainted with the stallion, seeking out respected tenants, and making notes of his observations.

Returning at sundown, he was discouraged by what he had learned and eager for a warm meal. Soaking in a hot bath, he pondered how his aunt could have allowed such neglect. Despite his fatigue after dinner, the candle at his desk burned far into the night as he sorted the tasks requiring attention.

Fitzwilliam Darcy stared out the window into the Derbyshire night. The moonlight danced on the pond's ripples before him as he pondered his options.

"What is it, love?" Elizabeth entered the library for a book.

"An express arrived from Richard today." He turned to face her, his face mirroring his frustration with his choices. "Aunt Catherine has been in a carriage accident and is unwell." He shook his head. "Rosings is in disarray, there is no steward in place, and Mr. Collins is dead. Richard begs me to come." He stepped to her, grasped her shoulders, and searched her eyes. "I cannot leave you, not now."

She wrapped her arms around him, her protruding belly between them. "I know my condition concerns you. Especially after your mother..."

He sighed.

She pulled away to look at him. "If something were to happen, your presence could not prevent it."

He drew her back into an embrace. "If something were to happen to you, I--" He closed his eyes, not daring to give name to the thought.

"Women are with child every day, my love. And many without nearly the care afforded to me. Our little poppet is not due to arrive for many weeks yet."

"You know I could never forgive myself if--"

"William, you would never forgive yourself should your aunt pass without your reconciling with her. Besides," she pulled away again, "Richard and Anne need you. We had already planned to travel to London for the birth. We will simply leave a few weeks earlier. Georgiana and I shall prepare to depart with you in the morning. You may deliver us to London and then make the short trip to Rosings." She patted her baby with a smile. "And I will tell our little poppet to keep still until you join us."

He relaxed his shoulders and returned a tentative smile. She took his face in her hands and pressed a gentle kiss onto his lips. "The more quickly we leave, the more quickly you may return to London... to us... and more of those."

Richard passed the next few days, each in a similar manner, appraising the estate's structures and grounds. He saw little of the others. Aunt Catherine remained abed, weakening each day. He sent another express to his father, alerting him to her deteriorating condition. Anne spent much of her time by her mother's bedside, and Scott kept a close watch. If she was awake, Richard visited Lady Catherine's chamber when he returned to the house for meals.

As he completed his survey, the list of tasks appeared overwhelming: supplies to procure, cottages to repair, streams to clear, trees to be felled, disputes to be settled. In a month, spring planting would need to be in full swing. It was crucial the projects be addressed immediately while he still had the assistance of the tenants.

On the fourth day, he received word that Darcy was to arrive on the twenty-eighth of February, but his tenuous sense of resolve and inner peace were fraying.

The next morning he again sought solitude beside the stream. Pleasant memories washed over him--catching frogs with Darcy, Charlotte's laughter during their improvised dance, and the peace he had felt on his visit there just days before. Seeking to conjure the return of that tranquillity, he sat on the bank and again pitched stones one by one, watching them disappear into the moving water. He recalled his progress since arriving almost a week before, although it seemed far longer ago. At least now he was apprised of the estate's condition and had detailed notes for Darcy. Their first priority would be to search for a steward. Perhaps Darcy knew of someone.

Stirred by a chilled wind, the barren branches overhead scratched at the overcast sky. He sighed and rose to his feet. Nestling his cold hands under his arms, he gazed across the stream. His eye was drawn to a lone purple flower, a weed, whipping the air. It remained rooted, determined to colour its surroundings despite the bleak landscape. That is my purpose as well. Though like that weed, I am unlikely and unskilled for the task. I am to bring these people hope and order despite the multitude of obstacles. Can I do this? He closed his eyes. It would take the sort of determination required in battle, similar to that he had exercised in taking that blockade runner. That had been a matter of life and death. But this? Did he want to do this?

Perhaps it was more than just a question of desire. Dare he admit he had felt a sort of calling to undertake this endeavour? He tried on the notion. Did it fit? Perhaps it did. And then from the recesses of his mind echoed the familiar refrain, 'Trust in the Lord with all your heart. Lean not on your own understanding...' If you want me to do this, Lord, I will need Your help. Help me trust.

There it was, that sense of peace he had been seeking. It came not from the familiar location nor the throwing of stones. It came from anchoring himself to the One far more capable than he.

The next morning Scott examined Lady Catherine, and she seemed improved, more alert than the previous several days. Anticipating Darcy's arrival, Richard spent much of the day in the steward's office writing inquiries, consulting maps, and prioritizing their work. His cousin's carriage arrived just after noon.

"Darcy! Good to see you!" He clapped his cousin on the back and acknowledged Anne and her companion in the drawing room.

"You as well, Richard. Anne tells me our aunt is somewhat improved today."

"So I hear. Ah! Here is the good doctor now." He held out his arm to Scott. "Darcy, meet Mr. Scott. Scott, Mr. Darcy, our cousin from Derbyshire." The two men exchanged greetings. "We have the doctor to thank on two accounts: his astute diagnosis of Anne and his keen oversight that returned the workings of my arm." Richard rotated his shoulder.

"We are much indebted to you, sir. The change in both my cousins is remarkable." Darcy nodded to the physician before smiling at Richard, acknowledging his improvement since their encounter last June.

"Shall I order some refreshment for you, Cousin?" Anne stepped forward.

"No, thank you. I breakfasted but a while ago. Perhaps I should greet Aunt Catherine." He eyed his cousins. "As you are aware, my last encounter with her was not a pleasant one. I am somewhat eager to repair our relationship."

"Mr. Darcy," the doctor interrupted, "I have just come from her chamber, and she is sleeping."

"I see. Well, then, perhaps we should begin our work." He looked to Richard. "Due to my wife's condition, I anticipate my stay to be relatively short. Ten days, at most."

"That is understandable. The steward's office has held me captive all morning. Should you like to join me there?"

"I shall. And Mr. Scott," he turned back the physician, "when my aunt awakens, would you summon me?"

"Certainly."

"If you will excuse us then, my cousin and I shall begin our work immediately."

The men took their leave and spent the next several hours poring over notes, lists, and ledgers in the steward's office below stairs. Near sundown, Anne stood in the office doorway.

"Anne!" Richard rose from his chair behind the desk. "I am surprised to see you in this part of the house."

Her expression was solemn. "Mother is sensing the end and is asking to see each of us. She would like to see you first, Darcy."

The three exchanged glances before Richard shook his head. "Sensing the end? I thought she was improved this morning."

Anne sighed. "Dr. Scott said that patients often seem improved before a rapid decline."

Richard raised his eyebrows. "I see. Well, Darcy, should you like a moment to gather yourself before going in?"

"I believe I would, thank you."

Richard put his hand on his shoulder. "We shall wait for you upstairs in Aunt's private sitting room."

Darcy nodded.

When the door closed, he expelled a deep breath. He closed his eyes, reliving his last meeting with his aunt--her emphatic gestures, angry face, and demanding voice spewing insults and accusations against Elizabeth.

He had spent much of the carriage ride rehearsing for a meeting with the woman, but now that it was upon him, and she was dying, it seemed different somehow.

Was he expected to make some sort of apology? It was she who had been in the wrong. He was a grown man, Master of Pemberley. He owed her no allegiance. And yet, she had been the link that had given him reason to hope that Elizabeth's feelings had indeed changed towards him. Would he have had the courage to propose to her again without the confrontation with his aunt? Perhaps he should humble himself and find a way to respectfully thank her. He massaged his neck. She was never without words. He could let her speak first and steel himself to remain calm. It was possible these words could be their final ones. He wanted no regrets.

The others were waiting. He should go. He put his hand on the knob and paused, uneasy about the crucial encounter. He took a deep breath, turned the knob, and strode to the stairs.

He entered her chamber just as she commenced a fit of coughing. Once quieted, she eased herself back onto a cluster of plump pillows. "Sit down, Darcy," the self-assured woman's voice wavered as she indicated the bedside chair with a trembling finger. "I suppose you are aware that I am dying. That gives me license to speak my mind."

He braced, but her tone softened. "You know that you have been as dear to me as if you had been my own son." She sighed. "Oh, I had such grand plans for you and Anne. But I suppose it was not to be. You had to have that other woman," she sneered. "You are just like your mother. She could have had any number of dukes and earls, but she loved your father and would have none but him."

She shifted in the bed and stared blankly into the room. "Now that I am old, I do know one thing--a secret of sorts. Every woman, perhaps above everything else, desires to be loved and cherished. Your mother had that. I did not." She turned back to him. "I suppose you must love that Miss Bennet to have married such an impertinent woman of inferior birth." Her eyes narrowed. "In twenty years, you just remember why you married her when it is no longer new and exciting." She blinked and looked into his eyes with mist in hers. "Love her, cherish her. What you receive back from her will far exceed what you have given her." She put her hand on his and squeezed it before turning away.

"I shall, Aunt. Thank you." His vision blurred, and he blinked back the moisture.

"You may send Anne in now."

The spell was broken. All traces of endearment were gone. He had said hardly a word, but was, nonetheless, satisfied with the reconciliation.

He rose and kissed her cheek, their eyes never meeting. Grasping the knob, he turned to look back at her one last time before moving through the door and closing it behind him.

As he entered the sitting room, the mood was sombre. The others looked at him with expectant expressions.

"She said to send Anne to her." Without meeting their gaze, he walked to the window, then clasped his hands behind him and stared out. Love her; cherish her. He closed his eyes, yearning for Elizabeth's presence.

When he regained his equanimity, he took the seat beside his cousin. The three men sat in contemplative silence. After some moments, Richard put his hand on his cousin's shoulder. "What did she say?"

"She told me to love Elizabeth." He kept his focus on the patterned carpet and heard his cousin clear his throat. Undoubtedly, Richard was as surprised at the words as he had been.

He broke the silence a moment later. "You know it was her tirade that gave me the hope, the courage to propose to Elizabeth again."

Just then they heard deep, rasping coughing as the door opened and Anne stepped in weeping softly. Darcy rose and embraced her, while Richard patted her arm before entering the lady's bedchamber.

Matthew looked on. What I would give to be the man to comfort her! She is still so delicate and frail. I would gladly hold her, care for her. In that moment, he knew that he loved her. He raked his hand through his golden waves.

When Anne regained herself, her eyes met his, and he smiled, endeavouring to communicate in a look what he could not show her with his arms.

Chapter 13

Posted on 2013-10-14

The three cousins spent the evening in their individual pursuits, each dealing with the impending death in his or her own way. Overnight, Lady Catherine slipped into unconsciousness. The next day, Matthew sat as quiet company to Miss de Bourgh in her mother's chamber.

As the group finished their dinner in silence, a footman appeared. "Polly believes it is time." Chairs scraped the marble floor in unison, and Matthew followed the cousins upstairs.

Entering her bedchamber, they were met with the rasp of laboured breathing. Miss de Bourgh sat in the bedside chair and stroked her mother's brow, smoothing the skin above her closed eyes, then took her wrinkled, blotchy hand in her own. The nephews gathered around in solemn silence.

Matthew stood back from the family. The candles at the bedside cast a soft glow on the scene in front of him. He had witnessed death on many occasions, but rarely had he been so acquainted with the patient's family. He had much respect for these three cousins. Lady Catherine was not easy to love. So tyrannical! Not someone whose affairs many would be willing to untangle. Yet these men had come with a remarkable sense of duty and loyalty to her.

The group startled as she took a loud, dragging breath. As he moved closer, her breathing again calmed, and her eyes remained closed. Miss de Bourgh whispered, "Doctor, what causes her hands to be blotchy and cold?"

"It is common during the conclusion of life." He spoke over her ear and brushed her shoulder before moving back to his place.

For some time, all eyes remained fixed on the domineering, yet helpless, woman before them. The burgundy bedclothes contracted with her every laboured breath. Eventually her hands turned purple, and her breathing became sporadic, accompanied by a gurgling sound. Lady Catherine drew in a deep breath, and as she slowly expelled it, her life left with it.

Overcome with grief, her daughter laid her forehead on the counterpane and wept softly. The nephews stood reverently by with eyes downcast and hands folded. After some minutes, Fitzwilliam nodded to him, and the two men stepped back. Raising her tear-stained face, Anne's gaze followed Matthew as he came forward and stretched the sheet over the matron's head. The nephews withdrew to the sitting room.

Walking towards the door, Anne dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and stopped in front of Matthew. With a faint smile she spoke, her voice just above a whisper, "Thank you, Doctor Sc--" Her face crumpled with the last word, and sobs broke forth, wracking her body.

He reached out to steady her just as she collapsed in his arms, resting her head against his chest. Closing his arms around her, he cocooned her delicate frame, savouring the feel of her body against his and cherishing the opportunity to bring her comfort. She for whom much of life had been a struggle--her mother, her illness--had been able to rise above her adversity and spread grace and beauty to all around her. He wished to make her his, to spend the rest of his life loving and protecting her.

When she quieted, she pulled away. "I am so sorry. Please forgive me." She looked down and turned aside, stray tears continuing to fall.

He touched her elbow; her eyes met his. "Please do not apologize. It was my honour to comfort to you." He smiled warmly at her.

New tears fell from her blue eyes. She tried to smile but could only nod her head as she walked away.

Was she weeping for a different reason this time? He thought that she was.

The next morning, Richard made the now-familiar ride to the stream as the mourning bells rang in the distance. He tethered Prometheus, picked up a forked stick, and took his seat before the gently flowing water.

One of his initial fears that first day was now realized; Lady Catherine was gone. Perhaps his father would arrange for the funeral so that he might continue working with Darcy. Although his parents would be arriving that afternoon, his brother had made his excuses. Richard passed his hand through his hair, lamenting the forthcoming close proximity to the earl, who would surely find fault in his management of this undertaking--he always did.

He raked the stick over the smooth water, watching it cut grooves in its surface. There was now the added responsibility of Anne. He had promised his aunt that he would look after her. Would it have been better had they married two years ago when he proposed? How would she manage when he left? She and Scott seemed to have an affinity for one another. He was beneath her but... it mattered not to Richard. Aunt Catherine could not object. Anne was now her own master. He smiled at the thought. What about the sea? What about Rosings? With recent news of Napoleon's escape from Elba, what if he was summoned for duty? He shook his head. He could not think on it now.

The estate would need a new rector, soon, as the curate's income depended on it. One more decision among many. Perhaps his father, Darcy, or even Scott knew of someone. His thoughts moved to Charlotte, and he closed his eyes. With a new occupant of the parsonage, Charlotte would be forced to leave. At least Anne had reassured her it wouldn't be within a fortnight as his aunt had demanded. He balled his fist, reflecting on Lady Catherine's insensitivity, then ached for Charlotte having to return to her family, no longer mistress of her own home.

A raindrop on his hand drew his gaze upward. Peering through the barren overhead limbs, he surmised a forthcoming downpour. He released a heavy breath as he rose and tossed the stick into the flowing water. As it drifted downstream, his eye caught the familiar purple flower on the opposite bank, standing firm. He smiled. Yes, Lord, I will trust You today.

The rain began falling. It spattered the purple petals, knocking them with each blow.

As he turned up his collar, he raised his head at the squeal of children's voices in the distance. Moving towards the sound, he caught sight of two small figures running towards the shelter offered by the trees. They stopped short when they saw him.

"Please, sir, we weren't doin' nothin', honest," a wet, dirty boy of no more than seven implored him, breathing hard.

An equally tattered little girl he guessed to be four stopped beside her brother. Her brown eyes looked up into his.

"Well," he squatted before them, "what brings you ragamuffins out in the rain so early this morning?"

"Our mother sent us to fetch Mrs. Collins, the rector's wife. Our mother is ill with the flu. The nice lady has a treatment. We've lost our way, 'tis all, I promise."

"Ah." Richard smiled and nodded. "Perhaps I may help you find her."

A raindrop fell into his eye, and he blinked comically, bringing muffled laughter from the children.

"Come on. Let us go before we get as wet as water." Richard rose and beckoned them with his hand as he moved towards his horse.

The brown-haired girl trotted beside him and put her small hand into his. When he looked down at her, she met his eyes, and they shared a smile.

Taking a few more steps, he called over his shoulder to the boy, "What is your name?"

"I am Joshua. That is my sister Susanna."

"I am Colonel Fitzwilliam. But you may call me Colonel."

"Yes, sir, Colonel, sir! My papa's in the army."

He untethered the stallion and felt the girl shiver as the rain came down harder. "Joshua, would you like to ride on my horse?"

"Yes, sir!"

He hoisted the boy to the saddle. "Hold on now."

He unbuttoned his greatcoat, scooped up the girl and settled her on the crook of his right arm. Wrapping his coat around her tiny body, she placed her arms around his neck and laid her head on his chest. He grabbed the reins and started towards the parsonage, water dripping from every contour.

"So your papa's in the army? Is he on the continent now?"

"No, sir. He's home. He got shrapnel in his foot from a cannon and can't walk so good. That's why our mother sent us."

"I see. He must be a very brave man."

"Oh, he is, sir! He got the wound takin' a blockade ship. Stole it right out from under the Frenchies, he did!"

Richard spun his head to look at the boy, who had water dripping from his stringy, sandy hair. "What is your papa's name, son?"

"Matthias Harlow, sir."

"Hmm." He did not recognize the name.

The rain abated, and they walked the rest of the way in silence as Richard contemplated the boy's father.

Hearing hooves in the lane, she went to the window, curious as to who would be calling in the rain. Her breath caught at the sight below, a small child clinging to Richard's neck and another trailing on a horse behind. Faces smudged, hair matted, water dripped from the trio. Tears welled in her eyes. They could have been his children, their children. She absently placed a hand on her slightly swollen but empty womb.

Removing her apron, she smoothed her black dress and hurried towards the stairs as the bell rang. She turned the corner to the entry just in time to see Richard greeting her maid.

"Nan!" He bowed to her as he always did, his extra burden giggling with the shift. "Is Mrs. Collins--" He stopped short sighting her.

"Colonel! Do come in. You are all wet! What has happened? Why, oh! Joshua, Susanna, it is you." She turned to Nan. "Fetch some towels, quickly! Joshua, is your father's foot paining him?"

"No, ma'am. It's our mother. She's taken the flu and sent us to fetch your treatment."

"I see." She eyed Richard, wondering why he was accompanying the children.

"Seems these two lost their way. They happened upon me, and I promised to deliver them to you." He smiled.

"Oh, forgive me. Come in! Come in! Let me take your coat."

He swung the girl down and shrugged off the wet garment. Their hands brushed as she reached for the greatcoat. Immediately their eyes riveted, acknowledging the contact.

She recovered herself and motioned them towards the parlour. "Come, warm yourselves."

The three were huddled before the flames when Nan returned. Richard rubbed at his hair while Nan dried the boy, and Charlotte wrapped a towel about Susanna.

"Nan, I bet I know two children who would enjoy some hot chocolate. That should warm their insides."

The children exchanged beaming smiles. Kneeling before the fire, their hands soaked in its warmth.

"How did you come upon the children, Colonel?"

"I was at the bend in the stream. I believe you are familiar with it." He ruffled his hair a final time.

She blushed and nodded, recalling their impromptu dance there two years earlier.

"It had begun to rain when I heard their voices." He dried his face and hands. "They said they were lost and in search of the parsonage." He returned the towel to her and leaned over the blaze.

With a sudden squeal, Susanna scampered towards a basket and drew out a rag doll.

"I see you found a doll." Charlotte perched on the settee beside her. "Would you like to take her home?"

Smiling broadly, her head bobbed up and down.

Richard looked at Charlotte, his brow creased in question.

"Anne and I sew rag dolls for children at an orphanage. With the recent illnesses, I am afraid I have not had much time for it these last few months."

As Nan set the steaming cups of chocolate on the table, the children gathered around.

Richard turned to face the room, his back absorbing the fire's warmth. "What of the children's family? The boy said his father had been wounded."

"Yes." Charlotte handed him a cup. "They are tenants on the western edge of the estate. A cannon misfired, and Mr. Harlow's foot took shrapnel. He was in the hospital in London for some time. When the foot became infected, he refused to let them take it off. He was sent home to die. A garlic poultice saved his foot and his life as well."

"Really?" He sipped the smooth brown liquid.

"Garlic is quite the foe to infection."

"Mrs. Collins," he changed the subject, "were you aware that I was injured last autumn?"

"I am. Although I am not familiar with the particulars." She recalled the pain she felt when Lady Catherine had mentioned it last year.

"I, too, was injured from cannon misfire. I feel sure it was the same incident."

Her eyes widened in disbelief.

"We had just taken a blockade-running ship--"

"--right out from under the Frenchies. Yes, Mr. Harlow delights in repeating the story to anyone who will listen. You were the officer then who took the blast to his chest?"

"I was."

She put her hand to her mouth and felt weak, imagining the suffering he must have endured from such a severe wound. "Mr. Harlow never made mention of his colonel being Lady Catherine's nephew!"

"He was undoubtedly unaware of my identity. There had been much confusion that day. I had several men from another regiment under my command."

"Is your arm fully recovered?"

"It is." He circled his elbow. "Looks repulsive, but it is functional, thanks to Scott and Mrs. Cooper. I had the good fortune to recover at my family's home in Town."

"You could have been killed!"

He nodded.

A look passed between them, silently confirming the harmony of their thoughts--that indeed suffering and death are great risks to every soldier--and his family.

On the short ride back to Rosings, Richard could not shake what seemed to be a contradiction. Though he had paid little attention to women in a family way, he was aware that they tended to swell rather rapidly as confinement neared. Yet Charlotte appeared smaller this morning than when he had encountered her upon his arrival a week ago. Was it just the drape of her gown? He was unsure.

Returning Prometheus to the stables just before noon, he and Darcy spent the afternoon in the steward's office and made appreciable progress. After Darcy sent inquiries after several potential stewards, the two men calculated seed needed, discussed logistics for the first projects to be undertaken, made a tentative schedule in which to complete repairs, detailed the supplies needed, and talked over the rectory vacancy. They scarcely noticed the sun's descent until a footman appeared to announce the arrival of Lord Matlock's carriage.

Minutes later Lord and Lady Matlock were ushered into the drawing room where everyone spoke at once.

"My dear son, how good to see you with my own two eyes! We were so worried with your injury. You appear quite recovered." The attractive Lady Matlock embraced her second-born. "Nephew!" She turned to Darcy. "I see marriage continues to suit you."

"Anne." Lord Matlock held out his arms. "We had heard of the recent improvement in your health, but the description alone does you no justice. Darcy! You are looking well. How is your sister? She shall be coming out here in another year or so, yes?"

Matthew and Mrs. Jenkinson stood aside during the greetings.

"Father." Richard acknowledged the tall, middle-aged man.

"Richard."

Lady Matlock turned to her niece. "Let me look at you! How healthy you appear, my dear! But Anne," she leaned closer, "we must get you some new mourning gowns. I believe this one has become snug." She cupped Anne's cheek in her hand and smiled.

"Forgive my poor manners." Richard's voice rose above the others. "Lord and Lady Matlock, may I introduce Mr. Scott, my physician and friend?" He held out his arm to the doctor. "And I believe you remember Mrs. Jenkinson, Anne's companion."

The foursome exchanged greetings.

The dinner hour and evening passed with lively conversation, catching up on family news in spite of the occasion for their gathering. Richard and his father conveniently diverted their dialogue towards others.

The next morning, the heels of Richard's boots bit into the polished floor sending echoes through the corridor as he mumbled under his breath. "Father comes... always the expert... impossible to please..." Striding into the yellow breakfast room occupied only by his mother, he slapped his gloves into his palm before tossing them onto the linen tablecloth. With heavy breathing and a sneer, he stalked to the sideboard.

Coaxing the eggs from the spoon, he banged the silver utensil without mercy onto the porcelain plate. After pouring a cup of coffee, he landed the plate, clattering the silverware, and fell into the chair.

"Good morning, Mother," he uttered with neither emotion nor eye contact. He shovelled the food into his mouth.

Well acquainted with her son, she remained still and said nothing.

Ripping off a bite of roll with his teeth, he spooned in eggs over top, fixing his eyes on his plate as he chewed.

Swallowing, he looked to his wide-eyed mother, seething. "Why does he hate me so? Why should he never be satisfied with anything I do? Should he prefer to supervise this estate," he pounded his fist on the table, "so be it. He is welcome to untangle this mess."

He sawed his sausage and waved it on his fork. "I spent days making notes and assigning duties. Father appears in the steward's office his first day of arrival and can only criticize." With an imitating voice he gestured with his fork. "'Should you not begin with this? That task is of little importance. What have you to say about this?' And on and on." He rammed the sausage into his mouth.

His mother released an audible sigh. "Yes, my son. Your father can be a hard man."

"What is it about me? Am I such a poor son? And what of Andrew? Why is there no fault with him? Does it not matter that father was forced to sell Caesar to pay his debt? That Andrew's fanciful wife has scorned him? Or that he cannot even make the effort to attend his aunt's funeral? Of course not! He is Viscount Royston, first born, the favoured one."

He swept up his coffee and swallowed a mouthful. Missing the centre of the saucer, the cup's dark liquid spread over the white cloth. "Damn!" He jumped to his feet and slammed his napkin over the spill. "I played the cello for father to accompany Andrew. I went to father's college, and then later to Oxford." He alternately dabbed the stain and eyed his mother. "I took a commission in the army. Did I care to be an officer? No! I even proposed to Anne! Why? Because Father insisted it was a good match." He flung the soiled napkin onto the table and fell into the chair.

"You proposed to Anne?"

"Yes." He heard defeat in his own voice.

"Did she..."

"She did. It is all for the best now, I suppose." He shook his head nonchalantly. "So what is it, Mother? Why am I so disappointing to him?" His eyes implored hers.

She hesitated before answering. "Richard, there is something you should know. Perhaps we should have told you years ago."

He waited.

"You were not born alone."

"What?"

"You had a twin sister. She died but three days after birth. Little Adelade. She was ever so small. A head full of tiny brown curls. Your father was mesmerized. I hardly saw her as I nearly died myself. We almost lost you too, your being so early. But you were much bigger, stronger. You lived, she did not. Your father was crushed."

Richard shifted trying to grasp the news. "But why should her death cause him to harbour such animosity towards me?"

"After his heir was born, he longed for a little girl. He had two sisters, you know. He was very protective of them and wanted a daughter of his own. Do you not recall how he doted on little Anne and Georgiana?"

He scratched his head, trying to recall. "I suppose not. Darcy and I were always out of doors. The girls entertained themselves in the nursery."

"Your father adored them. When Anne took ill, he offered to take her to the best doctors and to pay for all of it. But Lady Catherine would have none of it. She was sure it was merely a weak constitution. Besides, the illness was of such a nature that she was ashamed for anyone to be acquainted with her symptoms. She felt it all to be a slight on the de Bourgh name. And Georgiana," she cast her eyes upward, "such an adorable child. She was irresistible--those bobbing blonde curls."

"She is lovely."

"But that is not all, Richard." She poured him another cup of coffee and set it before him. "When your Uncle Darcy died, your father was furious that you were named as co-guardian for Georgiana. He desired that role. You were on the continent and, he felt, in a very dangerous position to be responsible for her. He thought himself the more qualified, and that it was his due."

He swallowed the coffee. "That explains his coldness towards me that Christmas when I returned and again after the incident at Ramsgate."

She nodded in agreement.

"Thank you for telling me of my sister, Mother. You have given me much to think on."

Chapter 14

Posted on 2013-10-17

The funeral for the matriarch of Rosings passed with minimal notice. Although some in the parish were unable to attend due to lingering illness, many more had no love lost for her. In less than an hour, the formidable lady was lowered into the ground.

After Sunday services the following day, the remaining occupants of Rosings each attended to his or her leisure. Feeling refreshed after a rest, Richard headed to the stables as the weather was particularly suitable, showing the first hints of spring. As he led the black stallion out of the stable, he met his father, returning from a ride.

Lord Matlock offered a barely perceptible nod. "Richard."

"Father."

Richard kept walking, hoping to avoid further interaction, but the earl spoke again. "Have you yet secured a steward?"

"Darcy has made several inquiries. One looks promising but is not available for several months. His mother is ill, and his wife is with child."

"Securing a steward should be your first priority."

"It is. We have done all we can." He turned away, but his father grabbed his arm.

"What of the felled bridge on the south side of the estate? The carriage has yet to be retrieved, and a tree just upstream is dying, threatening to fall and obstruct the current with the coming spring rains."

Richard felt his ire rising. "I am aware of the carriage, the tree, and the bridge. There are many details to arrange in undertaking a project of such magnitude. Had your sister repaired the bridge instead of dismissing her steward, it would have been much easier and less costly than the situation we now face."

"Where are you going now?"

"For a ride." He clinched his teeth, trying one last time to remain calm.

"Why should you be gallivanting about when there is so much work to be done?"

It was all Richard could do to keep from shouting. "Because one of my pleasures in life is riding fine horses!"

"It is time that stallion was lent as a breeder and not dilly dallying about the countryside."

Richard exploded. "Father! Please! Must you inject your opinion into every detail? For many Easter's now, your sister has entrusted Darcy and me with looking over this estate. Anne has now asked me to lead this endeavour. I believe I am capable of choosing a horse!"

His father returned with a scornful sneer, "Perhaps had you managed more wisely last Easter, you would not find yourselves in this predicament now."

"We were not even here last year! I was on the continent having shrapnel blown into my arm, and after Aunt Catherine's despicable insults upon Darcy's choice of a wife, he refrained as well. As for Lady Catherine's poor management since then, I can hardly be held responsible!"

"I merely think you are making poor choices now."

"When have you ever not thought I was making poor choices? Andrew has retained your favour regardless of what he does. And although I have spent my entire life trying to please you, it has been to no avail. You make an art of finding fault with everything I do!"

The elder's face reddened as he shouted, "That is not true!"

"It is true! Every significant decision in my life has been aimed to please you. I have felt your tyrannical oppression as long as I can remember. But I will not blindly accede to you any longer. Clearly an autocratic disposition fell on both Aunt Catherine and you. You are just like her!"

Lord Matlock's hand flashed through the air, smacking Richard across the face. "How dare you speak to me in such an insolent manner!"

Richard's head recoiled from the blow, and he calmly replied, "Father, I am not to blame for Adelade's death." Flinging himself up into the saddle, he dug his heels into his mount's flanks and bolted from the stable yard.

After pushing the stallion for some time, he reined him in, still incensed towards his father. How dare he! Why could they hardly engage in a conversation without his father's disapproval? He slid from his mount and reclined at the base of a sprawling oak tree. He wondered how Anne could have borne Lady Catherine so gracefully. At least he'd had the freedom to remove himself from his father. Anne had been nearly sequestered in her mother's company.

Tilting his head up, the bright sun warmed his face, and fresh air filled his lungs as his mind drifted back to the estate's affairs. Although he and Darcy had made appreciable progress, it all still seemed overwhelming. And then Charlotte... his heart ached with his affection for her, as well as her present situation which he was powerless to ameliorate. A sense of despair settled over him like a dark cloak. He cradled his head in his hands, then pressed his fingers through his hair, emitting an audible sigh. God, please help me. He sat a good deal longer, thinking of nothing in particular, merely existing.

A snort from the stallion drew him back.

After returning Prometheus to the stables, he spotted Anne sitting in the garden.

"Richard." Her voice was gentle and inviting.

"Anne."

"I could not help but overhear you and your father earlier. Has your indignation softened?"

Sighing, he rubbed the spot where his father had struck him and took the seat beside her on the stone bench. "I suppose it has--somewhat."

She closed the book in her lap and laid her hand on his arm. "I know it is hard to feel the heavy hand of disapprobation. My mother never particularly said she was displeased with me, but I know she was disappointed. She tried to make excuses for my lack of accomplishment, blaming it on my health. Though there was some truth to it, she gave me little opportunity to work at anything. Because she felt sure I could not excel, she preferred to make excuses rather than be disappointed in my mediocrity."

"But you have borne it so well. Never have you raised your voice or become bitter."

"The truth is that for many years I was fearful of her. But when I realized that she had no real power over me other than what I allowed, her despotism was easier to overlook. I submit myself to One much higher than she. And in Him I find my delight. I have learned to look for the beauty in life. Each night as I lie down, I try to recall something to be thankful for. Some days it is the pleasure of feeling well; another, perhaps a poem that particularly pleased me. Other days it may simply be a clean bed and soft pillow. It has helped me keep from becoming bitter--that and my choosing to forgive my mother."

"How do you forgive her?"

"I choose to release ill feelings and resentment towards her--each day--knowing that I have been forgiven as well. There is freedom and peace in extending forgiveness."

He nodded, contemplating her words for several moments then asked, "What is this you are reading?" He stroked the book between them.

"A collection of poems."

"You and the doctor do enjoy your poetry." He chuckled as he shook his head. "I have never cared much for it. I find the flowery language difficult to decipher. It frustrates me."

"Might I suggest another sort of poetry? I believe you would find comfort it in. Much of it is written by a man who experienced anxiety and many of the things that dishearten you now. He often speaks of oppression, despair, and utter frustration."

"What is its title?"

"The Book is Psalms, chapter 119."

"From the Bible?"

She nodded.

He shifted on the bench. "Well... thank you, Anne. You have become a great source of... wisdom."

When he entered the house, he sought the music room. He braced his hand against the window frame and stared out while his thoughts turned over Anne's words about forgiveness. Several minutes later, he drew his instrument from its case. Gliding the bow across the strings and closing his eyes, he lost himself in the beauty of sound.

A cough interrupted his tranquillity and directed his attention to his father standing in the doorway. Richard rested the instrument and steeled himself for another unpleasant encounter.

The earl tugged at his cravat. "Son." Richard kept his eyes fixed on the imposing man as he came closer. "I--I want to apologize for this afternoon."

Though the man's gaze was directed at the floor, Richard remained wary. His father rarely called him son and never had he apologized. Perhaps this was a backhanded provocation of some sort.

"I, uh, considered what you said earlier." The earl pawed at the carpet's fringe with the toe of his boot before meeting Richard's eyes. "You were correct. You are not responsible for Adelade's death." Averting his eyes again, the man turned his shoulder away but seemed as if he had more to say. In a shaken voice he went on. "I--" he cleared his throat, "never realized that I held it against you. I know now that it was wrong."

Another pause ensued before he lifted a sheepish gaze. "Would you, uh, forgive me?"

Richard looked away and shifted. Maybe this was a genuine opportunity to extend forgiveness. Could he release the anger and resentment he felt? His father's invitation hung in a prolonged silence when suddenly his thoughts retrieved Anne's words from two years ago: 'By forgiving her, I have in fact, freed myself.' Was it possible that by holding on to bitterness towards his father, Richard had made himself a prisoner to it? He swallowed hard at the realization. "I... uh.... Yes."

The earl released his breath and squeezed Richard's shoulder. "You have been a faithful son that any father should be proud of. I regret that it has taken me so long to realize it."

Richard returned a tentative smile, uneasy with the awkward conversation. "Please make an effort to refrain from criticizing me. The past is in the past, and I am now a grown man. Let us speak of it no more."

His father nodded.

A ticking clock was the only thing that filled the empty moment until the earl asked, "How did you discover you had a sister?"

"Mother told me."

"Your mother told you?"

"She told me Adelade was my twin and died three days after birth. And that you were greatly affected by it."

His father's shoulders sagged as he looked away. "Yes. It was a very difficult time. I had always wanted a daughter. She was so beautiful. Taken so quickly."

Aware that his father was conjuring images of the infant, Richard tried to imagine what it would be like to lose a child.

The patriarch drew in a sharp breath then turned back to him as words poured forth. "Richard, there is another reason I particularly wanted a daughter. When I was a boy, before Lady Anne was born, your Aunt Catherine and I were out in the snow. I was eight, she but five. We had been told to wait for our nursemaid, but the year's first snowfall was too tempting. We stole out the servants' entrance down to the lake. But we were not alone. We had another sister, Adelade, who was four. She ran onto the frozen lake and--" He turned away unable to go on.

"It was all my fault. I tried to pull her out, but my strength was no match for her flailing arms and wet clothing. Catherine ran for help, but it was too late. I have never forgiven myself." He paused, reliving the incident. "When your sister was born, she resembled my sister Adelade--brown eyes, brown curls." He shook his head. "I thought somehow in having a daughter of my own that I could protect her and make up for... my mistake. When she died, I felt I had failed again."

Richard could hardly believe what he was hearing. He'd had no clue his father had ever felt remorse over anything. "Mother said she was born early and was too small. It had nothing to do with your failing as a father."

The man sighed. "Perhaps you are right. But we do not always see things clearly in the midst of turmoil. Unfortunately, I believe that you suffered the brunt of my anger with myself. That was wrong. I should have been grateful to have a second healthy son."

That evening, when the men adjourned to the library for port and cigars, there was an ease with his father he had never before experienced. For the first time, he felt regarded as an equal rather than an irresponsible or incompetent child.

Lying in bed that night, he recalled the day's events. It had all turned out unexpectedly well, considering the day's earlier confrontation. He realized that his prayer under the oak tree had indeed been answered. Truly God had helped him. There had been the wise words from Anne and then the open invitation from his father to forgive. He smiled. Trusting the Lord might not be so difficult after all.

Anne's poetry suggestion was intriguing to Richard, and thus he chose to sit before his room's fire for his standing appointment the next morning rather than ride as was becoming his habit. He pulled a large Bible off the shelf and cracked its pristine spine. Finding Psalms, he turned to chapter 119 and read. Anne was correct. This poetry was not so difficult to understand, and truly its author had anguished much.

Thumbing back to the beginning of the book to see what else it said, he began again. After completing the first chapter, he reread verse 3: "...He shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that brings forth its fruit in its season, whose leaf also shall not wither." His thoughts went back to the purple flower which, days before, had been pummelled by the raindrops. It was planted firmly by the stream, blooming in its time and refusing to wither even under the difficult circumstances. Acceptance with joy. He stared into the fire, startled at the profound idea encapsulated in the simple phrase. Though hammered by adversity, the flower had remained colourful and joyful, much like Anne. He would endeavour to do the same amidst difficulty. What an enlightening allegory the unpretentious flower had become to him.

His thoughts were interrupted as the door opened.

"Excuse me, sir, I shall return later to tidy your bed." The maid curtseyed and retreated.

He consulted his watch and discovered that more than an hour had elapsed as he read. Snapping the timepiece shut, he folded the book and hastened to the steward's office.

"Richard." Darcy was fixed behind the desk. "Did you enjoy your morning ride?"

"Ah, I was reading in my room."

"You, reading in the morning?"

"I was." Richard took a seat, crossed his ankles atop the desk, leaned back, and changed the subject. "What is on our list of items today?"

"Mr. Collins has been gone nearly a month, and a suitable replacement needs to be found. Would the curate make an acceptable rector?"

Richard shook his head. "Not in my judgement. His manner resembles that of Mr. Collins, and I believe the parish needs a strong leader who can guide and comfort the people after the demoralizing events of this past year."

"I agree. With the curate's income dependent on the rector, perhaps we should pay him so that we may buy time." Darcy sat back. "In a few weeks Mrs. Collins' brother has leave to escort her back to Hertfordshire after completing business in Brighton. This will also allow her to remain at the parsonage until then."

Richard nodded, seeking to keep his manner nonchalant to disguise his feelings towards her.

Darcy sat up again. "This brings us to our other primary concern--the steward. How long do you anticipate remaining here? I believe Mr. Thornhill will make an excellent overseer, but I expect it will be mid-June before his arrival."

"I have no other plans at present, unless the army should recall me."

"Good. I shall write to Mr. Thornhill requesting his arrival as soon as possible. Until then, Cousin, welcome to your new responsibility. Experienced or not, the position is yours."

That evening Anne had invited Charlotte to join the party at Rosings. Richard had to remind himself not to stare at her, but what he perceived seemed unmistakable. Her figure was not expanding. In fact it seemed quite the opposite. Could she have lost the child? Is that what had caused her to swoon? He closed his eyes, feeling a stabbing pain for her.

After spirited conversation over dinner, Richard retired with the men to the library for their usual cigars and port.

"Have you had any success in your search for a rector and steward, gentlemen?" Scott took three short puffs to stoke his cigar and looked from Darcy to Richard.

Darcy swirled his drink. "We aim to have the steward, a Mr. Thornhill, settled here in June. Until then, Richard shall assume the duties. We are currently searching for a rector. Are you acquainted with anyone whom you believe would be a suitable candidate?"

"Perhaps." He settled back and blew out a puff of smoke. "Miss de Bourgh received a letter from her former maid this morning. Apparently, as a young girl, she was taken in by the vicar of Briggsham. That parish has declined in the last several years, and his meagre income will hardly support him and his wife. Miss de Bourgh believes he has an excellent reputation and should welcome the rectory here. He grew up assisting his father, a steward, oversee a large estate in Derbyshire. I thought perhaps you gentleman might know the family. His name is Mr. Martin."

The three men eyed one another.

Richard released a cloud of smoke. "The name is not familiar, but Briggsham is but fifteen miles from here."

Lord Matlock creased his brow. "Martin... the name is vaguely familiar to me. I believe Rockhurst had a steward named Martin many years ago who was well thought of. You said he assisted his father manage a large estate? If he proves to be a suitable rector, perhaps he would also act as steward until your new one arrives in June."

Richard nodded his head. "A man who could serve as both rector and steward would certainly ease our situation. I shall write this Mr. Martin tomorrow to arrange a meeting."

As the men rejoined the ladies, Anne smiled at them as she commented, "Mr. Scott, Richard, I was just telling the ladies how much I enjoyed your music in London. Would you play a duet for us?"

Aware of his father's presence, Richard hesitated. But noting Charlotte's hopeful expression, he consented.

Despite the imperfection of the two duets they performed, their audience expressed hearty appreciation. Lady Matlock was then imposed upon to play and sing, Charlotte took a turn with a simple minuet, and even Mrs. Jenkinson played her favourite tune. As the evening broke up with good spirits all around, Richard escorted Charlotte to the ordered carriage.

"I believe I have some good news for you."

"Oh?" She tilted her head and met his eyes.

"You are free to remain at the parsonage until your brother arrives."

Pressing a hand to her chest, she released a clouded breath into the chill of the March night. "Thank you! I was unsure where I would go until then. I realize I have overstayed my time."

"After all you have done here, it is the least we can offer. The tenants will miss you." He held her gaze for an extended moment before she returned a thin smile and turned to the waiting carriage.

After handing her into the conveyance, Richard watched the carriage roll down the lane. The tenants will not be the only ones sorry to see you go.

Chapter Fifteen

Posted on 2013-10-21

The next morning Richard flipped open his silver watch as he strode towards the house. He had already visited the bend in the stream and checked progress on drainage ditches. There was enough time to write that letter to Mr. Martin, whom he hoped would prove to be a worthy candidate for rector and interim steward.

After dropping the freshly sealed letter onto the silver tray in the entrance hall, he joined the others already assembled in the yellow breakfast room.

"Richard." Lady Matlock dabbed her mouth. "Anne will be joining us in London for the Season. Is that not wonderful? I am eager to introduce her to my modiste as well. She is sorely in need of new mourning gowns."

Richard's gaze darted to Anne to gauge her feelings about the arrangement.

"Your parents have invited me to join them while Mrs. Jenkinson visits her daughter in Northamptonshire." She smiled, but he could tell she was merely attempting to appear enthusiastic. Her sideways glance to Scott reflected her disappointment at leaving him.

Mrs. Jenkinson sprinkled salt over her eggs. "My daughter is nearing confinement with her fifth child. It will mean much if I can attend her."

Richard swallowed his coffee. "It sounds like an amiable plan. When are you departing?"

"Tomorrow." Lord Matlock sat back in his chair. "It appears you have the situation well in hand here," he shot a warm smile towards Richard, "and I am rather eager to attend the opera on Friday."

Subduing a broad grin at his father's expression of approval, Richard returned his coffee to its saucer and looked to the doctor. "Well, Scott, with Darcy leaving soon as well, that leaves just the two of us here."

"You shall hardly notice our absence, Cousin," Anne cut in with a sly smile. "You have rarely been here to partake of our company." She shifted her gaze to the physician and teased, "Mr. Scott, I fear it shall be rather dull in this large house alone."

"Perhaps not." His tone turned serious. "I received a letter yesterday from a land agent regarding properties in Cornwall. As you no longer require my assistance, Fitzwilliam, if it is agreeable, I shall leave shortly as well to evaluate them."

"You have had no replies regarding seaside homes here in Kent?"

"None."

Richard rested his knife. "As a token of our appreciation, I would be happy to offer a carriage at your disposal for your journey."

Before Scott could reply, Lady Matlock looked from her niece to the doctor with a knowing smile and interjected, "Would you return through London, Mr. Scott, and join us?"

"Well--" Scott's eyes cut to Anne, whose countenance had suddenly brightened.

"We insist you join us!"

"How could I decline such gracious offers? My thanks to you both."

Matthew sat before the fire in his room, sipping his morning tea. In a matter of hours, Anne would be gone. With a sigh, he closed the Scriptures and stared into the flames. It was futile to concentrate. If only he could have stolen a few moments with her to express his regard! Did he have any chance with her? He had little to offer and cared nothing for her wealth. Was that important to her? He closed his eyes. The sea. I want a comfortable home by the sea... and a sweet woman... He heard his own words reflected back to him from many months ago.

An hour later, the party congregated in front of the house. After bidding farewells all around, Lord Matlock handed his wife into the carriage.

Charlotte hugged Anne. "I shall miss you."

"And I you. You have been a dear friend to me. Thank you. Write to me with all the news from Hertfordshire."

Matthew moved to the carriage and gently squeezed Anne's hand as he assisted her ascent. She returned a smile. As the carriage rolled down the lane, satisfaction welled inside him when she turned to look back at him.

The fire crackled in the grate that evening, bringing more than a physical warmth to the library. The three men had been enjoying their port and a comfortable companionship, easily talking of the estate's progress after more than a week's hard work. Eventually the conversation turned, and the cousins began reliving boyhood memories. As an outsider to the reminiscing, Matthew began studying the two men before him.

Nothing betrayed their kinship save a faint family resemblance. While they shared similar facial features, Darcy was the more handsome. Both were favoured with a commanding stature, but Darcy was the leaner of the two, whereas Fitzwilliam had the muscular build of a soldier. Apart from a few similar gestures and mannerisms, such as the habit of staring out of windows, they were remarkably different. Darcy took more pride in his appearance, the fine cut of his clothing reflecting his impeccable taste. His valet ensured there was not a hair out of place.

Turning his attention towards Fitzwilliam, Matthew smiled at the contrast. His friend had little time for mirrors or preening. His hair fell in front of his eyes, while the port stain on the underside of his sleeve and the fraying on his cuff reflected how little he cared for outward appearances. Even their seated posture bore no resemblance. Darcy sat erect, legs crossed. With his wrist resting on the chair's arm, the port in his glass remained still. Fitzwilliam was more relaxed, his legs splayed. As he gestured with every word and movement, his drink swirled wildly in his glass.

"...and then the hound flew out of the stable, yelping all the way."

The cousins roared with laughter.

Slapping his thigh and flinging his head, Fitzwilliam's port nearly sloshed out with his body's convulsion. Darcy threw back his head, but his posture remained dignified.

With a smile, Matthew nodded towards the conversation, feigning attention, then continued his observations.

Was there a trace of arrogance in Darcy's manner? Perhaps... although Rosings' servants revered him as the finest sort of man. He appeared confident and content. Fitzwilliam had said he was much in love with his new wife. A slow, knowing smile spread across Matthew's face.

He and Darcy had a lot in common. Both appreciated fine clothing and poetry. Darcy had shown himself methodical and resolute in his choices. It was unfortunate he was to depart so soon. Then Matthew should be left with Fitzwilliam, his spontaneous, near-haphazard friend who knew not one cravat knot from another and had no interest in poetry. To his credit, on the field of battle there were few colonels more respected than he. His meticulous attention to detail and systematic planning of military strategy were unmatched.

So different as individuals, but perfectly at ease with each other. Cousins, yet the best of friends.

Matthew reflected back to Lady Catherine's deathbed. Their sense of duty to their aunt and cousin had been remarkable, although strange that same sense was not reflected in marriage.

He supposed either of them could have married Anne and had this estate as his own. Yet both were set on women of no great family or fortune. Lady Matlock had said Darcy's wife was a lively, quick-witted country girl of no importance. He had heard murmurs among the servants that she rejected his first proposal. But surely no woman would reject an important man like Darcy with a fine estate and likely a generous income as well. And Fitzwilliam, the son of an earl with amiable manners, could have found a suitable dowry and then retired. Yet his heart seemed fixed on Mrs. Collins. He mentioned they had been childhood friends. She was of no consequence, not even particularly handsome. But he saw how Fitzwilliam looked at her and noted the quiet understanding that seemed to pass between them. He shook his head. It was unfortunate she had no money.

Unlike these men, he was the one without status or distinction, yet they had accepted him as an equal. He would be honoured to call them his cousins, family, if Anne would consent to call him her husband.

"A Mr. Martin here to see you, sir."

"A timely diversion, Parker. Show him to the library."

Five minutes later, a towering middle-aged man rose as Richard entered the library. "Mr. Martin! Thank you for coming. Colonel Fitzwilliam." He shook the vicar's hand. "Please sit down. I understand you are from Derbyshire."

"I am, sir. Lovely country it is up north."

"My father, Lord Matlock, was somewhat familiar with Rockhurst and your father."

"Ah, yes. Your family's estate has an excellent reputation. I had the privilege of meeting your steward, Mr. Green, on several occasions."

"Yes, he was an excellent manager, God rest his soul. So, Mr. Martin--" The door opened and the doctor entered. "Scott! May I introduce you to Mr. Martin?" Richard held his arm out, beckoning the physician to join them.

The men exchanged greetings.

The dark-haired vicar spoke. "I understand Miss de Bourgh has you to thank for the recent improvements in her health."

"Keen observation and an experienced eye is all. I understand that you have quite an interesting history."

"Well," Richard broke in, "he was about to tell me about himself. Sit down, Scott, join us. So, Mr. Martin, tell us about your father and how you have come to be here."

"My father was an excellent man--the steward at Rockhurst for over thirty years. Old Mr. Evans trusted him implicitly with all the affairs of his considerable estate. Growing up, Mr. Evans' son and I were boyhood companions. As a young man, I had the good fortune of assisting my father and became quite knowledgeable in managing Rockhurst. Mr. Evans, who loved me like a son, was kind enough to send me to Oxford alongside his own son. When my own father died, I was given the steward's position."

"Then you are quite experienced managing a large estate. How did you come to be a vicar?" Richard settled back.

"When I first became Mr. Evans' steward, I was a cocky and foolish young man. I am ashamed of my past behaviour. I treated all of the world as if it owed me something and took from it with no regard for the destruction of others. Ladies seemed to find me handsome, and after an indiscretion, I was forced to marry. A pretty face she was, but no more."

Richard raised his eyebrows, taken aback by the honest admission of the affable man. The similarities of Mr. Martin to George Wickham did not escape him.

"My wife fell ill soon after our son was born. It was a very difficult time. I had a small child, a sick wife, and a large estate to manage. A wise vicar and his wife befriended me. They cared for my family and helped me see what was truly important in life. By the time my wife died a year later, I was a changed man. Many encouraged me to remarry for the sake of my son, but I vowed not to remarry for convenience. I wanted to care for a woman for who she was, not merely marry for her maternal instincts."

"An interesting story indeed. May I offer you gentlemen a glass of wine?" Richard raised the decanter.

"Yes, thank you." The vicar's large hand smoothed his dark hair.

Scott nodded affirmatively to Richard. "It is amazing what a difference a year can make. Especially when paired with life's trials."

Richard handed each man a glass before resettling. "Please continue, Mr. Martin."

"By and by, I felt a desire to be for others what Mr. Jones had been to me. I eventually married my wife, who was introduced to me by the vicar. She had been an orphan and was taken in as a young girl by the man and his wife. I sought ordination and, when the vicarage came open in Briggsham, we moved to Kent. That was over fifteen years ago, and we have never regretted it. My wife and I have taken in many orphans ourselves, raising them and finding respectable positions for them. That is how our Sally came to be Miss de Bourgh's maid. Unfortunately, the Briggsham parish has dwindled and been poorly managed. We would like to take in more children but are barely able to make a living ourselves. We would be most pleased to serve as rector here for you and Miss de Bourgh. Sally had a great love and respect for her."

"That is quite a remarkable story." Richard shifted. "You may be just the man for the position here. As I mentioned in the letter, we have a reputable steward coming, but he is not available until mid-June."

Richard went on to apprise the man of the situation and how the estate came to be in its present state. "So what do you think, Mr. Martin? Are you willing to take on the dual challenge of rector and temporary steward?"

"One question, if I may, Colonel. Are you seeking a rector of a similar nature to your former one?"

"Ah, so you were familiar with our Mr. Collins? Let me assure you that we are not. Quite the opposite, in fact. With the mismanagement of the last year and the present situation, we feel a strong leader is needed, not a mealy-mouthed one."

Mr. Martin released a breath and sat back. "So I may attend to the duties of the rectory as I see fit?"

"For the most part, yes. But I warn you. At present, things are somewhat uncertain. Although I expect to remain here for some time, Miss de Bourgh is in London and may not return for several months. I am sure you are aware of my aunt's domineering reputation. As a result of her mother's control, my fair cousin has no knowledge of estate management and is yet unmarried. Should she marry, the present situation would change."

Scott shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

The vicar nodded, pondering the information. "I shall welcome this challenge and trust the Lord for the estate's future direction."

"Fair enough. One more thing, Mr. Martin. As you can imagine, Mrs. Collins is in a rather unfortunate position. She shall be departing on March twenty-eighth and has been promised residence in the parsonage until then. Should that allow ample time for you to conclude your business in Briggsham and relocate here, say, just before the first of April?"

"It is. I appreciate your offer, sir. I trust you will not be disappointed."

"Shall we tour the estate and church grounds? Will you join us, Scott?"

The threesome called on Mrs. Collins and were shown the parsonage and church. Pleasant conversation among the men suggested they would get on well. The doctor excused himself when Richard and the vicar stopped in the steward's office. The two men spent the rest of the afternoon pouring over maps and discussing the challenges facing the estate.

The next morning, Matthew and Fitzwilliam were breakfasting following Mr. Martin's departure.

Matthew replaced his fork. "Do you believe Mr. Martin will be satisfactory?"

"I do. I found him quite knowledgeable, wise, and gracious."

"It is unfortunate Lord Matlock did not have his counsel on breeding race horses. Has your father replaced his prize stallion?"

Richard gaped at him with a tilted head. "How is it that you are so well apprised as to the affairs of my family?"

"You forget, my friend. All those hours you spent below stairs in that cramped office and traipsing about the estate, I had the pleasure of your family's company."

"I hope you did not find it too tiresome." Richard waved a slab of ham on his fork. "My father does tend to ramble on about his horseflesh."

"No, quite the contrary. In fact, I believe your mother is somewhat enamoured with me, for which I am grateful."

"Oh?" Richard chewed.

"I am sure it has not escaped your notice that for some time I have been very fond of your cousin." He poked at the remains on his plate, anxious with the direction of the conversation.

Fitzwilliam swiped his mouth and smiled.

"I can assure you, I hold her in the highest regard. Fitzwilliam, if she will have me, I intend to make her my wife. I hope I may have your blessing, as well as your father's."

Leaning over, Richard clapped him on the back, his smile broadening. "You have my full blessing. It is indeed good to see her so changed and improved. I believe we owe much to you. Not only her health but her outlook as well."

He relaxed. "Thank you. Do you believe I may so easily garner your father's approval? And what of Mr. Darcy? I would like to ask them out of respect."

"I am sure you have heard Darcy's story of his courtship. If you truly care for Anne, I believe you shall have no objection from him. My father, however, may be more difficult. He is very protective of her and adheres tenaciously to matters of propriety and station. You will have to convince him you are not mercenary. She is now in possession of this estate and its considerable wealth. I expect she will attract sufficient attention in London despite being in mourning."

"Her wealth may prove to be an obstacle. I have no training in estate management and, after observing you and Mr. Darcy, I have no desire to learn. My heart is set on a home by the sea and a simpler life filled with laughter and, God-willing, children, not talk of tenants, soil, and stewards."

Richard swallowed his coffee. "I cannot speak for Anne's desires."

"I suppose I shall have to inquire of her myself." Matthew smiled, imagining himself proposing to her. "As you know, I am departing for Cornwall tomorrow and shall be stopping through London on my return trip. I plan to ask her then, though she shall be mourning for several more months. I should not want to lose her to some dashing second son looking for an estate to manage." He smirked at Fitzwilliam.

The colonel shook his head with a defeated grin. "I wish you well, my friend. I wish you well."

Chapter Sixteen

Posted on 2013-10-24

It began raining the day Scott departed. Richard ventured out of doors only for matters of urgency or to check the streams. By the fourth day, the spring rains had soaked the earth.

"Sir." Richard felt himself being nudged. "Some men are calling for you. It's the felled bridge. A tree is blocking the stream, and the tenant homes nearby are in danger of flooding."

"Thank you, Godfrey." Richard roused himself, his voice gravelly. "Tell the men I shall be there directly." He rose and shuffled to the window, turning back the edge of the curtain. In the dim light, a gentle shower fell from the grey sky.

He pulled on his breeches and hessians, then slid his white shirt over his head. Punching a country hat atop his head and grabbing his greatcoat, Richard hastened down the stairs.

Godfrey intercepted him in the entrance hall, bearing two rolls with a slab of beef protruding from each. "Sir, your horse is waiting at the servants' entrance."

Richard crammed a roll into his mouth and stuffed the other into his pocket as he followed his valet to the kitchen. Cook met him with a cup of coffee and another roll. Gulping the coffee, he nodded to Godfrey before popping the third roll into his mouth. Pulling down the wide brim of his hat and turning up the coat's collar, he swung onto the stallion and primed himself for what promised to be an uncomfortable morning.

As he drove Prometheus through the pelting rain, he tried to envision the blockage and formulate a plan. It was unfortunate they had not yet removed the carriage, as surely that added to the obstruction. His thoughts were so occupied, he hardly noticed the copious mud spewing from the horse's hooves for the duration of the ride.

Reaching the stone bridge, he swung down and approached a gathering of ten or so men. Looking to his right, he could see water standing in the field upstream. In front of him, masses of dirt clung to the spidery roots of an uprooted tree whose canopy just touched the opposite bank.

"Gentlemen." He nodded to the tenants clustered there. "It appears we have a problem."

A burly man no older than Richard spoke up. "She's got the whole stream blocked off. Come have a better look from the bridge."

The group approached the slanting bridge whose downstream side had given way under Lady Catherine's carriage. Merely walking over it was treacherous, especially with the pressure from the backed-up debris behind it. It could crumble at any time.

The men balanced carefully, each walking like a man with one short leg. Grasping onto the stone side, they pointed out various observations and discussed their options.

Rubbing his chin's stubble, Richard nodded thoughtfully. "Hitching a team to pull the tree clear appears to be the best course of action. We may have to remove a branch or two first."

"But sir," another man spoke up, "that will be mighty risky for the one attaching the ropes or chopping the limbs. He could be crushed or swept away instantly."

"I am aware of the danger." He pushed aside a wet lock from his forehead and resettled his hat. "Thus I intend to do it myself."

The men eyed each other uneasily.

"Does anyone have a preferable course of action?" He surveyed the group who only stared back. "I thought not. Gather a team of four--no six of your strongest horses. Get plenty of rope and an axe."

Over the next half hour, the rain slackened to a fine mist as the men gathered the equipment.

Another man approached, "Colonel, sir, the water is lapping at the doorsteps of the Graham and Atkinson cottages."

"Hop to it, men! Get those horses harnessed, or somebody will be sweeping mud off his hearth tonight!"

The horses were readied and stamped on the bank as he tentatively traversed the slippery trunk, aware of the risk he was taking. "Throw me a rope!"

As he reached out to catch it, the trunk bobbed beneath him. Instantly he spread his elbows to regain his balance. With the rope in hand, Richard sank to his knees and crawled to a protruding limb, careful to avoid the tangle of spring foliage on the branches. He thrust a hand into the water and passed the rope under the branch as the current beneath the water tugged at his sleeve. Richard repeated the process, securing several more ropes to various branches. Extending his arms for balance, he returned to the bank.

"Engage the horses!" he called to the team's driver, hoping the plan would succeed.

The team lurched forward, slipping in the wet sod. After much coaxing, the tree inched forward, and a rousing a cheer rose from the men. The backed-up debris swirled and resettled with the movement.

He commanded the horses again, and the tree made good progress this time, sliding from the water until a lower branch lodged on the bridge's centre support. Water and debris poured around the cleared end of the stream, wedging the branch ever tighter.

"Hold up, men!" he yelled. "Looks like that branch will have to come off."

If securing the rope had been perilous, chopping a limb while standing on a shifting tree was ten times as dangerous. He crawled out onto the trunk with the axe in his hand. Cautiously he rose to his feet and braced them on a spot where branches protruded off either side of the trunk, giving support to his toes.

Raising the axe over his head, Richard slammed it onto his target; the trunk bobbed beneath his feet. It would be near miraculous if he escaped unscathed. Regaining his balance, he slammed again, the sharp blade biting into the wood below the mass of foliage.

By and by he found a rhythm to hacking and balancing. With each chop of the blade, chunks of wood and leaves flew. At last they heard the branch crack and splinter.

"One more may do it!" he called over his shoulder.

The men on the bank held their breath.

Using all his strength, he pounded the axe into the tangle of foliage one last time. With the upswing of his arms, the axe snagged a blackberry vine which curled itself around his shoulder, its brambles ripping at his shirt and flesh. The trunk wobbled beneath his feet as the detached branch pulled away. He instantly dropped the axe and fell to his knees to steady himself, thankful to still be atop the log.

A moment later, the freed limb squared itself and floated under the bridge, battering the carriage on the other side.

Richard sighed with relief as he returned to the bank. The horses were put-to again. The tree now easily slid from the stream, freeing the torrent of water and debris to rush under the stone structure, dislodging the carriage and carrying its remains downstream. With much whooping and back slapping, the tenants congratulated each other.

Pointing to Richard's sleeve, one man remarked, "Are you hurt, sir?"

Richard looked at his soggy, shredded shirt stained with blood. "Merely a scratch. At least the carriage is removed. One less job for us. When it is dry again, we shall repair the bridge."

"Thank you, sir. We're indebted to you for... everything." The burly man wiped his face with a handkerchief.

"Indebted, indeed," said another. "I'd have been one of them sweeping mud this evening."

After retrieving his coat and hat, Richard acknowledged their thanks. With a touch to his brim and a nod, he started back to Rosings, thankful that they had been successful.

He returned through the servants' entrance and discarded his wet coat and hat. A wide-eyed Godfrey met him. "Sir, you are injured!"

"All is well. Merely mud and a scratch."

"I have water readied for a bath, sir. A hot meal awaits when you are finished."

"Thank you." Ascending the stairs he rotated his scarred shoulder. After months of convalescence, he expected that soreness from the physical activity would plague him for the next several days. The chopping motion had challenged the skin at his armpit, stretching it uncomfortably. The scratches, though stinging, should heal soon enough. It was a small price to have the stream running freely again.

Over the next few days, the rain cleared, and the meadows burst into bloom under the spring sunshine. Richard was out of doors from early morning until sundown, surveying the storm's damage and arranging repairs. Returning bone-weary each evening, he neglected the newspaper and thus missed the announcement that his country had formed an alliance with Russia, Austria, and Prussia against the newly restored Napoleon.

He barely had time to scrawl a note of congratulations to Darcy on the birth of his daughter, Jane Anne. It was fortunate that Darcy had been so insistent on leaving Rosings to join Elizabeth in London as their jack-in-the-box made her arrival several weeks earlier than expected.

Ignoring his scratches and soreness, Richard hardly noticed a tenderness that had developed on his chest until one morning, feeling lethargic and feverish, he was unable to rise.

"What is it, Polly?" Charlotte asked the Rosings' servant at the parsonage door.

"Mr. Godfrey has sent for you, Mrs. Collins."

"Godfrey? Colonel Fitzwilliam's valet?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Sent for me? Is there something wrong?" Richard had seemed well two days ago.

"I believe so. The colonel did not take breakfast as is his normal habit, and Mr. Godfrey has been above stairs all morning."

"Let me fetch my shawl and herbs."

The ladies were silent on the short walk to Rosings, but Charlotte's thoughts whirled. Could he have the flu? There had been no new cases in several weeks. Why would Godfrey call her? If only Dr. Scott were still there! She had never been in the bedchamber of a man other than her late husband. Should she refuse to go in? Would the servants gossip?

Polly tapped on the bedchamber door.

Godfrey met them with an uneasy look and spoke in a low voice. "Thank you for coming, Mrs. Collins. I did not know who else to call, the doctor being gone and all."

"Is the colonel ill?"

"It is his arm, madam, his wound. I believe it is infected."

Charlotte's eyes grew wide. "Infected? Shall I make you a poultice to draw out the infection?"

The valet shifted. "Madam, I think you'd better have a look."

A wave of panic flushed over her. Not Richard too! Her mind reeled, flashing before her all those maimed or killed from war injuries and the suffering of their families--that specific suffering she had tried so hard to avoid.

She looked at Polly, then back again at the valet before quietly crossing into the green room. Approaching the bed, her breath caught when she saw him. Sweat dotted his brow as he slept. Her vision blurred with tears. Oh, Richard! She closed her eyes as a fury arose. She imagined herself flinging her body upon his, beating his chest and screaming, Why did you have to be a soldier? Why couldn't we have wed those years ago? Why are you ripping at my heart piece by piece? Instead, she took a deep breath and steeled herself.

She deposited her shawl and treatment basket on a table. Nervously, she leaned over and grasped the edge of the sheet where only the tops of his bare shoulders were visible. Hesitating, she drew back the linen. Seeing the twisted flesh of his extensive burn scar, she instantly dropped the sheet, gasping as her hand flew to her mouth.

With Godfrey and Polly at her shoulder, the valet whispered. "Is it grave, madam?"

Charlotte closed her eyes to steady herself. Without replying, she lifted the sheet again, fully exposing his broad, bare chest. His whole left shoulder down to his elbow and part of his chest were covered with contorted red scarring. The skin bridging his arm and torso seemed particularly affected. It was difficult to distinguish the maimed skin from the infection's fiery redness. Following lines of deep scratches, she gently probed what appeared to be a puncture site. A small puddle of pus appeared. Richard stirred with a quiet moan. The three onlookers drew back slightly.

She leaned in again, pressing harder. More of the infected discharge pooled; Richard flinched. Closer examination revealed another deep puncture site. She turned to the two servants at her shoulder. "We shall need to give him something to fight the infection, then drain the wound, clean it, and apply a poultice."

"How may we assist, madam?" The sparse-haired valet looked relived that she knew what to do.

"Polly, bring me several clean towels, a clean scrap of muslin, and some hot water, near boiling. And some fresh minced garlic from the kitchen. Godfrey, see if the doctor left any sleeping draught in his room."

Without considering the impropriety of leaving her alone, the two went about their tasks.

Charlotte pulled a nearby chair closer to the bed. Turning back to Richard, she blushed at his fully exposed chest. The only man's bare chest she had ever seen had belonged to Mr. Collins. What she saw before her was ever so much more alluring. Richard's chest was broad with coarse dark hair dotting the unscarred surface. His chiselled arm muscles betrayed his masculinity and strength. Even with the disfiguring scarring, his torso was beautiful--it was Richard's.

She averted her face, embarrassed to have been studying him. Hearing the sheets stirring, she turned back to find his drooping eyes looking at her. They exchanged faint smiles, and she reached for his calloused hand and squeezed it.

After a moment she spoke softly. "Richard, why did you not tell anyone your wound was paining you?"

He closed his eyes and sighed before opening them to meet hers again. "I was busy," he murmured. "It wasn't unbearably painful. I had hoped it would heal on its own."

Still smiling, she shook her head. He was a typical, stubborn man.

He returned a sheepish grin.

Hearing footsteps at the door, she quickly released his hand.

"I believe I found the draught." The valet held up a small bottle.

"Thank you, Godfrey. Now please fetch the colonel something to drink and a quill from the desk over there. Give it a fresh sharpening, but not too sharp."

"Shall you stab me to punish me for my foolishness?" Richard teased with a drowsy drawl.

Leaning over, she teased back in a low voice, "Cleaning out that infection may well feel like I am stabbing you, but I believe you deserve it for your imprudence."

His feverish eyes danced back at her.

"Ma'am, here are towels, muslin, and hot water." Polly laid them on the table. "I shall return with the garlic."

"Thank you, Polly. Please bring some bandages as well."

"I have the glass of water and quill, madam." The valet added them to the table.

"One last thing, Godfrey. Please find a stick in the yard for Colonel Fitzwilliam to bite down on."

As the valet moved towards the door, she turned back to Richard. "Are you able to sit up to take this tincture?"

"For you, I might find I could fly."

With downcast eyes and a sheepish smile, she retrieved the echinacea, then handed him the glass. "This has a foul taste, so ready your water." She poured a small amount deep into his throat.

With a sour expression, he gulped the liquid. "Shall you poison me now?" he teased again.

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye and smiled but said nothing. Submerging a towel in the hot water and wringing it out, she laid it on the infected area, then sat back and began carefully ripping the muslin into long, thin strips. She could feel his eyes on her. "Am I so amusing?" she asked without looking up.

"Not so amusing, just beguiling."

She felt her cheeks grow warm. They sat in silence.

The two servants returned, and several minutes later, she removed the warm compress. "Godfrey, give him some of the draught; I expect this will be painful." She dipped another towel into the hot water and looked at Richard with sympathetic eyes. "Are you ready, sir?"

He nodded.

With both servants at her shoulders, she placed her fingers on either side of the first puncture site and began pressing. Pus oozed, Richard moaned, Charlotte tensed, Polly wiped it with the warm towel. Charlotte continued pressing with more force as the wound opened up. His breathing became harder and groans louder. At last, when no more of the yellow discharge seeped out, she removed her hands, and they all relaxed with a sigh. She repeated the painful process on the other infected perforation.

She took the quill and entwined its tip with a muslin strip. "Give him the stick now, Godfrey." She bit her lip, dreading the ensuing task.

She met his eyes and swallowed the lump in her throat. Dipping the quill in the hot water, she closed her eyes to steady herself, then took a deep breath and penetrated the infected flesh. Richard's body stiffened and his groans escaped around the stick clenched between his teeth as she swabbed inside the wound. The tip of a thorn and tiny piece of linen from his shirt were evident on the swab. She sat back, moisture collecting in her eyes.

Richard removed the stick, his breathing heavy.

She blinked back the tears. "Polly, please get more hot water. I will need it for the poultice when this is finished." She wrapped fresh muslin on the quill, dipped it into the water, and met Richard's eyes again. He returned the stick to his mouth. She felt faint, so did he. Taking a deep breath and bracing herself, she swabbed the wound again, aching with every moan emitting from him. With one site cleaned, he removed the stick, and they all relaxed again. Gathering her courage, she took a clean strip of muslin and repeated the painful process on the other wound. Satisfied her task was complete, she drew back. "Are you all right, sir?"

After a slight nod, he soon fell asleep.

Polly returned with the hot water as Charlotte was mixing the garlic with a few other herbs. She pressed some of the mixture into the wound. Then, taking a fresh towel, she doused it in the water, wrung it out, spread it with the garlic paste, and pressed it over the infection.

"Thank you, madam." Godfrey smiled sincerely.

"You are welcome. I am glad it is over. I hope we shan't have to do it again."

An hour later, they removed the poultice and bandaged the wound.

The next morning Richard was improved enough to enjoy his coffee and standing appointment before the fire in his room. Though he reeked of garlic, the severe tenderness had abated. He was finding the Bible had much of interest to say. Proverbs, in particular, was a collection of wise words and advice anyone would be prudent to heed. He closed the book, reflecting on one particular verse which essentially said that it was possible to give freely and become more wealthy, but the stingy would lose everything. He shook his head. How true. Mr. Martin and his wife had given freely to Sally, and now, because of her connection with Anne, he would be substantially increasing his income. In contrast, his aunt had been stingy in refusing to repair the bridge and had lost her life as a result.

Where had this wisdom been his entire life? Did Charlotte know these things? She had been a rector's wife and had heard her husband's sermons, but did she know about trust and these other truths he was finding so helpful? The last few years had stolen much from her. She needed peace herself. Perhaps he would call on her tomorrow.

More than a month had passed since her husband's funeral. In two days her brother would escort her to their parents' home. Charlotte's beloved parlour and the contents of the parsonage would soon belong to another.

With the last chills of winter hovering over Hunsford, Charlotte felt especially lonely and empty, although she was unsure why. This day was really no different from the day before, or any other of the past several weeks, for that matter. She hoped a walk in the grove and some fresh air would improve her spirits.

Rounding the top of the stairs to fetch her shawl, she passed the partially open door of the guest chamber. An object inside caught her eye, bringing a gasp and bitter tears to her eyes. She rushed down the stairs and out the door.